Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94XH98YBWGZA9PEJG0HBBB

The iron gates of Richmond Park had long since clanged shut for the night, their heavy finality a promise of solitude. Rory had slipped through a gap in the perimeter fencing miles back, a familiar manoeuvre born of necessity and a certain disdain for rules. Now, she stood at the fringe of what felt less like a park and more like a lung inhaling the night. The air thickened with each step she took past the ancient oak standing stones, their gnarled forms like arthritic fingers pointing at a starless sky. This was it. The Fae Grove. Isolde’s grove, some called it. A place whispered about, a place that never quite belonged to this world. She pulled her worn jacket tighter, though the night, for all its chill, held no real bite. The wrongness began subtly, a prickle along her arms that had nothing to do with temperature. It was the *quality* of the silence, a void so profound it seemed to hum. It swallowed the distant thrum of London traffic, the whine of sirens, even the sound of her own breathing. Her flashlight beam, a frail sword against the encroaching dark, cut a swathe through the gloom. It illuminated a bewildering tapestry of flora: roses the colour of dried blood unfurling beside moon-white lilies, violets darker than any twilight. Wildflowers bloomed year-round, a fact she’d read about, but seeing it in the absolute dark was a violation of natural order. They weren't just blooming; they seemed to *glow* with an internal luminescence, subtle yet undeniable, turning the clearing into a spectral garden. The scent was overwhelming—a heady, cloying sweetness, like jasmine mixed with something richer, almost musky, that clung to the back of her throat. She touched the Heartstone pendant nestled beneath her shirt. Its silver chain was cool against her skin, but the familiar, deep crimson gem pulsed with a faint, internal warmth, a steady beat against her sternum. It had been warm since she’d left her flat above Silas’s bar, growing warmer, more insistent, as she’d driven west, guided by a feeling more than a map. The pendant reacted to Hel portals, the notes had explained, or places where the veil between worlds grew thin. This grove, she suspected, was both. Her boots crunched on a path that wasn't exactly a path, more a worn track through the dense undergrowth. She kept close to the centre, the standing stones forming a rough, embracing circle behind her. She tried to recall the instructions, the vague directions given by the hooded man at the market stall. *“Seek the heart of the stillness,”* he’d rasped, his eyes like chips of obsidian. *“The bloom in the dark.”* He’d pressed the pendant, cool and weightless then, into her palm. Now, with its insistent warmth, the encounter felt more like a deliberate summoning than a chance meeting. *Snap.* Rory froze. The sound was sharp, impossibly close, like a dry twig broken underfoot. Her flashlight beam whipped around, pinning the dense wall of foliage at the edge of the clearing. Nothing moved. No shadow detached itself. Just the silent, luminous flowers, their scent thick as velvet. *An animal,* she told herself, her voice a tight whisper lost in the oppressive quiet. *A fox. A deer.* She was in a park, even if it felt like another dimension. Animals moved in parks. She took another hesitant step. The path seemed to curve, to twist where she remembered a straight stretch. The trees, indistinct silhouettes against the bruised sky, seemed to lean in, their branches like skeletal arms. A flicker. A suggestion of movement at the periphery of her vision. She jerked her head, catching it again—a blur of deeper shadow detaching itself from another shadow, then vanishing as if it had never been there. Her heart hammered a quick, uneven rhythm against her ribs. She wasn't imagining it. The grove was not just still; it was *aware*. The air grew colder, a bone-aching dampness that seeped past her jacket. It wasn’t the external temperature; it was a chill that felt as if it originated from within the earth, or from behind her eyes. The flowers’ sweet perfume became almost acrid, a sickly, decaying sweetness that spoke of overripening, of things left too long in the dark. Then, a sound that was not a snap, nor a rustle. It was a faint, ethereal music, like wind chimes made of ice, tinkling from an impossible distance, or perhaps from directly within her own skull. She shook her head, trying to dislodge it. It wasn’t wind. There was no wind. The leaves on the unseen branches remained perfectly still. The pendant against her skin grew noticeably warmer, its pulse more pronounced, pressing a tiny, insistent heat into her flesh. A faint inner glow emanated from the crimson gem, a miniature sunset struggling against the night. *Something’s close,* the warmth seemed to say. *Something you’re looking for. Or something that’s looking for you.* Her breath hitched. She spun around, slowly this time, sweeping the flashlight beam in a wide arc. The standing stones seemed to loom, ancient and impassive, but they felt less like markers of a place and more like jail bars. The wildflowers, in the beam, were too vivid, their colours screaming unnaturally in the dark. The moonlight, filtering through impossibly dense cloud cover, cast long, distorted shadows that writhed like living things. She was not alone. The thought bloomed in her mind, cold and sharp, cutting through her attempts at rationalization. The grove was not empty. It was occupied. And whatever occupied it was subtle. It moved in the spaces between perceptions, a whisper of presence in the absolute quiet. She instinctively reached for the small utility knife she kept in her jacket pocket, her fingers fumbling. Her left wrist, the one with the faint, crescent scar, suddenly itched, a phantom sensation like static electricity building beneath the skin. She glanced down, half-expecting to see something etched there, but only saw the familiar pale line, thin and silver in the flashlight’s beam. The scar, from a stupid fall when she was seven, had always felt like a marker, a small, permanent imperfection. Tonight, it felt like a beacon. The music again, closer. It resolved itself, not into chimes, but into a melody, impossibly delicate, sung by a voice like spun glass. It was wordless, ancient, and utterly alien. And it was accompanied by a new sound, a soft, rhythmic *thump... thump... thump...* that vibrated through the soles of her boots, through the very ground beneath her. Rory swallowed, her mouth dry. She took a step back, her boot landing on something soft. She flared the flashlight beam down. It wasn’t grass. It was a bloom, unnaturally large, its petals the colour of bruised flesh, unfurling slowly, deliberately. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. The air pressed in, heavy, humid, suffocating. The scent of rot was stronger now, mingling with the sickeningly sweet floral perfume, a metallic tang threading through it. The shadows deepened, coalescing, no longer just the absence of light but entities themselves. They seemed to drink the flashlight beam, pulling it in, making the shaft of light thinner, weaker. A breath. She felt it – a rush of air, impossibly cold, disturb the fine hairs on the back of her neck. It carried with it a scent, not of flowers, not of rot, but of ozone and something else… something like old, forgotten rain. Her eyes darted around, scanning the gloom that the failing light could no longer penetrate. She could sense it now, a vast, immeasurable stillness that was not emptiness, but fullness. It was the stillness of a predator waiting, of a vast intelligence observing. It was all around her, behind the moving shadows, within the pulsing flowers, and in the echoing, wordless song. She felt a profound sense of being seen, not with eyes, but with something far more ancient and invasive. Her carefully constructed logic crumbled. This was not an animal. This was not a trick of the light or sound. This was something that had been waiting. And she, drawn by the warmth of the pendant, had walked willingly into its parlour. The pendant pulsed again, a fierce, desperate heat. It felt less like a guide now and more like a warning, screaming its alarm into her very bones. The *thump... thump... thump...* grew louder, closer, resonating not in her ears, but in her chest cavity, mimicking a frantic heartbeat that wasn’t entirely her own. A shadow detached itself. Not from the periphery this time. Directly before her, where the flashlight beam now barely reached. It was fluid, impossibly tall, a stain of deeper darkness that seemed to drink the very concept of light. It did not move with steps, but with a languid unfolding, an uncurling of night itself. Rory couldn't see features, couldn't see form, but she felt the weight of its attention, crushing, absolute. It was patient. It was curious. And it was hungry. She wanted to scream, but her throat was a desert. Her legs were lead. The logic that defined her life, the quick-thinking mind that had solved so many puzzles, offered no solutions here. There was no escape from a place that twisted time and space. There was no fighting something that was made of shadow and silence. There was only the vast, cold, intelligent presence that was now slowly, deliberately, filling the space where she stood. The music swelled, a lament and a welcome intertwined. The wildflowers pulsed like tiny, expectant hearts. And the darkness before her solidified, becoming a void that beckooed her into its depths. Her childhood scar tingled, a fragile reminder of a life, a world, that suddenly felt impossibly distant, perhaps already lost.