Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ5MJ86V2QB3MPS2K2TT36

The air thickened the moment they crossed the threshold. One step, they stood beneath the skeletal branches of Richmond Park’s winter oaks. The next, the world exhaled—warm, damp, alive. Rory’s boots sank into loam so rich it clung like wet velvet. She yanked her foot free with a squelch, fingers already twitching toward the Fae blade at her belt. Beside her, Nyx’s form rippled, their edges blurring into the sudden gloom before snapping back into sharp, humanesque lines. “Well,” Rory muttered, “this isn’t London anymore.” Ahead, the standing stones loomed—no longer weathered grey but black as polished obsidian, their surfaces carved with spirals that pulsed faintly, like embers beneath ash. The grove stretched beyond, a cathedral of towering oaks whose trunks twisted into impossible knots, their bark etched with the same glowing sigils. Wildflowers carpeted the ground, petals too vivid, too *wet*—blue as crushed sapphires, red as fresh wounds. The scent hit her next: honey and iron, decay and bloom, so thick it coated the back of her throat. Nyx’s voice slithered from the shadows. “The Fae love their theatrics.” A rustle. Rory’s head snapped toward the sound. Nothing. Just the flowers swaying without wind, petals brushing against each other in a whisper of silk. She exhaled through her nose, forced her grip to loosen on the dagger’s hilt. “Isolde said it’d be safe.” “Isolde lies like she breathes.” Nyx’s form flickered again, their violet eyes gleaming. “Though I’ll admit, she’s never lied to *you*. Yet.” Rory ignored that. She stepped forward, boots crushing petals that didn’t bruise, didn’t die—just folded beneath her weight and sprang back, unharmed. The light here was wrong. No sun, no sky, only a diffuse glow seeping from the sigils, from the flowers, from the very air. It painted everything in gold and emerald, turned Nyx’s shadows into something almost solid, almost *real*. A path unfolded ahead, not of dirt but of smooth, pale stone—veined with silver that shimmered like liquid mercury. It wound between the trees, disappearing into the mist that coiled at knee-height, thick as spilled milk. “Stay sharp,” Rory said. Nyx laughed, the sound like dry leaves skittering. “Oh, *Carter*. Sharp is my default setting.” They moved deeper. The mist curled around Rory’s ankles, cold then warm then cold again, as if the air itself couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. The trees here grew closer together, their branches knitting overhead into a lattice that trapped the glow, made it pool in golden puddles on the path. Something hummed—a low, resonant note that vibrated in her teeth, her bones. The Heartstone at her collarbone pulsed in answer, its crimson light bleeding through her shirt. She touched it. Warm. Warmer than it should be. “You feel that?” she asked. Nyx’s head tilted. “The *song*? Hard to miss.” Their fingers—long, too many joints—brushed a passing frond. The plant shivered, then leaned into the touch, petals unfurling like a cat stretching. “They’re singing to *us*.” Rory’s skin prickled. “What do they want?” “Attention. Admiration.” Nyx plucked a flower, held it up. The petals were striped black and gold, the centre a whorl of tiny, watching eyes. It blinked at them. “The Fae grove doesn’t get many visitors. We’re *entertainment*.” She swallowed. “Great.” The path sloped downward, the stones slick beneath her boots. The humming grew louder, layered now with something else—a wet, clicking sound, like stones knocking together underwater. The mist thinned, revealing a clearing. And the pool. Water black as ink, still as glass, ringed by mushrooms the size of stools, their caps weeping silver droplets. The liquid didn’t fall. It *rose*, hanging in the air before drifting toward the pool’s surface, vanishing without a ripple. Rory crouched at the edge, peered in. No reflection. Just depth, endless and hungry. “Don’t touch it,” Nyx warned. “I wasn’t planning to.” A shape moved beneath the surface. Something pale. Something with too many limbs. Rory stood abruptly. “What *is* this place?” Nyx’s shadows stretched long across the water. “A pocket. A fold. The Fae stitch them into the world like patches on a quilt.” Their fingers twitched. “This one’s older than most. You can tell by the *hunger*.” She didn’t like the sound of that. “Hunger for what?” “Stories. Memories. *Time*.” Nyx’s voice dropped. “The Fae don’t just take. They *trade*. And they always collect interest.” A breeze, sudden and warm, rustled the trees. The flowers turned as one, petals tracking their movement. Rory’s nape prickled. “We’re being watched.” “Of course we are.” Nyx’s grin was all teeth. “But not by what you’d expect.” The clicking sound again. Louder. Rory spun. The mushrooms were moving. Not all of them—just three, near the pool’s edge. Their caps split open, peeling back to reveal hollow interiors lined with needle-thin teeth. The silver droplets quivered, then *dripped* into the waiting maws. The sound they made was wet, eager. Rory’s hand flew to the Fae blade. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Nyx sighed. “Ah. The *guardians*. How quaint.” One of the mushrooms lunged. She sidestepped, blade flashing. Moonsilver met fungus-flesh with a sound like tearing parchment. Black ichor sprayed, sizzling where it hit the stones. The creature shrieked—a high, keening wail—and recoiled, its cap sealing shut like a clamming oyster. The other two hesitated. “Impressive,” Nyx murmured. “Most people scream first.” Rory didn’t take her eyes off the mushrooms. “Most people don’t have Fae steel.” A laugh, soft and not from Nyx. The air *shifted*. The mist between the trees coalesced, swirling into a tall, slender figure with skin like birch bark and hair like spun moonlight. Isolde. Her lavender eyes gleamed, amused and ancient. “Took you long enough,” she said. Rory didn’t lower the blade. “You could’ve mentioned the *man-eating fungi*.” Isolde’s lips curved. “Where’s the fun in that?” She stepped forward, bare feet hovering just above the path. No footprints. Never footprints. “Besides. You handled yourself well.” Nyx’s shadows writhed, restless. “Flattery, Seer? How unlike you.” Isolde ignored them, her gaze on Rory. “The grove tests those who enter. It’s been *lonely*.” She reached out, brushed a petal. The flower bloomed faster, unfurling into a perfect, blood-red rose. “But you’re here now. And you brought *such* interesting company.” Rory sheathed the blade—slowly. “We’re here for answers. Not games.” Isolde’s fingers stilled. “Aren’t they the same thing?” She turned, silver hair sweeping like a cloak. “Come. There’s something you should see.” She led them deeper. The trees here grew in impossible spirals, their branches heavy with fruit that glowed from within—pears like molten gold, apples veined with sapphire. The air hummed louder, the notes twisting into something almost like words. Rory’s skull ached with the pressure of it. Then the grove opened up. A meadow. No—a *court*. Stone thrones grew from the earth, carved with faces Rory didn’t want to look at too closely. A fire pit burned at the centre, flames blue and green, casting long shadows that moved on their own. And around it, figures—some Fae, their beauty sharp enough to cut, others… less definable. Things with too many eyes, too many limbs, things that wore skins not their own. Isolde stopped at the edge. “The *old* court. Before the Sundering.” Nyx’s form tightened, their voice a blade. “You brought us to a *memory*?” “A warning.” Isolde’s smile faded. “The Veil weakens. The grooves between worlds wear thin.” She looked at Rory. “And you, little storm, are standing at the centre of it.” Rory’s fingers found the Heartstone again. It burned against her skin. Isolde’s gaze dropped to the pendant. “Ah. *That* explains the interest.” “What interest?” Rory demanded. But Isolde only turned, her silver hair catching the un-light. “Walk with me. There’s more to show you.” The grove swallowed them whole.