Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95XQWGSGHQQ2HSE8ZZXQ29

The air grew thick, heavy, as Aurora Carter stepped past the gnarled sentinel oaks that marked the Fae Grove’s edge. Their ancient trunks, slick with overnight dew, dripped into the damp earth, each drop a soft, deliberate plink in a silence that swallowed sound whole. Richmond Park’s usual nighttime symphony – the distant hum of London, the rustle of small creatures, the sigh of wind through leaves – died abruptly at the grove’s invisible threshold. Here, only the soft crunch of her boots on fallen leaves disturbed the profound stillness. The night pressed in, a tangible weight against her skin, colder than mere autumn air. Moonlight, impossibly sharp, sliced through the canopy, illuminating patches of ground where wildflowers, defying every natural law, carpeted the earth in colours too vibrant, too saturated for the dark. They seemed to pulse with an inner light, their petals unfurled and expectant. Aurora paused, listening. No, not listening. *Feeling*. The grove hummed with a subtle wrongness, a discordant note beneath the absolute quiet. Her shoulder-length black hair clung to her neck. She ran a gloved hand over the smooth, cool stone of the nearest oak, then drew her fingers back. The air here tasted stale, like dust disturbed after centuries of sleep. She’d come here hoping to find something, a pathway, a place between. The rough talk from Silas, before she left his bar for the night, about ‘thin places’ and ‘old doors’ echoed in her mind, a nervous whisper against the overwhelming quiet. Her hand instinctively went to her chest, fingers finding the cool, smooth surface of the Heartstone Pendant nestled beneath her jacket. It hung on its fine silver chain, a tiny splash of deep crimson against her skin. It had been a gift, anonymous and unsettling, from someone who knew more than they let on. She’d felt its faint warmth for the first time just days ago, a subtle thrumming that had grown stronger whenever she thought about places like this, hollowed-out spots in the world’s fabric. Right now, it was utterly still, its pulse dormant. A flicker of movement at the edge of her vision. She snapped her head around, eyes scanning the dense wall of shadow at the grove’s centre. Nothing. Just the play of moonlight and tree trunks. Yet the feeling persisted – a prickle on her neck, the distinct sensation of being observed. Not the casual glance of a late-night wanderer, but a focused, predatory attention. She took another step, the leaves beneath her boots whispering a protest. "Bloody hell," she muttered, the exclamation snatched and muffled by the oppressive air. She pulled her phone from her pocket. No signal. Of course. She’d expected that. One more layer of insulation, separating her from anything familiar. The screen cast a weak, blueish light, illuminating the wildflowers at her feet. Their colours seemed to bleed outwards, too vivid, the centres of some blooms appearing impossibly dark, like tiny wells. A twig snapped, sharp and loud, startlingly close. Aurora froze, every muscle tensed. It came from her left, somewhere beyond a thicket of ferns that seemed unnaturally tall, their fronds like skeletal hands reaching for the sky. She strained her ears. Silence. The sound had been too deliberate for a falling branch, too crisp for an animal scurrying away. It was a sound that announced presence. She slowly turned her head, her gaze fixed on the ferns. Nothing moved. The moonlight, which had been so clear moments before, seemed to dim suddenly, as if a vast, unseen hand had drawn a curtain across the sky. Her breath hitched. The warmth of the Heartstone Pendant flared against her chest, a sudden, insistent pulse. It felt like a tiny, frantic heartbeat. She touched it again, her fingers tracing the smooth, almost jewel-like surface. It was a beacon, then. Closer than she thought. But what was it signalling? A portal? Or whatever guarded it? A low rustling sound began, not from the ferns, but weaving through the trees. It wasn't the wind; there was no breeze strong enough to stir these leaves with such intent purpose. It sounded like fabric dragging across rough bark, or a thousand tiny feet skittering over stone. It was everywhere and nowhere, a murmur of movement that seemed to insinuate itself into her very bones. She closed her eyes for a second, forcing herself to breathe, to access that cool-headed logic that usually served her. This was it. This was the wrongness. Everything about this place screamed exclusion, a warning etched into its very existence. When she opened her eyes, the shadows seemed deeper, more solid. The shapes of the standing stones, which had been stark against the sky, now seemed to ripple at their edges, blurring into the encroaching darkness. She saw it then, a fleeting impression. A movement, darker than the surrounding night, detaching itself from the base of one of the largest oaks. It wasn’t a solid form, more like a tear in reality, a place where the light refused to fall. It flowed, liquid and silent, melting back into the gloom before her eyes could properly register it. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat that the pendant seemed to echo. The air grew colder, biting now. A peculiar sensation washed over her, disorienting. It felt as though time hiccuped. One moment she was standing, heart pounding, the next she had the distinct impression of having taken a step backward, though her feet hadn't moved. Had she blinked? Or had the grove stolen a second, a minute, from her? The wildflowers at her feet seemed to shimmer, their colours shifting, cycling through impossible hues. She backed away slowly, her eyes darting, trying to anchor onto solid ground. The rustling intensified, resolving into a sound that was disturbingly close to whispers. Faint, sibilant sounds that coiled and uncoiled, just at the edge of intelligibility. They weren’t words, not in any language she knew, but the *intent* behind them was clear. They spoke of ancient hunger, of things that dwelled in the spaces between. Aurora stumbled, catching herself against the rough bark of a tree. Her crescent scar, usually hidden, pressed against the rough wood, a stark white line on her skin. It throbbed, an phantom ache that mirrored the frantic pulsing of the Heartstone beneath her jacket. She felt a dizzying certainty that she was no longer alone. The grove wasn't just a place; it was a presence, a vast, watchful entity that had just begun to stir at her trespass. And whatever it was, it was coalescing in the darkness around her, drawn by the faint, rhythmic beat against her chest. A breath, cold and foul, ghosted past her ear, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else, something metallic and utterly alien.