Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB1J8XYQH8VPMG2FTK47BG

The zip of Rory’s Golden Empress delivery bag caught on a thorn as she pushed through the brambles lining Richmond Park’s western edge, and she cursed under her breath—Irish lilt slipping through, a habit she’d inherited from her father when frustrated. Her straight, shoulder-length black hair stuck to the sweat on her neck, even though the December night bit at her cheeks, and she brushed it away with a hand that paused at the small crescent scar on her left wrist. The scar throbbed, a faint echo of the childhood fall that had left it there—she’d climbed an oak with Eva, slipped, and gashed her wrist on a broken branch before her friend had hauled her to safety. That memory tugged at her, a reminder of the last time she’d felt unshakably safe before Evan had wormed his way into her life, his fist around that same wrist two years prior. She’d come to the park because of the pendant. The deep crimson Heartstone, strung on a silver chain and roughly the size of her thumbnail, had been burning through her shirt for a week—faint at first, a warmth she’d chalked up to the restaurant’s steam tables, but growing sharper every time she’d made a delivery near Richmond’s tree-lined paths. Her quick, out-of-the-box thinking had led her to dig through old library archives after her shifts: tales of a hidden grove bounded by ancient oak standing stones, a pocket where time bent and wildflowers bloomed year-round. She’d dismissed the fae tales as folklore until last night, when the pendant’s pulse had synchronized with a strange, off-key whisper she’d heard from the park’s trees—one that sounded like her mother’s Welsh lullaby, but twisted, as if sung underwater. The brambles cleared, and she froze. Before her stood six oak standing stones, their bark gnarled and black with age, marking a circular boundary she’d never seen on any park map. Between them, wildflowers bloomed in a riot of color—crimson poppies, snow-white daisies, purple lupines—their petals glowing faintly in the moonlight as if lit from within. It was December; every other flower in London was dead, and the sight sent a cold shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the night air. She reached for the pendant beneath her shirt, and her fingers brushed its warm, pulsing surface. The faint inner glow she’d only noticed in dark rooms was brighter now, a tiny crimson flame beating in time with her heart. She stepped across the invisible line between the stones, and the world shifted. The hum of London’s traffic vanished, replaced by a silence so thick she could almost taste it. No wind stirred, but the oak stones’ branches creaked as if pulled by invisible hands, and a child’s laugh echoed from the clearing beyond—high, tinkling, and completely unaccompanied by any sign of a child. Rory’s bright blue eyes darted to the edge of her vision, where a shadow taller than any human stretched across the wildflowers before vanishing. She reached for her phone, checking the time: 11:17 PM. She’d left the restaurant at 11:05; the walk should have taken 12 minutes, but the math didn’t add up—especially now that the park’s usual night sounds were gone. She stepped deeper into the clearing, her delivery bag thudding against her hip. The wildflowers brushed her ankles, their petals soft against her scuffed sneakers, and she noticed that their glow was growing brighter as she moved. The pendant’s pulse quickened, its warmth seeping into her chest until it was almost a burn. She paused to catch her breath, thinking she’d been walking for 20 minutes, and checked her phone again. 11:17 PM. The screen flickered, then died—no warning, no low-battery alert. She swore again, shoving the phone into her pocket, and traced the scar on her wrist with a trembling finger. Cool-headed as she was, the time warp was chipping away at her composure; she’d researched the grove’s lore enough to know that an hour inside could be minutes or days outside, and she didn’t want to risk Evan finding her gone for too long. He’d been leaving notes on her flat’s door above Silas’ bar for a week, his handwriting sharp and threatening—*I know you’re here, Laila*—using the alias only he’d insisted on calling her, a name she’d hated since he’d tied it to his abuse. A whisper curled through the silence, and Rory’s blood ran cold. It was her mother’s lullaby, the one Jennifer had sung to her every night until she’d left for Cardiff University—*Ar hyd y nos*, its Welsh lyrics soft and soothing, but now twisted into something guttural, as if spoken through a throat filled with mud. The whisper came from every direction at once, and she spun in a circle, her eyes scanning the oak stones for any sign of a figure. Nothing—only the wildflowers, swaying without a breeze, their glow now so bright it cast long shadows across the clearing. The pendant’s burn intensified, and she tugged it from beneath her shirt, gasping at the sight: the crimson gem was pulsing so rapidly it looked like a tiny, beating heart, its inner glow lighting up her face. She turned to leave, but the oak standing stones had changed. The gap she’d stepped through was gone, replaced by a wall of gnarled bark and tangled vines. She ran to the nearest stone, running her hands over its rough surface, and realized that the stones were moving—slowly, almost imperceptibly, their positions shifting so that the circle was tightening around her. A memory flashed: Evan, pinning her against a wall in their Cardiff flat, his hand around her left wrist, the scar throbbing as he screamed at her for trying to leave. She flinched, rubbing the scar as if to wipe the memory away, and the pendant’s pulse skipped a beat—warmth flaring so hot she had to let go of the chain. The child’s laugh returned, closer this time, and she caught a glimpse of a shadow at the edge of her vision—taller than a man, its limbs too long, its head too large, swaying in time with the wildflowers. She backed away, tripping over a lupine and landing hard on the grass. The delivery bag spilled open, and a container of sweet and sour chicken rolled into the wildflowers, its lid popping off to spill orange sauce onto the glowing petals. The sauce hissed, and the petals turned black, curling into ash before her eyes. Rory stared, her mouth dry. That was new—folklore hadn’t mentioned wildflowers reacting to human food like that. Her quick thinking kicked in: if the flowers were sensitive to Earthly things, maybe she could use that to mark her path. She grabbed a handful of napkins from her bag and tore them into strips, tucking them into the petals of the unharmed flowers as she stood. She’d taken three steps when the whisper returned, this time clear enough to make her freeze. *Laila*. It was Evan’s voice, distorted but unmistakeable, and it came from right behind her. She spun, but there was nothing there—only the oak stones, the wildflowers, the growing shadow. The pendant’s burn was now almost unbearable, and she realized with a jolt that it was pointing toward the center of the circle, where two oak standing stones stood closer together than the others. Between them, a faint black rift had opened in the air, its edges shimmering like heat haze. The archives she’d pored over had mentioned Hel portals—gateways to a realm of chaos—and the pendant’s behavior matched the tales: pulsing warmth when near one. Time warped again. She thought she’d been staring at the rift for five minutes, but when she blinked, the moon was higher in the sky, and the wildflowers’ glow had dimmed to a faint flicker. The shadow was now at the edge of the circle, moving toward her, its limbs scraping against the oak stones with a sound like broken glass. Rory’s cool-headedness was fraying; she’d never faced something like this, not even with Evan. She fidgeted with her left wrist’s scar, remembering Eva’s words when she’d fled to London: *Conceal, don’t fight—use what’s around you*. She scanned the clearing, her bright blue eyes landing on the oak standing stone nearest her, its bark gnarled with hidden crevices. She climbed, her sneakers scraping against the bark, and tucked herself into a crevice just as the shadow reached the spot where she’d been standing. The shadow loomed beneath her, its form shifting so that she could see a flash of a hand—pale, with a scar across the knuckles, the same scar Evan had gotten in a bar fight. Her breath caught. Was this a fae trick, or was Evan somehow here? The pendant’s pulse grew so strong it felt like it was going to burst through her chest, and the rift between the stones widened, letting out a low, guttural groan. She looked down at the wildflowers, her napkin markers still tucked into their petals, and realized that they were now pointing toward the rift—she’d accidentally marked a path straight to it. The shadow turned its head upward, and she saw two faint red glows where its eyes should be, glowing in time with her pendant. She pressed herself deeper into the crevice, her fingers digging into the bark until her nails broke. The time warp was now impossible to ignore; she could feel minutes stretching into hours, the night’s cold seeping through her clothes even as the pendant burned her chest. The child’s laugh merged with Evan’s whisper, and the lullaby returned, louder now, as if sung by a chorus of distorted voices. She thought of her father’s barrister’s voice, sharp and logical, telling her to always gather evidence before acting; she thought of her mother’s teacher’s hands, gentle as she’d bandaged her wrist after the fall. She thought of Eva, waiting for her at the Golden Empress to swap shift stories, and she knew she couldn’t stay hidden forever. The shadow reached up, its long fingers scraping against the crevice’s edge, and Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. She grabbed the pendant from beneath her shirt, its warmth searing her palm, and squeezed it as hard as she could. The crimson gem flared, sending a burst of light down into the shadow. The shadow screamed—a sound like grinding stone—and recoiled, its red eyes dimming. Rory didn’t hesitate; she scrambled down the oak, her sneakers slipping on the bark, and ran toward the oak standing stones, following the napkin markers in reverse. The wildflowers hissed as she passed, their petals turning black again, but she didn’t stop. She reached the edge of the circle, and this time, the gap between the stones was there—brambles visible beyond, the hum of London’s traffic faint but audible. She threw herself through the gap, tripping over the brambles and landing hard on the grass. She looked up, and the oak standing stones were gone—only a cluster of ordinary oaks stood in their place, no wildflowers, no glow. She checked her phone, which had turned back on: 11:07 PM. She’d been inside the grove for two minutes. The pendant’s pulse had dimmed to a faint warmth, its inner glow gone. She sat there, gasping, her left wrist’s scar throbbing, and realized that the shadow’s red eyes were still burned into her memory. She’d come to the grove to figure out the pendant’s secret, but now she knew something worse: the Hel portal was real, and it was tied to Evan. She stood, brushing the dirt from her clothes, and grabbed her delivery bag from the brambles. She had to find Eva, to tell her what had happened, but as she walked toward the park’s exit, she heard a faint whisper behind her—*Laila*—and she knew the grove wasn’t done with her. The pendant’s warmth flared again, faint but unmistakeable, a silent warning that the rift hadn’t closed, and that the shadow would be waiting for her the next time she dared to step across its boundary.