Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTY5R0JF4PX799X0J4Q5EEA

The oak leaves crunched under Rory’s steel-toe boots, each step louder than it should be in the quiet of Richmond Park. It was just past midnight, the quarter moon hanging low and pale, painting the fallen foliage in a sickly silver glow. She’d snuck in through the unguarded north gate, her Golden Empress lanyard digging into the skin of her neck under her black puffer jacket, the empty delivery bag slung over her shoulder clinking softly with a crumpled receipt and a stick of spearmint gum. She pushed her shoulder-length black hair out of her sweaty forehead, the strands sticking to her skin, and rubbed the crescent scar on her left wrist—a nervous tic she’d carried since she was twelve, when she’d fallen through a cottage window and sliced her wrist on shards of glass. She’d followed the pulse for three hours, starting in her flat above Silas’ bar, when the Heartstone Pendant around her throat had flared to life, warm enough to burn through her shirt. It had only done that once before, two weeks prior, the night Evan had showed up outside her delivery flat, pounding on the door until Eva had screamed at him through the letterbox, slamming it shut on his bruised knuckles. Back then, the pulse had led her to a derelict alley behind the old Cardiff docks, where she’d hidden for three hours until Eva picked her up, her hands shaking so bad she’d dropped three orders of dumplings in the bike basket. Now, it was leading her to the middle of nowhere, a stretch of park she’d never seen marked on any trail map, a narrow dirt path winding between gnarled, ancient oaks that looked like they’d been standing since before the Normans landed, their branches twisted into rough, skeletal shapes. The oaks formed a perfect circle, their interwoven branches blocking out even the faint moon glow, creating a dark, closed-off cavity in the middle of the park. A narrow gap gaped in the circle, just wide enough for her to squeeze through, and air wafted out of it—warm, thick, smelling like jasmine and burnt sugar, nothing like the crisp, piney park air she’d been breathing for the last three hours. She reached up, fumbling with the silver chain around her neck, and pulled the Heartstone Pendant free, pressing it into her palm. The deep crimson gem pulsed against her skin, thrumming so hard she could feel it through her bones, a faint inner glow bleeding out to paint her fingers red, exactly as it had that night in Cardiff. She hesitated, her thumb brushing over her crescent scar. The last time she’d followed this pull, Evan had found her, had tracked her through the rain until he’d cornered her outside a bus stop, his face twisted with anger, until Eva had pulled up in her car and run him over with the curb. But this time, she’d left her phone on loud, Eva was supposed to check in at 1 a.m., and she’d grabbed the multitool from her kitchen drawer before she’d climbed on her bike, its sharp blade tucked into the inner pocket of her jacket. She slipped through the oak gap, and the world shifted instantly. The crunch of oak leaves under her boots stopped, replaced by the soft squelch of moss, and around her bloomed wildflowers—purple clover, yellow primroses, even tiny white snowdrops—thick and lush, even though outside the grove the only plants were brown, dormant bracken and dead oak leaves. The air smelled sweeter now, like honey, and when she looked down at her watch, her stomach twisted: it said 12:17 a.m. When she’d passed the park’s main gate ten minutes prior, it had been 11:58. She pulled out her phone, but there was no signal, just a blank screen with the battery at 47%, exactly the same as when she left home. Swiping open the camera app, she zoomed in on the oak branches above her—their bark was covered in faint, dark carvings, shapes that looked like faces, blurring when she leaned in too close, like her eyes were tricking her. Then, the first sound: a high, breathy giggle, like a little girl, coming from somewhere behind her. She froze, her hand tightening around the Heartstone. The giggle stopped. For a full minute, the only sound was the quiet thrum of the pendant against her chest, and the soft rustle of wildflowers swaying in a breeze that shouldn’t have existed—outside the grove, the air had been still as death. Then, she heard it again, closer this time, right at her ear, and she spun around, but there was nothing there. Just the wildflowers, and the moss, and the twisted oaks standing sentinel around the clearing. She took a step forward, her boot sinking into the moss a little farther than it should have, and looked down. At her feet lay a moss-covered stone, carved with a crescent moon, exactly like the scar on her wrist. She knelt, running a finger over the carving, and it felt warm under her skin, just like the pendant. Suddenly, she heard footsteps: slow, heavy, scuffing on moss, not dirt, like someone wearing heavy boots, but moving silently through the thick growth. She stood up fast, spinning around, and this time she saw it: a figure at the far edge of the grove, tall and gaunt, with long, stringy black hair that fell past its shoulders, wearing a tattered gray wool dress, the kind her grandmother used to wear to Sunday church. It vanished behind an oak tree before she could get a good look at its face, and she took a step toward it, her hand reaching for the multitool in her jacket pocket. A thick, woody vine snaked out from under the moss, wrapping around her left ankle, cold and smooth as glass, pulling her down toward the ground. She yelped, kicking at it, but it held fast, tightening slowly, like it was trying to drag her into the mossy earth. She fumbled the multitool out of her pocket, flipping open the blade with a sharp click, and sliced at the vine. It snapped with a soft, squelching noise, like a rotting melon, and a clear, sticky dark green liquid oozed out from the cut end, sweet-smelling, like the air in the grove. She pulled her ankle free, rubbing the skin where the vine had wrapped around it, and saw a tiny crescent-shaped bruise blooming there, exactly matching the scar on her wrist. Her heart was hammering now, loud enough to drown out the thrum of the pendant, and she looked up just in time to see the figure step out from behind the oak again, closer this time, ten feet away, its face hidden by the curtain of black hair. This time, she didn’t look away fast enough. The figure’s long, stringy hair fell to the side for a split second, and she saw its face. There were no eyes, just two glowing red dots, exactly like the Heartstone Pendant, set into smooth, pale bone, and its mouth was stretched into a permanent, lopsided grin, like it was always laughing at something she couldn’t see. She stumbled back, her boot hitting another carved stone, and fell onto her knees, the wind knocked out of her. The figure stepped closer, its long, thin fingers stretched out toward her, and the thrum of the pendant stopped suddenly, the red glow fading to a dull gray. Suddenly, Rory remembered the nightmares she’d been having since she left Evan: the same red pendant, the same glowing red eyes, a dark portal opening up in the middle of a clearing, and that figure reaching for her, pulling her through. She realized now that this was what the pendant had been warning her about—the Hel portal, hidden right here in this grove. She heard a soft rustle behind her, and when she turned her head, she saw three more figures standing at the edges of the grove, all tall and gaunt, all with stringy black hair, all with those glowing red eyes. They were swaying slightly, moving closer in a slow, uneven circle, their long fingers curling into fists. High, breathy giggles started up again, coming from all around her, dozens of voices overlapping, whispering words she didn’t recognize—old Welsh, she thought, some of it, but most of it was something older, harsher, like the language of the woods themselves. Panic pricked at her throat, but she forced herself to calm down, just like Eva had taught her after the first time Evan hit her. She grabbed the Heartstone Pendant off her neck, holding it out in her palm, and the red core of the gem flared to life, bright and warm, cutting through the dark of the grove. The figures froze, their heads turning toward the pendant, their red eyes (dots) fixing on the light. The leading figure stepped back, its bone face tilting to the side, like it was afraid of the stone. A soft voice cut through the whispers, clear and firm, coming from the thick oak branches above her. “Go back, child. This place is not for you.” Rory craned her neck, looking up, and saw a woman perched on one of the lowest, thickest branches, her silver hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, wearing a dress woven from green moss and wildflowers, her bare feet resting on a moss-covered knothole. In her hand, she held a staff carved from oak wood, topped with a small, glowing red acorn, exactly like the Heartstone Pendant in Rory’s palm. The leading figure snarled, a low, guttural noise that vibrated through the moss under Rory’s knees, and took another step forward, its long, thin fingers reaching for her. But the silver-haired woman raised her staff, and a burst of soft green light burst from the tip, hitting the gaunt figure square in the chest. It stumbled back, stumbling over a mossy stone, and vanished into the trees, its giggles cut off abruptly. The other figures hesitated, then turned and followed it, vanishing one by one behind the oaks. The whispering stopped, and the grove went silent, except for the soft rustle of wildflowers in the breeze. Rory sat on the ground for a full minute, her hands shaking, her heart hammering so hard she could hear it over the thrum of her own breath. She pushed herself up off the ground, brushing moss off her knees, and looked at the silver-haired woman, who was now standing on the ground in front of her, her staff still in her hand. “You’re the one who sent me the pendant,” she said, her voice rough from disuse. The silver-haired woman smiled, her eyes soft and kind, and held out a hand. “I did. Your scar—you were marked the day you fell through that window. The fae have been watching you ever since. This pendant will warn you when portals like this one open, but it will not harm you. Run back to your home, and do not come back here again.” Rory took the small red acorn the woman held out, then slipped the Heartstone Pendant back around her neck. She turned and ran toward the oak gap, her boots hitting moss, then dirt, then crisp oak leaves, as she stepped back into Richmond Park. The moment she crossed the gap, the wildflowers vanished, the moss turned to bare earth, and her watch reset to 12:22 a.m., exactly the time she’d been ten minutes outside the grove. She looked back, but the oak gap was gone, replaced by a dense wall of twisted branches, and she couldn’t see the grove at all, even when she shone her phone flashlight on the trees. She sat down on a fallen oak log, pulling her knees up to her chest, and stared at her left wrist. The crescent bruise was still there, dark and purple, and the pendant around her neck was cool, no longer thrumming. A few minutes later, she heard the sound of a police car driving past the park, its siren wailing in the distance, and she stood up, brushing moss off her jacket. She walked back to the north gate, climbed onto her delivery bike, and pedaled hard toward London, the quiet hum of the city growing closer with every turn of the wheels.