Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95DBE1Z9ZHRK40HEHZPZPW

The iron gates of Richmond Park stood like skeletal fingers against the bruised twilight sky. Rory pulled her denim jacket tighter, the worn fabric a familiar comfort against the sharp October chill. The air itself felt thinner here, scrubbed clean of city smog but layered thick with an ancient, earthy stillness. She’d told herself this was just another delivery route, a favour for Yu-Fei Cheung, but Silas had seen the slight tremor in her hands as she pocketed the cash yesterday. He’d just nodded, his grizzled face unreadable, and said, "Takes guts, kid." Guts. Or desperation. She navigated past the last of the park’s lamplit paths, her boots crunching on fallen leaves that whispered secrets older than the city below. Her phone’s borrowed flashlight beam sliced a narrow tunnel through the encroaching dark, illuminating only the immediate tangle of bracken and the looming silhouettes of trees. An hour ago, the Heartstone Pendant resting against her sternum had been cool, inert. Now, a faint warmth seeped through her shirt, a subtle thrumming she felt more than heard. It was her guide, her only clue to what Dymas had gifted her. Or perhaps, an advertisement for what it wanted. The path dissolved. She pushed through a screen of thorns, emerging into a space that felt both vast and claustrophobic. Before her stood the standing stones, dark monoliths of ancient oak, gnarled and pitted like the faces of forgotten gods. They marked the threshold, a boundary she already felt pressing against her skin. The usual sounds of the night – the distant thrum of traffic, the hoot of an owl, the rustle of small creatures – had utterly vanished. This silence was a void, a vacuum that seemed to suck sound molecules right out of the air. It pressed in, heavy and absolute. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Okay," she breathed, the word a tiny, fragile puff of vapor in the frigid air. "Just like Silas said. Isolde's grove." She stepped between two of the monolithic oaks. The air inside felt different. Warmer. Heavier. The darkness here wasn't just an absence of light; it was a tangible presence, a deep, ink-black dye seeping into everything. Yet, paradoxically, the ground beneath her feet became a riot of colour. Wildflowers, impossibly vibrant, bloomed in impossible profusion, their petals glowing with a pale, phosphorescent light that cast long, distorted shadows. Blues so deep they verged on black, reds like freshly spilled blood, yellows that seemed to absorb the torchlight and push it back. They were here year-round, the stories went, untouched by frost or season. Now, in the pitch black of night, they looked predatory. Her gaze swept the clearing, seeking a reason for the warmth radiating from the pendant. No sign of any portal, Hel or otherwise. Just trees, stones, and the unnervingly vivid flowers. She took a step further in, her boots sinking slightly into the mossy ground. A faint scent assailed her, a heady perfume of honey and damp earth and something else… metallic, like old pennies. Her flashlight beam wavered. A scuff. Rory froze. The sound was faint, barely audible over the insistent thrumming of the pendant. She strained her ears. Nothing but the heavy silence and the pulse at her chest. “Just… my own footfall,” she murmured, though the sound had seemed distinct, separate. A skittering noise, like dry leaves being dragged. But there was no breeze. Not a whisper of wind stirred the unnaturally still boughs above. Her eyes darted to the periphery of her flashlight’s reach. A flicker. A shift in the texture of the gloom. She snapped her light in that direction. A thicket of moon-white foxgloves, their bell-shaped flowers hanging like dark, silent mouths. Nothing moved. Yet, the suggestion of movement lingered, a ghost imprint on her vision. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog of unease. This was the Fae Grove. Tricks of light, tricks of the mind. She’d come for answers, not to scare herself with shadows. She walked deeper, drawn by the growing insistence of the pendant’s warmth. It felt less like a heating element and more like a small creature stirring against her skin, a tiny, warm heart beating in sympathy with something unseen. The air grew colder again, a sharp contrast to the pendant’s heat. The flowers seemed to dim, their unnatural glow receding, leaving the clearing in deeper, more profound darkness. The silence deepened too, becoming a suffocating blanket. Her breath hitched. Another sound. This time, clearer. A low, wet drag. Like something heavy being pulled across damp earth. It wasn't a natural sound. It was deliberate. Measured. It seemed to come from the edge of the clearing, behind a stand of ancient yews whose branches drooped like skeletal arms. "Anyone there?" The question tore from her throat, sharper than she intended. Her voice sounded thin, alien in this place. It echoed strangely, then died, absorbed by the suffocating stillness. No answer came. But the pendant pulsed harder, a definite surge of heat against her ribs. It was reacting. To what? Her flashlight beam, now trembling in her grip, swept across the yews. Nothing. Just endless tangled darkness. But as the light moved, she caught it again. That flicker. This time, it wasn't at the edge of her vision. It was in the shadow clinging to the trunk of the largest yew. A shadow that moved independently of the tree it belonged to, detaching itself for a fleeting instant, a deeper stain against the already profound blackness. She swung the flashlight beam back, fixing it on the spot. The shadow snapped back into place, indistinguishable from the rest of the gloom. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm that seemed to mock her own attempt at composure. "This isn't funny," she whispered, her voice raspy. She took another step, aiming for the centre of the clearing, hoping to find the source of the pendant’s reaction. The ground felt strangely uneven now, as if she were treading over buried roots or uneven stones. Her ankle twisted slightly. She caught herself, her hand slamming against the rough bark of a nearby oak. The bark felt strangely smooth, slick almost, under her palm. Not like bark at all. But when she snatched her hand away, the texture was gone. The dragging sound came again, closer this time. It was accompanied by a soft, guttural sigh. A sound that was not human, not animal, but something in between. Something that belonged to the whispers of the Fae realm. The pendant’s warmth flared, a distinct pulse against her skin. It felt like a warning, a desperate plea. She held her breath, straining to hear over the roaring in her own ears. The air grew heavy with that metallic scent, sharper now, coppery. Her eyes, wide and searching, darted frantically through the oppressive dark. She felt it then, acutely. The certainty. Not a suspicion, not a guess, but a cold, hard fact settling in her gut. She was not alone. Something was here with her, watching, waiting. And it was not friendly. The drag, the sigh, the independent shadow—they coalesced into a singular, terrifying truth. Whatever dwelled within the Fae Grove, it knew she was here. And it was making its presence known.