Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMZDSAP1B3RC0Q0RQ609JV

The standing stones loomed like sentinels in the mist, their gnarled oaks twisted with age. Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the Heartstone Pendant tucked safely beneath her shirt, its warmth a steady pulse against her skin. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweeter—honeysuckle, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of magic. Nyx materialized beside her, their form flickering between solid and shadow. "The grove doesn’t want us here," they murmured, their voice like wind through dead leaves. "It’s testing us." Rory exhaled, watching her breath curl in the cold air. "Or it’s just cold. It *is* December." Isolde stepped between the stones first, her silver hair shimmering as if woven with starlight. She left no footprints in the frost. "The grove chooses who enters," she said, her pale lavender eyes fixed on Rory. "And it has chosen you." Rory hesitated, then followed. The moment she crossed the threshold, the world tilted. The mist swallowed the standing stones behind her, and the air hummed with energy, raising the fine hairs on her arms. Before her stretched a clearing unlike anything she’d ever seen—wildflowers bloomed in impossible colors, their petals glowing faintly in the dim light. Towering trees with bark like polished silver stretched toward a sky that wasn’t quite blue, but not gray either. It was as if the grove existed in the space between dawn and dusk, suspended in perpetual twilight. Nyx solidified beside her, their violet eyes wide. "This isn’t Earth," they whispered. "Not entirely." Isolde glided forward, her bare feet brushing the grass without disturbing a single blade. "The Fae Courts call this place a *pocket*," she said. "A sliver of their realm bleeding into ours." Rory reached out, her fingers hovering just above a cluster of flowers that pulsed with an inner light. "It’s beautiful." "Beauty is often a trap," Nyx said, their voice low. "The Fae are fond of them." Isolde shot them a look. "And Shades are fond of doom-saying." Rory ignored them, stepping deeper into the grove. The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of blossoms and something richer—spiced wine, perhaps, or the faintest hint of smoke. A narrow path wound through the undergrowth, lined with stones that glowed faintly, as if lit from within. Nyx drifted ahead, their shadowy form stretching unnaturally long in the dim light. "The path is moving," they said. Rory frowned. "What?" Isolde smiled, cryptic as ever. "The grove shifts to guide—or mislead. It depends on what it thinks you need." Rory’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. "And what does it think *I* need?" Isolde didn’t answer. Instead, she gestured toward the path. "Walk, and see." The deeper they went, the stranger the grove became. The trees grew taller, their branches twisting into arches overhead, forming a living tunnel. The stones along the path pulsed brighter, their light casting shifting patterns on the ground. Rory’s boots made no sound as she walked, as if the earth itself absorbed the noise. Then, the path opened into a wider clearing, and Rory stopped. A pool of water lay at its center, perfectly still, its surface like glass. But it wasn’t the pool that made her breath catch—it was the figure standing beside it. A woman, or something like one, with skin like polished marble and hair that flowed like liquid silver. She turned as they approached, her eyes—pale, pupil-less, and glowing faintly—locking onto Rory. Isolde bowed her head. "Lady of the Grove." The woman smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Seer. You bring mortals into my domain." Rory’s pulse quickened. She’d heard stories of the Fae, of their cruelty and caprice. But before she could speak, Nyx stepped forward, their form flickering like a candle in the wind. "We seek answers," they said. "About the Veil. About the rifts." The Fae woman tilted her head, her gaze sliding to Rory. "And you, little mortal? What do you seek?" Rory swallowed. The Heartstone Pendant burned against her skin, as if reacting to the Fae’s presence. "I need to know how to close a rift," she said. "Before it tears open completely." The woman’s smile widened, sharp as a blade. "The Veil weakens. The solstice approaches." She gestured to the pool. "Look, and see what the grove shows you." Rory hesitated, then stepped forward. The water’s surface rippled as she approached, and when she looked down, she didn’t see her reflection. She saw a city—London, but not as she knew it. The sky was wrong, the color of a fresh bruise, and the streets writhed with shadows that moved like living things. Buildings flickered in and out of existence, their edges blurred as if caught between two worlds. And in the distance, a tear in the sky, a jagged wound of darkness that pulsed with an unnatural light. Rory’s breath hitched. "What is that?" "The rift," Isolde said softly. "The one you fear." The Fae woman’s voice was a whisper. "The Veil is thinning. And when it breaks, Hel will spill into your world." Rory’s fingers curled into fists. "How do I stop it?" The woman’s laughter rang like bells. "You don’t. You *choose*." The vision shifted. Now she saw a feast hall, grand and opulent, filled with figures draped in silk and jewels. At the head of the table sat a man—no, not a man. His skin was too pale, his eyes too dark, and his smile too wide. Prince Belphegor. The ruler of Dymas. And he was watching her. Rory stumbled back, her heart hammering. The pool’s surface stilled, the vision dissolving like smoke. The Fae woman’s voice was a sigh. "The grove has shown you what it will. Now, you must decide." Nyx’s form solidified beside her, their expression grim. "We’re running out of time." Isolde placed a hand on Rory’s shoulder. "The solstice is in three days. If the rift isn’t closed by then, it never will be." Rory looked back at the pool, then at the path ahead. The grove had given her a warning. Now, she had to act. She turned to Nyx and Isolde. "Then we don’t have a choice. We go to Dymas."