Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0A1G4D28BJK5YMNNQCC4K5

Aurora left the Underground at Richmond station with the last train gone, the platform deserted except for a single pidgeon picking at something near the tracks. The wind carried the smell of rain before the clouds even gathered, sour and metallic like old pennies left in a drawer. She walked the rest of the way through Richmond Park, her torch app flickering on her phone lighting the path between the trees. The air thickened with every step—heavier, wetter, as if she were breathing through wet wool. Then she saw the standing stones rising from the earth ahead, ancient oaks carved into totems, their bark black as tyre rubber under the moonlight. The entrance to the Fae Grove. She hadn’t told Eva she was coming. Not after the way Eva’s voice shook when she delivered the directions three nights ago over the phone. *Just go at midnight. The pendant will glow. Then you’ll know.* The torch died as she approached the boundary. She didn’t bother restarting it. Step through the stones and the world shifted—cooler, sharper, as if colours brightened in the dark. Wildflowers bloomed along the path in shades of violet and crimson, petals glowing faintly like embers in damp ash. The air tasted of ozone and crushed green leaves. She checked the pendant hanging beneath her collarbone. The deep crimson stone pulsed once, faint as a heartbeat. Good. She was where she needed to be. The path wound deeper into the grove. No wind. No owls. No rustling in the undergrowth. Just her boots crunching on damp earth and the silence pressing in from all sides like a living thing. Then—a sound behind her. Not an animal. Too heavy. Too slow. A footstep. Aurora stopped. Froze. Listened. Nothing. Just the pulse of blood in her ears. She turned. The standing stones marked the entrance behind her, edges sharp against the night sky. Perfectly visible. Too visible—she expected the darkness to blur them, soften their lines. It didn’t. She took a breath. Then came the breathing. Wet. Gurgling. Like someone drowning in phlegm. From behind. From *right* behind. She spun again, heart hammering. No one. The breathing stopped. She exhaled slowly through her nose. *Badger. Fox. Breeze.* She took two steps forward. Another footstep echoed—closer. Not on the path. Behind the trees to her left. She turned her head just enough to catch movement in peripheral vision: a shadow shifting between trunks. She whipped around. Nothing. The shadow was normal again. Just branches. She walked faster. The trees seemed to press in closer. The path narrowed. The wildflowers glowed brighter, their light pulsing in time with her quickening steps. She checked the pendant again. The glow had deepened to a slow, steady throb. Then—a laugh. High. Girlish. Almost human. But wrong. It trembled in the air like a struck tuning fork. Then again—higher, closer. Aurora’s muscles locked. She turned. No child. No figure. Just trees. The laugh came again—from behind her this time. She whirled. The path was empty. No footprints except hers. No shadows longer than they should be. Then the flowers near her feet trembled. One petal detached, rose into the air without wind, and stuck to her sleeve like a stain. She tugged. The petal resisted, then peeled back slowly—like skin flaking off a burn. On its underside, in tiny black ink that bled fresh from the paper-white surface, two words: *Turn around.* Her breath hitched. She didn’t want to. Every cell told her not to. But she turned. Between two ancient oaks, something stood watching. Taller than any woman had the right to be. Limbs too long, joints bending just past where they should. Dress yellowed with age, splitting along seams, revealing flashes of pale skin darker than it should be—like smoke given shape. The face was blurred, no features to anchor to, only a suggestion of lips pulled wide in a smile. It tilted its head. “Hello, Rory,” it said. Not from its mouth. The words came from everywhere—from the trees, from the earth, from the space between her ribs. She said nothing. The thing stepped forward. No sound. No crack of branch. No rustle of fabric. It moved like oil sliding over water. She stumbled back, hand flying to her throat, fingers curling around the pendant. The stone burned beneath her palm—deep crimson now, almost angry. “Where is the Heartstone meant to go?” it asked. She swallowed. “I don’t know.” It lurched forward. The lights went out.