Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09AZCD8Q987RQHMN2M44N4

The standing stones loomed ahead, pale oak knots against the black velvet of the night. Rory touched the silver chain at her throat before remembering the pendant wasn't there today. Left it on the kitchen counter back in London—no sense tempting fate with artifacts she didn't understand. The stones marked the entrance to Isolde's grove. That was what the note had said. *If you need safe ground, come before moonrise. Bring nothing Fae-touched.* She hadn't brought the pendant. Good. The note had been slipped under the door of Silas's bar, still damp from morning dew. No return address. No signature. Just the standing stones sketched in pencil on the back. The handwriting matched Eva's—the looping loops and sharp angles—but her childhood friend hadn't been in contact for years. Not since the last fight before Rory fled Cardiff. Not since Evan's fists came after before. Rory's breath crystallized in the air. The moon hung full and heavy above the grove, bathing everything in cold silver that didn't match the chill creeping down her spine. Her sneakers crunched on frost that shouldn't have formed in autumn. The first wrong note. No frost in Richmond Park in October. Not like this. Not covering the path ahead in delicate needles that held no footprints. Not glittering under moonlight that should have been absorbed, not reflected. She stopped three strides from the stones. Something waited beyond them. Something that knew her name. The air thinned around her, like the world exhaled. A held breath released. Her fingers twitched toward her empty wrists. Her scars burned against the cold. "What are you doing here?" The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. A child's whisper layered with something older, something hungry. Rory's pulse anchored her. Not a dream. Not Evan's voice playing tricks again. She stepped forward, boots crushing the unnatural frost. The standing stones pressed against her shoulders as she passed through. No resistance. No sound. Just the sudden silence of being underwater. The clearing opened before her. Wildflowers in full bloom choked the ground—foxgloves and primroses where English woods should have been brown and decaying. Too bright. Too vivid. The scent hit next: honey and something metallic, like old pennies left in rain. A footbridge crossed a dry stream bed. No water. Just the suggestion of water, the memory of it. Moonlight caught shattered glass along the banks. Bottles. Hundreds of them. Different shapes, different ages. Some melted into each other like slag. Her stomach clenched. The wrongness settled deeper now, like a stone in her gut. The bridge creaked underfoot. Each step made the world tilt slightly. Time slurred. Five minutes outside could be hours here. Rory clenched her jaw. She'd been in the right place too long already. Footsteps behind her. Not her own. Not on the bridge. Too heavy. Too slow. Like something dragging something it shouldn't. She didn't turn. Couldn't. Her neck locked in place, spine rigid. The bridge ended abruptly at a circle of flat stones. Around them—eight bonfire rings. Ash still warm in some. Flesh-smoke lingered. Rory's vision narrowed. Eight people had stood here recently. Eight sets of footprints in the frost, leading away then stopping abruptly as if they'd been lifted into the air. No drag marks. No struggle. Just absence. Something skittered across the corner of her eye. Light. White fur. Too small to be anything natural in this grove. It vanished before she could focus. The evening breeze shifted. The scent changed—rotting fruit and wet dog. Her eyes watered. "Looking for something?" The voice came from above. Rory's gaze snapped up. A figure stood on the far side of the circle. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs stretched longer than humanly possible. The moonlight passed through it like fog through glass. Her legs moved before her brain caught up. Back toward the bridge. Back toward the stones. The figure didn't follow. Didn't need to. It already stood between her and escape. The frost began to retreat. Pulling back along the path like lips peeling from teeth. The standing stones groaned. Not from wind. From inside. From below. From the hungry place trying to break through. Rory's breath came fast and shallow. She forced herself to stop. Turn. Face the thing. It had a face now. Features resolving from the mist—high cheeks, too-wide mouth, eyes like black marbles. It smiled. Delighted. Expectant. "You came alone," it said. "How very perfect." The wildflowers nearest the circle wilted at the roots. Petals rained down like dead skin. The scent of old pennies overwhelmed everything. Rory's fingers twitched. Her nails bit into her palms. She needed an edge. Anything. A weapon. A lie. A way out. The frost reached the boundary stones. Pushed against them. The grove wanted her to stay. The tall thing tilted its head. The smile stretched wider. "You carry no protection. No wards. No blessings. Only human." It whispered the word like an insult. "We haven't tasted human in centuries." The first of the bonfire rings collapsed inward. Not burned ash. Not earth. Something wet and dark bubbled up from below. The scent of it made her gag—sulfur and spoiled meat. Rory's heels touched the standing stones again. Cold seeped into her bones. The outside world waited beyond. Normal time. Normal air. Normal reality she understood. The tall thing laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "You're still deciding whether to run." She ran.