Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ69Z3QET347ZV6Z2VG4W1

The Heartstone Pendant pulsed against Rory’s collarbone, a slow, insistent warmth like a second heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, fingers brushing the crescent scar on her wrist out of habit. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweeter—honey and crushed petals, cloying enough to make her nose twitch. "Still think this is a terrible idea?" Nyx’s voice curled around her, a whisper that didn’t quite touch the air. Their silhouette flickered at the edge of her vision, solid one moment, then bleeding into the shadows between the standing stones. Rory exhaled through her nose. "I think it’s the only idea we’ve got." She stepped forward, boots sinking into the moss that carpeted the grove. The moment her foot crossed the boundary marked by the ancient oaks, the world tilted. The sky above the clearing deepened from twilight to a bruised violet, streaked with ribbons of silver that didn’t move like clouds. They *hung*, suspended, as if time had thickened around them. Isolde stood at the center of the grove, her silver hair catching the strange light like spun metal. She didn’t turn as they approached, her bare feet hovering just above the wildflowers. "You’re late," she said, though Rory’s watch still read 7:12 PM. "The solstice won’t wait." Nyx materialized beside Rory, their violet eyes reflecting the unnatural sky. "We had to lose a tail. Belphegor’s got eyes everywhere these days." Isolde finally looked at them, her lavender gaze sharp as broken glass. "And yet, you brought one here." She flicked her fingers toward Rory’s chest, where the Heartstone Pendant glowed brighter now, as if responding to the seer’s attention. Rory’s hand flew to it. "This thing’s the only reason we’re here. It led us to you." "Or it led *you* to *it*." Isolde’s lips curved, but there was no humor in it. "The Veil thins at the edges, child. And you’re standing in a tear." A shiver ran down Rory’s spine. She looked down. The moss beneath her boots wasn’t moss at all—it was something finer, like velvet, and it *rippled* when she shifted her weight. Not like water. Like fabric. Like the whole grove was a living thing, breathing. Nyx crouched, pressing their palm to the ground. Their fingers sank an inch into the surface before meeting resistance. "This isn’t Earth. Not anymore." Isolde’s laughter was a chime, high and brittle. "Oh, it’s Earth. Just not *your* Earth." She turned, her silver hair swaying as if underwater, and gestured toward the heart of the grove. "Walk with me. The path reveals itself only to those who don’t look for it." Rory hesitated. The last time she’d followed someone blindly, she’d ended up with a broken rib and a restraining order. But the pendant’s heat was spreading now, creeping up her throat, and the air hummed with a sound like distant chimes. She fell into step beside Nyx, their shoulder brushing hers. The grove shifted as they walked. The standing stones receded, replaced by trees that weren’t trees—their trunks were too smooth, too *perfect*, like polished bone, and their leaves shimmered in colors Rory didn’t have names for. One moment they were green, the next indigo, then a deep, bruised purple that made her eyes ache. Nyx reached out, fingers hovering just shy of a low-hanging branch. "They’re not leaves," they murmured. "They’re *scales*." Rory squinted. He was right. The "leaves" were tiny, overlapping plates, iridescent and faintly warm to the touch when she dared to brush one. It didn’t feel like plant matter. It felt like skin. A sound cut through the hum of the grove—a low, rhythmic *thump*, like a drumbeat. Rory’s pulse jumped in response. "What is that?" Isolde didn’t slow. "The heart of the grove. It beats once every hundred years. You’re lucky to hear it." Nyx’s shadow stretched long and thin beside them, darker than it should have been, as if the light here couldn’t quite touch them. "Or unlucky." The path sloped downward, the velvet moss giving way to something harder, smoother. Rory’s boots skidded on the surface, and she caught herself against Nyx’s arm. The ground beneath them wasn’t stone. It was *glass*. Or something like it—translucent, veined with threads of gold that pulsed in time with the distant drumbeat. When she pressed her palm to it, she felt the vibration in her bones. "Careful," Isolde said, though she didn’t look back. "The glass remembers." Rory snatched her hand away. "Remembers what?" But Isolde was already moving forward, her bare feet making no sound on the glass. The path widened into a clearing, and Rory’s breath caught. A tree stood at the center, but it wasn’t like the others. Its trunk was gnarled, split down the middle like lightning had struck it, and from the fissure spilled a light so bright it hurt to look at. Not gold. Not white. A color that *burned*, that made Rory’s eyes water and her teeth ache. The branches stretched upward, vanishing into the violet sky, and the leaves—if they were leaves—were fragments of that same light, drifting lazily in an unfelt breeze. Nyx’s voice was barely audible. "That’s not a tree." Isolde reached into the folds of her dress and withdrew something small and silver. The Fae blade. Its edge glowed faintly, as if sensing the light. "It’s a door," she said. "Or a key. Or both." Rory’s pendant flared, searing against her skin. She gasped, clutching at it, and when she looked down, the crimson gem was no longer crimson. It was *clear*, like a drop of water, and inside it, something moved. A shape. A figure. Nyx grabbed her wrist. "Rory. Look at me." She couldn’t. The pendant was pulling her forward, toward the tree, toward the light. The glass beneath her feet was warm now, almost hot, and the drumbeat had become a roar, a rush of blood in her ears. Isolde’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as a blade. "It’s calling to you because it *knows* you. The Veil remembers your bloodline, Aurora Carter. Your father’s people were Wardens once, before they turned their backs on the old ways." Rory’s vision swam. "My father’s a barrister." "A title. A mask." Isolde stepped closer, the Fae blade casting eerie reflections across her face. "The Veil doesn’t care about titles. It cares about *blood*. And yours is screaming." The figure in the pendant solidified. A man. Tall, broad-shouldered, with Brendan Carter’s sharp jaw and Rory’s own bright blue eyes. But his skin was too pale, his smile too wide, and when he opened his mouth, the words that came out weren’t words at all. They were a *sound*, a vibration that rattled her teeth and made her bones ache. Nyx yanked her back, their grip bruising. "Rory, *stop*." She blinked, and the vision shattered. The pendant dimmed, the light in the tree flickered, and the glass beneath her feet cooled. The man in the gem was gone. Isolde exhaled, slow and controlled. "The solstice is in three days. If you want answers, you’ll have to walk through that door. But be warned—Dymas doesn’t give without taking." Rory’s hands trembled. The pendant was just a pendant again, a crimson stone on a silver chain. But her skin still burned where it had touched her, and the drumbeat still echoed in her skull. Nyx’s voice was low, urgent. "We’re not ready for this." Isolde’s laugh was a whisper. "No one ever is." She turned, her silver hair catching the light as she walked toward the tree. "But the Veil doesn’t wait for readiness. It waits for *hunger*." And then she stepped into the light.