Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKHYAZM7KGQ3HT97N5AAX1

The night was too still. Rory stepped between the ancient oaks, their gnarled roots twisting like sleeping serpents in the moonlight. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweeter—wildflowers, though it was late autumn. The Grove didn’t follow the rules. She knew that. But knowing didn’t stop the prickle at the back of her neck, the way her pulse thrummed in her throat. She shouldn’t have come alone. The thought slithered in, unwelcome. Eva had warned her. *Don’t go poking at Fae nonsense, Rory. Not after last time.* But the pendant had burned against her collarbone all evening, a slow, insistent warmth. The Heartstone only did that near a Hel portal. And if there was one thing Rory couldn’t resist, it was a mystery. The trees closed in behind her, their branches knitting together like fingers lacing. The path ahead was a ribbon of silvered grass, trampled just enough to suggest someone—or something—had passed this way recently. She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, her fingers brushing the cold metal of the pendant. Its glow was faint, barely visible through the fabric of her shirt. But it was there. A beacon. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound was too sharp, too deliberate. She turned her head slowly, scanning the shadows. Nothing. Just the sway of branches in a wind she couldn’t feel. *You’re imagining things.* She exhaled and forced herself forward. The Grove was a place between worlds. Of course it felt… off. That was the point. The standing stones loomed ahead, their bark etched with symbols that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. The boundary. Beyond them, the air shimmered, like heat rising from pavement. That was where the portal would be. If it was here at all. Her boot caught on a root, and she stumbled. The moment her palm hit the earth, the ground thrummed beneath her fingers. A low, resonant hum, like the vibration of a plucked string. She jerked her hand back. The pendant flared hot against her skin. Rory swallowed. That wasn’t normal. The Heartstone reacted to portals, not… whatever this was. She stood, brushing dirt from her palm. The hum faded, but the unease didn’t. The trees seemed closer now. The shadows thicker. She could hear her own breath, too loud in the silence. Then—music. A whisper of it, so faint she almost thought she’d imagined it. A flute, maybe. Or a pipe. Something reedy and mournful, drifting through the trees. It curled around her, tugging at something deep in her chest. A memory. A dream. She didn’t know. But she knew she shouldn’t follow it. Rory clenched her fists. *Focus.* She was here for the portal. Not for ghostly tunes. She stepped forward, and the music swelled, just a little. A note held too long. A trill that sent a shiver down her spine. Then—laughter. High and bright, like wind chimes in a storm. It rang out from the trees to her left. Rory spun, her heart hammering. There was no one there. Just the gnarled trunks, the swaying branches. *Not alone. Not alone. Not alone.* The thought skittered through her mind, insistent. She was being watched. She forced herself to move, her steps quickening toward the standing stones. The portal—if it was here—would be her answer. Her way out. The pendant burned hotter with every step, its glow seeping through her shirt, casting a crimson stain on the fabric. The stones were closer now. She could see the symbols carved into their bark, spirals and knots that seemed to writhe when she looked at them too long. The air between them rippled, like a mirage. And then—movement. A flicker at the edge of her vision. A shape, pale and slender, darting between the trees. Rory’s head snapped toward it, but there was nothing. Just the empty Grove. *Stop it. Stop jumping at shadows.* She reached the stones. The hum was louder here, vibrating in her bones. The pendant was a brand against her skin. She pressed her palm to the nearest oak, and the symbols flared with a faint, eerie light. The music stopped. The silence was worse. Rory’s breath came in shallow gasps. She had to get out. Now. She turned—and froze. Between the trees, a figure stood. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs were long, its body wrapped in what looked like tattered silk, the color of moonlit mist. Its face was… wrong. Not ugly. Not monstrous. Just *wrong*. The features were too smooth, too symmetrical, like a doll’s. Its eyes were hollow pits, but she could feel them on her. Watching. Waiting. Rory’s mouth went dry. She knew, with a certainty that coiled in her gut, that it wasn’t Fae. Not like the ones she’d met before. This was something else. Something older. The figure tilted its head. A slow, deliberate movement. Then it raised a hand—long fingers, too many joints—and beckoned. Rory’s legs locked in place. She wanted to run. She *needed* to run. But her body wouldn’t obey. The figure took a step forward. Then another. The air around it shimmered, like heat off desert sand. And then— A voice. Not from the figure. From *everywhere*. A whisper, a sigh, a chorus of voices layered together, speaking in a language that made her teeth ache. *"Aurora."* Her name. It knew her name. The pendant seared against her skin. She gasped, clutching at it. The pain was white-hot, but it broke the spell. Her legs unlocked. She ran. Branches whipped at her arms, her face. The Grove seemed to twist around her, the path vanishing, the trees closing in. The laughter rang out again, high and cruel. The music swelled, a discordant, mocking tune. She didn’t look back. The standing stones were behind her now. She could see the edge of the Grove, the normalcy of Richmond Park beyond. Safety. Something grabbed her ankle. Rory screamed, kicking out. Her boot connected with something solid, and the grip vanished. She didn’t stop. She lunged forward, her lungs burning, her legs screaming. And then—she was out. The Grove was behind her. The night was normal. Cold. The wind bit at her skin. She stumbled to a halt, bending over, her hands on her knees. She gasped for air, her body shaking. The pendant was cool against her skin now. Its glow had faded. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t want to see. But she knew, with a sickening certainty, that the figure was still there. Watching. Waiting. And that it would let her go. For now.