Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2F3VJYQZKEXBRHKVGW30TN

The night air carried the scent of damp earth and something sweeter—honeysuckle, maybe, or jasmine. It wasn't right. Not for October, not for Richmond Park after midnight. Aurora pulled the collar of her jacket tighter and stepped off the path, the grass wet against her boots. The Heartstone pendant rested cool against her sternum, but she felt it pulse as she moved deeper into the trees. A faint warmth, then a chill, then warmth again, like a heartbeat that couldn't decide whether to live or die. She'd come here to test it, to see if the grove Eva had whispered about—the one with the standing stones where time went sideways—would make the pendant do something more than just sit there. So far, it was doing plenty. The pulsing had started the moment she’d climbed over the park’s locked gate. She pushed through a curtain of hawthorn branches and stopped. The clearing opened before her like a wound in the world. Moonlight pooled on a circle of mossy standing stones, each one blunt and ancient, carved with spirals that seemed to shift when she looked at them directly. Inside the circle, wildflowers bloomed in impossible clusters—bluebells and poppies and foxglove, all tangled together, their petals glowing with a faint phosphorescence. The air here was still, but not silent. Something hummed just below the threshold of hearing, a bass note that vibrated in her teeth. The pendant pulsed again. Warmer this time. Almost hot against her skin. She took a step forward, then another. The grass beneath her feet was springy, dry, but she’d just crossed wet ground. She glanced back. The hawthorn branches she’d parted were already knitting themselves together, sealing the gap. Her stomach tightened. Okay. That’s fine. She knew the way back. But did she? The path she’d taken was already gone, swallowed by undergrowth that looked thicker than it had been thirty seconds ago. She turned slowly, cataloguing the trees. Same oaks, same ash. The standing stones were exactly where they should be. She hadn’t moved. The grove had. A sound. Soft, like fabric brushing against stone. Aurora froze, her breath catching. She listened, straining against the hum. Nothing. Just the rustle of leaves, the distant cry of a fox. She let out a slow breath. Paranoia. That’s what this was. The grove was just a weird pocket of Fae-touched land, not a haunted house. She walked to the nearest standing stone and pressed her palm against it. The surface was warm, not from the sun—it had been cold and dark for hours—but from something else. A deep, organic heat, like the flank of a sleeping animal. She jerked her hand back. The pendant blazed against her chest. Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. She spun. Nothing. Just the wildflowers, swaying in a breeze she couldn't feel. But for a moment, she’d seen something—a shape, tall and thin, standing between two of the stones. Not human. Too narrow, too still. She blinked, and it was gone. “You’re not here,” she whispered, and the words felt thin, useless. She took a step backward, toward the centre of the circle. The hum grew louder. She could feel it in her bones now, a vibration that made her teeth ache. The pendant’s warmth climbed toward pain, and she grabbed it through her shirt, pulling it away from her skin. The stone glowed—a deep, angry crimson that bled between her fingers. A sound like a door opening. Wood on wood. But there were no doors here. She looked up. The moon had moved. It had been directly overhead when she’d entered the clearing, but now it hung low, just above the treeline, casting long, distorted shadows. How long had she been standing there? Minutes? Hours? Time moves differently—Eva’s warning echoed in her mind. An hour inside could be minutes or days outside. Days. The thought was a cold hand around her throat. She needed to leave. Now. Abandoning the test, she turned and walked—then jogged—toward the spot where she’d entered. The hawthorn branches were there, but they were thicker now, woven into a wall of thorns that reached higher than her head. She pushed against them. They held firm. She shoved harder, and a thorn raked across her palm, drawing blood. The pain was sharp, real, human. Behind her, the hum stopped. The silence that followed was worse—absolute, heavy, as if the grove had sucked the sound out of the air. She pressed her bleeding palm to her mouth and tasted copper. The pendant’s glow had faded. It was cold now, just a piece of silver and stone. She heard footsteps. Not heavy. Delicate. The sound of bare feet on damp earth. Coming from behind her. She didn’t turn. She couldn’t. Her body had locked in place, every muscle screaming at her to run, but her legs wouldn’t obey. The footsteps stopped. She felt a presence at her back, close enough to feel the cold radiating from it. It smelled of wet stone and crushed flowers. Something brushed her hair. A touch, light as a spider’s thread. Aurora closed her eyes. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She just stood there, in the centre of the circle, with the moon sliding toward dawn and the wildflowers glowing brighter, and waited for whatever came next.