Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMNAPKA7QWDP55EE11C4CNK

The standing stones loomed like the ribs of some long-dead giant, their gnarled oak bark silvered by centuries of moonlight. Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the Heartstone Pendant tucked safely beneath her shirt, its warmth a steady pulse against her sternum. The air smelled of damp earth and wild thyme, thick with the hum of unseen insects. Beside her, Nyx flickered in and out of solidity, their violet eyes scanning the boundary of the grove with unsettling intensity. "You're sure this is the place?" Rory murmured, though she already knew the answer. The absence of footprints in the dew-kissed grass was answer enough. Nyx tilted their head, their form rippling like smoke caught in a draft. "The Veil is thin here. Can you not feel it?" Rory exhaled, rolling her shoulders to dispel the prickle of unease crawling up her spine. She *could* feel it—the way the air hummed against her skin, the way the shadows between the stones seemed to breathe. She’d spent her whole life pretending the supernatural didn’t exist. Now, she was walking straight into its heart. A rustle of leaves made her turn. Isolde stepped between the stones, her silver hair catching the dappled light like spun mercury. She moved without sound, her bare feet leaving no impression on the earth. "You're late," she said, though her voice carried no rebuke, only the faintest lilt of amusement. "The grove grows impatient." Rory opened her mouth to retort, but the words died on her tongue. Beyond Isolde, the world seemed to bend. The trees twisted, their branches weaving into an archway of living wood, their leaves shimmering like emeralds. The air beyond them warped, a heat-haze mirage that wasn’t heat at all, but something older, something hungry. Nyx let out a low, whispering laugh. "Oh, this is going to be *fun*." Isolde extended a hand, her lavender eyes gleaming. "Step through, little mortal. The path awaits." Rory hesitated. The last time she’d walked into the unknown, she’d ended up in a flat above a bar in London, running from a man who refused to stay in her past. But this—this was different. This was a choice. She took a breath, adjusted the strap of her bag again, and stepped forward. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, the world *shifted*. The grove didn’t just change—it *unfolded*. The trees stretched taller, their trunks widening into columns of bark that pulsed with an inner light. The ground beneath her boots softened, becoming a carpet of moss so thick it swallowed the sound of her steps. Fireflies—no, not fireflies, something brighter, something with wings like stained glass—drifted through the air, their glow painting the world in hues of sapphire and gold. Rory’s breath hitched. "What *is* this place?" Isolde smiled, but it wasn’t for her. It was for the grove itself. "A pocket between worlds. A place where time forgets its rules." She turned, her silver hair swaying as if caught in a breeze Rory couldn’t feel. "Come. The heart of the grove is this way." Nyx flowed beside her, their form solidifying just enough to brush against Rory’s arm. Their touch was cool, like the first breath of winter. "You’re trembling," they murmured. Rory clenched her fists, willing the tension from her shoulders. "It’s just… a lot." Nyx’s laugh was a whisper on the wind. "Oh, Rory. This is barely the beginning." The deeper they walked, the more the grove revealed. Vines heavy with blossoms the color of twilight curled around the trees, their petals releasing a scent like honey and rain. A brook cut through the moss, its waters so clear Rory could see the pebbles beneath shimmering with veins of silver. And then there were the *voices*—not words, not quite, but a chorus of sound that hummed in her bones, a song without melody, a language without words. Isolde paused at the edge of a clearing, where the trees parted to reveal a pool of water so still it might have been glass. At its center stood a single, massive oak, its roots twisting into the earth like the fingers of a sleeping giant. Carved into its trunk were symbols Rory didn’t recognize, their edges glowing faintly, as if lit from within. Nyx’s form flickered, their violet eyes fixed on the tree. "That’s not just wood," they said softly. "That’s a door." Isolde nodded. "And a key." She turned to Rory, her expression unreadable. "The grove has been waiting for you." Rory’s pulse jumped. "For *me*?" "The Heartstone called to it." Isolde’s gaze dropped to Rory’s chest, where the pendant lay hidden beneath her shirt. "As did you." Rory’s fingers twitched toward the pendant, but she stopped herself. "What does it want?" Isolde’s smile was slow, knowing. "Not *it*. *Me*." She stepped forward, her bare feet soundless on the moss, and pressed her palm to the tree’s trunk. The symbols flared, their light casting long shadows across the clearing. "The grove remembers the old bargains. It remembers the debts owed." Rory’s throat went dry. "What debts?" "The Fae do not forget." Isolde’s voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it. "And neither do I." A gust of wind swept through the clearing, though the air had been still moments before. The firefly-lights dimmed, and the song of the grove deepened, taking on a darker, more insistent tone. Rory’s skin prickled. Something was wrong. Nyx’s form solidified fully, their shadowy edges sharpening into something almost human. "We’re not alone." Isolde’s head snapped up, her lavender eyes narrowing. "No," she breathed. "We’re not." The shadows between the trees *moved*. Not like wind through leaves, not like the natural play of light and dark, but like something *alive*. Rory’s hand flew to her bag, her fingers closing around the hilt of the Fae-forged blade Isolde had given her. The metal was ice against her skin, its faint glow pulsing in time with her racing heart. Nyx stepped in front of her, their form expanding, stretching into a wall of darkness. "Stay behind me." Rory didn’t argue. She’d seen Nyx in action before—seen the way they could slip between shadows, the way they could *become* the dark. But this was different. This wasn’t a fight in the back alleys of London. This was the grove. This was *magic*. The shadows coalesced into figures—tall, slender, their forms shifting like smoke given shape. Their eyes glowed the same violet as Nyx’s, but where Nyx’s gaze was curious, theirs was *hungry*. Isolde’s voice cut through the tension, sharp as a blade. "Wraiths. They’ve found the grove." Rory’s blood turned to ice. "Wraiths?" "Spirits of the in-between," Nyx murmured, their voice tight. "Like me, but… not." One of the wraiths lunged. Nyx moved faster, their form dissolving into smoke just as the wraith’s claws passed through where they’d been standing. The wraith hissed, its form flickering, and Rory realized with a jolt of horror that it was *unraveling*—like a thread pulled too tight. Isolde raised her hands, and the air between her and the wraiths shimmered, a barrier of light forming in the space before her. "They’re drawn to the Heartstone," she said, her voice strained. "They want to cross over." Rory’s fingers tightened around the dagger. "Then we don’t let them." Nyx’s laugh was a whisper of wind. "Oh, Rory. Always so eager to fight." The wraiths surged forward, their forms twisting, their voices rising in a chorus of whispers that slithered into Rory’s skull. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to focus. The dagger in her hand was cold, its weight familiar now. She’d trained with it—sparred with Silas, with Eva, even with Nyx when they were feeling particularly solid. But this wasn’t a sparring match. This was life or death. She lunged. The dagger sliced through the nearest wraith like it was made of mist. The creature shrieked, its form dissolving into tendrils of smoke that writhed before vanishing entirely. Rory didn’t have time to celebrate. Another wraith was on her in an instant, its claws raking across her arm. Pain flared, hot and bright, but she twisted away, driving the dagger upward. The blade met resistance—solid, but not flesh—and the wraith let out a sound like a dying wind. Nyx was a storm of shadow beside her, their form flickering in and out of existence as they tore through the wraiths. Isolde’s barrier held, but Rory could see the strain in the seer’s face, the way her hands trembled as she wove the magic tighter. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The wraiths dissolved, their forms unraveling into nothingness. The grove fell silent, the only sound the ragged gasp of Rory’s breath, the pounding of her heart. She looked down at her arm. The wound was shallow, but it stung like hell. Isolde lowered her hands, her barrier fading. She turned to Rory, her expression unreadable. "You fought well." Rory wiped the dagger on her jeans, her hands shaking only slightly. "What the hell were those things?" "Harbingers," Nyx said, their form solidifying beside her. They reached out, their fingers brushing the wound on her arm. A cool sensation spread through her skin, and when they pulled away, the cut was gone. "They’re drawn to power. To the Veil. To *you*." Rory’s stomach twisted. "Great. Just what I needed—more things trying to kill me." Isolde’s laugh was soft, musical. "Oh, little mortal. This is only the beginning." She turned back to the tree, pressing her palm to its trunk once more. The symbols flared again, brighter this time, and the ground beneath them trembled. "The grove has decided. It will show you the way." Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx. "The way to *what*?" Isolde’s smile was slow, knowing. "To the truth."