Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB306GPBY9N3MPDXSEMM4S

Aurora Carter parked her battered scooter at the edge of Richmond Park, the engine's sputter dying into the night's hush. She killed the headlights, letting the darkness swallow the path ahead. The air hung thick, laced with a sweetness that cloyed her throat—wildflowers, blooming out of season, their petals unfurling under a moon that sliced through the canopy like a blade. She had come here on a whisper from Eva, a tip about a place where the pendant might reveal its secrets. The Heartstone dangled against her chest, cool for now, its crimson gem inert beneath her jacket. Rory swung her leg over the seat, boots crunching gravel, and slung her backpack higher. The grove waited, hidden beyond the deer paths she knew from delivery runs. She slipped through the underbrush, thorns snagging her jeans like insistent fingers. The standing stones emerged first—twisted oaks, ancient and gnarled, their trunks etched with patterns that caught the faint starlight. No, not patterns. Letters? Runes? She paused, flashlight beam cutting the gloom, but the bark smoothed under scrutiny, just knots and age. A chill prickled her arms. Push on. The boundary lay ahead, marked by those oaks in a ragged circle. Eva's note burned in her pocket: "Cross at midnight. Answers inside." The wind dropped as she stepped between the first pair of stones. Silence pressed in, absolute, broken only by her breath. No crickets, no rustle of leaves. Richmond Park thrummed with life at night—foxes yipping, branches creaking—yet here, nothing. Rory froze, pulse quickening. Her boot scuffed earth soft as velvet, wildflowers nodding underfoot, their centers glowing faintly phosphorescent. She knelt, fingers brushing a petal. Warm. Alive in a way that sent a jolt up her spine. Stand up. Keep moving. The clearing opened before her, a pocket of night stitched from shadow and silver. Moonlight pooled in the center, illuminating a ring of toadstools taller than her waist, caps veined with blue. She circled the edge, the pendant shifting against her skin—still cool. Why this place? Eva's voice echoed in her mind, urgent over the phone: "The grove, Rory. It's Fae-touched. Your necklace... it came from there." Fae. Fairy tales for tourists. But the scar on her wrist itched, that old crescent from a fall she barely remembered, as if the earth itself remembered for her. She ventured deeper, boots sinking into moss that yielded like flesh. The air thickened, carrying a hum low in her ears—not wind, not insects, but a vibration that resonated in her teeth. Rory spun, beam sweeping empty air. Leaves stirred on the ground, curling as if fleeing her light. Her heart thudded. Just imagination. Focus. She reached the heart of the grove, a flat stone altar slick with dew, etched with spirals that matched nothing in her memory. She set her backpack down, unzipped it, and pulled out the pendant. The silver chain glinted as she held it aloft. "Show me," she muttered to the night. No response. The gem stared back, dull. A snap echoed from the treeline—twig underfoot? No footfall followed. Rory whipped around, light piercing shadows that retreated like smoke. Nothing. She exhaled, shoulders easing a fraction. Time moved strange here, Eva had warned. An hour inside could stretch or snap. Check the watch: 12:05. Already? She paced the altar, fingers tracing the stone's grooves. Cold seeped through her gloves. The hum grew, threading into her thoughts, a melody without tune, pulling at the edges of her vision. There—beyond the toadstools, a flicker. Shape in the dark, tall and slender, gone when she blinked. Wind? She swept the beam again, illuminating bark that twisted into faces for a heartbeat—eyes hollow, mouths agape—then smoothed to nothing. Rory gripped the pendant tighter. Warm now. Faint pulse against her palm. Her breath fogged the air, but no mist rose from her mouth. Cold? No, the night wrapped her like a shroud, body heat leaching away. She backed toward the stones, light steady. "Who's there?" Voice cracked, swallowed by the silence. The flowers stirred. Petals unfurled wider, releasing spores that danced in her beam, golden motes swirling into shapes—hands, reaching. She batted them away, coughing as sweetness invaded her lungs. The hum swelled, words forming in its undertow: whispers, layered, urgent. Not English. Gaelic? Her father's tongue, half-forgotten from childhood stories. Rory pressed palms to ears. Stop. Think. The pendant throbbed hotter, crimson glow seeping through her fingers. It pointed—toward the altar? No, beyond, where the clearing blurred into fog. She edged forward, drawn despite the knot in her gut. Footsteps? Soft, padding, circling the toadstools. Not hers. Rory halted, beam slashing left—empty. Right—shadow lunged, elongated, then vanished. Laughter tinkled, childlike, from the oaks. Branches swayed without breeze, leaves rustling in mimicry of voices. "Rory... Rory..." Her name, slurred, echoing from all sides. She spun, light wild, illuminating trunks that bent inward, enclosing the space. The standing stones loomed closer, or did the grove shrink? Watch: 12:10. Five minutes? Felt like hours. The pendant burned now, chain searing her neck. She yanked it free, holding it like a talisman. Glow intensified, pulsing in rhythm with the hum—a beacon cutting the fog that rolled in, tendrils coiling at her ankles. Shapes within: eyes, unblinking, white as bone. They watched, multiplied, pressing from the mist. Rory retreated, back hitting the altar. Cold stone bit through her jacket. "Get away," she hissed, voice trembling. The whispers laughed, a chorus rising, names tumbling: Laila, Aurora, Malphora—aliases she never shared. How? The fog thickened, visibility dropping to arm's length, but the eyes remained, orbiting, closer. A touch grazed her arm—feather-light, gone. Skin crawled. She bolted left, beam bouncing off toadstools that toppled in her wake, caps splitting to reveal pulp like exposed muscle. The ground heaved, moss rippling underfoot, roots snaking up to snag her boots. She kicked free, pulse roaring. The pendant swung wild, its light fracturing the fog into prisms—faces within, distorted, mouths moving in silent pleas. Eva's warning resurfaced: "Don't trust the edges. They hunger." Hunger. The word lodged in her throat. The whispers coalesced, a single voice now, velvet and vile: "Stay. Join us." It pulled, a tide dragging her toward the altar. Rory resisted, nails digging into palms. Blood welled—warm, real. Anchor. She circled back, aiming for the stones, but paths twisted, oaks shifting positions. One trunk split, bark peeling to expose something pale, writhing beneath. She averted her eyes, breath ragged. The hum peaked, vibrating through bone, visions flashing: her flat above Silas's bar, empty; the Golden Empress, doors barred; Cardiff streets, her parents' faces fading. Time slipping. Watch: hands blurred, 12:15 or 3:00? The pendant scalded, glow illuminating a figure at the clearing's rim—tall, cloaked in leaves, eyes like the flowers' centers, fixed on her. It stepped forward, silent, branches cracking under invisible weight. Rory raised the light. The figure halted, then dissolved into petals that swirled toward her. She ran. Thorns tore at her sleeves, drawing lines of fire. The whispers pursued, a cacophony of her own voice: "Help me... help..." Echoes of pleas she never uttered. The stones appeared, closer now, but altered—gaps narrowed, trunks leaning to block escape. One gap remained, narrow, pulsing with the pendant's rhythm. She squeezed through, fabric ripping, the figure's hand—cold, bark-rough—brushing her scar. Pain flared, old wound reopening, blood dripping hot. Beyond the boundary, the park snapped back: crickets chirped, wind sighed through normal oaks. Rory stumbled to her knees, gasping. The pendant cooled, glow dimming. But the whispers lingered, faint, in the rustle of leaves. She glanced back. The grove waited, flowers blooming brighter, eyes winking from the dark. Not alone. Never alone.