Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ7SN3BGQYKXEB197P46411

Rain had swept through Richmond Park earlier, leaving the ground slick and steaming under a sky that refused to clear. The air hung thick and cool, the kind that clings to skin and won’t let go. Aurora stepped over a gnarled root, her boots sinking slightly into the dark soil. The weight of the forest pressed in on her from all sides—trees too tall, too still, their bark blackened in patches like scorched paper. She checked the pendant. The Heartstone glowed faintly, a dull pulse beneath the silver casing, like a dying ember tucked into flesh. It had started humming two miles back—soft at first, a vibration against her collarbone, then stronger, insistent. That was why she’d come. The note had been clear: *Bring the stone to the grove before moonrise. If you want answers, come alone.* No signature. No explanation. Just slipped under her door at dawn, ink smudged as if written in haste. Now the moon was high, a bleached coin veiled behind clouds, and the grove should have been close. She paused, breathing through her nose. Listened. Silence. Not the usual quiet of woods at night—no rustle of foxes, no distant yelp from a dog in the park. Just silence, deep and total, like the world had taken a breath and forgotten to let it go. Then a whisper of movement to her left. Aurora turned sharply. Nothing. Just the trees. The standing stones—dark, ancient oaks ringed in moss, forming an uneven circle ahead. The boundary of the Fae Grove. She hadn’t seen them until now. One moment, empty forest. The next, the stones stood waiting. That wasn’t how it worked. She’d been here before. Once, with Eva, chasing a rumour of fae lights and stolen time. They’d found the entrance behind a fallen yew, marked by three crooked oaks that leaned like watching sentinels. This circle was different. Older. The trunks split in places, revealing hollows that seemed too deep, too symmetrical. Like mouths. The pendant throbbed. She gripped it through her coat, warmth spreading through her palm. Not comforting. Not painful. Warning. Aurora stepped forward. The air changed. Not colder. Not warmer. Just *wrong*, as if the oxygen had been replaced with something thinner, something that didn’t belong in her lungs. The scent of wet earth twisted into something floral and cloying—night-blooming jasmine, maybe, but sickly sweet, like it had rotted at the stem. She crossed between two of the standing stones. The world tilted. For a heartbeat, the ground vanished beneath her. Then solid again. Her breath came fast, ragged. She stumbled, catching herself on one of the trunks. The bark crumbled under her fingers, crumbling into grey ash that clung to her skin. Behind her, the forest was gone. No trees. No path. Just the circle, the stones, and the grove. Wildflowers spilled across the ground in impossible colours—deep violet, neon yellow, a blue that hadn’t been named yet. They swayed, though there was no wind. Their stems didn’t bend. The entire field rippled, like water under pressure. In the centre, a figure. A woman, back turned, dressed in grey cloth that moved like smoke. She stood motionless, hands clasped in front of her, head bowed. Aurora took a step back. The woman didn’t move. Aurora’s pulse hammered in her throat, but her voice stayed steady. “Who are you?” The woman didn’t answer. Aurora tightened her grip on the pendant. It pulsed once—slow, deliberate. Then the figure turned. And wasn’t a woman at all. Its face was smooth. Blank. Like marble carved too hastily, features suggested but not finished. No eyes. No mouth. Just the impression of one. It took a step toward her. Aurora didn’t run. Running meant losing control. Losing control got people killed. She backed away, slow, careful, eyes locked on the thing. It didn’t follow. Just stood, head slightly tilted, as if listening. Then a sound. From the edge of the grove. A rustle. Not fabric. Not leaves. Like something dragging itself through dirt. She turned her head. Movement. Quick. Low to the ground. Between two stones, something pale flickered—long, thin limbs, too many joints, pulling a shape forward on elbows and knees. It vanished before she could focus. She spun back. The figure was closer. Ten feet. Still silent. Still blank. The pendant flared—hot against her skin. Another noise. This time from behind her. A whisper. Not words. Just breath shaped into sound, like someone trying to remember how to speak. Then another. And another. From every direction. The flowers in the field twitched. The colours deepened. The scent turned rancid—sweet decay, like overripe fruit left in a closed room. Something moved behind the standing stones. Figures. Tall. Thin. Not walking. *Gliding.* Limbs too long, heads at awkward angles. They didn’t enter the circle. Just watched from between the trees, from behind the stones. She wasn’t alone. She hadn’t been since she crossed the threshold. The blank-faced figure raised a hand. Not human. Fingers too long, too many. Joints bending backward. It pointed. Not at her. Behind her. Aurora didn’t want to look. But she did. In the centre of the grove, where the figure had stood moments ago, a door had appeared. Tall. Narrow. Made of black wood, carved with spirals that turned the wrong way. No handle. No hinges. But the air around it shimmered, like heat rising off asphalt. The Heartstone burned. She knew what it was. A Hel portal. But it wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in the Fae Grove. Not in this realm. The whispers grew. Softer, but more insistent. Like voices layered over each other, speaking in languages that didn’t have words. One of the figures stepped forward—tall, bent, its skin the colour of dried moss. It reached a hand toward the door. Then stopped. They weren’t looking at the door. They were looking at *her*. She backed toward the edge of the circle. The standing stones loomed. She reached for one, fingers brushing the ash-covered bark. Nothing happened. No resistance. No portal home. The door remained. Silent. Waiting. The blank-faced figure tilted its head again. Then spoke. Its voice wasn’t sound. It was *inside* her skull, pressing against the bones. *You came with the key.* Her breath caught. The pendant. They knew. *Why?* She forced her voice out. “I received a note. That’s all. I didn’t know—” *You carry the blood.* “The blood?” *The old line. The broken covenant.* “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The thing stepped closer. The others didn’t move. But the air thickened. The flowers wilted, their colours draining into the soil. *Liar.* Her wrist ached. The scar—the crescent on her left wrist—throbbed, warm and sharp, like it had just been cut. She didn’t flinch. “You want the pendant. Take it. I don’t know how it works. I don’t know who gave it to me.” The figure tilted its head the other way. Then laughed. Not a sound. Just the absence of one—like silence snapping. *It chose you.* Behind her, the door creaked. Not open. But *breathing.* The wood expanded slightly, then shrank. Like lungs. The figures at the edge of the grove dropped to their knees. One by one. The blank-faced thing stepped forward again. *Now you must choose.* Aurora’s fingers curled around the pendant. She didn’t move. Windless, the flowers trembled. The portal pulsed. The scar on her wrist burned. And the thing with no face smiled without a mouth.