Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPNF6A6J81NMC3PHH7Y8FV

The air smelled wrong the moment they crossed the threshold. Rory exhaled sharply, her breath curling into mist despite the summer warmth of Richmond Park behind them. The scent was thick, cloying—like overripe fruit left to ferment in the sun, laced with something darker, something metallic. Her fingers twitched toward the Fae blade at her belt, its cold weight a reassurance. The grove had swallowed them whole. Nyx’s form rippled at her side, their shadowy edges flickering like candle flame in a draft. *"This place is older than memory,"* they murmured, their voice the whisper of dead leaves skittering across stone. *"And it does not like us."* Isolde stepped forward, her silver hair catching the strange, dappled light that filtered through the canopy above. The trees here were not oaks, not really—not like the ones that marked the boundary. Their trunks were too smooth, too pale, their bark etched with sigils that pulsed faintly, as if breathing. Wildflowers carpeted the ground, petals in colors Rory had no name for—blues that hurt to look at, reds that seemed to bleed when she blinked. “You said it was safe,” Rory muttered, though she kept her voice low. The last thing she wanted was to provoke whatever watched them from the undergrowth. Isolde turned, her lavender eyes gleaming. “Safe is a mortal word, little moth. Nothing is *safe* where the Fae have touched.” She gestured to the path ahead, where the flowers parted like water before a bow. “But it is *permitted*. For now.” The deeper they walked, the more the world warped. The air hummed, a low vibration that set Rory’s teeth on edge, like the aftertaste of a scream just beyond hearing. The Heartstone at her throat grew warm, its crimson glow seeping through the fabric of her shirt. She pressed a hand to it, feeling the pulse against her palm. *Hel’s mark*, Nyx had called it once. A beacon. Or a warning. Ahead, the trees thinned, revealing a clearing—and Rory’s breath caught. A feast was laid out on a table of blackened wood, its surface carved with the same sigils as the trees. Platters groaned under the weight of food: pomegranates split to reveal jewels of seeds, a haunch of some dark-furred beast still steaming, loaves of bread crusted with what looked like crushed gemstones. Goblets brimmed with a wine so deep it seemed to absorb the light. And at the head of the table, a throne of twisted roots, empty but for the crown resting upon its seat—a circlet of antlers, still slick with blood. “Do. Not. Touch. Anything.” Nyx’s form solidified, their violet eyes sharp. *"This is not a gift. It is a test."* Rory swallowed. The scent of the food was intoxicating, rich and heavy, making her stomach clench with hunger she hadn’t known she felt. Her fingers itched to reach for a grape, plump and purple, its skin dusted with something that glittered like sugar. But the Heartstone burned hotter, a brand against her collarbone. Isolde plucked a silver apple from a branch Rory hadn’t noticed before, its surface smooth as glass. She took a bite, juice running down her chin, and laughed at Rory’s expression. “Oh, little moth, you think this is the danger?” She gestured to the table. “This is *courtesy*. The true teeth of the grove are in the things it does not show you.” A rustle in the undergrowth. Rory spun, hand flying to the Fae blade, its cold bite stinging her fingers as she drew it. The flowers trembled. Then—movement. A figure, half-glimpsed between the trees: tall, too tall, its limbs too long, its skin the color of birch bark. It had no face, only a smooth stretch of pale wood where features should have been. It tilted its head, considering them, before melting back into the foliage. “What the *hell*—?” Rory’s voice cracked. *"A guardian,"* Nyx breathed. *"Or a hunter. The Fae do not distinguish."* Isolde wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, unconcerned. “It won’t harm us. Not yet.” She tossed the apple core into the shadows. It vanished before it hit the ground. “But we should move. The grove grows impatient.” The path sloped downward, the trees pressing closer, their branches knitting overhead into a cathedral vault. The light dimmed, shifting from gold to a sickly green, like sunlight filtered through stained glass of some toxic hue. The air thickened, each breath a labor. Rory’s skin prickled, the fine hairs on her arms rising as if charged with static. The Heartstone’s glow pulsed in time with her heartbeat, casting crimson reflections on the moonsilver blade in her grip. Then the ground gave way. Not a fall—no, the earth simply *moved*, rolling beneath their feet like a living thing. Rory gasped, windmilling her arms as the world tilted, but the roots of the trees lashed out, coiling around her ankles, steadying her. Nyx hissed, their form flickering between solid and smoke as the grove tested their substance. Only Isolde remained untouched, her bare feet hovering an inch above the shifting soil. “A trial,” Isolde said, her voice distant, as if she spoke through water. “The grove wants to know if you are worthy of its secrets.” “Worthy of *what*—?” Rory’s question died in her throat. The trees parted. Before them yawned a chasm, its depths swallowed by darkness. But it was not empty. Bridges of woven vines spanned the gap, each leading to a different path—a door of moss-crusted stone, a curtain of hanging roots, a mirror of still water suspended in midair. And beyond them, half-buried in the earth, the skeletal remains of something vast. Ribs like the arches of a cathedral, a skull the size of a carriage, its hollow eye sockets filled with the same eerie green light that tinted the air. “A titan,” Nyx whispered. *"One of the Old Ones, buried before mortals learned to name the sky."* Isolde knelt, pressing her palm to the earth beside the bones. The ground shuddered in response. “This is the heart of the grove. The place where the Veil is thin enough to *tear*.” She looked up at Rory, her eyes wide, pupils blown black with something like hunger. “This is where you will find your answers. And where *they* will find you.” Rory’s grip tightened on the Fae blade. The Heartstone was a furnace now, its heat searing through her shirt, branding her skin. She could *feel* it—the pull of the chasm, the whisper of the bones, the grove’s breath on the back of her neck. This was not just a place. It was alive. And it was waiting. Nyx’s hand—cool and insubstantial—brushed her shoulder. *"We should not have come,"* they murmured. *"Some doors should never be opened."* Isolde stood, her silver hair whipping around her like a storm. “Too late for that.” She gestured to the bridges. “Choose, Aurora Carter. But choose quickly. The grove’s patience is not infinite.” Rory stared at the paths before her. The stone door, solid and unyielding. The roots, shifting like serpents. The mirror, its surface so still it might have been ice. And beneath it all, the bones of a god, humming with power. She exhaled, slow and steady, and stepped forward.