Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPV4DZTXGS2N5G45TZZWCV

The air changed before the trees did. Rory exhaled, her breath curling in the cold like smoke, though the London evening had been mild when they’d slipped into the park. The scent of damp earth and green things gave way to something richer—wild honey and crushed herbs, the faint metallic tang of ozone. She flexed her fingers around the hilt of the Fae blade at her belt, its moonsilver chill seeping through the leather gloves she’d pulled on against the autumn bite. The dagger had been a gift, though *gift* felt too small a word for something that hummed against her hip like a living thing, its weight both foreign and familiar. Beside her, Nyx shifted. One moment they were a ripple of darkness clinging to the trunk of an ancient oak, the next a solid figure—tall, limned in the faintest violet glow of their eyes. Their voice, when they spoke, was the sound of wind through dead leaves. *"This place does not like us."* Rory shot them a look. "You say that like it’s a person." *"It is."* Nyx’s form wavered at the edges, shadows peeling away like silk in a breeze. *"Older than the stones. Older than the Fae who carved them."* Ahead, the standing stones loomed—gnarled oaks petrified into jagged monoliths, their bark blackened as if scorched by some long-ago fire. Moss grew in the crevices, luminescent in the dimming light, pulsing faintly, like a slow, steady heartbeat. Rory reached out, hesitated, then brushed her fingertips against the nearest stone. A shudder ran up her arm, not quite pain, not quite pleasure—more like the prickle of a half-remembered dream. The crescent scar on her wrist, pale against her skin, burned for a single, sharp second. "Well," she muttered, "that’s not ominous at all." Isolde had already passed between the stones. She moved without sound, her silver hair catching the strange, golden light that filtered through the canopy above. The half-Fae didn’t look back, but her voice drifted to them, light as thistledown. *"Hurry, little moths. The grove does not wait for the hesitant."* Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx—if a being made of shadow *could* exchange glances—and stepped forward. The world folded. One moment, she was standing in Richmond Park, the distant hum of London traffic a dull throb in her bones. The next, the air *thickened*, like pushing through a curtain of warm syrup. Her skin tingled, the fine hairs on her arms rising as the Veil—thin here, almost translucent—brushed against her. She could *see* it, if she squinted: a shimmering distortion, like heat rising off asphalt, but shot through with threads of gold and deep, bruise-purple. The Fae blade at her hip grew heavier, colder. The Heartstone pendant tucked beneath her shirt pulsed once, warm as a heartbeat against her sternum. Then she was through. The grove was nothing like the park. The trees here were impossibly tall, their trunks wide as houses, bark etched with symbols that writhed when she tried to focus on them—like words in a language her mind couldn’t quite grasp. The leaves were too green, too *lush*, catching the light in a way that made them seem lit from within. Wildflowers carpeted the ground, blooming in impossible colors: blues so deep they bordered on black, reds like fresh-spilled blood, whites that hurt to look at. The air smelled of rain and something sweetly decaying, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. And the *light*. The sky—if it *was* a sky—was a swirling tapestry of twilight hues, neither day nor night but something in between. Stars flickered, but they weren’t stars; they were too close, too bright, shifting like fireflies trapped in amber. Rory tilted her head back, dizzy for a moment, as if the grove itself was tilting beneath her. Nyx materialized beside her, their form more solid here, less like smoke and more like polished obsidian. Their violet eyes reflected the grove’s strange glow. *"This place is not entirely of your world,"* they murmured. *"Nor theirs. It is the space between, where the Veil is thin as spider’s silk."* Rory swallowed. "Great. So if I trip, I might fall into Hel?" *"Or the Fae Courts. Or nowhere at all."* Nyx’s voice held something almost like amusement. *"The in-between is hungry."* A rustle of fabric. Isolde stood a few paces ahead, her pale lavender eyes fixed on Rory. The half-Fae’s lips curved, not quite a smile. *"You feel it, don’t you? The weight of the unseen."* She extended a hand, palm up. Resting there was a single flower, petals the color of moonlight, its center a swirl of silver and deep violet. *"The grove offers gifts to those who listen."* Rory eyed the flower. "What’s the catch?" Isolde’s laughter was the sound of wind chimes. *"Clever girl."* She closed her fingers, and the flower was gone—vanished, or perhaps never there at all. *"The catch is that the grove does not give without taking. A memory. A breath. A name."* She turned, her silver hair swaying like a river of liquid metal. *"Come. There is something you must see."* They followed. The deeper they went, the more the grove seemed to *shift* around them. Paths appeared where there had been none, winding between trees that leaned in as if to whisper secrets. Rory’s boots made no sound on the ground—no crunch of leaves, no snap of twigs. She glanced down. No footprints. Of course. Isolde left none either. Only Nyx’s passage marked the earth, and even that was strange: where their shadowy form brushed the flowers, the petals blackened for a heartbeat before springing back to life, brighter than before. A sound cut through the silence. Music. No—not music. *Singing*. A voice, high and clear, wordless but not without meaning. It raised the hairs on Rory’s neck, sent a chill down her spine. The melody twisted through the air, wrapping around her like smoke, sweet and intoxicating. She found herself moving toward it before she realized she’d decided to. Nyx’s hand—cool and insubstantial—closed around her wrist. *"Do not."* Their voice was sharp, urgent. *"Fae song is not for mortal ears."* Rory blinked, the haze of the music lifting like a broken spell. She shook her head, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth was, how her pulse hammered in her throat. "What the hell was that?" *"A trap,"* Nyx said. *"Or a test. The Fae do not distinguish between the two."* Isolde had stopped ahead, her back to them. She stood before a pool of water, its surface so still it might have been glass. The reflection within wasn’t the grove. It wasn’t *anything* Rory recognized. A sky the color of storm clouds, a city of spires and bridges that defied physics, and— Her breath caught. A figure. Tall, crowned in antlers, their eyes two pits of endless dark. They stood at the edge of the pool’s reflection, one hand outstretched, as if beckoning. Then the water rippled, and the image was gone. Rory’s fingers twitched toward the Fae blade. "What was *that*?" Isolde turned, her expression unreadable. *"A warning. Or an invitation."* She knelt, trailing her fingers across the water’s surface. The liquid parted like silk, revealing not her reflection, but a swirl of images: a flash of fire, a scream frozen in time, a pair of hands—*her* hands—clutching a dagger slick with blood. Rory’s stomach twisted. Then the water stilled. Isolde rose. *"The Veil weakens. The solstice approaches, and with it, the hunger of those who wait beyond."* She looked at Rory, her pale eyes knowing. *"You have been marked, Aurora Carter. The pendant. The blade. The scar on your wrist that was not always yours."* She reached out, brushed her thumb over the crescent-shaped mark. A jolt ran through Rory, sharp as static. *"You are a key. And keys are meant to turn locks."* Rory jerked her hand back. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." Isolde’s smile was sad. *"Not yet. But you will."* A gust of wind tore through the grove, sending petals swirling like snow. The trees groaned, their branches twisting as if in pain. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of iron and something older, something *wild*. Nyx’s form flickered, their edges bleeding into the shadows. *"We are not alone."* Rory didn’t need to ask what they meant. She could feel it—the press of unseen eyes, the weight of something *watching*. Waiting. Isolde’s voice dropped to a whisper. *"Run, little moth. The grove has shown you what it will. Now you must choose: stay and be consumed, or flee and carry the fire with you."* Rory didn’t wait for more. She turned, boots pounding a path that hadn’t been there a heartbeat before. The trees blurred past her, their whispers rising into a chorus of voices, some pleading, some laughing, some screaming. The standing stones loomed ahead, the way out—a tear in the world, a wound that bled golden light. She didn’t look back. Behind her, Isolde’s voice rose in a cry, half song, half curse. Nyx’s shadow stretched long and thin, a thread binding her to the grove. Rory’s lungs burned. Her legs ached. The Fae blade was a brand against her hip, the Heartstone a coal against her chest. She burst through the Veil— —and collapsed onto damp earth, gasping. The park was dark now, the stars overhead cold and distant. The grove was gone. Or she was. Nyx materialized beside her, their form flickering like a dying flame. *"We should not have gone,"* they rasped. *"Some doors should not be opened."* Rory rolled onto her back, staring up at the sky. Her hand found the pendant beneath her shirt. It was warm. Too warm. She thought of the figure in the pool. The hands covered in blood. *You are a key.* And for the first time, she was afraid the lock had already begun to turn.