Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ8W9R9P074JZHR0CTA6AG4

The moon was a thin, cracked coin in the sky when Aurora Carter stepped between the ancient oaks that marked the entrance to the Fae Grove. The air changed instantly—like crossing from a dreamless sleep into one already thick with omens. It wasn’t cold, not exactly, but the warmth had been siphoned clean. Her breath came in white wisps that hung too long in the still air. Rory paused, one hand pressed against the closest standing stone. The bark was unnaturally smooth, almost glassy under her fingertips, and humming faintly—so low she felt it more in the bones of her skull than heard it. The pendant at her neck glowed a faint crimson pulse, like a slow-receding heartbeat. The Heartstone Pendant. She didn’t know who had slipped it under her door six nights ago, only that the attached note, written in spidery ink she didn’t recognize, said: *It will keep you safe. Find the Grove. Find Malphora.* Malphora. Her other name, the one the dreams used. She stepped forward. The grove unfolded around her: wildflowers blooming in impossible clusters—bluebells in December, fireweed, something with silver petals that trembled even in the absence of wind. The earth was soft beneath her boots, giving slightly, like walking on skin. Above, the tree canopy bent the moonlight into strange angles, casting her shadow long and narrow—and then, briefly, not hers at all. For a breathless moment, it stretched too far, too sharp, fingers splayed like claws. Rory stopped. Heart thudding. “Eyes playing tricks,” she whispered. The sound didn’t carry. It just… died. She glanced around. The path behind her was gone. The standing stones stood farther apart now, rearranged, and the one she’d touched earlier—its surface was slick with a black, tar-like sap that hadn’t been there before. The pendant warmed. Rory’s fingers brushed the scar on her left wrist—the crescent-shaped one from when she’d fallen into the quarry behind her childhood home. Her mother had said it looked like a tiny moon. Rory had always thought it looked like a mouth. Something moved. To her right, between a thicket of foxgloves, a shape shifted—no, not a shape. A distortion. Like heat rising from pavement. But there was no heat. Just that shimmering air, and beneath it, the impression of long limbs, too many joints. She turned slowly. Nothing. A rabbit darted between trees—normal, small, ears twitching. But the moment its paws left the dirt, Rory felt it in her gut: it wasn’t right. The way it moved—too fluid, too silent. It didn’t leave footprints. Then she heard it. A whisper—not words, not quite. Just syllables strung together like wet threads. It seemed to come from all around her, echoing without reverberation. Then a voice, clear as a struck bell but in a language she didn’t know. Yet somehow, she understood. *You are late.* She spun. The clearing had narrowed. The flowers were taller now, leaning in. Petals the color of dried blood swayed in a breeze Rory couldn’t feel. One brushed her arm. It wasn’t soft. It had texture—granular, like dead skin. The Heartstone flared. “Hello?” she called. Her voice sounded small. Too young. Silence. Then a giggle. High-pitched. Childlike. But wrong—pitched a half-step too high, like a record played slightly too fast. It came from behind a weeping willow that hadn’t been there when she entered. Rory took a step forward. Then another. The pendant trembled now, warm against her chest. Not