Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRFYEFN38KT1JHG3G3S0WE

Aurora’s boots crunched on gravel that glittered like crushed glass. She glanced back at Nyx, who moved without sound, their shadowy form shifting between solid and smoke. Isolde walked ahead, her slender shape almost floating above the ground, leaving no footprints. They had passed through a shimmer in the air, a ripple in reality that tasted of ozone and damp earth. One step in Richmond Park, the next here—wherever here was. The sky was the color of warm amber, stretched taut like a dome of honeyed resin. No sun hung in it. No clouds drifted. The light came from everywhere at once, gentle and diffuse, painting the landscape in shades of gold and copper. Stone columns rose around them, carved with intricate designs that writhed if she stared too long—vines and leaves and strange, twisting creatures. The columns framed a path paved with smooth slate tiles, almost like a ruins courtyard. “The entrance has changed.” Isolde’s voice was musical, but there was strain beneath it. “Time distorts this place. That archway”—she gestured to a crumbled stone arch overgrown with what looked like jade vines—“once held runic wards. Now it’s rubble.” Aurora stepped closer, peered at the carvings on one of the intact columns. Up close, they looked less like deliberate patterns and more like natural textures, the stone itself having grown into these shapes. She brushed her fingers across its surface. Warm. Not sun-warmed—intimate warmth, like skin. She jerked her hand back. Nyx flowed forward, their violet eyes pulsing faintly. They passed a shadowy hand through the column, and for a moment Rory saw the silhouette of fingers seem to catch in the stone, as though touching something unseen. “This isn’t just stone,” Nyx murmured, their whispery voice drifting on air that smelled faintly of baking bread and crushed herbs. “It’s solidified memory.” “Careful.” Isolde glanced at them. “Do not linger in one place too long. The grove’s heart shifts. It tastes stillness.” They moved forward, the path sloping gently downward. The slate tiles gave way to a bed of moss so soft Rory’s boots sank half an inch with each step. Tiny flowers sprouted in the moss, luminous blue and purple blooms no bigger than her thumbnail, each pulsing with a soft inner light. Rory knelt, touched one. The flower curled away from her finger, petals closing protectively. “The flora here is older than human civilization,” Isolde said. “Some remember the first dawn.” Nyx bent near Rory, their smoky shape almost blending with the mossy darkness. “And they remember footsteps approaching. Listen.” Rory stilled. The air hummed. Not with insects, but with a bass vibration she could feel through the soles of her boots now she noticed it—a deep, resonant pulse, slow like a sleeping heart. She looked up. The path opened into an enormous clearing—a bowl nestled amidst low, rolling hills. In its center stood a colossal oak tree, its bark silver-grey, its branches sprawling like beams holding up the sky. Ripe fruits hung from it, each a different color—gems of ruby red, emerald green, sapphire blue. Beneath the tree, a circle of standing stones, ancient and weathered, their surfaces inscribed with swirling runes that glowed with a soft white light. But between the oak and the stones, something moved. Aurora squinted, her breath catching. Streams of something like liquid air flowed in lazy arcs, shimmering like heat haze. They coiled around each other, rippling with colors she couldn’t name—shades between silver and violet, hues that made her eyes ache. “The Veil is thin here,” Isolde breathed, her lavender eyes wide. “Thinner than anywhere else on Earth. That is the boundary itself.” Nyx solidified beside her, gazing at the phenomenon. “We should not be able to see it. It’s not meant to be visible to mortal eyes.” “The grove is more than ‘Fae-touched,’” Isolde murmured. “It’s a wound. A place where the realms bleed together.” Rory could feel it now—a faint tugging sensation behind her sternum, where the Heartstone pendant lay under her sweater. Warmth pulsed through the silver chain, keeping time with the slow vibration in the ground. She clutched the pendant through the fabric. “Is that why…?” “Possibly.” Isolde’s gaze felt like it could strip her soul bare. “The Heartstone originates in Hel. This place feels the resonance.” Rory stepped forward, leaving the moss and onto cool, damp grass that crunched like frost. As she approached the edge of the stone circle, the shimmering streams of the Veil shifted, coiling toward her as if sensing her presence. One tendril drifted close, passing through her forearm without contact. But she felt it—a sudden chill, a moment of dislocation, as if a part of her had been pulled somewhere else and just returned. “Don’t touch it,” Nyx warned, but their tone was curious rather than fearful. The standing stones glowed brighter as she neared, and the runes began to crawl across their surfaces, rearranging themselves. Every hair on her arms stood up. Static electricity, or magic, she couldn’t tell. She reached the first stone. Up close, she saw the runes weren’t carved, but grown—tiny threads of light moving like veins beneath stone skin. She reached out— “Wait.” Isolde’s voice rang sharp. Rory froze, fingers inches from the stone. “Look at your feet.” Rory glanced down. The grass around the stones wasn’t grass. It was a carpet of tiny, crystalline flowers, each petal faceted like cut glass. And they were wilting, turning grey and transparent beneath her boots. She took a hasty step back. The slight depression her foot had made in the mossy turf started to regenerate, the crushed crystalline petals righting themselves, regaining color. The stone’s runes calmed, slowing their frantic movement. “You’re mortal,” Isolde said softly. “Your life is brief. This place is ancient. It reacts… violently to that transience.” Nyx flowed closer, studying the stones. “But the Fae can walk here?” “Fae are ageless. We don’t decay. We don’t change in the same way.” Isolde gestured around them. “This grove exists outside of time’s arrow. Mortals bring linearity with them. It disrupts the balance.” Unease coiled in Rory’s stomach. “So I’m poisoning it just by being here?” “Not poisoning.” Isolde’s expression softened. “You’re a catalyst. You induce a state of… flux.” A breeze swept through the clearing, carrying the scent of spices and blooming night-blooms. It rustled the silver leaves of the great oak. Something chimed—a faint, crystalline sound that seemed to come from everywhere, echoing the vibration underfoot. “Listen,” Nyx whispered. The chime repeated, three times, fading with each strike. Then— Voices. Faint, ghostly echoes, whispers in languages Rory didn’t recognize. She caught fragments—a lilting Fae tongue, guttural demonic syllables, and… English. Smatterings of English, fractured and out of order. “…the ritual must not…” “…shard of the sunstone…” “…between the shadow and the…” Rory strained to listen, but the whispers dissipated like smoke, leaving only the hum. Isolde looked pale, her silver hair stirring in the windless air. “Echoes of conversations that haven’t happened yet, or happened long ago. Time is fluid here.” Rory felt dizzy. The ground beneath her seemed to tilt, the amber sky swimming. The comforting pulse of the Heartstone now felt like a warning drumbeat. “What are we supposed to find here?” she asked, trying to ground herself in purpose. “Clarity.” Isolde knelt beside the crystalline flowers, not touching them. She closed her eyes, her lips moving silently. The flowers began to glow with soft, rhythmic light, like a heartbeat visible. Each pulse sent up tiny motes of light, sparkling dust that drifted toward the shimmering Veil streams. Where they touched, the streams thickened, solidifying into brief, shimmering shapes—figures moving, landscapes, flashes of faces Rory didn’t recognize. Then one shape crystallized, held for a second—a man with dark hair, standing in front of a city skyline Rory knew. London. The silhouette sharpened into Evan, her ex, his face twisted in a snarl she remembered well. The image flashed out. Rory flinched. Nyx’s form rippled, darkness swirling. “Memory. Or prophecy?” “Both,” Isolde whispered, eyes still closed. “The grove doesn’t distinguish.” Another pulse of light, another shape—a dark doorway, the red glow of demonic eyes, the glint of a blade— Rory recognized the Fae-forged dagger Isolde had given her. The image dissolved. The hum in the ground rose in pitch, turning from a vibration into a sound—a deep, resonant tone like a struck bell. The standing stones blazed. Isolde’s eyes snapped open, her lavender gaze locking onto Rory’s. “We must leave. Now.”