Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT055S99T42GE3JZDH0J7BH

The air pressed thick against Aurora Carter’s arms as she stepped past an oak root as wide as her thigh. The others followed: Nyx, drifting in their shifting half-solid form, bled into the leaf-dappled darkness; Isolde Varga, her silver hair sliding with every step, barely disturbed the loam. The world beyond the stones of the grove fell silent, cut off with the finality of a slammed door. Aurora snatched a breath. The clearing behind — the entrance — no longer resembled Richmond Park as she knew it. Here, wildflowers nodded in clusters too lush, too vivid: sapphire anemones grappling with gaudy gold marigolds, lilies tangled with ferns that glinted silver. Everything shimmered, colours dancing as if light swam through water rather than air. Overhead, boughs locked together into vaulted ribs, ringed by bark so pale it could have been bone. “Is it supposed to smell like this?” Rory’s words rolled forward, voice taut behind bravado. She ducked beneath a clutch of white foxglove bells. “It’s like… every spring at once, and sideways.” Violet flashed beneath Nyx’s cowl. “The Grove hungers for scents we remember, even if we’ve never known them. No wind, no rot — not properly.” Shadows writhed around their fingertips as they glided over moss. “Careful. Roots shift when no one watches.” Isolde didn’t turn. Even her footsteps trailed nothing, not even a bruise of moss. “The heart of things lies ahead. Each must find their own path, though we walk together.” She brushed gloved fingers across a standing stone. The granite shuddered, sap oozing from an ancient gash. “Listen.” Rory stopped. Her own pulse hammered in her ears, but underneath — a note? No, a chorus: wood creaking, a hundred moths whispering, leaves exhaling in language half-forgotten. She swallowed. “You always talk like this, or is it the air?” Isolde’s lips crooked. “You notice fractals, Aurora Carter. Others see only green. A gift. And perhaps, a warning.” She moved deeper, moon-pale and sure, neck arched as if scenting something no one else could. Between trunks loomed arches of thick holly whose leaves gleamed mirror-bright on their silver backs. Every branch cupped beads of dew that never fell. Rory brushed a spray with her knuckles. The droplets clung cool and slick, fizzing against her skin, then slipped away — not down, but up. She blinked at her hand. Dots of crimson light pulsed beneath her shirt: the Heartstone Pendant, warming in measured beats. Each throb shivered up her wrist, through the crescent scar she’d carried since childhood. Nyx hovered near. Shadows coiled around their jaw, hiding their mouth. “The stone knows more than you do. Tells you where not to linger. That’s rare.” Their eyes flickered, violet with the tinge of distant lightning. “I’d listen.” Somewhere ahead, what could only be called music threaded through the wild green. Melodies with no clear instrument: a dull, hollow drumming and filaments of humming so sweet it made Rory’s teeth sting. A thicket parted, and the Grove widened. A path of pale stepping stones — each veined with turquoise and gold — wound around a pool half-shrouded in fog. The water lay impossibly still. Above, a willow hung curtains of ghost-white leaves, each leaf etched with lines of faint blue. Rory caught her breath, reaching to steady herself against the trunk of a yew. “Christ,” she muttered, “this place isn’t on any map.” The bark throbbed under her hand, rhythm syncing with the pendant against her chest. Isolde turned, silver eyes shadowed wonderfully strange. “Maps would fail. The Grove is what memory wants, and what’s hidden between. Time folds. Step poorly, and you might lose hours, or years.” Rory let go of the yew, gaze darting to Nyx. “And you knew we’d survive this?” Nyx shimmered into denser shape, every edge a silhouette. “I guessed you were stubborn enough, Carter. That counts for more than luck.” They slipped past a fallen log slick with blue-green moss. “Look.” Rory moved closer, blinking. On the far side of the pool, half-submerged in shadow, someone had etched symbols into a fallen boulder: spirals, eyes, knots, each fresh as wax. The markings seemed to shift when she tried to fix their lines. With every moment she stared, the cold in her fingers deepened. A crow above croaked, voice echoing and echoing until even Isolde paused, head tilted. “Signs for those who read as Fae do. Leave your reflection; carry nothing away. See your truth, but speak not its shape.” Sarcasm pricked Rory’s voice. “Cryptic, as ever.” A single dimple notched Isolde’s cheek. “Would you rather simple truth? The Grove does not forgive trespass, Aurora Carter. Every step forward carries price. Seek not what you fear to lose.” Rory stepped to the water’s edge. She crouched, peering into the glassy surface. At first, only her own face stared back: blue eyes wide, hair tangled, a frown cutting her brow. But the longer she looked, the more her reflection twisted. A second figure appeared behind her shoulder, out of focus — not Isolde. Not Nyx. Someone taller, with eyes like burning coals. She jerked away, heels skidding over damp stone. “That’s not a joke,” her voice hard, throat raw. Nyx’s shadow-form drew tight beside her, violet eyes crackling. “Don’t watch too long. The Grove shows all hungers, not just yours.” Their whisper scattered over the pool like disturbed dust. Isolde stood by a ring of mushrooms — red-capped, dotted white. She bent and brushed them with her fingers, murmuring to them in syllables Rory couldn’t parse. The mushrooms swelled, doubled in size, released pale motes that floated and flashed, then vanished. Rory shook out her shoulders. “Right. Should we move?” Her trainers left no visible mark, but the pendant fluttered, pulse steadying. They crossed another arc of stones. Beyond the pool, the Grove’s shadows thickened. Every footfall sent ripples through the grass, and now even the smallest birds darted in angles that made no sense. Once, on a branch that bent impossibly low, a toad the size of a melon blinked at her, eyes the same blue as winter twilight. Nyx eyed it, head tilted. “Gatekeepers come in every shape. Mind your vowels; the old ones like jokes.” More trees, impossibly tall, knotted their trunk. Tiny bells swung from the boughs, chiming without wind. A patch of mushrooms glowed faintly, each cap a different hue. Rory touched her pendant, earning another fevered shudder. Isolde traced a symbol across bark. “The Grove tests need. Ask it nothing you regret.” Rory’s throat burned. “Is this a lesson, or are you just trying to scare me?” “Both,” Isolde said, smile tight. “But not for you alone.” Ahead, the air thickened. The trees opened into a half-circle, floored with moss that shimmered like velvet. Ancient oak standing stones ringed the space, every trunk carved with faces old as wind. Their eyes glowed dull amber as Rory passed. A breeze — but not quite — drifted, smelling not of rot, but honey and stone and something fiercer: secrets barely leashed. Rory’s skin prickled. She pressed her hand to the Heartstone; its glow beat like a second, wilder heart. Isolde stepped into the centre of the circle. Her voice, richer now, lilted strange and deep. “We stand where the Veil wears thin. Speak what you wish. The Grove listens — and judges.” A hush. Nothing moved but the pulse of magic, slow as sap. Behind her, Nyx melted into half-light, a ripple in space. “Don’t ask for more than you own. The Grove finds thieves, and never loses what’s stolen.” Rory drew a breath. The silence buzzed with hidden eyes. Wonder trembled on the tip of her tongue, sharp as fear. All around, the Grove waited.