Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPBCF13EX30AYVW55BRM06

The air thickened the moment they crossed the threshold. One step, and the world *shifted*. The hum of London traffic, the distant wail of sirens, the damp press of autumn—gone. Replaced by something older, something that thrummed in the bones. Rory’s breath fogged in front of her, though the air wasn’t cold. It was *alive*, charged like the moment before a storm breaks. She flexed her fingers around the hilt of the Fae blade at her belt, the moonsilver cool even through the leather. Nyx didn’t so much as step as *unfold* from the shadows at her side, their form rippling like ink in water before solidifying into something approximating human. Violet eyes—too bright, too knowing—flickered toward her. **"You feel that?"** Their voice wasn’t sound so much as sensation, a whisper that curled into her skull. Rory didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The grove stretched before them, a cathedral of ancient oaks so vast their branches blotted out the sky. The trunks were gnarled, twisted with age, their bark etched with symbols that weren’t quite writing but *meant* something, deep in the gut. Wildflowers carpeted the ground—bluebells, foxgloves, things with petals like spun glass—none of which should’ve been in bloom in November. The air smelled of honey and damp earth and something sharper, like ozone after lightning. Isolde was already moving ahead, her silver hair catching the strange, golden light that filtered through the canopy. She didn’t walk so much as *glide*, her bare feet never disturbing the petals beneath her. **"Come,"** she called, not looking back. **"The heart of the grove waits for no one."** Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx. The Shade’s form flickered at the edges, as if the grove itself was testing their substance. **"She’s enjoying this,"** Nyx murmured. **"Aren’t you?"** A low chuckle, like wind through dead leaves. **"I enjoy *many* things. This is merely… interesting."** They followed. The deeper they went, the more the world *warped*. Time slipped—one moment, the sun hung high and golden; the next, twilight bled purple across the clearing, only to snap back to noon in the blink of an eye. Rory’s wrist ached where the Heartstone pendant pressed against her skin, its crimson glow pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat. She tugged her sleeve down. A sound—water, but not quite. A brook maybe, if brooks could *sing*. Rory turned, catching the glint of something between the trees. A stream, its surface so clear it was invisible until you were nearly on top of it. The water ran upward, defying gravity, before arcing into a pool that hung suspended midair. Tiny silver fish darted within it, their scales flashing like mirrors. Nyx reached out. Their fingers passed *through* the water as if it were mist. **"Illusion?"** **"No,"** Isolde’s voice drifted back. **"Merely a different rule."** Rory crouched, trailing her fingers along the bank. The pebbles were smooth, warm. One shifted beneath her touch—not a stone, but a *shell*, spiralled and iridescent, humming faintly when she lifted it to her ear. She tucked it into her pocket before standing. The trees began to change. Their bark darkened, taking on a metallic sheen, like iron left too long in the rain. The symbols carved into them glowed faintly, blue as bruises. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of crushed herbs and something metallic—blood? No. Not blood. *Magic*. The kind that stained. Nyx’s form solidified further, their edges sharpening. **"We’re getting close."** **"To what?"** **"The *why* of this place."** Ahead, the grove opened into a clearing. At its centre stood a monolith—no, not a monolith. An *arch*, twisted from blackened branches, its surface crawling with those same blue symbols. They pulsed, slow and rhythmic, like breathing. Beneath it, the ground was bare, the soil dark and rich. And *moving*. Worms. Thousands of them, blind and pale, writhing in silent industry. But not worms—*roots*. Thin, seeking, burrowing in and out of the earth in a pattern that made Rory’s eyes ache if she looked too long. Isolde stood before the arch, her hands pressed flat against the bark. **"The Veil is thin here,"** she said. **"Thinner than it’s been in centuries."** Her lavender eyes slid to Rory. **"You feel it, don’t you? The *pull*."** Rory did. A tug in her chest, like a fishhook lodged behind her ribs. The Heartstone burned. She clenched her jaw. **"What is this place?"** **"A door."** Isolde’s fingers traced the symbols. **"One that should not be opened lightly."** Nyx stepped forward, their shadow stretching unnaturally long across the clearing. **"And yet, it *has* been opened. Recently."** They pointed. The roots at the base of the arch were snapped, raw and glistening. Sap—no, not sap, something darker—beaded at the breaks. Rory’s stomach twisted. **"Someone’s been here."** **"Or something,"** Nyx corrected. A rustle. Not wind. Not animals. The roots *retreated*, slithering back into the earth like snakes fleeing a fire. The arch groaned, a sound like a dying tree splitting in half. The symbols flared blue-white. Isolde’s head snapped up. **"Run."** The ground *heaved*. Rory barely had time to curse before the earth beneath her feet *ripped* open, a jagged maw of dirt and roots yawning wide. She lunged, fingers scrabbling for purchase, but the edge crumbled— Nyx’s hand closed around her wrist, yanking her back just as the chasm sealed shut with a sound like a slamming door. The Shade’s grip was iron, their violet eyes wide. **"That was new."** Isolde wasn’t laughing. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. **"The grove is angry."** **"Angry?"** Rory wiped dirt from her palms. **"At *us*?"** **"At the violation."** Isolde’s gaze flicked to the arch. **"Something took what wasn’t theirs to take."** Nyx crouched, brushing their fingers over the broken roots. **"And left a mess behind."** They held up their hand. Their fingertips were stained black. **"Hel-marked."** Rory’s breath hitched. **"You’re saying a *demon* was here?"** **"Or something touched by Hel."** Nyx stood, wiping their hand on their coat. The stain didn’t fade. **"Either way, we’re not the only ones who know about this place anymore."** Isolde’s voice dropped to a whisper. **"And if *they* came through, others will follow."** The arch groaned again. The symbols pulsed faster, brighter. The air smelled suddenly of burnt sugar and rot. Rory’s skin prickled. **"We need to go. Now."** Isolde didn’t argue. She turned, her silver hair whipping around her like a storm. **"Back the way we came. *Quickly*."** They ran. The grove had changed. The path twisted, the trees leaning in, their branches knitting together like fingers. The wildflowers withered as they passed, petals blackening at the edges. The stream they’d marveled at earlier now ran red, the water thick as syrup. Nyx skidded to a halt. **"Left. The boundary’s shifting."** Rory didn’t question. She veered, ducking under a low-hanging bough— —and nearly collided with the standing stones. They weren’t there before. Three of them, jagged teeth of ancient oak, their surfaces carved with warnings in a dozen languages. The air between them shimmered, the Veil’s edge like a heat haze. Isolde didn’t slow. She passed through first, her form rippling like a reflection on disturbed water. Nyx gestured Rory forward. **"After you, *darling*."** She didn’t hesitate. The moment she crossed, the world *snapped* back into place. Cold. Wet. The stink of car exhaust. The distant blare of a horn. Richmond Park spread out before them, ordinary and dull and *safe*. Rory doubled over, hands on her knees, sucking in lungfuls of air that tasted like petrol and rain. Nyx materialized beside her, their form flickering in the grey daylight. **"Welcome back."** Isolde was already walking away, her bare feet silent on the pavement. **"That was a mistake,"** she called over her shoulder. **"We won’t be returning."** Rory straightened, wiping sweat from her brow. The Heartstone had gone dark again, its glow extinguished. She rolled her shoulder, the ache lingering. **"What the hell was that place?"** Nyx’s smile was all teeth. **"A keyhole, Rory. And someone’s been *picking the lock*."**