Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX1T9HM15F79KGXA7ZTZGA

The rain in Richmond Park had frozen the mud into slick, treacherous ridges, but the ground beneath the ancient oaks remained dry and unnaturally still. Aurora Carter pulled her coat tighter, the damp wool scratching her neck. Ahead of her, the ring of trees stood like sentinels, their bark twisted into faces that seemed to scream in silence. Isolde Varga stopped at the threshold of the clearing. The silver-haired woman didn't turn, her feet hovering just above the frost-crusted earth. "The Veil is thin here. Can you hear it weeping?" Rory stepped up beside her, straining her ears. The distant hum of London traffic—usually a constant drone even this deep in the park—had vanished. In its place sat a heavy, suffocating quiet. "I don't hear weeping. I hear my own heartbeat." Nyx drifted forward, their form a smudge of darkness against the grey afternoon. The Shade towered over them, their edges blurring into the shadows cast by the oaks. "That is because you are alive. The dead hear the spaces between." Isolde raised a slender hand. The air before them shimmered, a distortion like heat haze rising from asphalt, though the temperature was dropping fast. The scent of ozone and crushed wildflowers hit Rory, overpowering the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves. "Step true. Do not look back until you are within." Rory took a breath, her hand instinctively moving to the Heartstone pendant hidden beneath her layers. The gemstone pulsed against her skin, a frantic, warming rhythm that matched the thrum of anxiety in her chest. She nodded to Nyx. "Keep up, shadow." Nyx didn't speak, only flowed past her, crossing the invisible line. Rory followed. The sensation of crossing the boundary felt like walking through a waterfall of warm syrup. Pressure squeezed her eardrums, popping them violently, and the grey light of the English afternoon fractured into a kaleidoscope of violet and gold. She stumbled, her boots sinking into ground that felt more like moss-covered velvet than mud. She straightened, blinking rapidly. The world had tilted. Above them, the sky was not the dull ceiling of cloud but a sprawling canvas of twilight hues—indigo, bruised purple, and a soft, sourceless luminescence that bathed everything in an ethereal glow. There was no sun, no moon, just light bleeding from the fabric of the realm itself. "Breathe, little bird. It is merely the Fae's breath." Isolde stood a few paces away, her silver hair gleaming like spun moonlight. She pointed a pale finger toward the center of the grove. Rory looked. The clearing stretched far wider than physics should have allowed. Massive standing stones, worn smooth by millennia of wind that didn't exist here, rose from the earth in a perfect spiral. Between them, flora bloomed in violent defiance of the season. Roses the size of dinner plates spilled over the moss, their petals shifting from deep crimson to iridescent blue as she watched. Vines with thorns like obsidian needles coiled around the ancient stones, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic light. She knelt, running her fingers through the grass. It didn't crunch. It yielded to her touch, cool and dry, and sprang back instantly without retaining her footprint. Beside her, Nyx solidified, their humanoid form sharpening into focus. "The shadows here have weight," Nyx whispered, their voice echoing as if spoken from the bottom of a well. They reached out, their hand passing through a floating fern. The plant shuddered, its leaves curling inward as if burned by frost. "They do not like to be touched." Rory stood and brushed her hands on her jeans. "Is it safe?" Isolde laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a storm. She began to walk deeper into the spiral, her movements fluid, leaving no trace of her passage on the ground. "Safe is a mortal concept. Here, things simply are." They moved deeper into the grove. The air grew sweeter, thick with the perfume of nectar and something metallic, like copper or old blood. Rory unzipped her jacket slightly; the temperature was rising, a humid, tropical warmth that clung to her skin. The Heartstone pendant burned hotter against her chest. She pulled it out, the crimson gem glowing with a fierce inner light. It swung on its silver chain, tugging toward the center of the spiral like a compass finding true north. "It reacts to the ley lines," Isolde said, not looking back. "The magic here is concentrated. Old magic. From before the iron wars." Rory watched the pendant's sway. "It's never done this before." "You have never stood in the heart of the Grove before." They reached the center of the spiral. Here, the towering stones leaned inward, creating a natural amphitheater. In the center lay a pool of water, so still it looked like a sheet of polished glass. But it wasn't water. It was a liquid mirror, reflecting a sky full of stars that weren't visible from Earth. Rory approached the edge. The surface rippled, though no wind touched it. She leaned over, staring at her reflection. The woman staring back had eyes that glowed faintly violet, and behind her, shadows writhed like living serpents. She jerked back. "That's not me." Nyx drifted to her side, peering into the pool. "It is the potential of you. The Fae do not show you what you are. They show you what you might become." A low hum vibrated through the soles of Rory's boots. She looked around. The standing stones seemed to be humming, the sound resonating in her bones. The wildflowers along the base of the stones opened their petals, revealing not stamens, but tiny, blinking eyes. "We shouldn't stay long," Rory said, her hand dropping to the hilt of the Fae-forged blade at her hip. The moonsilver metal was freezing cold, burning her fingertips with its chill. "This place feels... hungry." Isolde stood by the largest stone, her hand resting on the rough surface. Her lavender eyes had lost their focus, staring into the middle distance. "Hungry? No. It is waiting. It has waited three hundred years for someone to walk the path with iron in their pocket and shadow at their back." The ground beneath the pool trembled. Ripples spread outward, lapping at the mossy edges. A breeze picked up, whistling through the gaps in the stones, carrying a melody that sounded like a child crying. Rory drew the dagger an inch. The blue light of the blade flared, casting long, sharp shadows that danced away from the light. "Isolde. What's waiting?" The Seer turned. Her expression was serene, but her eyes held a deep, terrifying sadness. "The end of the beginning." Nyx hissed, their form suddenly expanding, wrapping around Rory like a cloak of protective darkness. "The Veil is tearing," the Shade said, their voice losing its whispery quality and gaining a sharp, jagged edge. They pointed a digit of solidified shadow toward the sky. Rory looked up. The beautiful twilight was fracturing. Great, jagged cracks were appearing in the air, leaking a darkness blacker than Nyx, blacker than the night. The Heartstone pendant seared her skin, glowing so bright it hurt her eyes. "We need to move," Rory said, backing away from the pool. She grabbed Isolde's arm. The Seer's skin felt like marble—cold and unyielding. "We cannot leave the way we came," Isolde said softly. "The Grove has shifted." The mossy ground beneath them rippled. The stones began to grind against each other, the sound of tectonic plates shifting. The flowers withered instantly, turning to ash, and the air filled with the scent of ozone and rot. Rory scanned the perimeter. The path they had taken was gone. In its place stood a wall of thorns, ten feet high, glistening with a viscous, purple sap. "Nyx, can you get us over that?" The Shade flowed upward, hovering above the thorns. They looked back down, their violet eyes wide. "I cannot pass the thorns. They are warded against my kind." Rory tightened her grip on the dagger. The Fae blade hummed in her hand, vibrating in time with the cracking sky. "Then we cut through." She stepped toward the barrier, the Heartstone swinging wildly, pointing not at the thorns, but at the space between two leaning stones where the darkness was leaking through like ink from a broken pen.