Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ78Q2KGFACWQ15WH0TA98EB

The silver chain bit into Aurora’s collarbone. She adjusted the Heartstone pendant beneath her jumper and pressed her palm against the ancient oak trunk. Bark flaked under her fingers. The standing stones rose from the Richmond earth like broken teeth, their surfaces furred with moss and lichen. Beyond them, the clearing waited. She checked her watch. The second hand stuttered, jumped backwards, then froze. Right on schedule. You led me out here for a reason. Show me the door. She stepped past the boundary line. The temperature dropped. Not a gradual chill, but a sudden vacuum that sucked the warmth from her lungs. Wildflowers carpeted the grass, their petals stark white and violet in the moonlight. They should have been dormant. They should have been dead. Instead, they swayed without wind. Rory unbuttoned her coat and let it hang loose. She kept her hands free. The pendant pulsed against her sternum. A slow, rhythmic heat. It matched a heartbeat that was not hers. I followed the warmth from Peckham to Richmond. You do not get to go cold now. She walked toward the centre of the grove. Grass whispered against her boots. The sound carried too far, echoing off trees that stood too close together. She counted her steps. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. The geometry of the clearing refused to settle. The tree line curved inward, then stretched away, then snapped back to its original position. A branch cracked to her left. She turned. Nothing moved. The oaks stood rigid. The air hung thick and still. Then came the wet click. It sounded like a tongue peeling off a palate. It came from behind her right shoulder. She pivoted. The wildflowers bent in a perfect circle, as though something heavy had just risen from the soil. You want attention. You have it. She dropped to one knee and pressed her fingers into the earth. The soil felt warm. Damp. It yielded like flesh. She wiped her hand on her trousers and stood. The pendant glowed brighter. Crimson light bled through the fabric of her jumper. Another click. Closer. This one carried a vowel sound. A drawn-out exhale that shaped itself into something almost recognisable. Rory unclipped the torch from her belt but did not switch it on. Light would blind her. Darkness kept her pupils wide. She tracked the tree line. Shadows pooled between the trunks. One shadow detached itself. It slid sideways, parallel to her path, keeping pace. She stopped. The shadow stopped. She took a step back. The shadow mirrored her. You are terrible at hiding. The shadow rippled. The wildflowers around it flattened. A low hum vibrated through the soles of her boots. The sound crawled up her shins and settled in her teeth. She rolled her jaw. The hum shifted pitch. It answered her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a steel lighter. She flicked the wheel. The flame caught. She held it out at arm’s length. The fire burned blue at the base, then yellow, then stretched into a thin, wavering line that pointed toward the centre of the grove. The air current did not match the wind. There was no wind. A draft pulls toward the threshold. I found it. She snapped the lighter shut and moved toward the flame’s direction. The grass grew taller. The stems brushed her thighs. Each step sank deeper. The ground felt spongy, breathing beneath her weight. She kept her shoulders square. She kept her breathing even. The pendant burned hotter. She welcomed the pain. It anchored her. Something brushed the back of her neck. She spun. Her hand chopped through empty air. The wildflowers behind her stood perfectly still. The crescent scar on her left wrist throbbed. She flexed her fingers. The sensation faded. She turned back around. Three figures stood at the edge of the clearing. They were not figures. They were absences. Patches of night that refused to reflect moonlight. They stood shoulder to shoulder. They did not breathe. They did not shift. They simply occupied space where space should not exist. You block the path. Move. The centre absence tilted. A sound emerged from it. Not a voice. A collection of friction and damp rot and grinding stone. It formed words anyway. Carter. Rory’s jaw tightened. She did not step back. She planted her boots wider. You know my name. Use it properly or swallow it. The absence on the right shuddered. Petals tore free from the wildflowers and drifted upward. They hung in the air, suspended. Time dragged. Her watch remained dead. The moon did not move. The grove held its breath. The pendant flared. Crimson light spilled over her chest and painted the grass in blood tones. The heat scorched her skin. She grabbed the chain and yanked it free from her jumper. The gemstone pulsed in her palm. It beat faster. It matched the rhythm of the grinding sound. You opened a Hel door in Richmond Park. Sloppy work. The centre absence stepped forward. The grass did not bend beneath it. The earth did not compress. It glided. The humming returned, louder, vibrating through her ribs. The wildflowers turned their faces toward the stone in her hand. They tracked it like sunflowers track dawn. Rory closed her fingers around the pendant. The heat bit into her palm. She raised her fist. You want it back. Come and take it. The absences fractured. They split into thinner strips of dark. The strips wove through the tree trunks. They circled her. The wet clicks multiplied. They came from above. From below. From inside her own ears. She kept her chin level. She tracked the movement by the disturbance in the flowers. The petals trembled. The stems bowed. The circle tightened. A branch snapped directly overhead. She sidestepped. Something heavy struck the earth where she had stood. Soil erupted. Clumps of dirt and torn roots scattered across her boots. She did not look down. She kept her eyes on the tree line. The absences reformed. They stood closer now. Five paces away. The air between them warped. Light bent around their edges. The grove smelled of ozone and wet copper. You circle like dogs. I am not running. The left absence lunged. It did not move through space. It simply arrived. Cold air slammed into her chest. She dropped her weight and rolled sideways. Her shoulder hit the earth. She came up on one knee. The pendant slipped from her grip. It landed in the grass. The crimson glow illuminated a patch of soil. The dirt parted. A fissure opened. Black water seeped from the crack. It reflected nothing. Rory scrambled forward and snatched the stone. The chain wrapped around her knuckles. She stood. The fissure widened. The black water spread. It touched the roots of the nearest oak. The bark blackened. The leaves curled and fell. They hit the ground with the sound of breaking glass. You bleed the soil. You poison the boundary. Stop it. The grinding noise sharpened. It became a scrape. A drag. A rhythm. The absences stepped in unison. Left. Right. Left. Right. The wildflowers died in their wake. Petals turned grey. Stems collapsed. The circle closed to three paces. The hum rattled her teeth. Her vision blurred at the edges. She blinked. The blur remained. It was not in her eyes. It was in the air. The grove itself warped. She jammed the pendant back against her chest and buttoned her coat over it. The heat spread through her ribs. It grounded her. She pulled a steel carabiner from her belt and clipped it to her waist loop. She threaded a length of paracord through it. She tied a slip knot. She kept her movements sharp. Deliberate. You want a fight. You get a boundary. She threw the loop toward the nearest oak. It caught on a low branch. She yanked. The cord went taut. She stepped back and dragged the line across the grass. The paracord sliced through the wildflowers. It left a clean trench. She walked the perimeter. She kept the line tight. She marked a circle around herself. The absences stopped at the trench. They did not cross. They pressed against the invisible line. The air buckled. The hum climbed into a whine. Rory dropped the cord and wiped her palms on her trousers. She stood straight. She met the centre absence. You stay outside. I hold the ground. The absence shuddered. The wet clicks stopped. The grove fell silent. The silence weighed more than the noise. It pressed against her eardrums. It filled her throat. She swallowed. The pendant beat against her sternum. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate. A hand emerged from the centre absence. It was not a hand. It was a collection of twigs and shadow and pale skin stretched too thin. Fingers uncurled. They pointed at her chest. At the stone beneath her coat. The wildflowers around the trench turned to ash. The soil cracked. The black water rose. It lapped at the paracord line. It did not cross. It waited. Rory planted her feet. She raised her chin. She kept her voice level. You came to the wrong grove.