Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX6DRPFN0X7VRRVKXFHVR3

The air inside the grove hit Rory like a held breath finally released. One moment, she’d been pushing through the damp undergrowth of Richmond Park, the next—silence. Not the quiet of an empty forest, but something deeper, as if the world itself had paused to listen. She exhaled, her breath curling in the cold. The standing stones loomed around them, their surfaces carved with spirals that seemed to shift when she blinked. The trees here weren’t just trees—they were *old*. Their bark blackened like charred bone, their branches twisting into shapes that made her think of hands reaching for something just out of grasp. Above, the sky wasn’t sky at all, but a canopy of leaves so dense it blotted out the sun, leaving only a dim, silvered light that made everything feel underwater. Nyx drifted beside her, their shadow-form rippling like smoke caught in a draft. “This place remembers,” they murmured, voice weaving through the stillness. “It knows we’re here.” Rory adjusted the strap of her backpack, fingers brushing the Heartstone pendant tucked beneath her shirt. It pulsed once, a faint warmth against her skin. She didn’t like that. Not one bit. “Remembering’s one thing,” she said, keeping her voice low. “But does it *care*?” Ahead, Isolde moved like a ghost between the trees, her silver hair catching the strange light. She didn’t walk so much as *flow*, her bare feet making no sound against the moss. Rory had seen her do this before—glide over ground that should’ve been damp, leave no prints—but it still unnerved her. The half-Fae turned, her pale lavender eyes gleaming. “Care is a mortal concern,” she said, not unkindly. “The grove does not hate. It does not love. It simply *is*.” “Great,” Rory muttered. “So we’re trespassing in a place that doesn’t give a damn whether we live or die.” Isolde’s lips curved, just slightly. “Precisely.” Nyx chuckled, the sound like dry leaves skittering. “You’re taking this better than I expected, Carter.” Rory shot them a look. “I’m not taking it at all. I’m just here because you two insisted this was the only way to find out what’s *actually* happening with that damn pendant.” She tapped the Heartstone through her shirt. “And because I’m sick of being the only one who doesn’t know what the hell is going on.” A gust of wind cut through the grove, carrying the scent of something sweet and rotten, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. The trees groaned, their branches creaking as if stretching after a long sleep. Rory’s skin prickled. She’d been in eerie places before—back alleys in London at 3 AM, the basement of Silas’ bar after last call—but this was different. This wasn’t just *empty*. It was *waiting*. Isolde tilted her head, listening to something Rory couldn’t hear. “We should move,” she said. “The grove is waking.” “Waking?” Rory repeated. “You mean it was *asleep*?” “Of course.” Isolde turned, her silver hair swaying like a curtain. “Did you think it would greet you with open arms?” Rory didn’t answer. She didn’t have one. They pressed deeper, the ground sloping downward into a hollow where the trees parted just enough to reveal a clearing. And in the center of that clearing— Rory stopped. A pool of water lay there, perfectly still, its surface so dark it looked like a slice of night had fallen to earth. But it wasn’t water. Not really. The air above it shimmered, warping like heat haze, and when she squinted, she could see *shapes* moving beneath the surface—figures, half-formed, their edges blurring as if seen through a fogged window. Nyx hissed, their form flickering like a candle in a draft. “That’s not natural.” “No,” Isolde agreed, her voice quiet. “It’s a threshold.” Rory’s fingers twitched toward the Fae-forged dagger at her hip. The metal was colder than it should’ve been, the faint luminescence along its edge pulsing in time with her heartbeat. “A threshold to *where*?” Isolde crouched at the pool’s edge, her reflection not quite matching her movements. “Where do you think?” Rory didn’t need to ask. She already knew. Hel. The word settled in her chest like a stone. She’d heard the stories—everyone had. The nine realms of Hel, each ruled by a prince, each a twisted reflection of human sin. And Dymas, the realm of Gluttony, where the air smelled of roasting meat and the rivers ran thick with wine. Where souls were bound not in chains, but in contracts, their punishment an eternity of feasting on things they could never keep down. She swallowed. “You’re telling me this is a *door*?” “A weak point,” Isolde corrected. “The Veil is thin here. Thinner than it should be.” Nyx drifted closer, their violet eyes fixed on the pool. “Someone’s been tampering.” Rory’s stomach twisted. “Tampering how?” “Opening doors that shouldn’t be opened.” Nyx’s voice was a blade wrapped in silk. “And leaving things behind.” Rory’s hand closed around the Heartstone. It burned now, a steady, insistent heat against her skin. She yanked it free, the silver chain biting into her fingers. The gemstone glowed, its deep crimson light casting jagged shadows across her face. Isolde’s breath hitched. “Ah.” “Ah?” Rory snapped. “What the hell does *ah* mean?” The half-Fae’s gaze locked onto the pendant. “It means you were right to come. And it means we are not the only ones who have been here.” A sound cut through the grove—something between a whisper and a sigh. The trees trembled. The pool’s surface rippled, once, twice, like something beneath it had stirred. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. “We need to go. *Now.*” Isolde didn’t move. “We cannot.” “Like hell we can’t.” Rory grabbed the half-Fae’s arm, her fingers sinking into fabric that felt too thin, too *wrong*. “Isolde, *look at me*. We are *leaving*.” Isolde’s lavender eyes met hers, unblinking. “It’s too late for that.” The water in the pool *boiled*. Not with heat, but with *movement*—something rising, something *wrong*, its shape twisting as it broke the surface. Rory’s breath locked in her lungs. The air smelled like copper and burnt sugar. Nyx snarled, their form flaring like a shadow caught in a storm. “Run.” Rory didn’t need to be told twice. She bolted, her boots pounding against the moss, the trees blurring past her. Behind her, the thing from the pool *screamed*—a sound like tearing silk, like a thousand voices speaking at once. The grove *reacted*, the standing stones groaning as if in pain, the branches above her lashing like whips. Isolde was beside her, her silver hair streaming behind her like a banner. “Faster!” Rory didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her lungs burned, her legs ached, but she *ran*, the Heartstone searing against her palm, the Fae dagger a cold weight at her hip. Nyx was ahead, their shadow-form stretching, twisting, *changing*— And then the grove *ended*. One moment, Rory was surrounded by blackened trees and silver light. The next, she was stumbling onto damp grass, the familiar scent of London rain filling her nose. She skidded to a halt, her chest heaving, her hands braced on her knees. Silence. No screaming. No boiling water. No *thing* clawing its way out of the dark. She straightened, her fingers trembling as she tucked the Heartstone back beneath her shirt. The gemstone had gone dark, its heat fading like a dying ember. Isolde stood a few paces away, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. Nyx coalesced beside her, their form solidifying into something resembling a person—tall, slender, their violet eyes burning. Rory wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What the *hell* was that?” Isolde turned, her gaze flicking to the trees behind them. The standing stones were gone. The grove was gone. Just… *gone*, as if it had never been there at all. “That,” Isolde said softly, “was a warning.” Rory’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “A warning? That thing nearly *killed* us!” “No.” Isolde’s voice was quiet. “It did not.” Rory opened her mouth—then snapped it shut. Because Isolde was right. It hadn’t. It had *let* them go. And that was worse.