Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQA4ASK58CMZEHDQPQX2T3

The standing stones loomed like the ribs of some long-dead giant, their gnarled oak trunks blackened with age and veined with silver moss. Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the Heartstone Pendant tucked safely inside, its faint warmth pulsing against her sternum like a second heartbeat. The air here was different—thicker, sweeter, laced with the scent of wildflowers that shouldn’t have been blooming in late November. She exhaled, watching her breath curl into mist that didn’t dissipate, but instead drifted upward like smoke caught in an unseen current. Nyx materialized beside her, their form solidifying from the shadows between the stones. The violet glow of their eyes flickered like candlelight in a draft. *"The Veil is thin here,"* they murmured, their voice a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. *"Can you feel it?"* Rory could. It prickled along her skin, a static charge that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. She nodded, then glanced back at the path they’d taken. The trees beyond the stones were already fading, their edges blurring as if viewed through warped glass. *"We’re not in Richmond Park anymore, are we?"* *"Not quite."* Nyx extended a shadowy hand, brushing their fingers against the air. Where they touched, the distortion rippled like water. *"The Grove doesn’t follow the same rules."* Ahead, the clearing opened up, bathed in a golden light that had no obvious source. Rory stepped forward, her boots sinking slightly into the spongy earth. The ground was carpeted in flowers—bluebells, foxgloves, and something that looked like tiny golden stars, their petals shimmering with dew that never fell. The air hummed, a low, resonant note that vibrated in her bones. Isolde stood in the center of the clearing, her silver hair cascading down her back like liquid moonlight. She turned as they approached, her pale lavender eyes reflecting the strange light. *"You’ve come at last,"* she said, her voice layered with echoes, as if multiple versions of herself were speaking at once. *"The threads of fate are tangled tonight."* Rory swallowed. *"You said you had something for me."* Isolde smiled, slow and knowing. *"Patience, little mortal. The Grove gives its gifts in its own time."* She gestured to the space around them. *"Look. Listen. Learn."* Rory did. The trees here weren’t just trees—they were *alive* in a way that went beyond biology. Their bark pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, and their leaves rustled without wind, whispering in a language just beyond comprehension. A butterfly with wings like stained glass fluttered past, its path leaving a trail of glittering dust that hung in the air before fading. The scent of the place was intoxicating—honeysuckle and something sharper, like ozone after a storm. Nyx drifted forward, their form flickering between solid and shadow. *"This isn’t just a pocket of the Fae realm,"* they said, their voice hushed. *"It’s a threshold. A place where the Veil is so thin it’s almost porous."* Isolde tilted her head. *"And thresholds are dangerous things. They invite… attention."* A chill ran down Rory’s spine. She reached into her bag, her fingers brushing the cool metal of the Fae blade Isolde had given her weeks ago. The dagger was always cold, but now it seemed to hum in response to the Grove’s energy. *"What kind of attention?"* Before Isolde could answer, the ground beneath them trembled. Not an earthquake—something deeper, more fundamental. The flowers at Rory’s feet wilted, their petals curling inward as if burned. The golden light dimmed, replaced by a sickly green glow that seeped from the earth like pus from a wound. Nyx’s form darkened, their edges sharpening into something almost predatory. *"Something’s coming."* Isolde’s expression didn’t change, but her voice took on a sharper edge. *"The Grove is not pleased. It senses your fear."* Rory forced herself to breathe. *"I’m not afraid."* *"Liar."* Isolde’s smile was sad. *"But fear is not always a weakness. Sometimes, it is the only thing that keeps us alive."* The air pressure shifted, pressing down on Rory’s shoulders like an invisible weight. The whispers of the trees grew louder, more frantic, until they coalesced into a single, distorted voice: *"Leave. Leave. LEAVE."* Nyx’s hand closed around Rory’s wrist, their touch icy. *"We need to go. Now."* But Rory couldn’t move. Her gaze was locked on the center of the clearing, where the earth was splitting open. Not a crack—no, it was more like the ground was *unraveling*, threads of reality peeling back to reveal something beneath. Something *hungry*. The Heartstone Pendant burned against her skin, its crimson glow bleeding through the fabric of her shirt. She gasped, clutching at it, and the moment her fingers made contact, the world *shifted*. The Grove vanished. She was standing in a vast, open space, the sky above her a sickly amber, streaked with veins of red like old blood. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and something sweeter, cloying—rotting fruit, maybe, or spoiled wine. In the distance, sprawling vineyards stretched toward the horizon, their vines heavy with grapes the size of her fist, their skins split open to reveal pulsing, fleshy interiors. *"Dymas,"* Nyx breathed beside her, their voice tight with something like awe. *"We’re not just in the Grove anymore. We’ve slipped through."* Rory’s stomach twisted. *"How?"* *"The Veil is weak here. The Grove is a threshold, remember? And thresholds…"* Nyx’s form flickered, their edges blurring as if they were struggling to hold their shape. *"They can be crossed."* A sound cut through the air—a deep, resonant *gong*, vibrating through Rory’s bones. In the distance, a city of spires and domes rose from the earth, their surfaces gleaming with gold and copper. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the distant sound of laughter and clinking glasses carried on the wind. Isolde appeared between them, her silver hair now streaked with black, her lavender eyes wide with alarm. *"This is not where we were meant to go."* Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. *"Then how do we get back?"* Isolde didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into the folds of her dress and pressed something into Rory’s hand. The Fae blade, its moonsilver surface now glowing faintly, as if lit from within. *"You’ll need this,"* she said, her voice urgent. *"Dymas is not kind to intruders."* Nyx’s form solidified, their expression grim. *"And we are most definitely intruders."* The ground trembled again, and this time, Rory heard it—the sound of footsteps, heavy and deliberate, approaching from the direction of the city. She tightened her grip on the dagger, the cold metal biting into her palm. *"We need to move."* Isolde nodded. *"Run."*