Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0QHYMDFFE86B9Z8N563D2

The air tasted of ozone and crushed violets, a sharp contrast to the damp chill of Richmond Park they had just left. Rory stepped through the gap between the ancient oak standing stones, her boots sinking into grass that felt too soft, like spun sugar underfoot. The transition hit her stomach first, a lurching sensation as if an elevator cable snapped, then settled into a humming vibration that traveled up her legs. She stopped, hand instinctively going to the small crescent scar on her left wrist. The Heartstone pendant beneath her jacket pulsed against her sternum, warm and rhythmic, beating in time with the strange light flooding the clearing. "Time's gone weird," Nyx murmured. Their voice drifted around them, not coming from a single point but seeming to emanate from the shadows themselves. The Shade stood taller here, their form less a jagged silhouette and more a fluid column of midnight ink, edges blurring into the ambient glow. Faintly glowing violet eyes scanned the tree line. "An hour out there might be a week in here. Or a second." Rory squinted against the brilliance. The sky above the grove wasn't the grey London overcast she expected. It swirled with hues of lavender and pale gold, shifting like oil on water. Wildflowers erupted from the ground in impossible clusters—blooms the size of dinner plates in colors that had no names, vibrating with their own inner light. They didn't just sit in the soil; they seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting with a slow, rhythmic sigh. "Keep moving," Rory said, her voice sounding flat and foreign in the vast, hushed space. "Isolde said the center of the grove. Don't touch anything that looks like it's watching you." "I feel watched by everything," Nyx replied, a ripple passing through their shadowy torso. "Even the dirt has eyes." IsoldeVarga glided ahead of them, her silver hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of liquid mercury. She wore no coat despite the crisp air, her bare feet kissing the vibrant grass without leaving a single impression. The earth seemed to part for her, then knit itself back together instantly. "The path reveals itself to those who do not seek to conquer it," Isolde called back, her tone melodic yet distant. "To force a step is to invite the roots to bind." Rory frowned, adjusting the strap of her delivery bag out of habit, though there were no food orders here. She watched Isolde's back. The Half-Fae moved with an unnerving grace, bypassing thickets of thorny vines that snapped shut the moment Nyx drifted too close. They pushed deeper into the pocket realm. The trees here were massive, their bark smooth and pearlescent, branching out in fractal patterns that hurt the eyes if stared at too long. Leaves shimmered with a metallic sheen, chiming softly when a breeze—warm and scented with something like burnt honey—rustled through them. "Do you hear that?" Nyx froze. The shadow form condensed, becoming solid enough to cast a dark patch on the glowing grass. "A whisper. Not wind." Rory held her breath. Beneath the chiming leaves and the hum of the Heartstone, a low thrumming noise vibrated in her teeth. It sounded like a chorus of voices speaking just below the threshold of understanding. She gripped the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip. The moonsilver dagger bit into her palm, its perpetual coldness grounding her against the disorienting warmth of the air. "It's the Veil," Isolde said, stopping beside a pool of water that reflected a sky full of stars, despite the golden daylight above. "Thin here. The voices are echoes from the other side. Hel, perhaps. Or the Courts." Rory approached the pool. The water was perfectly still, yet the reflection showed a storm raging. Lightning forked across the mirrored surface, silent and violent. She reached out, finger hovering an inch above the liquid. The Heartstone flared hot against her skin. "Don't," Isolde warned, her pale lavender eyes locking onto Rory's. "To touch the reflection is to invite the storm into your blood." Rory pulled her hand back. "This place... it feels alive. Worse than alive. Aware." "Awareness is a burden," Isolde replied, turning away from the pool. "The grove remembers every footstep, every lie told within its bounds. That is why I cannot lie here, Rory Carter. The ground would swallow me whole." Nyx drifted over to a cluster of mushrooms that glowed with a sickly green pulsation. They extended a tendril of shadow, probing the air above the fungi. "These weren't here a moment ago. They grew while we watched." "Growth is accelerated," Isolde confirmed. "As is decay. Life burns brighter and faster in the spaces between." Rory moved past the pool, navigating a narrow trail bordered by ferns that uncurled as she passed, tracking her movement. The unease in her gut tightened. This wasn't just a hidden garden; it was a organism, and they were foreign bodies invading its system. Every step felt like a negotiation. Ahead, the trees parted to reveal a circular clearing dominated by a single structure. It wasn't a building, but a weaving of living branches, twisted and fused into an archway that spiraled upward into the swirling sky. Vines heavy with fruit that looked like crystallized tears hung from the arch. The air here tasted thicker, heavier with magic that made the hair on Rory's arms stand up. "The heart of the grove," Isolde announced, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Where the threads of fate tangle." Rory slowed her pace, her senses on high alert. The chiming of the leaves had stopped. The humming vibration intensified, shifting from a pleasant buzz to a warning growl deep in her chest. The shadows around Nyx writhed agitatedly, stretching long and thin toward the archway. "Something's wrong," Nyx said, their voice sharpening. "The shadows here... they don't obey me. They pull away." "The grove tests intent," Isolde said, stepping forward without hesitation. "It knows why we come." Rory followed, her hand tightening on the cold hilt of the moonsilver dagger. The blade began to glow faintly, reacting to the density of magic in the air. She scanned the perimeter. The beautiful, glowing flowers nearest the archway had wilted instantly, turning black and crumbling to dust as if aged a hundred years in a second. "We need to be quick," Rory said, her voice low. "If this place accelerates time, we could age to dust before we find what we need." "Or we could arrive before we left," Nyx quipped, though the humor didn't reach their violet eyes. The Shade hovered close to Rory's shoulder, a protective wall of darkness. "Lead on, Seer. But if the ground tries to eat me, I'm taking a chunk with me." Isolde reached the base of the spiraling branch-arch. She placed both hands on the living wood. The bark rippled under her touch, turning from pearl-white to a deep, bruised purple. A low groan echoed through the clearing, sounding like timber straining under immense weight. "The way opens for the truth-teller," Isolde spoke, her words carrying a weight that made the air shimmer. "But the price is memory." Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx. The Shade's form flickered, uncertainty rippling through their usual composure. "Memory?" Rory asked, stepping up beside Isolde. "What kind of memory?" "The kind you hold dearest," Isolde replied, turning her lavender gaze to Rory. "The grove demands a toll to reveal the path to the Wardens' rift. It will take a moment from your past to fuel the bridge." Rory's heart hammered against her ribs. She thought of her flat above Silas' bar, the smell of garlic and ginger from the Golden Empress kitchen, the face of her mother in Cardiff. She touched the scar on her wrist again, feeling the rough skin under her fingertips. "No deal," Rory said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "We find another way. We don't trade pieces of ourselves to a garden." "There is no other way," Isolde said, her expression sorrowful but unyielding. "The Veil weakens. The rift widens. Without the bridge, the shadows will consume us all before the sun sets in your world." The ground beneath them shuddered. The blackened dust from the wilted flowers swirl up into a vortex, forming shapes that looked suspiciously like grasping hands. The chiming leaves started again, but the sound was discordant now, a shrieking cacophony that set Rory's teeth on edge. Nyx stepped in front of Rory, their shadow expanding to cloak them both. "Then we fight our way through. I didn't survive three centuries between realms to lose a memory to a patch of weeds." "It is not a fight you can win with steel or shadow," Isolde said, gesturing to the archway where the air now扭曲 ed, showing glimpses of a jagged, amber sky—the sky of Dymas. "The bridge forms only with sacrifice." Rory looked at the twisting portal, then down at the glowing Heartstone. It burned hot now, almost painful. She looked at Nyx, solidifying their form into a warrior's stance, and then at Isolde, who waited with the patience of centuries. "Which memory?" Rory asked, her voice barely audible over the rising wind. Isolde smiled, a sad, fragile thing. "That is for the grove to decide. And for you to endure." The vortex of dust hands reached higher. The shrieking of the leaves peaked. Rory drew the Fae-Forged Blade, the moonsilver casting a cold, blue light across the trembling grass. She stepped forward, toward the arch, toward the cost.