Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQNMHDD34WFG4NZYH57M5K

The damp chill of a London winter had seeped into Rory’s bones, a persistent ache that no amount of walking could shake. Richmond Park stretched out around them, vast and grey under the heavy sky, the skeletal branches of the ancient oaks scratching at the low clouds. She pulled her coat tighter, glancing at the two figures flanking her. To her left, Nyx was little more than a suggestion of darkness against the gloom, their tall, humanoid form flickering at the edges like a candle in a draft. To her right walked Isolde, whose silver hair seemed to catch the meager light and refuse to let it go, shimmering like a star caught in a net of thorns. "Are we close?" Rory asked, her breath pluming in the air. She felt the small crescent scar on her left wrist throb—a phantom sensation, a nervous tic she couldn’t suppress. "The boundary breathes, little mortal," Isolde murmured, her voice sounding like wind chimes caught in a storm. She didn’t look at Rory, her pale lavender eyes fixed on a point ahead where the trees grew denser, impossibly thick. "The Veil is thin here. It weeps and bleeds with the turning of the season." "Great," Rory muttered. "Cryptic as always." Nyx drifted forward, their feet making no sound on the leaf-littered path. "Do you feel it, Rory? The static? The air tastes of ozone and old magic." Rory frowned, tasting the air. Nyx was right. Beneath the smell of wet earth and decaying leaves was something sharp, metallic, and impossibly sweet. It made the hair on her arms stand up. The trees ahead suddenly looked wrong. They weren’t just oak and beech; the bark had taken on a twisted, almost sentient spiral, and the spaces between the trunks were too dark, too deep. Ancient standing stones, weathered grey and covered in moss that looked more like velvet fungus, marked the perimeter. They hummed with a low vibration that Rory felt in her teeth rather than heard. "The Grove," Isolde said softly. She stepped past the first stone without hesitation. Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx. The Shade’s violet eyes glowed faintly in the twilight. "Stay close," Nyx whispered, their voice a mere brush of sound. "Shadows here have teeth." Rory took a breath and stepped across the invisible line. The transition wasn’t a flash of light or a sudden drop in temperature. It was a shift in reality, a sickening lurch that made her stomach flip-flop. The grey London sky vanished instantly, replaced by a canopy of impossible vibrant colors. The sun, previously hidden by smog, now hung low in the sky—a blazing, impossible orb of violet and gold. She stumbled, catching herself on the trunk of a tree that felt warm and pulsing, like the skin of a living creature. "Steady," Nyx said, solidifying beside her, their shadowy form dark against the blinding greens and golds of the clearing. Rory straightened, blinking rapidly. The sight before her stole the air from her lungs. This was the Fae Grove, a pocket existence nestled between the mundane world and the madness of the F Courts. It was a riot of uncontrolled life. Wildflowers bloomed in aggressive clusters—iridescent blues, fiery reds, deep purples—climbing over one another in a desperate bid for sunlight. The grass was a lush, violent emerald that looked sharp enough to cut. "Isolde said time moves differently here," Rory muttered, checking her watch. The second hand was spinning lazily, ticking forward, then snapping back, then pausing entirely. She tapped the crystal face, but the mechanism refused to obey the laws of physics. "Time is a suggestion here, not a rule," Nyx said, crouching to inspect a flower that seemed to be turning its head to watch them. "To them, we are moving in slow motion. To us, an hour could be a breath." Rory instinctively reached for the silver chain around her neck. The Heartstone Pendant, usually a comforting weight against her sternum, felt icy cold. In Dymas, it had burned with warmth, a beacon near the demonic gates. Here, in this saturated Fae-touched pocket, it remained dormant. She let it drop back under her shirt. The lack of heat was strangely comforting; at least she knew she wasn't standing on a Hellmouth. "Stay on the path," Isolde called from ahead. She stood in the center of a vast, circular clearing, surrounded by standing stones that were taller and more pristine than the ones at the boundary. Rory looked down. There was no path, just a winding ribbon of bare earth cutting through the overgrown flora. She stepped onto it, the soil feeling soft and spongy, releasing a cloud of perfume that smelled of honey and rain. As they moved deeper into the Grove, the atmosphere shifted from merely beautiful to unsettlingly opulent. The air grew heavy, humid, and rich. It felt like walking through a greenhouse at the height of summer, minus the glass. The sounds of London traffic were gone, replaced by a symphony of noises that belonged to no animal Rory knew. The hum of giant insects, the melodic trickle of water that sounded like laughter, and the rustle of leaves that sounded like whispers. "What is this place?" Rory asked, keeping her voice low. She felt watched. Not by a person, but by the environment itself. The flowers were definitely tracking her movement. "A sanctuary," Isolde replied, gliding over the ground. Rory looked down and realized, with a jolt of unease, that Isolde’s silver hem was not disturbing the grass. The oracle left no footprints, no indentation in the soil, as if she were a projected image rather than a physical being. "A exile’s garden. It exists because I willed it, and because the old courts are sentimental." "It's incredible," Rory admitted, though her hand drifted to the small of her back, where she had tucked the Fae-forged blade into her belt. The hilt, made of moonsilver, was always cold to the touch, a grounding anchor against the intoxicating swirl of magic around them. "But it doesn't feel... safe. It feels hungry." "Because it is," Nyx said darkly. They stopped abruptly, their shadowy form elongating, stretching toward the base of a twisted weeping willow with leaves the color of blood. "Look." Rory squinted. Nestled in the roots of the tree was a pile of bones. Small, delicate bones. Birds? Rabbits? Or something else? Something with fingers? "The Grove requires a toll," Isolde said, turning to face them. Her expression was serene, bordering on vacant. "Beauty demands sacrifice. You would do well to remember that, Aurora Carter." The use of her full name sent a shiver down Rory’s spine. She gripped the hilt of the dagger tighter. The metal bit into her palm, the cold sensation rushing up her arm, sharpening her focus. The fog of enchantment that had been clouding her senses lifted slightly. "We aren't staying," Rory said firmly. "We just need to find the rift." "The rift is not a place you find," Isolde said, raising a hand to point toward the far end of the clearing. There, the air shimmered like a heat haze, a distortion in the vibrant colors of the grove. "It is a place that finds you." Rory walked toward the distortion, Nyx at her shoulder. As they approached, the temperature plummeted. The lush, humid warmth of the Grove vanished, replaced by the biting, unnatural cold she associated with the Veil. The wildflowers near the distortion withered instantly, turning grey and crumbling to dust at her feet. The Heartstone around her neck flared to life, a sudden, throbbing heat against her skin. "Hel," Nyx hissed, the shadows around them recoiling from the shimmering tear in reality. "Or a reflection of it," Rory corrected, stepping closer to the rift. She pulled the dagger from her belt. The moonsilver blade gleamed, reacting to the proximity of the tear, glowing with a faint, pale luminescence. Through the shimmering haze, she saw flashes of another world. A sky the color of bruised plums. Spired cities made of obsidian. And silence. Dead, heavy silence that contrasted sharply with the living, breathing noise of the Grove. She turned back to look at Isolde. The Half-Fae woman stood like a statue amidst the dying flowers, untouched by the corruption radiating from the rift. "Why show me this?" Rory asked, shouting over the sudden wind that whipped through the clearing, tugging at her clothes and hair. "Because the door is opening, child," Isolde said, her voice cutting through the gale, clear and terrifyingly calm. "And you are the only one who holds the key." Rory looked down at the Heartstone, glowing crimson through her shirt, then at the blade in her hand. The unease settled into a hard, cold knot in her stomach. London felt a million miles away. She looked at Nyx, whose violet eyes were fixed on the rift, their face a mask of shadow and dread. "Ready?" Rory asked, though she knew the answer was no. You were never ready for this. Nyx nodded, their form solidifying into a warrior’s stance, shadows wrapping around their arms like phantom armor. "Always." Rory turned back to the rift, raised the Fae-forged blade, and stepped into the unknown.