Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKB3KDWGDRHS2SM0QEFST9

The ancient oaks loomed like sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting into the bruised twilight. Rory stepped over the last of the standing stones, her boots sinking into the damp earth of the Grove. The air smelled of wet moss and something older, something that prickled the hairs on her neck. She adjusted the strap of her bag, fingers brushing the Heartstone pendant beneath her shirt. Its warmth pulsed faintly, a slow, steady thrum against her skin. She wasn’t supposed to be here after dark. Eva had warned her—*no one goes into the Grove at night, not even the fae.* But the note had been clear: *Midnight. The Grove. Come alone.* The handwriting had been unmistakably Dymas’, though she couldn’t fathom how he’d known she’d need answers. The wildflowers, vibrant even in the dim light, swayed without wind. Rory crouched, running her fingers over the petals. They were warm, as if freshly kissed by sunlight. She stood, scanning the clearing. The trees seemed closer than before, their shadows stretching unnaturally long. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound had come from behind her, but when she turned, there was nothing. Just the oaks, their bark rough and dark. She exhaled, her breath misting in the cold air. *Just an animal.* Then came the whisper. It slithered through the trees, a voice like dry leaves skittering across stone. She spun, heart hammering. The Grove was empty. Or so it seemed. “Dymas?” Her voice sounded too loud, too sharp. No answer. The pendant’s warmth flared, a sudden heat against her collarbone. Rory’s fingers closed around it. The crimson gemstone’s glow seeped through her fingers, casting faint, bloody light onto the forest floor. She swallowed. The note had said *midnight*, but the Grove’s time was its own. Maybe it was already past. Another sound—a rustle, a shift in the undergrowth. Rory’s pulse spiked. She took a step back, her heel crushing a bed of wildflowers. They didn’t so much as bend beneath her weight. “Who’s there?” Silence. Then, from the darkness between the trees, a pair of eyes flickered open. Pale, luminous, like twin moons. Rory’s breath caught. The eyes blinked, slow and deliberate, then vanished. She turned on her heel, scanning the tree line. Nothing. Just the oaks, their trunks wide and unyielding. The air thickened, pressing against her skin like damp wool. A laugh bubbled up in her throat, nervous and brittle. *You’re imagining things.* But the pendant’s heat argued otherwise. Rory forced herself forward, toward the centre of the Grove where the note had implied she’d find answers. The wildflowers here grew taller, their stems twisting like serpents. The ground beneath her feet felt spongy, as if the earth itself breathed. Then she saw it—a figure, standing between the trees. Tall, cloaked in shadow, its form wavering like a mirage. Rory’s fingers tightened around the pendant. “Dymas?” The figure didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood, watching. Rory took a step closer. The figure mirrored her, gliding backward into the darkness. She followed, her boots silent on the damp earth. The trees seemed to lean in, their branches knitting together overhead, blocking out the last of the twilight. The figure stopped. Rory did the same, her heart a drum in her chest. The distance between them stretched, then shrank. The figure’s face was a void, a hollow where features should have been. Then it spoke. The voice wasn’t a sound. It was a vibration, a hum in her bones, in her teeth. Rory’s knees nearly buckled. *“You shouldn’t have come.”* Rory’s throat went dry. “Who are you?” The figure tilted its head. The movement was wrong, too fluid, like oil sliding off a surface. *“You know.”* She didn’t. But the pendant burned against her palm, its glow now a steady, pulsing light. Rory’s mind raced. Dymas had given her the Heartstone for a reason. *Protection.* But against what? The figure took a step forward. The shadows around it writhed, twisting into shapes that made Rory’s eyes ache. She stumbled back, her heel catching on a root. The ground rushed up to meet her, but before she could fall, something caught her—a hand, cold and smooth as polished stone. Rory gasped, twisting free. The figure loomed over her, its void-face inches from hers. The stench of damp earth and something older, something rotten, filled her nose. *“You carry the stone,”* it hissed, the words slithering into her mind. *“But you do not know its price.”* Rory scrambled back, her fingers digging into the dirt. The pendant’s glow flared, casting jagged shadows across the figure’s form. It recoiled, its hollow face twisting as if in pain. Then, from the darkness behind it, came a sound—a low, guttural growl. The figure’s head snapped toward the noise, its body tensing. Rory didn’t wait. She rolled to her feet and ran. The trees blurred past her, their branches clawing at her clothes, her hair. The Grove seemed to stretch endlessly, the standing stones nowhere in sight. Her lungs burned, her legs ached, but she didn’t stop. Behind her, the growl swelled into a snarl, then a shriek. The figure’s voice echoed through the trees, a chorus of whispers now, overlapping, drowning each other out. *“Run, little moth. Run.”* Rory’s foot caught on a root. She went down hard, her palms scraping against the damp earth. The pendant flew from her grip, its chain snapping. The crimson glow spilled across the forest floor, illuminating the undergrowth in a hellish light. She lunged for it, her fingers closing around the chain. The moment she touched it, the whispers stopped. Silence. Rory’s breath came in ragged gasps. She clutched the pendant, its warmth now a brand against her skin. The Grove was still. Too still. Then, from the darkness ahead, a flicker of movement. Rory’s head snapped up. The standing stones stood in the distance, their ancient oak forms stark against the night. Beyond them, the world was normal. Safe. She didn’t hesitate. Rory ran, the pendant clutched tight in her fist. The trees thinned, the shadows retreating as she neared the boundary. She didn’t look back. The moment she crossed the last stone, the air changed. The weight on her chest lifted. The whispers, the growls, the figure—gone. Rory collapsed against the nearest oak, her body trembling. The pendant’s glow faded, its warmth cooling against her skin. She looked back at the Grove. It was just a clearing. Just trees and wildflowers and shadows. But the wildflowers at her feet were crushed, their petals dark with something that wasn’t dew. And the pendant, when she held it up, bore a new crack down its centre, as if something had tried to break it.