Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKBGEW2NBD018FAG0P7KJC

The ancient oaks loomed like sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting into the bruised twilight sky. Aurora stepped over the threshold of the standing stones, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The air here was thicker, charged, as if the very atmosphere resisted her intrusion. She adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, the familiar weight of the Heartstone Pendant a steady pulse against her collarbone. The Grove was supposed to be empty. Silas had been clear about that—no one came here after dark, not even the Fae. But the job was urgent, the payment double. And Rory needed the money. A gust of wind stirred the wildflowers at her feet, their petals shivering despite the stillness of the surrounding trees. She frowned. No breeze touched her skin. The path ahead was a ribbon of moonlight, cutting through the overgrown grass. She followed it, her fingers brushing the pendant through her shirt. Its warmth was a comfort, a reminder that she wasn’t entirely defenceless. The trees seemed to lean in, their bark rough and dark, like the hide of some great beast. The deeper she went, the more the silence pressed against her ears, heavy and unnatural. Then—a snap. Not a branch. Too sharp. Too deliberate. Rory froze. The sound had come from her left, somewhere in the undergrowth. She turned her head slowly, eyes scanning the shadows. Nothing. Just the wildflowers swaying, though there was no wind. She exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax. Probably a fox. Or a deer. Richmond Park was full of them. Another snap. Closer. Her breath hitched. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She spun, her pulse hammering in her throat. The Grove stretched out behind her, the standing stones now obscured by the gathering dark. The path ahead seemed longer than it should have been. “Hello?” Her voice sounded too loud, too brittle. No answer. A rustle. Leaves shifting, though the branches above were still. She squinted. Something moved at the edge of her vision—a flicker, like a moth darting between the trees. But when she turned, there was nothing. The pendant grew warmer against her skin. Rory swallowed. She wasn’t the type to spook easily. But this—this was different. The air smelled wrong. Not just earth and green things, but something metallic, something old. Like blood left to dry on stone. She took a step forward. Then another. The path beneath her feet seemed to shift, the moonlight now casting long, stretching shadows that twisted like grasping fingers. A whisper. Not a sound. A feeling. A breath against the back of her neck, though no one stood there. Rory whirled. “Who’s there?” Silence. Then—a laugh. Soft. Almost musical. But wrong. Too many notes at once, like a choir singing in discord. Her stomach twisted. The pendant burned now, a brand against her chest. “Show yourself,” she demanded, her voice steadier than she felt. The laughter came again, this time from her right. She spun, her heart a drum in her ribs. The shadows between the trees seemed to deepen, to coil. Then—movement. A shape, tall and slender, darting behind an oak. Too quick to see clearly, but she caught the glint of eyes. Bright. Hungry. Rory’s fingers closed around the pendant. The warmth seeped into her palm, a silent promise. She wasn’t alone. The realisation settled in her gut like a stone. The Grove wasn’t empty. And whatever was here with her wasn’t Fae. Not like the ones Silas had described. This was something else. Something older. A twig snapped behind her. She didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe. The shape moved again, circling, always just out of sight. The laughter came once more, closer now, wrapping around her like a shroud. Then—a voice. A whisper, so close it might have been in her ear. *“Little thief.”* Rory’s blood turned to ice. She knew that voice. Not from memory, but from instinct. From the part of her brain that recognised danger before she could name it. She took a step back. Then another. The path behind her was gone. The standing stones were gone. There was only the dark, the trees, and the thing that was not a thing but a presence, pressing in on her. The pendant flared, its glow seeping through her shirt. The shadows recoiled, just for a second. She ran. Branches lashed at her arms, her face. The Grove seemed to stretch, the trees bending to block her path. The laughter followed, a chorus now, rising and falling like a tide. She didn’t look back. Didn’t stop. Then—the stones. The standing oaks loomed ahead, their ancient forms a barrier between her and the world beyond. She lunged for them, her fingers scraping against the rough bark. And then she was through. The night air of Richmond Park hit her like a slap. The sounds of the city—distant traffic, the hum of life—rushed back in. She stumbled, her knees hitting the damp grass, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind her, the Grove stood silent. Still. As if it had never let her go at all.