Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMMENGYS906ZEVNBTQ6J6V

The standing stones loomed like the ribs of some long-dead titan, their gnarled oak trunks blackened with age and veined with silver moss. Aurora hesitated at the threshold, her breath curling in the crisp November air. The Heartstone pendant against her collarbone pulsed once, a warm throb beneath her fingers, as if confirming what she already knew—this was no ordinary grove. Nyx materialized beside her, their violet eyes flickering like dying embers in the dim light. "The air tastes different here," they murmured, voice like wind through dry leaves. "Old magic. Hungry magic." Isolde stepped between the stones first, her silver hair catching the pale sunlight as she turned. She left no footprints in the frost-kissed grass. "Come," she said, and though her words were simple, they carried the weight of a command. "The grove does not suffer hesitation." Aurora followed, the soles of her boots sinking into damp earth that smelled of loam and something sweeter—honeysuckle, perhaps, though it was far too late in the year for such blooms. The moment she crossed the boundary, the world seemed to exhale. The distant hum of London traffic faded, replaced by the whisper of leaves and the distant chime of what might have been bells, or perhaps wind through crystal. The trees here were wrong. Not in the way of blight or decay, but in the way of dreams—too tall, their bark too smooth, their branches twisting in impossible spirals. Wildflowers carpeted the ground in riotous color, petals too vivid, too *alive*, as if each one had been painted by a hand that loved beauty too much. Aurora crouched, brushing her fingers against a cluster of bluebells that shimmered like stained glass. When she pulled her hand back, her fingertips were dusted with gold. Nyx hissed. "Do not touch what you do not understand." "Too late for that," Aurora muttered, wiping her hand on her jeans. The gold didn’t smear. Isolde laughed, the sound like wind chimes. "The grove gives gifts to those it favors. It takes from those it does not." She plucked a single bloom from the air—it hadn’t been there a moment before—and tucked it behind Aurora’s ear. "A token. The grove remembers kindness." Aurora touched the flower. It was cool and smooth as glass. They moved deeper, following a path that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The trees pressed closer, their leaves murmuring in a language just beyond comprehension. Aurora’s skin prickled. She had spent her life in cities, where the world was measured in concrete and steel, in the predictable rhythm of traffic lights and closing times. Here, the rules bent. The air hummed with unseen energy, raising the fine hairs on her arms. Nyx’s form flickered, their edges blurring like smoke. "The Veil is thin here," they said. "I could slip through. See what lies beyond." Isolde’s lavender eyes darkened. "And risk being trapped in the spaces between? No. The grove is safe, but its borders are not." Aurora’s fingers drifted to the Fae-forged blade at her hip. The metal was cold, even through the sheath. "How much farther?" "Far enough that you will wonder if we are still in Richmond," Isolde said. "Close enough that you will know we are not." The path opened into a clearing, and Aurora’s breath caught. A pool of water lay at its center, so still it might have been glass. But it wasn’t the water that held her gaze—it was the sky reflected in it. Not the pale, overcast gray of an English autumn, but a swirling vortex of colors: deep violets, molten golds, the bruised purples of a storm. Stars flickered in its depths, though it was barely past noon. Nyx stepped to the water’s edge, their reflection wavering, shifting—sometimes solid, sometimes a shadow without form. "A scrying pool," they said. "But not one I know." Isolde knelt, dipping her fingers into the water. Ripples spread outward, distorting the sky. "It shows what is, what was, and what may be. But only if you know how to ask." Aurora crouched beside her. The water was warm, almost alive. When she pulled her hand back, droplets clung to her skin like mercury before sinking in, leaving no trace. "Can it show us Hel?" Isolde’s gaze flicked to the Heartstone pendant. "It can. But the price of such knowledge is never small." Nyx’s voice was a whisper. "Then we pay it." Aurora hesitated. She had spent years running from things she couldn’t control, from men who thought her silence was permission, from the weight of expectations that weren’t hers to bear. But this—this was different. This was a choice. A step forward, not a flight. She reached into the water. The moment her fingers broke the surface, the world *tilted*. The grove vanished. The sky above her was no longer sky at all, but a vast, amber expanse, heavy with the scent of ripe fruit and something darker—smoke, perhaps, or the iron tang of blood. Below her feet, the ground was soft, loamy, giving way to rows of vines heavy with grapes the size of her fist, their skins so dark they seemed to drink the light. Dymas. She knew it the way she knew her own name. A figure moved between the vines—a woman with skin like polished mahogany, her hands stained purple with juice. She turned, and her eyes were entirely black, pupil and iris swallowed by void. "You are not welcome here, little moth," she said, her voice like honey laced with poison. "The Prince does not suffer trespassers." Aurora’s pulse roared in her ears. She tried to step back, but the ground held her fast, roots coiling around her ankles like serpents. The woman smiled, revealing teeth too sharp, too numerous. "But perhaps he will make an exception. For one who carries his mark." The Heartstone pendant burned against Aurora’s skin. Then— Pain. A scream tore from her throat as the vision shattered, hurling her back into the grove. She collapsed onto the damp earth, gasping, her wrist throbbing where the crescent scar had split open, weeping blood. Nyx was at her side in an instant, their hands—solid now, warm—gripping her shoulders. "Breathe," they commanded. "You are here. You are *here*." Isolde pressed a hand to Aurora’s forehead. Her touch was cool, soothing. "The grove protects its own," she murmured. "But the Veil remembers wounds given in its sight." Aurora’s breath came in ragged gulps. The pendant at her throat was cold now, its glow extinguished. "What the hell was that?" Nyx’s voice was grim. "A warning. Or an invitation." Isolde stood, her silver hair catching the light as she turned toward the path. "Both," she said. "And neither. The grove has shown you what it wished. Now we leave." Aurora let Nyx pull her to her feet. Her legs trembled, but she forced herself to stand straight. The flower behind her ear had wilted, its petals crumbling to dust. As they turned to go, the scrying pool rippled once more, though no hand touched it. For the briefest moment, Aurora thought she saw a face in the water—her own, but older, harder, her bright blue eyes shadowed with something like grief. Then it was gone. The path back was shorter, or perhaps time itself had bent to Isolde’s will. When they stepped between the standing stones, the noise of the city rushed back in—a car horn, the distant wail of a siren, the bark of a dog. The grove exhaled behind them, and then it was just another patch of Richmond Park, the standing stones nothing more than ancient oaks, the wildflowers ordinary blooms. Aurora touched her wrist. The scar was whole again, though it ached. Nyx’s form solidified beside her, their silhouette sharp against the gray sky. "You felt it, didn’t you? The pull." Aurora didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The Heartstone pendant was warm again.