Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQGTPTYM3FJTZSNGH83SWP

The air inside the grove was thick with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter—like crushed petals and honeyed wine. Rory stepped past the last of the standing stones, her boots sinking slightly into the mossy ground. The boundary between the mortal world and this place had been a shimmer, a breath of cool air against her skin, and then—*then*—she was standing beneath a sky that wasn’t quite sky. It stretched above her, a vast, shifting canopy of silver and violet, threaded with stars that pulsed like slow, sleeping hearts. She exhaled, her breath curling in the air despite the warmth. "Well. That’s new." Beside her, Nyx solidified just enough to brush their shadowed fingers against the bark of the nearest tree. The trunk was smooth, almost glass-like, its surface etched with faint, glowing runes that twisted like vines. "The Fae don’t build for mortals," they murmured, their voice a whisper of wind through dead leaves. "This place wasn’t made to be *comfortable*." Rory shot them a look. "Comfortable? Who said anything about comfortable? I just meant—" She gestured vaguely at the sky, the trees, the way the light here seemed to bend around them like liquid. "This isn’t *Earth*." Nyx’s violet eyes gleamed, amused. "No. It’s not." Ahead of them, Isolde moved with the quiet grace of someone who belonged here. Her silver hair caught the strange light, turning it to liquid mercury as she glided between the trees. She didn’t walk so much as *drift*, her bare feet never quite touching the ground. Rory had seen her do it before—back in the mortal world, where the half-Fae had left no footprints in the dew-soaked grass of Richmond Park. But here, in this place, it made sense. Here, the rules were different. Rory adjusted the strap of her bag, the weight of the Heartstone pendant warm against her sternum. It had been pulsing since they crossed the threshold, a slow, insistent throb, like a second heartbeat. She didn’t like it. But she didn’t *dislike* it, either. It was just… *there*. A reminder that she was out of her depth. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Fae-forged blade Isolde had given her. The moonsilver dagger was cold in her palm, its edge catching the light like a sliver of frozen starlight. She tested its weight, then slipped it back into her belt. Better to have it close. "Stay sharp," Nyx murmured, their form rippling like smoke. "The grove doesn’t like intruders." Rory smirked. "Good thing we’re not intruders, then. We were *invited*." Isolde paused beneath a low-hanging branch, her lavender eyes flickering toward them. "Invited," she repeated, her voice like chimes in a distant wind. "Yes. And yet, the grove does not know you. It watches. It *waits*." A shiver ran down Rory’s spine. She didn’t like the sound of that. They pressed deeper into the grove, the trees growing taller, their branches weaving together overhead like the ribs of some great, slumbering beast. The air hummed with a low, resonant note, a sound that vibrated in Rory’s bones. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the pendant’s pulse sync with it. "Is that—" she started. "The grove’s song," Isolde said, turning her head slightly, as if listening to something Rory couldn’t hear. "It sings to the Fae. To those who belong." Rory swallowed. "And what does it say about *us*?" Isolde’s lips curved, just slightly. "That you are *interesting*." Nyx let out a sound that might have been a laugh, if shadows could laugh. "High praise." Rory rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Interesting was better than *dead*, at least. They rounded a bend, and the trees parted abruptly, revealing a clearing bathed in golden light. At its center stood a pool, its surface so still it might have been a mirror. But when Rory stepped closer, she saw that it wasn’t reflecting the sky above—it was reflecting *something else*. A landscape of towering spires and crimson skies, a place that made her stomach clench with recognition. "Dymas," she breathed. The pendant burned against her skin. Isolde knelt at the pool’s edge, her fingers hovering just above the water. "The Veil is thin here," she murmured. "Thinner than it should be." Rory crouched beside her, her reflection wavering in the pool’s surface. For a moment, she thought she saw *herself*—but then the image shifted, and it wasn’t her at all. It was a woman with her face, but older, harder, her bright blue eyes burning with something like fury. A crown of thorns rested on her brow, and in her hand, she held a dagger dripping with black blood. Rory jerked back. "What the *hell* was that?" Isolde didn’t answer. She was staring at the water, her expression unreadable. Nyx materialized beside Rory, their form solidifying just enough to place a hand on her shoulder. "The pool shows possibilities," they said, their voice low. "Not certainties." Rory exhaled sharply. "Great. So I’m either going to become a *queen* or a *monster*? Which one’s worse?" Isolde finally looked at her, her lavender eyes dark with something like pity. "Both," she said. "And neither." Rory opened her mouth to snap a retort, but the words died on her lips as the water rippled again. This time, the reflection showed *her*—but not as she was now. She was standing in a vast, shadowed hall, her black hair streaked with silver, her hands clenched around the Heartstone pendant. Behind her, a figure loomed—tall, cloaked, its face hidden in darkness. But Rory didn’t need to see its face to know who it was. *Belphegor.* The Prince of Gluttony. The water stilled. The vision vanished. Rory’s hands were shaking. Nyx’s grip on her shoulder tightened. "Breathe," they murmured. She did, forcing air into her lungs. "That’s not—That can’t be—" Isolde stood, her silver hair swaying like a curtain of mist. "The grove shows what *could* be," she said. "Not what *will* be." Rory clenched her fists. "Then why show me *that*?" "Because," Isolde said, turning away, "you are standing at a crossroads, Aurora Carter. And the path you choose will shape more than just your own fate." Rory wanted to argue. She wanted to scream. But the words stuck in her throat because, deep down, she *knew*. She had felt it the moment the pendant had been pressed into her hands. The moment Nyx had first spoken to her in the shadows of Silas’ bar. The moment she had looked into Isolde’s eyes and seen the weight of centuries staring back at her. She was caught in something bigger than herself. And she had no idea how to get out. --- They moved on, leaving the pool behind. The grove seemed to shift around them, the paths twisting in ways that made Rory’s head spin. Once, she could have sworn she saw a figure darting between the trees—a child, maybe, with skin like bark and eyes like polished river stones. But when she blinked, it was gone. "Did you see—" she started. Nyx nodded. "The grove’s children. They don’t like strangers." Rory rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. "Yeah. I got that." Isolde led them to a small clearing where the trees parted to reveal a circle of standing stones, their surfaces carved with the same glowing runes as the trees. At the center of the circle stood a pedestal, and upon it rested a single object: a silver chalice, its surface etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when Rory looked at them too long. She hesitated at the edge of the circle. "Is that—" "A gift," Isolde said. "Or a test." Rory frowned. "What kind of test?" Isolde didn’t answer. She simply stepped forward and plucked the chalice from the pedestal. The moment her fingers closed around it, the runes on the stones flared bright, and the air hummed with a sound like a thousand voices whispering at once. Rory’s breath caught. "Isolde—" The half-Fae turned, her eyes glowing with an eerie light. "Drink," she said, holding out the chalice. Rory stared at it. The liquid inside was dark, almost black, but it shimmered with flecks of gold. It smelled like nothing she had ever encountered—sweet and bitter at once, with an underlying sharpness that made her nose sting. She swallowed. "What’s in it?" Isolde’s lips curved. "Truth." Rory hesitated. She had never been one for blind trust, not after Evan, not after the way her life had unraveled in London. But this wasn’t about trust. This was about *choice*. She took the chalice. The moment her fingers brushed the silver, a jolt ran up her arm, like static electricity but deeper, *older*. The pendant at her throat burned, and the Fae blade at her hip grew colder, as if reacting to whatever magic was in the cup. She lifted it to her lips. The liquid was ice and fire at once, searing her throat as she swallowed. It pooled in her stomach, heavy and warm, and then— *Images.* A flash of crimson skies. A throne of black bone. A hand, pale and long-fingered, reaching for her. *A voice, smooth as poisoned honey.* *"You cannot run forever, little thief."* Rory gasped, stumbling back. The chalice slipped from her fingers and clattered to the ground, the dark liquid spilling into the moss. She pressed a hand to her chest, her heart hammering. Nyx was at her side in an instant, their shadowed form solidifying around her. "Rory?" She couldn’t speak. The vision—*no, the memory*—clung to her like a second skin. She had *heard* that voice before. She had *felt* that hand brush against her wrist, cold and possessive. Belphegor. He had been there. In her dreams. In the spaces between waking and sleep. And he was *waiting* for her. Isolde watched her, her expression unreadable. "Now you see," she said softly. Rory’s hands trembled. "See *what*?" "The thread that binds you," Isolde said. "The one you have been running from." Rory wanted to deny it. She wanted to scream that she wasn’t running, that she was *fighting*. But the words died in her throat because, deep down, she knew the truth. She *had* been running. From Evan. From her past. From the weight of the pendant around her neck and the visions that haunted her sleep. But she couldn’t run anymore. Not from this. --- The grove seemed to hold its breath as Rory straightened, her fingers curling around the hilt of the Fae blade. The metal was cold, grounding. She took a slow, steadying breath. "Alright," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "What now?" Isolde’s eyes gleamed. "Now," she said, "you choose." Rory looked at the spilled chalice, at the standing stones, at the sky above that wasn’t quite a sky. She thought of the visions in the pool. The throne. The hand. The voice. She thought of the way the pendant pulsed against her skin, like a second heartbeat. She thought of the way Nyx stood beside her, solid and sure, their violet eyes burning with something like pride. And she thought of the girl she had been—scared, broken, running—and the woman she was becoming. She exhaled. "Then I choose to *fight*," she said. The grove seemed to sigh around her, the trees rustling as if in approval. The air hummed, the runes on the stones flaring bright once more. Isolde smiled, slow and knowing. "Then let us begin."