Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRG291DYRF52HC3E7PM40C

A gust of wind carried the scent of crushed wildflowers and damp earth as Aurora Carter pushed her way past the last tangle of brambles. Sunlight cracked through the leaves ahead, gold spilling bright across the moss at her feet. Someone’s laugh rang through the trees—a nervous bubble of sound, hers—but it faded almost instantly, stifled by the hush hanging beyond. "They said it would be obvious," she muttered, glancing over her shoulder. The Heartstone pendant at her neck pressed cool against her skin, beating with a soft heat of its own. She thumbed it—a jitter she couldn’t shake since setting foot in Richmond Park. "Obvious things wear strange hats in the Afterplaces," Nyx murmured. Their voice crept along the shadows—quiet, half there—like they belonged more to the gloom than among leaves, dark form shifting as if stitched out of the dappled light itself. Aurora squinted ahead. The trees arched, impossibly old, their trunks wide enough for three people to link arms around. Somewhere above, birds called in unfamiliar notes, trilling silver melodies that made her toes itch with nerves. The tall grass melted into a clearing. There—scattered in an uneven circle—stood a cluster of ancient oaks, their bark gnarled into knotwork patterns, each tree leaning with purpose. No matter which way she turned, the stones seemed always one step ahead. Petals speckled the moss beneath, sapphire and gold and pale translucent pink. The air pressed heavy, thick with the sweetness of unseen nectar. Aurora breathed out, slow. The world beyond the standing oaks shimmered—distorted, like glass smeared with oil. "Doesn’t feel…open," she whispered. The air tingled against her arms, hairs standing sharp. "Am I the only one—?" Nyx slipped past, violet eyes flickering like coals behind a mask. "You feel the difference. The Grove likes to watch strangers from behind its lashes." Their arm, shadow-thin and less than solid, flicked toward the leftmost stone. "Let it see you, that’s the way." She stepped closer. Each pace tugged at something below her ribs, a pulse the same rhythm as the stone’s glow in moonlight: steady, patient, ancient. Her trainers rustled against scented moss. Stray sunlight bent as she crossed the threshold; the air flashed cold, then tasted of green apples and something old as starlight. Her mouth dried. "Did you see that?" She pressed a hand to her chest. "Everything just—shifted." "The Grove folds," Nyx answered, settling beside her. Their outline ran thin, legs vanishing into blackness where shadows pooled. "What’s flat elsewhere curls here." Something small darted through the undergrowth—a hare with fur the silver of cut frosts, ears flicking, nose twitching as it regarded Aurora with golden eyes. In one glance, she felt seen through and accepted, all the same. The animal vanished, leaving a ripple in the air where it had passed. She turned a slow circle. Wildflowers danced in breezeless air; petals spun upward, tumbling in slow drifting spirals. The standing stones thrummed—a sound more felt than heard, making her teeth ache faintly with resonance. Aurora swallowed. "Isolde?" No answer at first, only the whisper of leaves. She edged around one of the stones. Its carvings sank deep, spirals crawling down into the moss. Up close, she saw pale green fireflies, drifting lazily, gathering wherever her shadow fell. Nyx stood at her shoulder, chin raised, expression unreadable. They stretched an arm, fingertips trailing through a tendril of mist. "We are guests. Let’s move gently." As if in response, a sudden trill swept through the clearing—notes sharp, high, and shivering along Aurora’s nerves. She half-jumped, hand darting to the pendant at her throat. The warmth beat steady, urging her deeper. She pushed down uncertainty and moved in. The sunlight inside the ring felt different—sharper, denser. Where it touched her skin, colour shimmered in patterns she couldn’t name, violet and green and opal. Every footfall sounded muffled, as if the ground drank the sound greedily. A tangle of roots, strung with bright flowers and thick as her wrists, curled beneath one massive oak—a sort of archway half-swallowed by undergrowth. She knelt, running her fingers over a petal, surprised by its coolness—like touching a drop of moonlight. Behind her, Nyx drifted silent, form blurring at the edges. She passed under the arch. Everything muffled, then spun. A thrill—lightness, the sensation of being flipped inside out—washed straight to her bones. She stumbled sideways, caught herself against hard bark. The tree pulsed beneath her palm: alive, aware. A clearing revealed itself past that arch, wider than she’d first seen. Rings within rings, each ring of ancient oak marked with pale fungus blooms. In the centre, beside a pool that reflected no sky, stood a woman draped in argent silk, hair loose in a tremulous silver curtain. "Welcome, children of elsewhere," the woman intoned, eyes the colour of gathering twilight. She trailed one hand through mist rising off the pool’s surface—mist that never strayed farther than her reach. Aurora took three quick steps into open ground, fighting to keep her breathing even. The pendant burned against her skin, its pulse nearly frantic. "Are— You’re Isolde? The Seer?" The woman’s smile curved sideways, not quite touching her eyes. "Names are like wind through yew. You seek a thing buried under the bark." Nyx’s posture stilled, their form turning sharper, closer to silhouette than human. They dipped their head, a subtle bow. Aurora paused. She felt the weight of magic in the air—taste of copper under her tongue, tang as clear as lightning. The Grove pressed in around her. "You… live here?" Her voice rang too loud by half, each syllable rebounding strangely. Isolde’s eyes flickered. "Some live. Some remain, root-bound. My exile grows tall." She stood motionless but for the faint ripple of fabric around her feet. Aurora looked toward the water. The pool was unbroken obsidian, reflecting not herself, but a version two years younger, bruised, wild-eyed, standing somewhere rain-scoured. The sight punched the air from her lungs. She knelt beside the surface, reached a trembling hand close—heat spilled from her pendant, painting her palm ruby-red. Nyx held back, hover-limned at the clearing’s edge. Isolde’s gaze slid sideways, voice light as reeds: "See how the heart pulls. Not all stones must be turned." Aurora jerked her hand away. The image on the water blinked out; she met her own face again, ordinary and scarred. Her hand drifted to the Fae-forged blade sheathed against her belt. She hadn’t noticed its glow—subtle, but undeniable, a radiance warding off the worst of the Grove’s strangeness. "Is this..." Her voice stuck. She felt a thread of something sharp, thrumming under everything. "Is this what it’s like for you? All this…watching, remembering?" Isolde’s smile softened to a knife-edge. "The Grove never forgets." She turned, stepping across the water’s edge; her feet left no ring, no ripple. "Here, time grows wild and tangled—like hair left to the storm." A sudden wind swept through, rattling the ring of standing oaks. Petals erupted in whorls, tracing swirling paths around Aurora’s head. She breathed in, mouth full of scents she had no names for—summer thunder, wet iron, honey thick on the tongue. Nyx finally crossed into the open, their form taking on clearer substance. Their voice clung to the air: "You keep many stories here, Seer." Isolde’s pale eyes darted up and down Nyx’s shifting outline. "Every root is a memory. What do your roots recall, shadowkin?" A low hum passed through Nyx. Shadows writhed at their feet. "Long hunger. Loss. Music in the dark, now spent." Isolde traced a glyph in the air. Aurora flinched as the outline shivered with silver light, coiling into the shape of a key. It drifted toward her—a test, a greeting, or both. The world seemed to shrink around the trio: standing stones bright as bone, oaks humming, the pond glinting obsidian. Birds spun edgewise overhead, their calls layered in harmonies. Aurora stepped back, pulse hammering. The Grove watched. The Grove waited. She forced herself to meet Isolde’s gaze, aware of the pressure of the pendant, the knife, the silent presence of Nyx. Old magic coiled beneath the green, expectant, hungry for what the newcomers would give, or take, or become.