Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2H7MB2A1HTMG62MV1W176M

The night air in Richmond Park had a weight to it that Rory didn't like. She'd cycled from the restaurant in under forty minutes, legs burning, lungs heaving, and now she stood at the edge of the trees with her bike propped against a rotting fence post. The Heartstone pendant pulsed warm against her collarbone, a steady heartbeat that had grown insistent the closer she got to the hidden grove. She'd come because Eva had mentioned the standing stones once, drunk and rambling about places where the veil wore thin. Rory needed answers about the pendant. Who sent it? Why her? The chain felt heavier tonight, the deep crimson gemstone catching the last sliver of moon after the clouds parted. The path was overgrown, brambles snagging at her jeans. She pushed through, swearing under her breath when a thorn drew blood from her forearm. The trees closed overhead, blocking the sky until only scraps of moonlight leaked through. The air smelled of wet earth and something else — wildflowers? In February? The scent was impossibly sweet, cloying, like perfume sprayed over rot. She stopped at the edge of the clearing. The standing stones rose from the grass like crooked teeth, ancient oak twisted into shapes that didn't belong to any tree she'd ever seen. The clearing was perfectly circular, the grass inside too green, too even. Wildflowers bloomed in clusters — bluebells, foxgloves, something with white petals that glowed faintly in the dark. It should have been beautiful. It wasn't. Rory stepped forward, and the pendant flared hot against her skin. She pulled it out from under her shirt, watching the faint inner glow pulse faster, faster, then settle as she crossed the threshold between the stones. The silence hit first. One moment the park had been alive with the usual night sounds — distant traffic, wind in branches, the scurry of unseen creatures. Now there was nothing. No wind. No rustle. The air stood still, heavy and thick, pressing against her eardrums like she'd descended too fast in a lift. She turned in a slow circle. The trees beyond the stones looked wrong — their branches seemed longer than they had been a moment ago, reaching toward the clearing like grasping fingers. A trick of the light, she told herself. The moon playing games. The pendant cooled. The warmth drained out of it until the silver chain felt cold against her palm. Rory wrapped her fingers around it, knuckles white. "Hello?" Her voice came out too loud, too sharp, breaking the silence like glass. The word died without echo. Something moved at the edge of her vision. She snapped her head to the left. Nothing. Just the same too-green grass, the same too-bright flowers. But there — a flicker of movement to the right this time. She spun, heart hammering. Empty. The wildflowers swayed, though there was no wind. Rory took a step back toward the stones. The pendant remained cold, dead against her palm. She'd felt it warm near Hel portals before, but this wasn't that. This was something else. A wrongness that settled in her bones, that made her skin prickle with the certainty of being watched. A breath. Warm, damp, against the back of her neck. She whirled, fist raised, but the space behind her was empty. The breath had been real — she could still feel the ghost of it, the faint smell like crushed herbs and soil after rain. Her hand shook as she lowered it. "You're not supposed to be here." The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Not loud. Not quite a whisper. It slid through the air like smoke, curling around her ears, making her flinch. Rory's mouth went dry. "Who's there?" No answer. The flowers had stopped swaying. The trees stood frozen, their branches still reaching, still grasping. The moon had ducked behind a cloud, plunging the clearing into deeper darkness. Only the faint phosphorescent glow of the white petals provided any light. She backed toward the stones, counting steps. Three. Four. The pendant was still cold, but now it vibrated — a low, barely perceptible hum that she felt through her fingers. Through her teeth. Through the bones of her skull. The grass rustled behind her. She didn't turn. She couldn't. "I said you're not supposed to be here." This time the voice was directly beside her left ear, close enough that she felt the shape of the words against her skin. "This place isn't for you." Rory's throat locked. She forced herself to breathe, forced her legs to move, and stumbled through the gap between two standing stones. The pendant went from cold to scorching in an instant, searing her palm. She dropped it with a hiss, clutching her hand to her chest. She was back on the main path. The night sounds returned in a rush — wind, traffic, a distant fox barking. The trees looked like normal trees again, their branches just branches. Rory stood there, chest heaving, the burn on her palm already fading to a dull ache. She looked back. The path to the grove was gone. Where the brambles had been, there was only a solid wall of hawthorn, impenetrable. She felt the cold breath again, this time on the back of her neck. "Run." She ran.