Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFAT74GJPCX15ARE61WHZ8

The standing stones loomed before them like ancient sentinels, their bark-covered surfaces etched with symbols that seemed to writhe in Rory's peripheral vision. She pressed her palm against the nearest oak, feeling the thrum of something vast and unknowable beneath the weathered wood. The Heartstone pendant at her throat pulsed warm against her skin, a steady rhythm like a second heartbeat. "The boundary thins here," Isolde murmured, her silver hair catching light that shouldn't exist in the deep shade of Richmond Park. The Half-Fae moved with liquid grace between the stones, her bare feet making no sound on the frost-brittle grass. "Step carefully, child. The Grove chooses who enters." Nyx drifted beside Rory, their shadowy form flickering between solid and smoke. "I can feel it," they whispered, their voice like wind through empty corridors. "The pull between realms. It's... familiar." Rory took a breath and stepped forward. The moment she crossed between the standing stones, the world shifted. Sound muted, as if she'd plunged underwater. The December cold vanished, replaced by air that tasted of honey and copper pennies. When she exhaled, her breath didn't fog. "Bloody hell," she breathed, turning in a slow circle. The grove spread before them in impossible splendor. Wildflowers carpeted the ground in riotous color—bluebells and foxglove, poppies and flowers she had no names for, all blooming in defiance of winter. The trees formed a perfect circle around the clearing, their branches woven together overhead in patterns too deliberate to be natural. Through gaps in the canopy, the sky showed not the grey of London's December but a twilight purple shot through with stars that pulsed and danced. Isolde smiled, revealing teeth slightly too sharp. "Welcome to my exile." The grass beneath Rory's feet felt different—softer, more alive. Each step released scents that changed with her movement: lavender, then pine, then something sweet and intoxicating she couldn't identify. The Fae-forged blade at her hip hummed against its sheath, resonating with the magic saturating the air. "Time moves strangely here," Nyx observed, their violet eyes tracking something Rory couldn't see. "The shadows... they're singing." Rory followed their gaze and gasped. The shadows cast by the trees moved independently of their sources, flowing like water across the grove floor. They formed patterns, told stories in a language of light and dark that made her eyes water to follow. "Don't stare too long," Isolde warned, gliding past them toward the grove's center. "Shadow-speech can trap mortal minds in loops of meaning." A fountain bubbled at the heart of the clearing, carved from stone that shifted color with each angle of view—now pearl, now obsidian, now something that hurt to perceive. The water that flowed from it wasn't quite water. It moved too slowly, refracting light in prismatic sprays that hung in the air longer than physics should allow. "Is that..." Rory started, then stopped. The question felt too large for her mouth. "Water from the River Between," Isolde confirmed. "It remembers every realm it's touched." She dipped her fingers into the flow, and for a moment, Rory glimpsed other places in the ripples—a feast hall of impossible grandeur, orchards heavy with fruit that glowed like lanterns, a sky the color of warm amber. The Heartstone pulsed harder, almost painful now. Rory pressed her hand to it through her shirt, feeling heat radiate into her palm. "It's reacting to something." "Of course it is." Isolde's lavender eyes fixed on the pendant with an expression Rory couldn't read. "Hellfire calls to hellfire, even diluted by realms and intention." Nyx had drifted to the grove's edge, where the trees grew closest together. "There are doors here," they said, running an incorporeal hand along the bark. "Hidden passages. I can feel them breathing." "Not doors," Isolde corrected. "Possibilities. The Grove exists in the spaces between. From here, one might step into any realm, any when, if one knew the way." She paused, tilting her head as if listening to something. "But the Grove chooses who may pass. And when. And whether they return unchanged." A sound like wind chimes drew Rory's attention upward. Lights danced between the branches—not quite fireflies, not quite stars. They moved with purpose, spiraling down toward them in curious loops. One brave light descended to hover near Rory's face. This close, she could see it wasn't a light at all but a tiny creature of gossamer and glow, features too small and alien to fully comprehend. "Pixies," Isolde said. "They're curious about you. It's been long since a mortal walked here who wasn't already half-mad from the Sight." The pixie chirped something in a language like breaking glass and flower petals. Its fellows descended in a glimmering cloud, surrounding the three visitors. Rory held perfectly still as they investigated, tiny hands no bigger than dewdrops touching her hair, her clothes, hovering near the concealed pendant with obvious interest. "They can smell the Heartstone," Nyx observed. "And something else. You carry more than one realm's mark, Aurora Carter." Before Rory could ask what they meant, the grove shuddered. The pixies scattered like sparks from a fire, vanishing into the canopy with alarmed chimes. The shadows stopped their dancing, going still and watchful. Isolde's expression sharpened. "Someone's pulling at the edges." She moved to the fountain, pressing both hands into the not-water. The liquid climbed her arms like living things, forming spirals and symbols that glowed faintly against her pale skin. "A summoning. Clumsy but powerful." "Summoning what?" Rory's hand went to the Fae blade at her hip. The weapon had gone cold enough to burn, even through its sheath. "Not what." Isolde's eyes reflected the grove's impossible starlight. "Who. Someone seeks the shadow-walker." She looked at Nyx, who had gone utterly still. "Your old name still has power, it seems." Nyx's form rippled, solidifying until they stood as substantial as any mortal. "That's impossible. Aldric died three centuries ago." "Names never truly die." Isolde released the water, which fell back into the fountain with sounds like distant thunder. "They sleep. They wait. They remember." She turned that too-sharp smile on Rory. "As do pendants. As do promises made in the dark between stars." The grove pulsed around them, reality flexing like a breathing thing. The flowers at their feet bloomed brighter, faster, their lifecycle accelerating until petals fell like snow. The air grew thick with magic, tasting of metal and moonlight. "We should go," Nyx said, but their voice carried longing. To be summoned, to be called by name—even here, Rory could feel the pull of it, the terrible temptation to answer. "Should and will are different beasts." Isolde walked the grove's perimeter, trailing her fingers along the trees. Where she touched, the bark revealed glimpses of other places—a library of impossible scope, a garden where every plant bore fruit of different seasons, a throne room built from living shadow. "The Grove brought you here for a reason. It would be... unwise to leave before understanding why." The Heartstone's pulse had become a steady burn. Rory pulled it free of her shirt, watching the crimson gem glow like a coal in the grove's twilight. The pixies, brave again, crept back to observe, their chiming taking on harmonics that resonated in her bones. "There," Isolde pointed to a tree whose trunk split into three, each division leading to darkness profound enough to swallow light. "The Grove offers a choice. Three paths. Three possibilities. Three prices." "You speak in riddles by nature," Rory said, "but could you perhaps speak a bit plainer? What choice?" Isolde's laugh was like silver bells and breaking hearts. "The pendant you wear comes from Dymas, realm of excess and indulgence. But it was crafted for a purpose beyond decoration. The Grove recognizes its resonance, offers passage to its home." She moved to the second trunk. "Or to the shadow realm, where answers to names have power and your companion might reclaim what was lost." At the third trunk, she paused. "Or deeper into Fae lands, where time means nothing and everything is true." "That's not a choice," Nyx said. "It's a trap with three doors." "All choices are traps." Isolde's eyes held centuries of wisdom and madness in equal measure. "The question is which trap serves your purpose." The summoning pull grew stronger. Rory could feel it now, a tugging at the edge of perception. Someone, somewhere, spoke Aldric's name with intent and power, trying to drag Nyx through the Veil by will alone. "If we don't choose," Rory asked, "what happens?" "The Grove chooses for you." Isolde settled beside the fountain, trailing her fingers through the impossible water. "And the Grove's choices are rarely kind to those who hesitate." As if in response, the ground beneath them shivered. The flowers began to wilt, their accelerated blooming reversing into rapid decay. The pixies fled entirely, their departure leaving the air oddly empty. Rory looked at Nyx, saw her own uncertainty reflected in those violet eyes. The Heartstone burned against her palm, the Fae blade ice at her hip. Three paths. Three possibilities. Three prices. And somewhere beyond the Grove, London waited, unchanged by the magic that saturated this place. But she'd already learned that stepping into wonders meant you couldn't step back unchanged. "Bollocks," she muttered, and made her choice.