Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AVCKNTA156QAA0JNXGTFJY

The iron gate groaned as Rory pushed it open, the sound too loud in the hush of Richmond Park at midnight. She hesitated, her breath fogging in the cold air. The path ahead was a ribbon of pale gravel, winding into the dark. She shouldn’t be here. That thought had gnawed at her since she’d left the flat, but the pendant around her neck had burned hotter with every step closer to the park, as if tugging her forward. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, fingers brushing the small crescent scar on her left wrist. A childhood souvenir, her father had called it. *As if that made it any less ugly.* The thought was a reflex, a distraction. She shook her head, focusing. The pendant’s warmth pulsed against her sternum, steady as a second heartbeat. The trees loomed, their branches knitting a canopy that blotted out the stars. The further she walked, the thicker the air became, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter—wildflowers, though it was the wrong season for them. Rory slowed. The path beneath her feet had changed. No more gravel. Now it was soft, spongy, like moss. She crouched, running her fingers over the ground. The texture was wrong. Too vibrant. Too *alive*. A rustle in the undergrowth. She froze. Nothing moved. The sound hadn’t come again. She exhaled, standing slowly. *Just a fox. Or a deer.* Richmond Park was full of them. But the hair on the back of her neck refused to settle. The pendant flared, a sudden heat that made her gasp. She clutched it through her shirt. The glow seeped through the fabric, crimson bleeding between her fingers. The trees around her seemed to lean in, their bark gnarled into faces she couldn’t quite see. A trick of the light. Had to be. She pressed on. The path sloped downward, the trees parting to reveal a clearing. The Fae Grove. She’d heard the stories—whispers in Silas’ bar about a place where time didn’t behave, where the old magic still lingered. But seeing it was different. The ancient oaks stood like sentinels, their trunks carved with symbols that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. Wildflowers carpeted the ground, their petals shimmering under the moonlight like scattered jewels. Rory stepped inside. The air hummed, a low vibration in her bones. The pendant’s warmth spread through her chest, into her limbs. She pulled it free of her shirt, holding it up. The crimson gem pulsed, its inner light flickering like a candle in a draft. The standing stones—massive, ancient oaks petrified into jagged pillars—marked the boundary. She counted them. Seven. One for each point of the old Fae compass, Eva had once joked. A sound. A whisper of movement. She turned. Nothing. The flowers swayed, though there was no wind. Rory’s pulse quickened. She wasn’t alone. She forced herself to breathe. *Think.* That was what she did. She was Rory Carter, the girl who solved problems, who outran her past. She wasn’t some superstitious fool who jumped at shadows. But the Grove didn’t feel like a shadow. It felt like something *watching*. She took another step. The flowers beneath her feet didn’t crush under her boots. They *retreated*, their petals curling away from her touch. She stopped. That wasn’t right. Plants didn’t do that. A voice. Soft. Singing. It curled around her, a melody without words, without source. It came from everywhere, from the stones, the trees, the earth itself. Rory’s skin prickled. She knew this song. Or her blood did. It tugged at something deep in her chest, a memory she didn’t have. The pendant burned hotter. She clutched it tight. The singing stopped. The silence that followed was worse. Then, a snap of a twig. To her left. She spun, her body tense. The trees were too still. Too *aware*. She squinted into the dark. A shape. A flicker of movement. Tall. Slender. Not human. It darted between the trunks, too fast to track. Her breath hitched. “Hello?” Her voice sounded thin, swallowed by the Grove’s thickness. No answer. Of course not. She was losing her mind. That was all. The stress of the last few months—Evan, the move, the nightmares—it was getting to her. But then, the flowers at her feet trembled. A ripple passed through them, as if something had brushed against their stems. She looked down. The petals shivered, then stilled. Slowly, she crouched, her eyes level with the blossoms. A single drop of moisture glistened on a petal. Not dew. Too thick. Too dark. Blood. Her stomach twisted. She stood abruptly, backing toward the center of the clearing. The pendant was a brand against her palm. The wrongness coiled in her gut, a cold, heavy weight. The Grove wasn’t empty. It was *full*. Full of things she couldn’t see, things that moved just beyond her sight. Another sound. A sigh. A breath against her neck. She whirled, but there was nothing. Only the trees, the stones, the flowers. And yet— “Who’s there?” Her voice was steadier this time. She was Aurora Carter. She didn’t scare easy. The air shifted. A whisper of fabric, the faintest rustle of leaves. Then, a laugh. High, clear, like wind chimes in a breeze. It came from above. She looked up. A figure stood on one of the lower branches of an oak, balanced as if gravity meant nothing. The moonlight caught the curve of a pale cheek, the glint of eyes like polished silver. Long hair, the color of twilight, cascaded down their back. They were barefoot, dressed in what looked like woven vines and petals. Rory’s breath caught. *Fae.* The figure tilted their head, studying her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. Then, they smiled. Their teeth were too white, too sharp. “Little thief,” they said, their voice like honey and thorns. “You carry something that doesn’t belong to you.” Rory’s hand tightened around the pendant. “It was given to me.” The Fae’s smile widened. “Given? Or *taken*?” She didn’t answer. The Grove seemed to hold its breath. The Fae dropped from the branch, landing soundlessly in front of her. Up close, their beauty was overwhelming, but their eyes—those eyes were ancient, cruel. “You are not welcome here, child of Earth.” Their voice was a caress, a threat. “But you have come. And now, you cannot leave.” Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She took a step back. The Fae mirrored her, closing the distance. The pendant burned, its heat almost unbearable. She wanted to run. But where? The path behind her was gone. The Grove had shifted, the trees rearranging themselves into a wall of bark and leaf. The Fae reached out, their fingers brushing her cheek. Their touch was ice, fire, a shock that ran through her. “You will stay,” they murmured. “And you will *remember*.” Rory jerked away. The pendant flared, a sudden burst of crimson light that illuminated the clearing. The Fae hissed, recoiling as if burned. The light spread, pushing back the shadows, revealing the Grove for what it truly was—a prison of roots and thorns, a place where time had no meaning, where the Fae fed on lost souls. And then, she saw them. The others. Figures trapped in the bark of the trees, their faces twisted in silent screams. Human. Or at least, they had been once. The Fae snarled, their beauty twisting into something monstrous. “You do not belong here.” Rory didn’t wait. She turned and ran. The path appeared before her, the Grove’s magic recoiling from the pendant’s light. Branches lashed at her, but she ducked, her boots pounding against the earth. The Fae’s laughter followed her, a chorus of voices now, a cacophony of rage and hunger. She burst through the gate, the iron cold under her palm. The pendant’s glow dimmed, its warmth fading to a gentle pulse. The night air was crisp, clean. The Grove was behind her. But as she turned to look, the gate was gone. Only the dark expanse of Richmond Park remained. Rory didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. The pendant was still warm against her skin. And in the distance, just beyond the edge of sight, a single wildflower bloomed in the dead of winter. She knew, with a certainty that settled into her bones, that the Grove wasn’t done with her. And neither were the Fae.