Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQP8T33SG71FE5ZTC041X6

The mist clung to the low-hanging branches of the Richmond oaks, a damp, gray curtain that smelled of wet earth and exhaust fumes. Aurora Carter pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, the chill of the London evening seeping through the denim. She paused, her boots crunching softly on the gravel path, and looked ahead. To anyone else, the circle of ancient trees would have looked like nothing more than a particularly dense cluster of woodland. To Rory, the air shimmered with a faint, static distortion—a ripple in reality that made her eyes water if she stared at it too long. "This is it," she muttered, touching the silver chain at her throat. The deep crimson gemstone nestled there, the Heartstone, remained stubbornly cool against her skin. It was a small mercy; if the stone were burning, she’d know a rift to Hel was opening up. Right now, she only needed to worry about the Fae. Beside her, the air seemed to darken and condense. Nyx materialized from the shadow of a gnarled elm, their form a towering, shifting silhouette of midnight. Their faintly glowing violet eyes regarded the boundary with a skepticism that radiated even without a face. "The Veil is thin here," Nyx said, their voice a dry rustle, like leaves skittering over pavement. "I can taste the magic. It tastes... old. Like ozone and bruised fruit." "Isolde said she’d be waiting," Rory replied, forcing her voice to remain steady. She was used to delivering takeout through the rain-soaked streets of London, not breaching the boundaries of Otherworlds. "Let’s not keep her." Before them, standing between the massive trunks of the oaks, stood a figure of silver and pale light. Isolde Varga didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge their approach, but her presence was a magnetic pull. The Half-Fae exiled from the Courts moved with an impossible grace, her silver hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of mercury. She stepped between two of the standing stones, and the world shifted. Rory took a breath and followed. Crossing the threshold felt like walking through a wall of warm water. The pressure popped in her ears, and the damp chill of the park vanished instantly, replaced by a stillness so profound it was heavy. The gray mist dissolved, blown away by a breeze that carried the scent of blooming nightshade and honey. Rory blinked, her bright blue eyes struggling to adjust to the light. It wasn’t the harsh glare of the sun or the soft glow of the moon, but a pervasive, ambient luminescence that seemed to emanate from the very air itself. The sky above was a canvas of twilight violet, unblemished by clouds or city smog. "God," Rory whispered, the word barely escaping her lips. They stood in a clearing, but 'clearing' was a woefully inadequate word for the sheer, alien geometry of the place. The ground wasn't dirt or grass, but a thick, spongy moss that ranged in color from deep indigo to vivid teal. It gave slightly under her boots, silent and yielding. Around them, the flora defied earthly logic. Massive ferns uncurled slowly, their leaves translucent and veined with gold, catching the ambient light and refracting it into rainbows. Flowers the size of dinner plates bobbed on stalks that looked too thin to support them, their petals shimmering with an iridescent oil-slick sheen. There were no insects here, no birds, only the soft, melodic sound of wind chimes that had no physical source. Nyx drifted forward, their shadow-form stretching and compressing as they navigated the strange vegetation. "The architecture of this space... it bends," they observed, extending a hand of darkness toward a floating blossom. The flower shied away from their touch. "It is not fixed like the mortal plane. It breathes." "It is alive, shadow-walker," Isolde’s voice drifted back to them. She stood several yards ahead, near a stream that flowed uphill, defying gravity with lazy, bubbling confidence. "And it remembers those who tread with respect." Rory hurried to catch up, her eyes darting around, taking in every impossible detail. She noticed then that Isolde left no trace of her passing. The moss sprang back the instant the hem of her gown lifted, untouched, uncrushed. Rory looked down at her own footprints; the deep indentions in the teal moss seemed intrusive, clumsy in this pristine, ageless place. "The time," Rory said, checking her wrist reflexively, though she knew better than to trust the watch. The hands were spinning lazily, the second hand ticking backward before jerking forward. "Isolde, how long have we been here?" "Time is a river that flows in circles here," Isolde replied, turning to face them. Her pale lavender eyes held a depth that made Rory feel as though she were falling. "An hour can be a heartbeat. A day, a lifetime. Do not count the moments, Aurora Carter. Simply be." Rory felt a prickle of unease. The beauty was undeniable, intoxicating even, but it was the beauty of a predator. The colors were too saturated, the scents too sweet. It was the sensory equivalent of sugar overload—gluttony of the senses. She reached into her jacket and gripped the hilt of the Fae-forged blade Isolde had gifted her. The moonsilver metal was always cold, a shock against her palm, but here it felt freezing. She drew it an inch from its sheath. The metal hummed, a low, resonant vibration that she felt in her teeth. A faint, lunar light glowed along the leaf-shaped edge, casting long, sharp shadows against the alien flora. "It’s active," Rory noted, her grip tightening. The blade reacted to magic, and this place was soaked in it. "A wise precaution," Isolde said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Not all that blooms here is friendly. The Grove is a sanctuary, yes, but it is also a cage for things that wish to venture out." They walked deeper into the grove. The path wound between towering crystalline formations that jutted from the ground like jagged teeth, humming with a low frequency that vibrated in Rory’s chest. The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of spices that Rory couldn't name—cinnamon, saffron, something metallic and sharp. Nyx stopped abruptly, their form flickering. "Do you feel that?" Rory stopped. "Feel what?" "A pull," Nyx murmured, their voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "Like a hook in the shadow. There is a tear here. Small, but present." Rory looked around. The wonder of the place curdled slightly in her gut. A tear. A rift. If Hel was bleeding into the Fae realm, or vice versa, the implications were catastrophic. "The Veil is worn thin in many places," Isolde said, her tone light yet edged with steel. She turned left, leading them toward a canopy of weeping willows with leaves of spun silver. "We are not alone in noticing the fractures." As they stepped beneath the silver canopy, the light dimmed to a soft twilight blue. Here, the moss gave way to still, reflective water that served as a floor. Rory hesitated, but her reflection didn't; it looked back at her with eyes that were entirely black. She flinched, looking up to find the water was perfectly clear, only inches deep, yet it reflected a different sky than the one above them—a sky choked with storm clouds. "Don't look down too long, child," Isolde warned softly. "The water shows what is, what was, and what may come to pass. It is easy to drown in a possibility that is not your own." Rory ripped her gaze away from the water, her heart hammering against her ribs. She focused on the back of Isolde’s head, the silver swaying with every step. The Half-Fae moved through the water without creating a single ripple. "I thought this was a sanctuary," Rory said, her voice sharp with the tension she had been holding back. "It is," Isolde answered. "Sanctuary is not safety. Sanctuary is merely a place where the rules are clear, if you know how to listen." They emerged from the willow tunnel into a vast, circular amphitheater of stone. In the center grew a single tree, colossal and ancient, its bark black as obsidian and its leaves glowing with a soft, pulsing white light. This was the heart of the Grove. Rory felt the breath leave her lungs. It was majestic, terrifying in its scale. The sheer age of the thing pressed down on her, a physical weight of centuries. The Fae-forged blade in her jacket was practically vibrating now, singing a high-pitched note of warning or greeting—she couldn't tell which. Nyx drifted closer to the tree, their incorporeal form seeming to solidify, the violet glow of their eyes intensifying. "There is power here," they whispered. "Older than the Courts. Older than the Prince of Gluttony." Isolde turned to them, spreading her arms as if to embrace the alien landscape. The wind picked up, carrying the silver leaves in a dancing swirl around them. For a moment, Rory felt a profound sense of isolation, separated from the mundane world of Cardiff and London, standing on the precipice of something infinite. "You have stepped through the door, Aurora," Isolde said, her voice echoing in the stillness. "Do not expect to leave unchanged." Rory looked at the impossible tree, the water that reflected other worlds, and the shadow-walker standing bathed in alien light. She thought of her flat above the bar, her delivery scooter, the scar on her wrist. They felt like memories from a different life. She took a deep breath of the honey-sweet, ozone-tinted air and let her hand fall away from the knife, standing her ground. "I'm getting used to that," Rory said, her voice steady, cutting through the ancient silence.