Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ82KB5C7Z7X2KJHVB0QP6

The air smelled wrong the moment they crossed the threshold. Rory exhaled sharply, her breath curling into mist despite the mild London evening they’d left behind. The scent was thick, cloying—like overripe fruit left to ferment in the sun, undercut with something darker, earthier. The standing stones loomed behind them, their gnarled oak surfaces carved with spirals that seemed to shift when she looked too long. She flexed her fingers, the Fae blade’s hilt cold against her palm, its moonsilver edge catching the strange, golden light filtering through the canopy. Nyx didn’t breathe, but they *reacted*. Their shadowy form rippled, stretching taller for a heartbeat before contracting into something more solid, more *human*—or at least, human-adjacent. Their violet eyes flickered like dying embers. *"This place is older than memory,"* they murmured, their voice the sound of wind through dead leaves. *"And it does not like us."* Isolde, already three steps ahead, turned with a smile that didn’t reach her lavender eyes. "Oh, it doesn’t *dislike* you," she said, her silver hair catching the light like strands of liquid mercury. "It simply *remembers*." She gestured to the path beneath their feet—or what passed for a path. The ground was spongy, covered in moss so thick it swallowed the sound of their footsteps. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible colors: blues that hurt to look at, reds that pulsed like a heartbeat, whites that glowed faintly in the dim. "The Grove has seen many visitors. Few leave unchanged." Rory adjusted the strap of her bag, the Heartstone pendant warm against her sternum. It had been pulsing since they’d stepped between the standing stones, a slow, steady rhythm like a second heartbeat. She didn’t like it. "Changed how?" Isolde’s laugh was a chime, light and hollow. "Would you prefer the answer to be a warning or a promise?" Nyx made a sound that might have been a scoff if they’d had lungs. *"Fae."* Their form flickered at the edges, shadows peeling away like smoke before reforming. "You could just *tell* her." "Where’s the fun in that?" Isolde twirled a finger, and the flowers nearest her bent toward her touch, petals unfurling as if starved for her attention. "Besides, some things must be *felt* to be understood." Rory exhaled through her nose. "Great. So we’re walking into a magical funhouse where the rules are ‘trust the vibes.’" She tightened her grip on the Fae blade. The metal hummed faintly, as if resonating with the air itself. The deeper they went, the more the world *warped*. The trees here weren’t just old—they were *ancient*, their trunks wide as houses, their bark etched with runes that burned with a faint inner light. The branches twisted upward, forming a cathedral ceiling that shifted when Rory wasn’t looking directly at it. Once, she swore she saw a face in the knots of the wood—a woman’s visage, lips parted as if about to speak. When she blinked, it was gone. The air hummed. Not a sound, exactly, but a vibration in her bones, like the deep thrum of a bass note played too low to hear. It set her teeth on edge. Nyx paused, their head tilting. *"Do you hear that?"* Rory listened. At first, there was nothing but the hum, the rustle of leaves that weren’t moving, the distant *drip* of water from somewhere unseen. Then— Music. Faint, so faint she almost missed it. A melody played on instruments she didn’t recognize, their notes sliding together like silk over skin. It was beautiful. It was *wrong*. The tune didn’t follow any scale she knew; it bent and twisted, pulling at something deep in her chest. "Don’t follow it," Nyx said sharply, their voice snapping her out of the daze she hadn’t realized she was falling into. *"That’s not for us."* Isolde, who had been walking ahead with her hands clasped behind her back, glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, but it *is*. Just not yet." She stepped over a root that pulsed faintly, like a vein. "The Grove sings to those who are listening. And you, Aurora Carter, are *very* good at listening." Rory swallowed. The music was still there, a whisper at the edge of her hearing. She forced her attention back to her surroundings. The flowers here were larger, their petals unfolding to reveal centers that looked like eyes—dozens of them, blinking lazily in the golden light. She sidestepped one, and it turned to track her movement. "Okay," she muttered, "this is officially the creepiest nature walk I’ve ever been on." Nyx’s form shivered, their edges bleeding into the shadows cast by the trees. *"You think *this* is creepy?"* They gestured to a cluster of mushrooms growing in a perfect spiral. Each cap was a different size, arranged like steps. *"Wait until you see the heart of it."* Isolde didn’t deny it. Instead, she reached out and plucked a flower Rory hadn’t noticed before—a small, bell-shaped thing with petals like stained glass. She held it out. "Here. A gift." Rory eyed it suspiciously. "What does it do?" "Nothing." Isolde’s smile was serene. "And everything. It’s a *memory*." "Of what?" "*Of this.*" Isolde pressed the flower into Rory’s palm. The moment her fingers closed around the stem, the world *shifted*. She was standing in the Grove again, but it wasn’t the same. The trees were younger, their trunks slender, their leaves a brighter green. The air smelled of rain and ozone, and the sky—visible through the canopy—was a stormy gray, lit by flashes of something that wasn’t lightning. Figures moved between the trees: tall, slender, their skin shimmering like polished metal. Fae. Dozens of them, their laughter ringing like bells. One turned, and Rory’s breath caught— Isolde. But not the Isolde she knew. This one was younger, her silver hair braided with flowers, her lavender eyes bright with something like joy. She was dancing with a Fae male, their hands clasped, their movements fluid and effortless. Around them, others feasted at a long table laden with food that glowed faintly, steam rising in impossible colors. Then the vision *twisted*. The storm above darkened. The Fae froze, their heads snapping up as one. A sound like thunder rolled through the Grove, but it wasn’t thunder—it was a *voice*, deep and resonant, speaking words Rory couldn’t understand. The Fae scattered. Isolde turned, her face pale, her lips moving in a silent scream. The vision dissolved. Rory gasped, stumbling back. The flower in her hand had withered to dust, the petals crumbling between her fingers. Her palm tingled, the ghost of Isolde’s touch lingering like a brand. Isolde was watching her, her expression unreadable. "Now you understand," she said softly. Rory’s throat was dry. "That was you. That was *here*." "A long time ago." Isolde turned away, her silver hair swaying as she moved deeper into the Grove. "Some memories are better left buried." Nyx’s form coiled tighter, their voice a rasp. *"Some memories are *hungry*."* Rory didn’t ask what that meant. She didn’t want to know. The path—if it could be called that—sloped downward, the moss giving way to smooth stone slick with moisture. The air grew heavier, the scent of fermenting fruit stronger, cloying. Rory’s head swam. The Heartstone pulsed faster, its warmth bordering on *hot*. She touched it through her shirt, half-expecting to find it burning her skin. It wasn’t. But it was *alive*. The trees thinned. And then they were there. At the heart of the Grove was a clearing, circular and vast, the ground covered in black sand that shifted like liquid. In the center stood a tree—no, not a tree. A *pillar*. Its trunk was smooth, obsidian-black, its branches spreading wide and upward, each one ending in a point like a blade. Hanging from the branches were *things*. Rory’s stomach twisted. Fruits. Dozens of them, ripe and glistening, their skins in every color imaginable. But they weren’t just fruits. They *moved*. Pulsed. Some had faces—tiny, half-formed things that twisted in silent agony. Others had *hands*, small and delicate, pressing against the inside of their skins as if trying to escape. And at the base of the tree, coiled around its roots like a sleeping cat, was a *shadow*. Not like Nyx. This was something else. Something *older*. It didn’t have a shape, not really—just a shifting, roiling darkness that seemed to *drink* the light around it. Rory’s skin prickled. The Fae blade in her hand grew heavier, its glow brightening to a harsh white. Nyx went utterly still. *"Oh,"* they breathed. *"Oh, no."* Isolde stepped forward, her bare feet sinking slightly into the black sand. "Ah," she said, her voice eerily calm. "I see." Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. "See *what*?" Isolde didn’t answer. She was looking up, into the branches of the tree. Following her gaze, Rory’s blood turned to ice. One of the fruits was *her*. Not her face. Not exactly. But her *shape*. A small, Rory-sized figure curled inside the translucent skin of a peach-colored fruit, her hands pressed against the membrane, her eyes wide and pleading. Rory’s breath came fast, shallow. The fruit-*Rory* moved her lips. *Help me.* The shadow at the base of the tree *stirred*. Isolde’s voice cut through the rising panic, sharp as a blade. "Run." Rory didn’t need to be told twice.