Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AV100X8MQ0V453Y5NZJE1R

The ancient oaks loomed like sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting into the moonless sky. Rory stepped over the threshold of the standing stones, the air thickening as if she’d walked through a curtain of water. The Fae Grove was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place between worlds where time bent but didn’t break. But tonight, the silence pressed too hard against her ears. She adjusted the strap of her bag, fingers brushing the Heartstone pendant beneath her shirt. Its faint warmth pulsed, steady as a heartbeat. That was normal. The grove always made it react. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound had come from behind her, but when she turned, the clearing was empty. Just the wildflowers swaying in a breeze that didn’t exist. She exhaled, sharp. Too jumpy. The grove played tricks on the senses—everyone said so. She moved deeper, her boots sinking into the damp earth. The air smelled of wet moss and something else, something metallic, like old coins left in the rain. The wrongness coiled in her gut, a slow, cold weight. A whisper slithered past her ear. No words. Just breath. Rory spun. Nothing. The trees stood still, their bark rough and unyielding. She swallowed. “Eva’s going to kill me if I don’t get this right.” Her voice sounded too loud. The grove didn’t answer. She kept walking, her pulse thudding in her throat. The pendant’s warmth flared, sharp and sudden. Rory’s fingers closed around it. A Hel portal. That’s what it meant. But the grove wasn’t supposed to have one. A shadow flickered at the edge of her vision. She turned her head. Nothing. Just the wildflowers, their petals too bright in the dim light. Another whisper, closer this time. A voice, low and rough, like gravel shifting underfoot. Rory’s breath hitched. “Who’s there?” Silence. Then—a laugh. Dry as dead leaves. She backed up, her shoulder blades pressing against an oak. The bark bit into her skin. The grove was empty. She was alone. But the air hummed with presence, thick as syrup. A twig snapped again. Then another. Footsteps, circling. Rory’s fingers tightened around the pendant. Its glow seeped through her closed fist, casting crimson light onto her skin. The wrongness in her gut twisted, sharp as a blade. The whisper came again, right beside her ear. “Looking for something?” She jerked away, her heart hammering. The voice had no source. No body. Just breath and words, curling around her like smoke. “Show yourself,” she demanded. The laughter returned, deeper now, vibrating in her bones. The wildflowers trembled. The trees groaned. Rory’s gaze darted between the shadows. Something moved. A shape, half-seen, darting between the oaks. Too fast. Too wrong. She broke into a run. The grove stretched, the path twisting as if the earth itself shifted beneath her feet. The pendant burned against her palm. The footsteps followed, relentless, closing in. A hand—cold, skeletal—brushed her shoulder. Rory screamed, whirling around. The grove was empty. But the air rippled, like heat off pavement, and the wrongness pressed in, suffocating. She ran harder, her lungs burning. The standing stones appeared ahead, the boundary back to the real world. She could make it. She had to. The whisper slithered after her, a chorus now, voices overlapping, hissing. “Stay.” “Play.” “Mine.” Rory didn’t look back. She pumped her arms, her boots pounding the earth. The stones loomed closer. Ten feet. Five. A hand clamped around her wrist. She shrieked, yanking her arm free. The pendant flared, its light cutting through the dark like a blade. The grip vanished. Rory didn’t stop. She lunged for the stones, her fingers scraping the rough bark. The world lurched. The air lightened. The wrongness snapped like a broken thread. She stumbled, collapsing onto the damp grass of Richmond Park. The grove was behind her, silent now, the oaks still and dark. Rory gasped, her hands shaking. The pendant’s glow faded, its warmth cooling against her skin. The night was quiet. Too quiet. She didn’t look back.