Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AVS3BTBW59584K79BJANNG

The ancient oaks loomed like sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting into the moonless sky. Aurora stepped over the last 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 late autumn outside the Grove. She adjusted the strap of her bag, the Heartstone pendant warm against her collarbone. She shouldn’t have come at night. Eva’s warning echoed in her skull: *Don’t trust the dark here.* But the note had been clear—*Midnight, at the centre of the Grove. Alone.* And the pendant had pulsed, insistent, when she’d read it. The trees seemed to lean in, their leaves whispering without wind. She forced her shoulders down. No point in jumping at shadows. The Grove was just a place. A strange one, sure, but still just trees and earth. A twig snapped behind her. Aurora froze. The sound was too sharp, too deliberate. She turned slowly, scanning the undergrowth. Nothing. Just the skeletal fingers of brambles and the pale glow of mushrooms clinging to the roots of an oak. She exhaled. Probably a fox. Or a deer. Richmond Park had plenty of both. Another snap. Closer. Her pulse thudded in her throat. The pendant’s warmth flared, not the gentle pulse from before but a sudden, almost painful heat. She clenched her fist around it, the silver chain biting into her palm. “Hello?” Her voice sounded thin, swallowed by the dark. No answer. Just the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl. She turned back towards the centre of the Grove, where the trees thinned into a clearing. The note had mentioned a standing stone there, marked with a symbol. Her torch flickered as she adjusted it, the beam cutting through the gloom. Something moved at the edge of the light. Aurora’s breath hitched. A shape—tall, too tall, its limbs too long—darted between the trees. Not an animal. Not human. The torch wavered in her grip. “Who’s there?” She hated the tremor in her voice. Silence. Then, from the darkness, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. A laugh? No. Not a laugh. A clicking, chittering noise, like bones tapping together. Her skin prickled. The pendant burned against her sternum. She took a step forward. The beam of her torch caught the glint of eyes—dozens of them, low to the ground, blinking in the undergrowth. Then gone. Aurora’s stomach twisted. She knew this place was Fae-touched. Knew the rules were different here. But this—this was something else. A whisper slithered through the air, a voice like wind through dead branches. *“Little thief.”* She spun. Nothing. Just the trees, the shadows, the oppressive weight of the dark. “Who said that?” Her voice came out sharper this time. Good. Fear was a luxury she couldn’t afford. The whisper came again, closer. *“You took what wasn’t yours.”* Aurora’s fingers tightened around the pendant. It wasn’t hers. She knew that. The unknown benefactor, the way it had appeared in her flat one night, the way it reacted to the Grove—none of it made sense. But she hadn’t stolen it. “I didn’t take anything,” she said, chin lifting. “It was given to me.” A rustle. A shift in the air. Then, from the darkness, a figure stepped into the faint pool of her torchlight. Tall. Too tall. Its skin was the colour of bark, its limbs knotted like roots. Its face—if it had one—was a shifting mass of shadows, save for two hollow pits where eyes should be. It tilted its head, the movement jerky, like a marionette with its strings pulled too tight. *“Given,”* it hissed. *“Stolen. The same, in the end.”* Aurora’s throat went dry. She took a step back. The torchlight flickered, as if the thing was draining the light itself. “What do you want?” she asked. The creature took a step forward. The ground didn’t crunch under its feet. It didn’t make a sound. *“The stone. The heart. The debt.”* Aurora’s hand flew to the pendant. “It’s not yours.” *“Not ours,”* it agreed. *“But not yours, either.”* It took another step. The air grew colder. *“You carry the scent of the Hel-portal. The scent of the thief.”* Aurora’s mind raced. Hel-portal. The pendant pulsed when near them. So this thing—whatever it was—knew about that. Knew about her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied. The creature’s hollow eyes fixed on her. *“Liar.”* The word slithered out, wrapping around her like a noose. *“The Grove knows. The stones know. The dark knows.”* Aurora’s breath came fast. She needed to move. Needed to run. But her legs felt rooted to the spot. The creature lunged. She barely had time to jerk back before its fingers—long, gnarled things, like twisted roots—scraped the air where her throat had been. The torch clattered to the ground, the beam swinging wildly before settling on the creature’s face. It hissed, recoiling from the light. *“Clever little thief,”* it spat. *“But light does not last.”* Aurora didn’t wait. She turned and ran. Branches whipped at her arms, her face. The Grove seemed to shift around her, the path twisting, turning in on itself. She risked a glance back. The creature was gaining, its movements too fluid, too fast. Her lungs burned. The pendant seared against her skin. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get out. A root snagged her ankle. She went down hard, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. The torch rolled away, the light dimming, flickering. The creature loomed over her, its shadow swallowing the last of the light. *“No escape,”* it whispered. *“The Grove does not forget.”* Aurora scrambled back, her hand closing around a fallen branch. It was thick, heavy. She swung. The wood connected with the creature’s side. It shrieked, a sound like splintering wood, and staggered. The torchlight flared, steadying. She didn’t hesitate. She was on her feet, running again, the branch still clutched in her hand. The creature’s shriek followed her, echoing through the trees. The standing stones appeared ahead, the boundary of the Grove. She could see the faint glow of London’s lights beyond them. Safety. She burst through the last of the trees, stumbling over the final stone. The air changed instantly—cooler, sharper. The weight on her chest lifted. Behind her, the creature halted at the boundary, its form writhing, as if the Grove itself was holding it back. *“You cannot hide,”* it hissed. *“The debt will be paid.”* Aurora didn’t look back. She ran, her boots pounding against the path, the pendant still burning against her skin. The creature’s voice followed her into the night, a whisper on the wind. *“We will find you.”*