Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAZ2MBSSKNX6SA21H8664Y

The wrought iron gate groaned in protest, each screech echoing in the otherwise silent park. Rory hadn’t expected it to be unlocked. She’d visited the Fae Grove enough times with Eva to know the small, hidden entrance was usually secured with a heavy padlock. Now, it swung inward with a touch, invitingly, and that felt…wrong. She hesitated, one hand resting on the cold metal. Richmond Park was never truly quiet, even at night. The distant hum of traffic, the occasional shout. But inside the Grove, even near the perimeter, she usually felt a muffling. A shift in the air. Tonight, there was only silence. A holding of breath. Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the weight of the thermos and sketchbook familiar against her side. She’d told Yu-Fei she was sketching potential landscapes for menu art – a harmless enough lie. The truth was she needed to test the pendant. It had been pulsing with a nervous energy all day, a warmth that wasn't quite comfortable. Eva had warned her about ignoring it. *Hel portals don’t politely wait for you to be ready, Rory.* The standing stones loomed ahead, ancient oaks gnarled with age and draped with moss. They marked the boundary, Eva said, the veil between worlds thinning within the circle. The wildflowers, even in late November, bloomed in impossible hues. Lavender, crimson, gold, a defiant splash of color against the muted browns and grays of the park. She should have felt a sense of familiarity, of peace. Instead, a prickle of unease ran down her spine. She stepped between the stones. It wasn’t a dramatic shift, not like the first time Eva brought her here. No swirling colors, no disorienting rush. Just a subtle…softening. The air grew heavy, sweet with the scent of blossoms. The silence deepened, becoming a pressure in her ears. She walked further in, the soft earth cushioning her steps. She’d come hoping for a charging point for the pendant, a place where the proximity of a Hel portal would make the gemstone flare. She’d been chasing whispers of increased activity, strange disappearances reported in the local news – hikers lost in Epping Forest, cyclists vanishing on quiet country roads. Things Eva, with her deeply rooted knowledge of the Fae and the things that lurked beyond, had speculated were connected. Rory scanned the clearing. The usual landmarks were…slightly off. The twisted hawthorn tree usually stood sentinel near the center, its branches reaching like skeletal fingers. Now, it seemed to lean away from her, as if recoiling. A cluster of bluebells, ordinarily blooming with resolute cheer, drooped, their heads bowed. She pulled the Heartstone Pendant from beneath her sweater. The crimson gemstone pulsed, but not with its usual steady rhythm. It throbbed, erratic and frantic, like a trapped bird. The silver chain felt cold against her skin. Rory knelt, opening her sketchbook. She began to sketch the hawthorn tree, trying to focus on the details, to ground herself. The lines felt clumsy, wrong. Her hand trembled. She hadn’t felt this exposed, this…watched, since leaving Evan. A twig snapped nearby. She froze, pencil hovering over the page. Just a deer, she told herself. Or a fox. Richmond Park was full of wildlife. But the snap had been too close, too deliberate. She lifted her head, scanning the treeline. Shadows danced in her peripheral vision, shifting and reforming. But when she focused on them, they resolved into nothing. Just branches swaying in a breeze she couldn’t feel. She tried to resume sketching, but her concentration fractured. The silence had become oppressive, punctuated by small, unsettling sounds. A rustling in the undergrowth. The faint whisper of voices, too distant to decipher. A high-pitched whine, like insects buzzing, but without the rhythmic drone. Rory glanced at her watch. She’d been inside the Grove for maybe twenty minutes. It felt like hours. She should be getting a strong reading from the pendant by now. Instead, its frantic pulsing had slowed, becoming a dull, aching throb. She stood, her legs stiff. “Hello?” she called out, the sound swallowed by the stillness. No answer. Just the unsettling sensation of being observed. She began to walk, moving slowly around the perimeter of the clearing. The wildflowers brushed against her jeans, releasing a cloying sweetness that made her stomach churn. She noticed then that the colors seemed to be…deepening. The crimson was becoming almost black, the lavender shifting towards a bruised purple. And the flowers weren’t just blooming. They were *growing*. She watched, mesmerized and horrified, as a single bluebell unfurled, its petals stretching and widening with impossible speed. Within seconds, it was the size of her hand, its velvety bloom almost… pulsating. Rory backed away, bumping into something solid. She whirled around. It was the hawthorn tree. But it wasn’t the same tree she’d been sketching. This one was taller, its branches thicker, its bark slick and black. And hanging from the branches, swaying gently in the non-existent breeze, were…things. They weren’t quite shapes. More like impressions, vaguely humanoid, formed from shadow and woven with vines and blossoms. They didn’t move, not exactly. They *shifted*, their outlines blurring and reforming. The pendant flared, its crimson glow suddenly intense. The temperature plummeted. Rory could see her breath misting in the air. The sweet scent of the flowers turned acrid, like rotting fruit. A wave of dizziness washed over her. From the shadows beneath the hawthorn, a voice. Soft, melodic, and terrifyingly close. “Lost, little Laila?” Rory’s blood ran cold. No one had called her Laila in years. Only Eva did, a childhood nickname resurrected to remind Rory of their shared history. A history no one else could possibly know. She stumbled back, her hand flying to her left wrist, instinctively tracing the small, crescent-shaped scar. A relic of a fall from a tree as a child, a mark of vulnerability. “Who’s there?” she managed to choke out, her voice barely a whisper. The shadowy figures swayed. The voice chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. “You’ve been gone a long time, Aurora Carter. We’ve been waiting.” The pendant burned against her skin, its warmth turning to searing heat. The distortions in the clearing intensified. The flowers continued to grow, their colours becoming sickly and unnatural. Rory realized, with growing dread, that she wasn't looking at shadows anymore. She was looking *through* them. Into something far, far worse.