Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQS883XDM32V5M0BMPK77D

The air inside the grove did not smell like Richmond Park. Outside the ring of ancient oaks, the London winter bit with a damp, grey chill that settled into the bones, but here, the atmosphere hummed with a heavy, cloying sweetness. It smelled of crushed petals and ozone, a scent so thick it coated the back of Aurora's throat. She paused just beyond the threshold, her hand instinctively drifting to the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a nervous tic she'd never quite shaken since the days with Evan. The memory of his shouting felt distant here, muffled by the sheer weight of the silence. "Stay close," Rory murmured, though her voice sounded thin against the stillness. "And don't touch anything." Behind her, Nyx shifted. The Shade did not walk so much as flow, their six-foot-two frame dissolving at the edges into tendrils of living shadow before coalescing again. Their violet eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, cutting through the twilight that seemed perpetual within the clearing. "The boundary is thin here, Rory," Nyx whispered, their voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. "Thinner than the Veil in the city. I can hear the spaces between realms breathing." Rory tightened her grip on the strap of her delivery bag, though she carried no food tonight. Instead, her fingers brushed the cold hilt of the dagger tucked into her belt. Isolde's gift. The moonsilver felt unnaturally frigid against her palm, leaching the warmth from her skin even through her glove. It was a slender, leaf-shaped thing, beautiful and deadly, and it pulsed with a faint, rhythmic luminescence that matched the erratic beating of her own heart. They moved deeper into the grove. The ground beneath their boots was not the muddy, trodden earth of the public park but a carpet of moss so vibrant it seemed to generate its own light. Wildflowers bloomed in chaotic bursts of color—violets, crimsons, and golds that had no business existing in a British December. Some of the blooms turned their heads as Rory passed, tracking her movement with a slow, vegetal intelligence that made the hair on her arms stand up. "Time feels wrong," Rory said, stopping to check her watch. The second hand was ticking backward. She tapped the glass face, frowning. "Isolde said an hour in here could be minutes out there. Or days." "Or years," Nyx corrected, their form flickering as they stepped into a patch of deeper shadow cast by a twisting willow. "Do not linger too long, Laila. The Fae do not measure time as we do, and they do not pity those who lose track of it." Rory flinched at the use of her middle name, a relic from a life she tried to keep buried under the persona of the cool-headed delivery girl. She forced herself to breathe, to engage the logical part of her brain that had helped her navigate law exams and abusive relationships alike. assess the environment. Identify exits. Note threats. The trees here were not merely oaks; they were towering sentinels with bark that shimmered like polished silver. Their branches wove together overhead to form a lattice that blocked out the London sky, replacing it with a swirling nebula of soft, pearlescent light. There was no sun, yet the grove was bathed in a gentle, directionless illumination that cast no harsh shadows, save for the one that was Nyx. Ahead, the path opened into a small clearing dominated by a pool of water so still it looked like a sheet of black glass. Standing beside it was Isolde. The Seer had not moved since they entered, yet she seemed to have been waiting for them specifically at this spot for centuries. Her silver hair cascaded down to her waist, catching the ambient light and turning it into a halo. She wore robes that seemed woven from spider silk and starlight, shifting colors with every slight turn of her body. As Isolde turned to face them, her pale lavender eyes locked onto Rory's bright blue ones. There was no pupil, no iris, just a swirling depth of amethyst that seemed to look straight through Rory's skin and muscle, right into the frantic machinery of her soul. "You come bearing steel and stone," Isolde said. Her voice was melodic, layered with an echo that suggested many voices speaking in unison. "The cold iron of the Courts and the heated heart of Dymas. A curious pairing for a mortal girl who delivers noodles in the rain." Rory stepped forward, her boots making no sound on the flowered ground. She noticed with a jolt of unease that Isolde left no footprints. Where the Seer stepped, the grass merely bent and then sprang back, untouched. "Isolde," Rory said, keeping her tone level. "We need to know about the rifts. The Wardens say the Veil is weakening ahead of the solstice. We saw the distortions near the Thames." Isolde tilted her head, a bird-like gesture. "The Veil breathes, child. It expands and contracts like a lung. To say it weakens is to say the tide recedes. It is not a flaw; it is a rhythm. But you... you feel the pull of the deep water, do you not?" The Seer's gaze dropped to Rory's chest. Under her jacket, the Heartstone pendant rested against her sternum. Even through the layers of fabric, Rory could feel it pulsing, a warm, rhythmic thrum that contradicted the cold bite of the Fae blade at her hip. The artifact from Dymas, the realm of gluttony, reacted violently to the proximity of the Fae realm. It grew hot, almost burning, while the dagger grew colder, frost beginning to creep up the hilt and bite into Rory's fingertips. "It hurts," Rory admitted, gritting her teeth as the conflicting energies waged war against her ribcage. "The pendant. It's reacting to this place." "Opposites attract, and like repels like," Isolde recited, her expression unreadable. "The hunger of Hel and the elegance of Faerie are oil and water. You carry both within your orbit, Aurora Carter. That is why the shadows cling to you, and why the light burns you." Nyx drifted closer to the pool, their reflection absent from the black water. "She is a anchor," the Shade whispered, the wind in their voice picking up an edge of urgency. "The rituals of 1643 taught me that much. When the barriers thin, the anchors hold the worlds apart, or they drag them together. Which is she, Seer?" Isolde smiled, a expression that held too many teeth to be entirely human. "I cannot lie, Shadow-walker. You know this compulsion of my blood. But truth is a prism, and you are looking at only one facet." She reached out a long, slender finger, hovering it inches from Rory's chest without touching the pendant. "The girl is neither anchor nor hammer. She is the key. And keys are meant to be turned." A sudden gust of wind tore through the grove, though the trees above did not sway. The wildflowers bowed low, their petals trembling. The pearlescent light overhead fractured, turning a sickly shade of amber for a split second—the color of the sky in Dymas—before snapping back to silver. Rory stumbled, clutching her chest as the Heartstone flared with intense heat. The warmth spread through her veins, a sudden, overwhelming sense of hunger that had nothing to do with food. She saw flashes of sprawling vineyards under an amber sun, of grand feasts where the guests wore masks of bone, of a prince who slept while the world burned. Then the cold of the blade cut through the vision, grounding her. "Stop it," Rory gasped, doubling over. "Make it stop." "The world is pressing in, Rory," Isolde said softly, her riddles falling away to reveal a stark warning. "The solstice approaches. The Wardens monitor the tears, but they cannot seal the wound if the blood keeps flowing. You must choose which realm you serve, or you will be torn between them until there is nothing left but a shadow and a scar." Rory straightened, forcing her breathing to slow. She looked at her companions: the ageless Shade trapped between existence and nothingness, and the exiled Seer bound by truth she could not fully speak. Then she looked down at her own hands, one marked by a childhood accident, the other gripping a weapon from a court that viewed humans as playthings. "I'm not serving anyone," Rory said, her voice steadying, the cool-headed strategist reasserting control over the恐惧. "I'm just trying to keep my world from eating itself. If that makes me a key, fine. But I decide which door it opens." Isolde's lavender eyes widened, perhaps in surprise, perhaps in approval. For the first time, the Seer left a mark on the earth; a single silver leaf drifted from her hair and landed on the moss, rotting instantly into dust. "Then walk carefully, child of Cardiff," Isolde whispered, turning back to the black pool. "For the door you seek is already opening, and what lies on the other side is far hungrier than you can imagine." The amber flicker returned to the sky, lasting longer this time. The scent of exotic spices and roasting meat briefly overpowered the floral sweetness, a ghost of Dymas bleeding into the Fae Grove. Rory tightened her grip on the Fae blade, feeling its cold comfort, and stepped forward into the deepening twilight.