Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT01J5GAXECTSXRN41XYCVT

The air inside the grove hit Rory like a held breath finally released. One moment, she’d been trudging through Richmond Park’s damp undergrowth, the next—she stepped between two gnarled oaks and the world *shifted*. The scent of damp earth and pine needles vanished, replaced by something sweeter, heavier, like crushed petals steeped in honey. The light changed too, filtering through leaves that shouldn’t have existed this time of year—golden as late summer, though London had been grey and sodden for weeks. She exhaled, her breath curling in the unnaturally warm air. “Bloody hell.” Beside her, Nyx solidified just enough for their violet eyes to flicker into view, scanning the clearing. “This is not Earth.” “No shit,” Rory muttered, but her fingers twitched toward the pendant at her throat. The Heartstone pulsed faintly, its crimson glow seeping through her fingers like a slow heartbeat. She didn’t need to ask if Nyx felt it too—the way their shadowy form rippled, thinning at the edges, said enough. Isolde moved ahead of them, her silver hair catching the light like spun moonlight. She didn’t walk so much as *drift*, her bare feet skimming the moss without disturbing a single blade. “You’ve come far enough to see,” she said, her voice weaving through the air like smoke. “Now you must choose whether to go farther.” Rory shot a glance at Nyx. “You’re the one who dragged me into this. You tell me—what’s the play?” Nyx’s form wavered, their voice a whisper that slithered between the trees. “The grove is a threshold. Beyond it lies the Fae Courts—or what remains of them. But thresholds are never free.” Isolde turned, her pale lavender eyes unreadable. “The price is memory. A fragment of what you were, given to the grove in exchange for passage.” Rory’s stomach twisted. “What kind of fragment?” “A name,” Isolde said. “One you’ve carried. One that defines you.” Nyx’s glow dimmed. “A name is power.” “And power is currency here,” Isolde agreed. Rory’s fingers curled into her palms. She had names—too many, some she’d buried, others she’d stolen. *Laila*. The one Evan had hissed at her in the dark, like a curse. *Malphora*. The one she’d whispered to herself in the mirror after, like a promise. *Carter*. The one her father had given her, sharp as a blade. She exhaled through her nose. “Fine. But I pick which one.” Isolde inclined her head. “The grove does not bargain.” “Then I’m not walking in.” A silence settled, thick as the honey-scented air. Then Nyx shifted, their form coalescing into something more solid, more *present*. “I will go first.” Rory blinked. “You’ve got a name to lose?” Nyx’s violet eyes burned brighter. “I have many. And none.” Before she could press, they stepped forward—straight into the heart of the grove. The moment their shadowed foot crossed the threshold, the air *shimmered*. A ripple passed through the clearing, and for a heartbeat, Rory saw *something*—a flicker of a face, a name written in light, then gone. Nyx staggered, their form flickering like a candle in a draft. “Nyx?” Rory lunged, but Isolde’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist. “Do not touch them,” the seer warned. “The grove takes what it is owed.” Nyx’s breath came in ragged whispers, their voice strained. “It… took *Aldric*.” Rory’s pulse spiked. “Your *human* name?” A shudder ran through Nyx’s form. “The one I buried deepest.” Isolde released Rory’s wrist. “Now you understand the cost.” Rory swallowed hard. She’d spent years shedding names like old skin, but this—this was different. This was *surrender*. She looked at Nyx, their edges still unsteady, their glow dimmed. “You alright?” Nyx’s voice was thinner now, stripped of something. “I am… lighter.” Rory didn’t like the sound of that. Isolde turned, her silver hair catching the light as she gestured toward the heart of the grove. “The path forward is yours, Aurora Carter. But remember—what you leave behind may not be waiting when you return.” Rory’s jaw tightened. She didn’t have time for riddles. She stepped forward, her boots sinking slightly into the moss. The air thickened, pressing against her skin like a second layer. The trees here weren’t just trees—they *breathed*, their bark shifting subtly, as if alive. Flowers bloomed in impossible colours, petals that shimmered like stained glass when the light hit them just right. And the *sounds*. No birds. No wind. Just a low, humming vibration, like the grove itself was alive, pulsing. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the trunk of the nearest oak. The bark was warm, almost *soft*, and when she pulled her hand back, her fingertips came away dusted with gold. “What the hell—?” Nyx materialised beside her, their form still flickering at the edges. “Fae magic. The grove is alive in ways you cannot comprehend.” Rory wiped her fingers on her jeans, but the gold didn’t smudge. It *sank* into her skin, leaving behind a faint, shimmering trail. “Great. Now I’m glowing.” Isolde’s voice drifted from ahead. “The grove marks those who pass through. A reminder of what you’ve given—and what you still owe.” Rory scowled. “I haven’t given anything yet.” “Haven’t you?” A cold prickle ran down Rory’s spine. She didn’t like the way Isolde said that. Like she already knew the answer. They pressed deeper into the grove, the trees growing taller, their branches weaving together overhead to form a canopy that blocked out the sky. The light here was different—softer, dreamlike, as if they were walking through a memory. The air smelled of rain and something sweet, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. Then the ground changed. One moment, Rory was stepping on moss. The next, her boot sank into something *squishy*. She yanked her foot back with a curse, staring at the ground. It wasn’t dirt. It wasn’t grass. It was *flesh*. A low, wet *gurgle* echoed through the grove. Rory’s blood turned to ice. “Did you *hear* that?” Nyx’s form tensed. “We are not alone.” Isolde didn’t turn. “The grove is never empty.” Another gurgle, closer this time. Rory’s hand flew to the Fae-forged dagger at her hip, her fingers curling around the hilt. The metal was colder than it should have been, biting into her skin. “What the *hell* is that?” Isolde finally looked back, her pale eyes unreadable. “The grove feeds on more than names.” A *thud*. Then another. Something was moving through the trees, something *large*. The ground beneath Rory’s feet *twitched*, like the grove itself was breathing. She swallowed hard. “Nyx. You seeing this?” Nyx’s voice was a whisper. “I see *hunger*.” The trees ahead of them *parted*. Not like wind moving branches. Like *flesh* peeling back. Rory’s breath caught. The thing that stepped into the clearing wasn’t an animal. Wasn’t a plant. It was *both*, and *neither*—a mass of writhing vines and glistening, pulsating flesh, its body shifting between forms like a living nightmare. At its core was a gaping maw, ringed with teeth like thorns, dripping with something thick and golden. And it was *looking* at them. Rory’s grip tightened on the dagger. “Isolde. *What is that?*” The seer’s voice was calm, almost amused. “The grove’s guardian. It has come to collect its due.” The thing *lunged*. Rory barely had time to react. She twisted, the dagger flashing in her hand, the moonsilver blade carving a silver arc through the air. It *screeched*—a sound like tearing fabric—and recoiled, black ichor spraying from the wound. Nyx moved like smoke, their form dissolving into shadow before reforming behind the creature. Their hand—if it could be called a hand—sank into its flesh, and the thing *screamed*, its body convulsing. Isolde didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched, her pale eyes gleaming. Rory didn’t have time to think. She drove the dagger forward, aiming for the gaping maw. The blade sank in, and the creature *thrashed*, its vines lashing out, wrapping around her arm. Pain flared, hot and bright, as thorns bit into her skin. She gritted her teeth. “Nyx—*now*!” Nyx’s form *exploded* into a storm of shadows, slamming into the creature. It *shattered*, its body dissolving into a rain of black petals that withered the moment they hit the ground. Silence. Rory’s chest heaved, her arm burning where the thorns had torn her. She yanked the dagger free, wiping the black ichor on her jeans. “What the *fuck* was that?” Isolde finally stepped forward, her bare feet not disturbing a single petal. “The grove’s first test. It wanted to see if you were worthy.” Rory’s laugh was sharp, humourless. “Worthy of *what*?” Isolde’s gaze flicked to the pendant at Rory’s throat. The Heartstone pulsed, its crimson glow brighter now, almost *angry*. “The grove knows what you carry,” Isolde said. “And it *hungers* for it.” Rory’s fingers closed around the pendant. “It’s not getting it.” Isolde smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “We shall see.” The grove *shifted* around them, the trees groaning as they bent, their branches twisting to form a path deeper into the heart of the clearing. The air grew heavier, thicker, like syrup. And at the end of the path, something *waited*. Rory didn’t know what. Didn’t *want* to know. But she stepped forward anyway.