Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMRC7STV2MFXEJXRB18JBFP

The world changed the instant Aurora Carter stepped between the two ancient oaks. One moment, she trampled last autumn's brittle leaves along Richmond Park’s brambled edge, boots squelching in mud, hoodie zipped tight against a gray city chill; the next, she felt as if she’d plunged into a waking dream. The space between the oaks shuddered—she glimpsed a quicksilver ripple, barely more than a trick of light, then air smelled abruptly of unfamiliar wildflowers and turned warmer, humming with something indefinable. She hesitated, pulse thrumming in her throat. She looked back—behind her, the London skyline lagged, receding in oppressive fog. Before her, the world brightened, softened, impossibly green. A slender hand reached from the gloom: Isolde, hair silver as moonlit frost, already a few paces ahead. The Seer moved with unhurried confidence, not so much disturbing the grass as gliding atop it—leaving no mark at all. Nyx drifted behind Rory, half-emerged from her own shadow, silhouette flickering in the dappled glow. Light warped along the Shade’s edges, their form more suggestion than flesh: a tall figure outlined in violet luminescence, as insubstantial as a sigh. Nyx’s voice brushed Rory’s ear, frayed and windborne. “This is not your city anymore.” The ground welcomed her, vaulting soft with moss, studded with wildflowers: bluebells, blood-red poppies, strange five-petaled blooms she’d never seen even in botanic gardens. Their colors seemed deeper, as if painted by light instead of pigment. The air itself tasted sweet and thick, carrying scents of honey, bruised mint, distant rain approaching, though a sun she couldn’t see beamed high overhead, warmth gentle as a mother’s palm. Three oaks loomed ahead, their trunks fused together, so ancient their bark curled in whorled ridges that resembled sleeping faces. Lichen crept along the lowest branches, hanging like pale threads. Between roots, mushrooms glowed faintly blue, sending up motes of silvery light at their passing. Aurora touched the crescent scar on her wrist, steadying herself. Shadows shifted around her boots—they had lost all sense of direction, of time. Her phone’s screen, when checked, displayed only nonsense symbols. Movement: Isolde cast a knowing glance, lavender eyes bottomless and unnerving. “Mind your feet, mortal. The ways here obey only memory.” “Memory?” Rory tried to keep her voice level. “What does that even—” But Isolde was already moving, trailing a finger along the standing stones that ringed the dream-quiet glade. Rory could see their shapes now: nine oaks arranged in a broken circle, each trunk thicker than the car she used for deliveries, roots knotted into shapes that might have been runes. The air between the trees shimmered faintly, as if water pooled against sky. Between one blink and the next, Isolde seemed further ahead. Rory hurried, boots thumping, breath fogging in the deceptive warmth. As she passed under a branch veined with silvery moss, she felt an invisible resistance—static prickling her skin—like crossing from one waking world into another. Nyx moved beside her—not walking, but undulating, legs dissolving into shadows. Their violet eyes widened. “Fae places are not meant for mortals. The paths here curve upon themselves.” Rory shivered. “I thought we were going to ask Isolde for help. Not get… lost in a fairy tale.” Nyx’s chuckle rippled, half amused, half warning. The farther they moved, the more alien the world became. Grass grew up to her knees, each blade sharp and cool to the touch. Flowers pulsed with gentle, golden light when bent; one large blue bloom, brushed by Rory’s fingers, let out a tiny laughter—the sound of a child’s giggle. Startled, she jerked away. “Do not offend the spirits,” Isolde called without turning. She paused before a toppled oak whose trunk still pulsed with amber sap, sticky and shimmered with motes of light. “Here, everything is awake.” Nyx drifted closer, their shadow merging with the roots. “There are echoes here of what could have been. Listen—” They pointed at a pool ringed with lilies, mirror-still and silver. Beneath its surface, images flickered: a family gathering under a painted sky, laughter, a dinner table set for one. Rory’s heart twisted—she saw herself and Eva as children, racing through autumn grass, Evan’s hand gripping her arm too tight, her mother’s soft scolding. She heard her name—Laila—whispered as if by a memory she hadn’t meant to bring along. She tore her gaze away. “Enough.” The word came out thin, afraid. Motes of light swirled upward. The Heartstone pendant beneath her hoodie grew warm, pulsing gently, an alien comfort. Rory clutched it, grounding herself. They pressed on deeper, past stones etched with spirals, under canopies of woven branches so thick the sun broke into prisms of color. At times, Rory swore she heard music—a lilting, wordless melody playing just outside her understanding. It faded when she turned her head. Isolde waited in the heart of the grove, beneath an arch made of two living oaks intertwined high above. Her gown—woven from grass and shadow—shifted with each breeze. Her face was unreadable, ageless, the faint hint of a smile curling her lips. “Well come, Aurora Carter. Heartstone-bearer. Night-stained Shade,” she intoned. Her voice struck the ear in many pitches at once, a harmony of riddles and invitation. “You seek answers?” Rory met her gaze, fighting the urge to look away. “We—I—need your help. There’s a rift. The Veil. Something’s coming through.” Isolde’s head tilted, silver hair sliding like water over her shoulders. “Rifts open; rifts close. The Veil wears thin on such days as this, with the sun indecisive yet longing for solstice.” Her pale eyes did not blink. “But you did not come for open-and-shut riddles. What is it you truly seek, child of memory and wound?” Rory hesitated. Around her, the Grove fell silent; even the breeze seemed to pause. Nyx, nearly invisible in the deepening dusk, studied Isolde with wary intensity. “I want to know how to protect… my world. My friends. From what’s coming.” Isolde smiled, wintry and sly. “Protection is the first lie mortals crave. What you will have is choice.” She lifted one hand; moonlight pooled in her palm, coalescing into a leaf-shaped blade—slender, glimmering with its own cold radiance. She extended it to Rory. The dagger felt impossibly cold, even through callused fingertips; it hummed with unfamiliar power, the promise of moonsilver and dangerous possibility. “Fae-forged,” Isolde murmured. “It will cut where other blades fail. But beware—nothing comes freely in the groves between.” Rory closed her hand around it. The chill bit to the bone, but she did not let go. As the gift exchanged hands, the Grove itself seemed to shudder—shadows crawling, branches bending closer, the boundaries between worlds stretching to their limits. The standing stones flashed with ghostly light, runes flaring then dimming to secretive glows. Unease curled in Rory’s gut. Time felt stretched thin, thoughts drifting treacherously—she had no idea whether minutes or months were splintering outside these trees. She clung to the warmth of her pendant, the icy certainty of Isolde’s blade. Somewhere, at the edge of her hearing, came a sound: footsteps, no louder than leaf-fall, circling the grove’s heart. They were not alone. Isolde’s laughter floated sweet and bitter. “Nothing enters the Grove unchanged. Not shade. Not mortal. Not fear.” Nyx glided closer, violet eyes luminous, their voice a hush that only Rory seemed to hear. “The boundary here is thinner than you know. We must not linger, unless you wish to forget your own name.” Rory nodded, swallowing her panic. Even as marvel and terror warred behind her ribs, she steeled herself. They had come seeking answers, and instead found a world that looked back, challenging them to cross or be unmade. She took Isolde’s gift, met the gaze of her companions, and stepped deeper still into the heart of the Grove—where the ordinary world already felt a half-remembered dream, and every footstep whispered of things unraveled and wild.