Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQFES11965961Q2D6XAAB9

The air in the grove was thick with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter—wildflowers that shouldn’t have been in bloom this late in the year. Rory Carter stepped between the standing stones, her boots sinking slightly into the soft moss beneath her feet. The moment she crossed the threshold, the world seemed to exhale around her, the boundaries of reality blurring like ink in water. She glanced back, but the path behind her had already vanished, swallowed by a curtain of ivy that hadn’t been there a second ago. Beside her, Nyx flickered like a candle flame in a draft, their shadowy form solidifying for a moment before dissolving into tendrils of darkness that coiled around their wrists. *"This place is... hungry,"* they murmured, their voice a whisper that slithered into Rory’s ear. *"It feeds on memory, on longing. Be careful what you think of here."* Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, her fingers brushing the cool metal of the Fae-forged blade tucked inside. The dagger had been a gift from Isolde, its moonsilver edge humming faintly against her skin, as if sensing the magic in the air. She didn’t like the way Nyx’s words settled in her chest, heavy and uneasy. "Hungry how?" Nyx didn’t answer. Instead, they drifted forward, their form stretching and contracting like smoke in a breeze. The grove unfolded around them, a tangle of ancient oaks and silver birches, their bark etched with runes that pulsed with a faint, eerie light. The trees weren’t just tall—they were *wrong*, their branches twisting into impossible shapes, their leaves shimmering with colors that didn’t exist in the mortal world. Some were the deep violet of twilight, others the sickly green of decay, and a few glowed like embers, casting flickering shadows that moved independently of the light. Rory’s breath hitched as she reached out, her fingers hovering just above the bark of the nearest tree. The runes flared brighter at her approach, and for a heartbeat, she swore she heard whispers—voices layered over one another, speaking in a language that made her teeth ache. She yanked her hand back. "Did you hear that?" Nyx tilted their head, their violet eyes glowing like banked coals. *"The grove remembers. It remembers the Fae who walked here, the bargains they struck, the blood they spilled."* Their form rippled, and for a moment, Rory thought she saw something else beneath the shadows—a face, gaunt and familiar, before it dissolved back into darkness. Aldric. The name flickered through her mind like a half-remembered dream. Nyx had been human once. Had he—*they*—walked this path before? She didn’t ask. Some questions were better left unanswered. Ahead, the trees parted, revealing a clearing bathed in an unnatural golden light. At its center stood a pool of water so still it looked like a mirror, its surface reflecting not the sky, but something deeper—something that shifted and writhed just beneath the surface. Rory’s pulse quickened. She’d seen enough strange things in the past year to know when she was looking at a gateway. The Heartstone pendant around her neck pulsed warm against her collarbone, its crimson glow seeping through the fabric of her shirt. "Isolde said this place was safe," Rory muttered, though she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince—herself or Nyx. *"Safe is a relative term,"* Nyx replied, their voice dry as dead leaves. *"The Fae don’t understand mortal concepts of safety. To them, danger is just another kind of game."* Rory exhaled sharply through her nose. "Great. So we’re playing chess with beings who think checkmate is a fun way to pass the time." Nyx let out a sound that might have been a laugh, if laughter could be made of static and sighs. *"You’re learning."* She stepped closer to the pool, her boots sinking into the spongy ground. The water didn’t ripple as she approached, didn’t so much as tremble. It was as if the surface had been frozen in time, yet she knew—*knew*—that if she reached out, her fingers would pass through it like mist. The pendant burned hotter now, its glow casting jagged shadows across her face. She could feel the pull of it, the way it tugged at her chest like a second heartbeat. "Rory." Nyx’s voice was sharp, urgent. She turned just in time to see the trees behind them *move*. Not swaying in the wind—*shifting*, their trunks bending like limbs, their branches knitting together to form a wall of bark and leaves. The path they’d taken to get here was gone, sealed off as if it had never existed. Rory’s hand flew to the dagger at her hip. The moonsilver blade slid free with a whisper, its edge catching the golden light. "Did you do that?" *"No,"* Nyx said, their form coiling tighter, darker. *"But I don’t think we’re alone."* A figure stepped out from behind the trees. She was tall—taller than Rory, though not by much—and her silver hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Her eyes were pale lavender, sharp and knowing, and when she smiled, it was the kind of smile that made Rory’s skin prickle. Isolde. The Half-Fae seer moved without sound, her bare feet leaving no prints in the moss. She wore a gown of woven vines and petals, the fabric shifting colors as she walked, one moment the deep green of forest leaves, the next the pale blue of a twilight sky. "Aurora Carter," she said, her voice like wind chimes in a breeze. "I was wondering when you’d find your way here." Rory didn’t lower the dagger. "You could’ve just invited me." Isolde’s laugh was a musical trill, light and mocking. "Where’s the fun in that?" She tilted her head, her gaze flicking to Nyx. "And you brought a *guest*. How... unexpected." Nyx’s form rippled, their edges sharpening. *"Isolde."* The seer’s smile didn’t waver, but something dark flickered in her eyes. "Aldric. Or should I say, *Nyx*? It’s been a long time." Rory’s grip tightened on the dagger. "You two know each other?" *"We’ve met,"* Nyx said, their voice tight. *"Briefly. Before."* Isolde’s fingers twitched at her sides, as if she were resisting the urge to reach out. "You were always so *dramatic*, Aldric. Even when you were human." She turned her attention back to Rory, her expression softening. "But you’re not here to listen to old stories. You’re here because you *felt* the pull. The pendant knows what it wants." Rory’s free hand drifted to the Heartstone, her thumb brushing over its warm surface. "And what’s that?" Isolde’s smile turned cryptic. "The same thing you want, little mortal. Answers." She gestured to the pool. "The water shows what *could* be. What *will* be, if the threads of fate are not cut." She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the moss. "But be warned—the grove does not give its secrets freely. It demands a price." Rory swallowed. "What kind of price?" Isolde’s lavender eyes gleamed. "A memory. A truth. A piece of yourself." She reached out, her fingers hovering just above Rory’s wrist, where the crescent-shaped scar peeked out from beneath her sleeve. "Something you’ve tried to forget." Rory flinched, but she didn’t pull away. The scar was a relic of her childhood, a reminder of the night her mother had died—of the fire, the smoke, the way the world had split open and swallowed her whole. She’d spent years burying that night, locking it away in a box she never opened. But the grove *knew*. It *remembered*. Nyx’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. *"Rory. Don’t."* She ignored them. "What do I get in return?" Isolde’s smile was slow, satisfied. "The truth about the pendant. About *why* it chose you." She leaned in, her breath cool against Rory’s ear. "About the door it can open." Rory exhaled, her fingers tightening around the dagger. She’d come this far. She wasn’t turning back now. "Fine," she said. "Take it." Isolde’s hand closed around her wrist. The world *tilted*. One moment, Rory was standing in the grove, the next, she was back in the house in Cardiff, the air thick with smoke and the crackling of flames. She was eight years old again, her nightgown singed at the hem, her lungs burning. Her mother was screaming—*no, not screaming, singing*—a wordless, keening wail that made Rory’s bones ache. The fire wasn’t natural. It *moved*, twisting and coiling like a living thing, its tendrils reaching for her mother, dragging her toward the hearth where the flames burned hottest. Rory reached for her, her small hands outstretched, but the fire *laughed*. It *spoke*, its voice a chorus of whispers and static, and then— Then her mother was gone. The memory shattered like glass. Rory gasped, stumbling back as the grove snapped back into focus. Her chest heaved, her skin slick with sweat. Nyx was at her side in an instant, their shadowy form solidifying around her like a shield. *"Rory. Breathe."* She did, dragging in a ragged breath. The pendant at her throat was *burning*, its crimson glow pulsing like a second heartbeat. She looked up at Isolde, her vision swimming. "What the *hell* was that?" The seer’s expression was unreadable. "The truth. Or part of it." She gestured to the pool. "Look." Rory turned. The water was no longer still. It *moved*, rippling with images—flashes of a city of gold and amber, of feasting halls where demons in fine clothes laughed over goblets of wine, of a door, carved from black stone, its surface etched with runes that made her eyes water. And then, a face—a man with eyes like molten gold, his smile sharp as a knife. *Prince Belphegor.* The name slithered into her mind, unbidden. She knew it. She *knew* him. The pendant flared, its light searing through her shirt, branding her skin. Rory hissed, clutching at it, but it was too late. The images in the water *shifted*, coalescing into a single, terrible vision—a city in flames, the sky choked with smoke, and at its center, a figure wreathed in shadow, their hands outstretched as if to *catch* the fire. Herself. The vision dissolved. Silence. Rory’s hands trembled. "What... what was that?" Isolde’s voice was soft, almost gentle. "The future. Or a future." She stepped back, her gown shimmering like a living thing. "The pendant is a key, Aurora. And you are the lock." Nyx’s form darkened, their voice a growl. *"Enough riddles, Isolde. What does she have to do with Dymas?"* The seer’s lavender eyes flickered. "Everything. And nothing." She turned, her silver hair catching the light. "The Veil is thinning. The solstice approaches. And when it does..." She glanced back at Rory, her smile sad. "The door will open. And you will have to choose." Rory’s throat was dry. "Choose what?" Isolde didn’t answer. Instead, she raised a hand, and the trees behind her *parted*, revealing a path Rory hadn’t seen before. "Go," she said. "Before the grove decides to keep you." Rory didn’t need to be told twice. She turned, her boots sinking into the moss as she strode toward the path, Nyx a silent shadow at her heels. The air hummed with magic, thick and cloying, and the pendant at her throat pulsed like a warning. She didn’t look back. But as she stepped between the trees, she could have sworn she heard Isolde’s voice, carried on the wind like a whisper. *"Run, little mortal. But remember—some doors are meant to be opened."*