Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMMV26AS707Z12FEM5CDME

The standing stones loomed like silent sentinels, their gnarled oak trunks twisted with age and something older—something that hummed beneath the bark. Aurora Carter adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the Heartstone Pendant tucked safely inside, its faint warmth seeping through the fabric. The air here smelled different, thick with the scent of wildflowers that shouldn’t have been blooming in late November. It clung to the back of her throat, sweet and cloying, like honey left too long in the sun. Nyx materialized beside her, their form flickering between solid and shadow. "The boundary is thin here," they murmured, their voice a whisper carried on a breeze that didn’t exist. "Can you feel it?" Rory exhaled, watching her breath curl in the cold air. "I feel like I’m about to step into a dream I can’t wake up from." Isolde smiled, her silver hair catching the pale light filtering through the trees. She left no footprints as she moved forward, her bare feet barely disturbing the moss. "Then you are already learning." She turned, her lavender eyes gleaming. "The Grove does not welcome the unprepared. But you are not unprepared, are you, Aurora?" Rory didn’t answer. She stepped past the stones, and the world tilted. The forest beyond was not the same. The trees here were taller, their leaves shimmering in hues of emerald and gold, as if woven from silk. The air thrummed with a low, resonant note, like the plucked string of some vast, invisible instrument. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the bark of the nearest tree. It pulsed beneath her touch, warm and alive. Nyx solidified beside her, their violet eyes wide. "This isn’t just a place," they said. "It’s *alive*." Isolde laughed, the sound like wind chimes. "Everything is alive, child of shadow. You simply forget." Rory’s boots sank into the soft earth as they moved deeper into the grove. The wildflowers here were stranger—petals that shifted color when she looked at them, stamens that curled away from her touch. A butterfly with wings like stained glass fluttered past, its path erratic, as if drunk on the air. She reached for it, but it dissolved into mist before her fingers could close. "Time moves differently here," Isolde said, as if reading her thoughts. "An hour in the Grove could be a minute outside. Or a day." Rory swallowed. "That’s… unsettling." Nyx tilted their head. "It’s *magic*." The path ahead split, winding between two massive oaks whose roots twisted together like lovers’ hands. Isolde took the left fork without hesitation, her steps sure. Rory followed, her pulse quickening as the trees grew denser, their branches weaving together overhead to form a living canopy. The light beneath them was dim, but not dark—it was as if the air itself glowed, a soft luminescence that cast no shadows. Then the clearing opened before them. Rory stopped. A pool of water lay at the center, its surface so still it might have been glass. But it wasn’t water—it was something else. Liquid silver, shifting and swirling with currents she couldn’t see. Around it, the wildflowers grew in perfect circles, their petals forming intricate patterns that made her eyes ache if she looked too long. Isolde knelt at the pool’s edge, her reflection rippling in the silver surface. "The Seeing Pool," she said. "It shows not what is, but what could be." Rory crouched beside her, careful not to touch the water. Her own reflection stared back, but it wasn’t quite *her*. This version of Aurora was older, her black hair streaked with silver, her bright blue eyes sharp with something like sorrow. She wore a cloak she didn’t recognize, and in her hand was a dagger—the Fae blade, its moonsilver edge gleaming. "Is this the future?" Rory whispered. Isolde’s smile was sad. "It is a future. One of many." Nyx drifted closer, their form flickering. "It’s beautiful," they said. "And terrible." Rory reached into her bag, her fingers brushing the Heartstone Pendant. The moment she touched it, the pool’s surface rippled violently, the vision shattering like broken glass. The silver liquid darkened, swirling into shapes—shadows with glowing eyes, a city of spires wreathed in smoke, a figure with horns standing over a throne of bones. Belphegor. The name slithered into her mind, unbidden. Isolde stood abruptly, her expression unreadable. "We should go." Rory didn’t argue. She stood, her legs unsteady, and followed as Isolde led them away from the pool, deeper into the grove. The trees here were different—older, their bark blackened as if scorched by some long-ago fire. The air smelled of ozone and something metallic, like blood. Then she saw it. A door. Not a literal door—it was more like a *tear* in the world, a jagged rent in the fabric of the grove, through which she could see something else. Something wrong. The sky beyond was amber, the color of old bruises, and the ground was covered in vines heavy with fruit that pulsed like living things. Dymas. Rory’s breath hitched. The Heartstone Pendant burned against her skin. Nyx hissed, their form dissolving into mist. "That’s a Hel rift." Isolde’s voice was tight. "And it should not be here." Rory stepped closer, her pulse roaring in her ears. The air from the rift was warm, thick with the scent of spices and something sickly sweet, like rotting meat beneath honey. She could hear it now—the distant clink of glasses, the murmur of voices, the low, rhythmic thud of something being chopped on a wooden block. A feast. She reached out, her fingers trembling. The moment they crossed the threshold of the rift, the world *shifted*. The grove vanished. She was standing in a vast kitchen, the walls lined with copper pots and knives that gleamed like teeth. A man—no, not a man, something *else*—turned from a stove, his skin the color of polished obsidian, his eyes glowing like embers. "You’re not supposed to be here," he said, his voice a growl. Rory yanked her hand back. The rift snapped shut like a mouth. She stumbled away, her heart hammering. Isolde grabbed her arm, her grip iron. "You must not touch it again." Nyx solidified beside them, their expression grim. "The Veil is thinning. And if Dymas is bleeding into the Grove…" Rory didn’t need them to finish. She already knew. Something was coming. And it was hungry.