Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQG2QJVCGEFJJ9W54ZZH25

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 materialized beside her, their shadowy form rippling like smoke caught in a draft. “The Fae don’t believe in subtlety,” they murmured, their voice a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. “But neither do they believe in hospitality. Stay sharp.” Rory adjusted the strap of her backpack, fingers brushing the cold weight of the Fae-forged blade tucked inside. The metal hummed faintly against her skin, as if sensing the shift in the air. She didn’t like it. Not one bit. But she liked the alternative—whatever waited for them back in London—even less. Isolde drifted ahead, her silver hair catching the dappled light filtering through the canopy. She moved without sound, her bare feet never quite touching the ground, as if she were gliding just above the earth. “You feel it, don’t you?” she called back, her voice light, almost musical. “The way the air hums here. Like a plucked string.” Rory did feel it. A low, persistent vibration thrummed in her bones, not quite a sound but something deeper, something that resonated in the hollows of her ribs. She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake it off. “Feels like I’ve got a swarm of bees in my chest.” Nyx chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. “That’s the magic of this place. It doesn’t just exist here—it *breathes*.” The grove itself was a study in contradictions. Towering oaks, their bark etched with glowing runes, stretched upward, their branches intertwining to form a living cathedral. But beneath them, the undergrowth was a tangle of ferns and flowers that shouldn’t have been in bloom this time of year—deep violet blooms with petals like stained glass, their centers pulsing with a faint inner light. Rory crouched, brushing her fingers over one. The moment she touched it, the flower shivered, and a drop of nectar welled up, thick and golden. She jerked her hand back. “Don’t,” Isolde warned, though her tone was more amused than alarmed. “Some things here bite back.” Rory stood quickly, wiping her fingers on her jeans. “Noted.” They pressed deeper into the grove, the path—if it could be called that—winding between the trees like a serpent. The light here was strange, neither day nor dusk but something in between, as if the sun had been stretched thin and draped over the world like a veil. Shadows pooled at their feet, deeper and darker than they had any right to be, shifting even when no one moved. Nyx’s form flickered, their edges blurring for a moment before snapping back into focus. “This place doesn’t like me,” they said, though there was no real complaint in their voice. Just observation. “It doesn’t like *anything* that isn’t Fae,” Isolde corrected, plucking a leaf from a low-hanging branch. It crumbled to dust in her fingers. “But it tolerates me. Barely.” Rory’s boot caught on something half-buried in the moss. She stumbled, catching herself against the rough bark of a tree. When she looked down, she saw it—a stone, smooth and black, carved with a symbol that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. She crouched again, brushing away the dirt. The symbol was a spiral, but not like any she’d seen before. It seemed to *move*, twisting in on itself like a living thing. “Don’t touch that,” Isolde said sharply. Rory froze. “Why?” “Because it’s a ward. And not a friendly one.” Nyx leaned in, their violet eyes narrowing. “Fae traps?” Isolde nodded. “This grove is old. Older than the Fae Courts themselves. Things have been buried here. Things that should stay buried.” Rory stood slowly, her pulse kicking up. “And we’re just *walking* through it?” Isolde smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You wanted answers. The grove gives them. But it doesn’t give them *freely*.” A gust of wind rushed through the trees, though the branches didn’t so much as tremble. The air smelled suddenly of ozone, sharp and electric. Rory’s skin prickled. “Did it just get colder?” Nyx’s form rippled again, their edges dissolving into tendrils of smoke. “Something’s coming.” Isolde’s head snapped up, her lavender eyes going wide. “No,” she breathed. “Something’s *waking*.” The ground beneath them trembled. Not an earthquake—something more deliberate, like the slow, deep inhale of a sleeping giant. Rory’s hand flew to the dagger at her hip, her fingers closing around the hilt. The moonsilver was ice-cold, biting into her palm. “What the hell was that?” Isolde didn’t answer. She was staring at the trees, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she turned to Rory. “You asked about the Veil. About the tears between worlds.” Rory’s stomach twisted. “Yeah?” Isolde’s voice dropped to a whisper. “This grove is one of them.” The air between the trees *shimmered*. Not like heat haze—like the surface of a pond disturbed by a dropped stone. The distortion spread, widening, deepening, until it wasn’t a distortion at all but a *rift*, a jagged tear in the fabric of the world. Beyond it, Rory could see— Nothing. And everything. A void, but not an empty one. It *moved*, shifting and writhing like a living thing, colors she had no name for bleeding together in ways that made her eyes water. And then, for just a second, she *saw* something. A shape. A *figure*, tall and gaunt, its limbs too long, its fingers ending in claws that gleamed like polished bone. It turned its head—if it *had* a head—and Rory’s breath caught in her throat. It was looking at her. “Rory,” Nyx’s voice was urgent, their hand—if it could be called a hand—closing around her arm. “We need to move. *Now*.” She didn’t argue. She *ran*. The grove seemed to shift around them, the path twisting and turning in ways that defied logic. Branches lashed out, snagging at her clothes, her hair. The air was thick, suffocating, like trying to breathe underwater. Behind them, the rift *pulsed*, the distortion spreading, eating away at the edges of the world. Isolde was ahead of them, her silver hair streaming behind her like a banner. “Faster!” she called, her voice sharp with something Rory had never heard in it before—*fear*. They burst into a clearing, and Rory skidded to a halt, her boots kicking up clumps of damp earth. In the center of the glade stood a stone altar, its surface blackened as if by fire. And on it— A body. Not a corpse. Not exactly. It was a *figure*, wrapped in chains that glowed with the same eerie light as the runes on the trees. Its skin was gray, stretched too tight over sharp bones, its mouth sewn shut with thread that shimmered like spider silk. But its eyes— Its eyes were open. And they were *watching* them. Rory’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. “What the *hell* is that?” Isolde didn’t answer. She was staring at the figure, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “It wasn’t supposed to be here,” she whispered. “Not yet.” Nyx’s form solidified, their shadowy body coiling like a spring. “Isolde. *What is it?*” The figure on the altar *moved*. Just a twitch, a jerk of its fingers, but it was enough. The chains rattled, the sound like bones knocking together. And then— It *spoke*. The words weren’t words. They were a *sound*, a vibration that resonated in Rory’s teeth, her skull, her *bones*. It wasn’t a language. It was a *command*. And it was directed at her. The pendant around her neck *burned*. Rory gasped, her hand flying to her chest. The Heartstone was searing hot, the crimson gem pulsing like a second heartbeat. She fumbled for it, her fingers closing around the chain. The moment she touched it, the world *tilted*. She was standing in a different place. A hall, vast and opulent, its walls lined with tapestries depicting feasts so lavish they made her stomach turn. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, of wine, of something sweet and cloying that made her gag. At the far end of the hall, a figure sat on a throne of blackened bone, its form wreathed in shadow. Prince Belphegor. She knew it without being told. Knew it in the way her skin crawled, in the way her breath hitched in her throat. He was beautiful, in the way a blade was beautiful—sharp and deadly and *wrong*. His eyes, when they met hers, were pits of endless hunger. “Ah,” he said, his voice like honey laced with poison. “There you are.” Rory stumbled back, her hand still clenched around the pendant. The vision *shattered*, and she was back in the grove, gasping, her knees hitting the damp earth. Nyx was beside her in an instant, their hand on her shoulder. “Rory? *Rory!*” She looked up, her vision swimming. The figure on the altar was still there, its chains rattling, its sewn-shut mouth working soundlessly. Isolde was standing over it, her hands pressed to the stone, her silver hair whipping around her as if caught in a wind Rory couldn’t feel. “It’s calling to you,” Isolde said, her voice tight. “Through the pendant. It *knows* you.” Rory’s fingers trembled as she lifted the Heartstone. The gem was still warm, its pulse steady and sure. “What does it want?” Isolde turned to her, her lavender eyes dark with something like sorrow. “The same thing it’s always wanted. *You*.” A gust of wind howled through the grove, and the rift behind them *screamed*. The sound was a physical thing, a blade of pure noise that drove Rory to her knees. She clapped her hands over her ears, but it didn’t help. It was inside her, *in her*, a sound that wasn’t a sound but a *presence*, a *demand*. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Silence. Rory lowered her hands slowly. The grove was still. Too still. The trees stood like sentinels, their runes glowing faintly in the dim light. The figure on the altar was motionless once more, its chains silent. Isolde exhaled sharply, her shoulders sagging. “It’s gone. For now.” Rory’s hands were shaking. She clenched them into fists, pressing them against her thighs. “What the *hell* was that?” Isolde turned to her, her expression grave. “That, Aurora Carter, was a warning.” Nyx’s form rippled, their voice a low growl. “From who?” Isolde’s gaze flickered to the pendant around Rory’s neck. “From the prince of Gluttony. And he’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants.”