Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKGEBC9CYN20CGWNRWPGTE

The ancient oaks loomed like sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting into the moonless sky. Rory stepped over the threshold of the standing stones, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The air smelled of wet moss and something sweeter—wildflowers, though it was the wrong season for them. She adjusted the strap of her bag, the Heartstone pendant warm against her collarbone. She’d come for answers. The pendant had pulsed all day, a steady thrum against her skin, and the only place it ever reacted like that was near the Grove. But the moment she crossed the boundary, the warmth faded, leaving only a dull ache behind her ribs. The clearing stretched before her, bathed in silvered darkness. No wind stirred the leaves. No night birds called. Just the faint rustle of her own breath, too loud in the stillness. Rory exhaled, her fingers brushing the pendant. "Alright. Let’s see what’s got you so worked up." She moved deeper into the Grove, the grass cool beneath her palms as she crouched to examine the wildflowers. They shouldn’t be blooming. Not in November. Not here. Their petals shimmered faintly, as if dusted with starlight. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound had come from behind her, but when she turned, there was nothing. Just the trees, their bark rough and unyielding. She stood slowly, her pulse thudding in her throat. "Hello?" No answer. Just the press of silence, heavier now, like the air itself was holding its breath. She forced herself forward, her steps deliberate. The pendant was cold again, inert. Maybe she’d imagined the pulsing. Maybe the stress of the last few weeks had finally caught up with her. Then the whisper came. It slithered through the trees, a voice like dry leaves skittering across stone. Rory spun, her heart hammering. The words were too soft to make out, but the intent was clear—*watching. Waiting.* "Who’s there?" Her voice came out sharper than she intended. The whisper came again, this time from her left. She whirled, but there was nothing. Just the shadows, deeper than they should be, pooling at the roots of the oaks. Rory swallowed. The Grove had always been strange, but never like this. Never *hungry.* She reached into her bag, her fingers closing around the familiar weight of her torch. The beam cut through the dark, illuminating the gnarled roots, the wildflowers, the— *Movement.* A flicker at the edge of the light. Gone before she could focus. Rory swung the torch back, her breath shallow. Nothing. Just the trees. But the air had changed. The sweetness of the flowers was gone, replaced by something metallic, like old blood. "Stop messing around," she muttered, though her hands trembled. "I didn’t come here for games." The whisper answered, closer now. A word, maybe. Or a name. *Rory.* She stumbled back, her boot catching on a root. The torch wavered, the light dancing wildly. The shadows stretched, twisting into shapes that almost looked like— *People.* But not people. Not quite. Too tall. Too thin. Their limbs bending in ways that made her stomach clench. Rory’s breath hitched. The pendant was ice against her skin. Then the torch died. The darkness was absolute. She fumbled with the switch, her fingers numb. The beam flared back to life, but the shapes were gone. Just the trees. Just the flowers. Just her, alone in the Grove. But she wasn’t alone. The whisper came again, right beside her ear. A breath of air, cold and damp, against her neck. *Run.* Rory didn’t wait. She bolted, her bag bouncing against her hip, the torch beam wild in her grip. The trees blurred past her, the standing stones a distant promise. Her lungs burned, her boots slipping on the damp earth. Behind her, the whispers rose into a chorus, a hissing, clicking sound that set her teeth on edge. The shadows moved again, surging forward like a tide. She didn’t look back. The standing stones loomed ahead, their ancient oak surfaces pale in the torchlight. Rory lunged for the gap between them, her fingers scraping against the bark as she hurled herself through— And collapsed onto the cold grass of Richmond Park. The night air was sharp, normal. The distant hum of London traffic a balm. Rory rolled onto her back, her chest heaving, the torch beam trembling in her grip. The Grove was silent behind her. Still. As if it had never stirred at all. But the pendant pulsed once, faintly, against her skin. A warning. Or a reminder. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at the stars, her fingers clenched around the torch. Something had been in there with her. And it had known her name.