Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09FWD766B0J7KEYHCTD1QC

Aurora stepped through the standing stones, boots crunching on frost-crusted grass the colour of old bones. The air pressed down on her shoulders like wet wool, thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something metallic. She tightened her scarf against the cold, her breath fogging in the dim moonlight that filtered through the trees—moonlight that seemed to come from a source too far away, too white. The Fae Grove. Isolde’s grove. A place that shouldn’t exist and yet did, pulsing like a slow, erratic heartbeat beneath Richmond Park’s skin. The wildflowers bloomed year-round here, but the ones pressed into the earth beneath her boots weren’t greeting-card yellows or mallows. They were the colour of old bruises, their petals too smooth, their centres too deep. Rory adjusted the strap of her courier bag, fingers brushing the Heartstone Pendant beneath her shirt. It pulsed again, deliberate and slow, like a second heartbeat against her ribs. She pulled it free. The crimson stone glowed softly in the moonlight, the silver chain cold against her palm. She was here for a reason. The pendant had been leading her for weeks—since it first flared to life above her flat, humming like a live wire in her drawer. It knew something she didn’t. Knew where the Hel portal was. Knew why the shadows in her dreams sometimes had teeth. A twig snapped behind her. Rory didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Nothing. Just the quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t quiet at all. It was filled with things waiting to fill it. She turned slowly, torch in her other hand now, its beam cutting through the dark in a narrow, trembling corridor. Between the standing stones, the park beyond looked wrong. The trees stretched too tall. The moon was too bright, too steady. No clouds. No breeze. She caught movement near the tree line. Not an animal. Not a person. Something else. Silent. Bent at angles that made her teeth ache. She killed the torch. Darkness rushed back in. Rory stood still. The pendant burned against her sternum. She wasn’t alone. She heard it then—a voice, whispering through the silence like silk through rust. But the words weren’t meant for ears. They were meant for thoughts. *"Little thief."* The voice slithered into her mind, smooth and viscous as oil. Not spoken aloud. Embedded. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. The pendant pulsed again, hotter now, almost too hot to touch. She forced herself to step forward. The ground was spongy beneath her boots, like walking on a lung. Wildflowers bloomed at her feet—white blossoms with stems the colour of bleached bone. When she crouched, crushed one between her fingers, it smelled like iron and spoiled honey. She stood too quickly. Something moved behind her. Not walking. Sliding. Rory spun, torch on. Nothing. Her breath came too fast. She forced herself to breathe. *Paranoia. Jet lag. Too much coffee.* A sound cut through the silence—a child’s laugh, high and distant. It came from nowhere. Not her ears. Not outside. Inside her skull. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. The screen lit up the dark, weak and blue. The glow recoiled the wildflowers. Their petals shrunk back, as if scalded. Then—movement. Fast. A shape darted from behind a tree to her left. Too quick to recognise. Too wrong in its limbs. She spun, torch up. Nothing. Her heart hammered in her throat. The pendant burned white-hot against her skin. She wasn’t imagining things. A voice, again. *"You took what isn’t yours."* The words slithered into her mind, smooth and viscous. Rory forced out, "I don’t know what you’re talking about." *"Liar."* The word echoed in her skull. *"The Heartstone was never meant for human hands."* She flinched. The torch flickered. The thing before her was tall. Too tall. Its limbs too long, joints bending in ways that made her stomach lurch. It moved without sound, gliding over the earth like it weighed nothing. Rory’s back hit a tree trunk. She hadn’t even seen it there. The bark was warm to touch, almost *breathing* against her spine. The pendant pulsed violently. The crimson light flared in her cupped hands, casting her face in bloody relief. The thing recoiled, its featureless face contorting. *"No—"* Rory thrust the pendant forward. Light exploded. A scream tore through the grove—not hers. The thing thrashed, its long limbs flailing as if burned. The air shimmered. The ground trembled. Rory ducked, arms over her head. Darkness rushed back in. Silence. She lowered her arms. The grove was still. The thing was gone. No ashes. No marks on the earth. Only the wildflowers had changed. Where there had been white blossoms, now there were blackened stalks, their stems twisted like dying veins. The scent of spoiled honey was gone. Replaced by iron. Rory’s hands shook. She tucked the pendant back beneath her shirt, skin buzzing with residual heat. She wasn’t alone anymore. And something was different. She turned in a slow circle. The standing stones were still there. The trees were still there. But the moon— The moon was too high. Too bright. And for the first time, she noticed the stars weren’t stars. They were eyes. Watching. Waiting. She should leave. Now. Rory ran for the standing stones, boots pounding against unnatural earth. Behind her, whispers started up—their voices soft and tired, almost apologetic. She didn’t look back. The stones loomed ahead. She reached— Her hand passed through. A laugh bubbled up in her throat, half-hysterical. She staggered forward, back into the normal world. Park air hit her like a slap. Relief flooded her veins. Almost made her weak. Almost. Then she saw the shadow on the path ahead of her. Long. Too long. Bent in ways that didn’t conform to anything human. And it was walking toward her. Leaving footprints in the frost. Footprints that weren’t hers.