Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0TY5QNAA9E8Z7QJHKKNR9

The air thinned as Rory stepped across the threshold. Her boots barely made a sound on the ground—soft, almost like moss, yet shimmering faintly with a silver tint beneath her feet. They were inside the Grove. Not just any place in Richmond Park, but the hidden pocket Isolde had spoken of, where the veil between worlds thinned until it almost vanished. Nyx lingered close behind, their form a shifting silhouette darker than shadow itself, but somehow, here, even their presence hummed with a strange vitality, as if the dusk here fed on the half-lit air instead of devouring it. Rory could feel the faint pulse of the Heartstone pendant against her chest, a constant warmth bleeding through her shirt. Isolde, gliding ahead with a grace that disturbed neither leaf nor twig, vanished and flickered at times, as if she struggled between corporeal forms. Her pale lavender eyes scanned the surroundings, but spoke only through riddles. “Where winter’s breath and summer’s flame entwine in silent dance, the stones stand guard, the flowers bloom without name.” Rory glanced to the ancient oak standing stones encircling the clearing—gnarled and towering, their bark bleached white, etchings glowing faintly. The air smelled of wildflowers, though the blossoms were unlike any she'd ever seen—petals shifting in colour, from deep indigo to silver-blue, pulsating softly, as if breathing. There was a hum in the air. Not mechanical, nor ordinary wind, but something like electricity curled through the leaves. Every sound outside—the distant call of a crow, the faint rustle of branches—died here, swallowed by a silence both heavy and alive. Rory’s fingers brushed the crescent scar on her wrist, her quiet tether to a harsher past, grounding her. “This place...” Rory breathed out, voice low. Nyx whispered at her shoulder, voice like silk sliding through the dark. “Never seen light hold silence so tightly.” They moved deeper, stepping past a ring of violet-purple wildflowers whose stems glimmered as if wired with starlight. The trees here seemed to bow slightly, branches arching in a protective canopy, but the light slipping through was wrong—neither moon nor sun, but an unearthly glow that painted everything in shifting shades of silver and moonlight blue. Rory caught the subtle warmth of the pendant again. The Heartstone pulsed, faint and steady, like a heartbeat synced with the place itself. Her pulse quickened, unease creeping under the wonder. Something moved beyond the edge of the grove, a glint faster than eye could catch. Rory spun, hand instinctively going to the Fae-Forged Blade at her belt. The blade chilled her palm without fail. The rest of the group paused. Isolde’s voice drifted soft, cloaked in riddle as always. “Fear sits between the quieter breaths of still stones and dancing shadows.” Nyx stepped forward, their form solidifying to six-foot-two of midnight and smoke. Their violet eyes flickered like distant stars. “This grove, it’s a threshold,” Nyx murmured, voice barely louder than a breeze. “Between realms, maybe. You can almost taste the Veil’s threads fraying here.” Rory remembered Isolde's warning—that time moved differently here—an hour inside could stretch to days outside. Her mind flickered to the stolen moments she’d traded away, living between shadows and obligations. All of it crystallised in the still air. Ahead, the ground sloped down to a crystalline pool, shimmering with impossible colours—liquid opal, ever-shifting with faint faces that dissolved when stared through for too long. Rory swallowed and bent to touch the water. The cold bit sharp, almost painful, and sudden images locked behind her eyelids: forest fires in slow motion, laughter bleeding through corridors wide and empty, a dozen names whispered in languages she never spoke. Isolde’s sudden quiet laugh broke the reverie. “Water remembers what the earth forgets, if you listen close. But it can mislead, as I do.” Rory sat back on her heels, feeling the weight of centuries press against the moment. She glanced at Nyx, who was watching the edges of the clearing, fading in and out like a flickering candle. “Think it’s safe?” Rory asked. Nyx’s smile was a curve in the dark. “Safe is a language mortals speak to slow the heart. Here, it means something else.” The trees seemed to lean closer, as if eavesdropping, while the wildflowers pulsed brighter. Rory’s breath hitched when a sudden rush of cold whipped past, brushing her hair and tracing fire along her skin. She caught the pulse, the same warmth from the pendant intensifying, flickering in time with the chill. “There,” Rory pointed, voice sharper now. Emerging from the mist, a figure half-formed crouched near the pool’s edge. A shimmer of silver hair, eyes the colour of pale clouds, and a step that made no sound. Isolde’s form wavered as she watched the newcomer. “You are more than expected,” Isolde said, gaze measuring. The figure unmoved, as if carved from mist and memory. “Not always the case,” the voice replied in a cadence older than the stones. Nyx shifted into a crouch, darker tendrils stretching from their hands like liquid ink. “You’re not at home here, are you?” The newcomer’s eyes shimmered with sadness and amusement. “Hel’s hunger reaches farther than you know, shadow-bearer.” Rory’s fingers gripped the pendant tighter. The warmth became fierce, spreading through her chest. The light around the pool coalesced into a shape — faint, flickering like a ghost of flame, revealing a small ornate box submerged halfway in the water. “Is that...” Rory asked. Isolde nodded, voice distant. “A bound relic from Dymas. Gluttony’s signature. Not to be taken lightly.” The thought of Prince Belphegor’s realm, with its endless feasting and snares, twisted Rory’s stomach. The pendant’s pulse turned urgent. “Why here?” Rory demanded, standing. “Why bring this into the Grove?” A silence stretched, broken only by an echo of infinite footsteps not quite heard. The figure clasped their hands around a silver chain trailing from their neck. Their eyes flicked to Rory’s, scanning, weighing. “The Veil trembles as always. Such relics shift the thread, lure the pieces apart—” Nyx’s hand snapped out, the shadows swirling around their fingers into a blade of darkened silk. “Then it’s a wound waiting to be torn.” The stranger nodded slowly. “So, you will bind it, or watch the fracture spread?” Isolde’s gaze turned sharp, almost fierce. “The balance is delicate. Even we do not decide lightly.” Rory felt her heart hammer. The Fae blade at her waist pulsed cold fire. This world slipped between moments, fragile as ice on a wind. Every breath deepened the sense that the Grove was both cradle and cage. She stepped forward, the pendant’s glow steady at her throat. “If we’re here, we fix it,” Rory said without turning to anyone else. “Or die trying.” The grove seemed to hold its breath with her, wildflowers pulsing brighter still, as if aware that something vital had finally been said aloud. “Then follow the stones,” Isolde murmured, already melting into the half-light, footsteps silent on the silvered moss. “And leave no trace but whispered tales.”