Run: 2026-10-20-01M5C6CA1RQPADX7QYTCQWJZ8X

The gate was where Eva had said it would be—half-swallowed by a tangle of hawthorn, its rusted iron barely visible in the dying light. Rory had to push through the branches, thorns snagging at her jacket, catching and releasing with a sound like stitches being pulled. It was colder here. Colder than the path behind her, colder than the evening had any right to be. She checked her phone. 8:47 PM. No signal. That wasn't surprising. Richmond Park was vast, and this corner of it felt forgotten, tucked away from the main trails and the dog walkers who'd retreated home hours ago. She'd promised Silas she'd be back before closing. She'd promised Eva she wouldn't come alone. But Eva hadn't been answering her phone all day, and the pendant had been warm against Rory's chest since Tuesday—not the gentle warmth that meant it was near a portal, but a slow, steady pulse like a heartbeat that wasn't hers. The Heartstone had led her here, tugging at her at odd hours, pulling her toward this hidden corner of the park. She'd ignored it for as long as she could. Now, with Eva missing and Silas quiet in a way that made her stomach clench, she couldn't afford to wait any longer. The grove opened before her without ceremony. One moment she was pushing through thick undergrowth; the next, the trees fell away, and she stood in a clearing that shouldn't exist. It was too perfect. The grass was too green, the wildflowers too bright, their petals catching the last light in a way that made them seem to glow from within. Ancient oaks ringed the space, their trunks impossibly wide, their roots twisting in patterns that made her eyes slide away if she looked too long. The standing stones waited at the far edge, humped shapes of grey beneath the darkening sky. There were seven of them, arranged in a rough arc, and even from here Rory could see that they were wrong—not the neat, straight lines of human construction, but something older, something that had grown from the earth rather than being placed upon it. She stepped forward. The grass made no sound beneath her boots. That was the first thing. She noticed it immediately, the way her own footsteps were swallowed by the clearing. She pressed her heel down hard against a patch of gravel, and heard nothing. Not a crunch, not a whisper. She stopped and listened, and the silence pressed in on her like a held breath. No wind. No birds. No distant hum of traffic from the road she'd been walking beside ten minutes ago. Her hand found the pendant through her jacket. It was warm, pulsing, and she could feel it resisting her touch, pulling her further in. She tightened her grip on the flashlight in her other hand and clicked it on. The beam cut through the twilight, sharp and bright against the darkening trees, but somehow it didn't reach the standing stones. The light fell away before it hit them, as though the space between Rory and the monoliths was bigger than it looked. She checked her phone again. 8:48 PM. One minute had passed. She was sure more time had passed than that. "Hello?" Her voice came out thin, flattened by the clearing. No echo. She cleared her throat. "Eva? Are you here?" Nothing. The wildflowers nodded in a breeze that wasn't there, their petals rippling in a slow, synchronized wave. Rory watched them, her jaw tight. She'd seen this before—the strange, deliberate motion of Fae-touched places, the way they mimicked life. The grove was awakening to her presence, or she was becoming more aware of it. She wasn't sure which was worse. She moved deeper into the clearing. The pendant thrummed now, a steady pulse that seemed to sync with her heartbeat, then pull ahead. She followed it, walking toward the stones. The grass was soft underfoot, too soft, the blades pressing down and springing back in a way that felt like walking on a living thing. She was halfway to the stones when she heard the laughter. It was faint, distant, a child's giggle that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Rory froze, her hand tightening on the flashlight. She swept the beam across the clearing. The wildflowers rippled. The trees stood silent. No movement, no source. "Eva?" she called again, sharper now. The laughter came again, softer this time, as though it was moving away from her. Or deeper in. She moved faster, her boots pushing through the soft grass, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. The pendant felt hot now, pulsing in a rapid, insistent rhythm. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. The first stone loomed before her, and she pressed her hand against its surface. It was cold, colder than it should have been, cold enough to make her fingers ache. The stone was smooth beneath her palm, worn by centuries of weather, except it wasn't rough or pitted like the old stones she'd seen in pictures. It was smooth and warm in patches, as though something had been resting against it recently. She pulled her hand back. The stone was cold again. She walked around the arc, following the curve of the stones. The second was identical to the first, and the third, and the fourth. She counted them as she passed, her flashlight beam skittering across their surfaces. Five. Six. Seven. There should have been eight. The arc was incomplete, the gap between the seventh stone and the treeline just large enough for a person to walk through. She stepped toward the gap, her light sweeping across the ground, and stopped. The grass here was flattened. Not just pressed down, but worn smooth, as though something had been dragged through it. The marks led into the trees, toward the dark heart of the grove, and the wildflowers that bordered the path were blackened at the edges, their petals curling inward as though recoiling from the marks. Rory swallowed. The pendant was burning now, hot against her chest, and she could hear her own breathing too loud in the silence. She should go back. She should call Silas, or the police, or anyone. But she knew, with a certainty that settled in her gut like a stone, that Eva was somewhere in those trees. And whatever had left those marks had taken her there. She stepped into the gap. The trees closed around her immediately, their branches weaving overhead in a canopy so thick it blocked out the last of the twilight. The darkness was complete, broken only by her flashlight beam, which seemed weaker now, thinner, as though it was being swallowed by the shadows. The path was narrow, barely wide enough for her to walk without brushing against the trunks, and the bark was rough beneath her fingers when she reached out for balance. She heard the laughter again. Closer this time. It came from ahead, from the dark heart of the grove, and it was joined by another sound—a low, rhythmic murmur, like voices speaking in unison. The words were indistinct, but the tone was clear. It was the sound of something preparing, something waiting. Rory's foot caught on a root, and she stumbled. The flashlight slipped from her grip, hit the ground with a clatter, and rolled into the undergrowth. Its beam swept across the path ahead, illuminating a shape in the darkness. A figure. Small, still, its back to her. Her breath caught. For a moment, she was sure it was Eva—the familiar curve of her shoulders, the way she held herself, tense and ready. But then the figure turned, and the light caught its face, and Rory's throat closed. It wasn't Eva. It was wearing Eva's face, but the eyes were wrong—too dark, too deep, reflecting nothing. The smile was too wide, stretching beyond the bounds of human anatomy. And the voice that came from its lips was Eva's voice, but layered with something else, something older and colder. "Rory," it said, sweet and soft. "You came." The pendant burned. The voices in the trees rose. And Rory turned to run, but the path behind her was gone, swallowed by shadows and wildflowers that bloomed in the dark, their petals reaching for her as she stumbled backward. She was not alone in the grove. And whatever was here with her had been waiting a very long time.