Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEQ2M22RNMPF72HJT6E9V

The air inside the grove was thick with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter—like crushed petals left to ferment in the sun. Rory stepped through the standing stones first, her boots sinking slightly into the mossy ground. The moment she crossed the threshold, the world behind her blurred, as if seen through warped glass. She turned back, but the path they’d taken was already gone, swallowed by a curtain of ivy that hadn’t been there a second before. “Well,” she said, exhaling sharply. “That’s not ominous at all.” Nyx drifted beside her, their form flickering like a candle flame in a draft. The violet glow of their eyes cut through the dim light, sharp and unnerving. “The Fae don’t believe in subtlety,” they murmured, their voice a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. “If they wanted you to leave, you’d already be outside, wondering why you ever thought to come in.” Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, fingers brushing the Heartstone pendant hidden beneath her shirt. It was warmer than it should have been, pulsing faintly against her skin like a second heartbeat. She didn’t like it. But then again, she didn’t like much of this. Behind them, Isolde moved with eerie silence, her silver hair catching the dappled light filtering through the canopy. The half-Fae woman didn’t walk so much as glide, her bare feet never quite touching the ground. “You feel it, don’t you?” she said, her voice like wind chimes in a distant storm. “The weight of time here. It doesn’t flow. It *pools*.” Rory swallowed. “Pools?” Isolde turned her pale lavender eyes toward her, and for a moment, Rory swore she saw something ancient and hungry lurking behind them. “An hour here could be a day outside. A day here could be a year. The grove remembers. It *chooses*.” Nyx let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so hollow. “Charming. And here I thought we were just popping in for tea.” Rory ignored them, stepping forward. The grove was a tangle of ancient oaks, their bark etched with runes that glowed faintly when she wasn’t looking directly at them. The trees were too tall, their branches twisting into impossible shapes, as if they’d grown not upward but *outward*, stretching toward something just beyond sight. Wildflowers carpeted the ground in colors she didn’t have names for—deep violets that shimmered like oil on water, blues that shifted between sapphire and midnight, whites that seemed to *glow* in the dim light. And the silence. It wasn’t the absence of sound. It was the presence of something *else*, something that hummed just below hearing, vibrating in her bones. She could feel it in her teeth, in the fillings in her molars, in the scar on her left wrist that suddenly ached like an old bruise. “This place is alive,” she said, more to herself than the others. Isolde’s lips curved. “Of course it is. All places are, if you know how to listen.” Rory didn’t want to listen. She wanted to get in, get whatever it was Isolde had promised them, and get out. But the deeper they walked, the more the grove seemed to *shift* around them. Paths that had been there a moment ago vanished, replaced by others that hadn’t existed before. The standing stones they’d passed through were nowhere in sight. “Are we lost?” Nyx asked, though they didn’t sound particularly concerned. Isolde tilted her head, as if listening to something none of them could hear. “No. We’re being *guided*.” Rory’s fingers twitched toward the dagger at her hip—the Fae-forged blade Isolde had given her. The moonsilver was cold against her palm, a stark contrast to the warmth of the Heartstone. “Guided by what?” Isolde didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out and plucked a flower from the air—one that hadn’t been there a second before. It was a deep, blood-red bloom, its petals edged with something that looked like frost. She held it out to Rory. “Eat it.” Rory stared at her. “Excuse me?” “You want to see what this place truly is, don’t you?” Isolde’s voice was soft, almost gentle. “Then eat.” Nyx made a sound that might have been a snort. “I’d advise against it. Fae gifts are rarely what they seem.” Rory hesitated. The flower smelled like honey and something metallic, like old coins. Her stomach twisted. “What will it do?” Isolde’s smile was maddeningly cryptic. “It will show you.” Rory exhaled through her nose. She was here for answers. She was here because the Heartstone had started burning against her skin like a brand, because the dreams had gotten worse—dreams of fire and feasting and a voice that whispered her name in a language she didn’t know. She was here because Isolde had promised her a way to *stop* it. She took the flower. The petals dissolved on her tongue like sugar, sweet and cloying, but beneath that was a bitter aftertaste, like crushed herbs and something older, something that made her teeth ache. Her vision swam. And then— The grove *expanded*. The trees weren’t just trees anymore. They were *gateways*, their bark peeling back to reveal glimpses of other places—a city of black spires wreathed in smoke, a desert of glass where the sand shimmered like broken mirrors, a forest of bones where the wind howled like a living thing. The flowers at her feet weren’t just flowers. They were *eyes*, blinking slowly, watching her. The air hummed with voices, a chorus of whispers just beyond understanding. She stumbled, her hand flying out to brace against the nearest tree. Her fingers sank into the bark—not wood, but something *softer*, something that *yielded*. It pulsed beneath her touch, warm and alive. “Rory.” Nyx’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and grounding. She blinked, and the visions flickered, then faded, leaving her gasping in the suddenly too-still grove. “What the *hell* was that?” she demanded, her voice rough. Isolde’s expression was unreadable. “The truth.” Rory wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lips tingled. “That wasn’t the truth. That was a *trip*.” “Truth is often disorienting,” Isolde said, as if that explained anything. Nyx stepped closer, their form solidifying just enough to place a hand on Rory’s shoulder. Their touch was cool, almost weightless. “You’re bleeding.” Rory looked down. A thin line of crimson trickled from the corner of her mouth. She touched it, then stared at her fingers. “I bit my tongue.” Isolde’s eyes gleamed. “No. You *tasted* it.” Rory didn’t ask what *it* was. She didn’t want to know. The grove had changed again. The path ahead was clearer now, the trees parting like a curtain. At the center of the clearing stood a pool of water so still it looked like a mirror. But when Rory stepped closer, she saw that it wasn’t reflecting the sky. It was reflecting *her*. Except it wasn’t. The woman in the water had her face, her black hair, her bright blue eyes. But her skin was too pale, her lips too red, and when she smiled, her teeth were too sharp. Rory’s breath hitched. The reflection reached up, pressing a hand against the surface of the water. Rory flinched back, but the hand didn’t break through. It just *waited*. “What is that?” she whispered. Isolde’s voice was a breath against her ear. “That is what you could become.” Rory’s stomach lurched. “What?” “You carry the mark of Hel,” Isolde said, her fingers brushing the scar on Rory’s wrist. “A debt unpaid. A bargain unfulfilled. The grove sees it. The Veil sees it. And soon, *they* will see it too.” Rory’s hand flew to the Heartstone pendant. It was burning now, searing through her shirt, branding her skin. She hissed, yanking it out. The gemstone pulsed with a deep, crimson light, casting eerie shadows across her face. Nyx’s form rippled, their violet eyes narrowing. “That’s not just a pendant.” “No,” Isolde agreed. “It’s a *key*.” Rory’s grip tightened around it. “A key to what?” Isolde’s smile was slow, knowing. “To the door you’ve already opened.” The water in the pool rippled. The reflection’s smile widened. And then it *spoke*. “Hello, Aurora.”