Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQCDJEPWDS8YQXJ0TK2FQ9

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—warmth. Not the brittle, hearth-fire kind, but something deeper, like the first breath of summer after a long frost. Rory’s boots sank into moss so dense it might’ve been velvet. She flexed her toes, half-expecting the ground to give way entirely. It didn’t. The earth held, solid and alive beneath her. Nyx materialised beside her, their form rippling like ink spilled into water. "Well. This is new." Ahead, the grove unfolded in impossible geometry. Trees stretched upward, their bark silvered like moonlight on still water, branches twisting into arcs that defied gravity. Leaves—emerald, gold, the deep violet of twilight—drifted lazily, though there was no wind. The air smelled of crushed petals and something sharper, like ozone before a storm. Rory exhaled, her breath curling into the space between them. "Isolde wasn’t kidding about the ‘hidden’ part." "She rarely is." Nyx’s voice carried that whispery edge, like words spoken just beyond hearing. They reached out, fingers—if they could be called that—brushing a low-hanging branch. The leaves shivered, then *sang*. A single, crystalline note, high and clear, before dissolving into silence. Rory’s pulse jumped. "Did you—?" "Hear it? Yes." Nyx retracted their hand, shadow-coils tightening around their wrist. "Touch lightly here, I think." She didn’t need telling twice. Rory extended her own hand, hesitant, then grazed the nearest trunk. The bark was smooth, warm, almost *breathing*. Under her fingertips, a faint vibration hummed, like the deepest string of a cello played in another room. She pressed harder. The tree *pulsed*. A slow, rhythmic throb, as if blood moved beneath the silvered surface. "Okay," she muttered. "That’s—" "Alive?" Nyx’s form flickered, amusement threading through their voice. "More than you know." A rustle. Not from the leaves this time. Rory spun, hand dropping to the Fae blade at her belt. The grove stretched behind them, the standing stones they’d passed through now gone, replaced by a tangle of vines heavy with blooms that hadn’t existed a heartbeat ago. The flowers were wrong—petals too dark, centres glistening like fresh wounds. Nyx tilted their head. "Curious." "Curious?" Rory’s grip tightened on the dagger’s hilt. "That’s your take? They weren’t there before." "And now they are." Nyx stepped forward, their silhouette bleeding into the shadows cast by the unnatural foliage. "The Grove shifts. It’s not malicious. Just… *adaptive*." Rory didn’t relax, but she didn’t draw the blade either. "Adaptive how?" "Watch." Nyx plucked one of the dark blooms. The moment their fingers closed around the stem, the petals *unfurled*, revealing a core that wasn’t red but a swirling, liquid black. The flower *moved*, tendrils of darkness lashing out— Nyx crushed it. The bloom disintegrated into smoke, the tendrils retreating with a sound like a sigh. The remaining flowers on the vine withered instantly, shrinking into brittle husks before Rory’s eyes. She exhaled. "Right. Adaptive." Nyx’s form solidified, their violet gaze flicking to hers. "Not all gifts here are meant to be taken." A lesson, then. Rory filed it away, scanning the path ahead—or what passed for one. The grove didn’t have trails so much as *suggestions*, gaps between the trees that might’ve been invitations or warnings. The light filtered through the canopy in shifting patterns, casting prismatic patches on the forest floor. She stepped into one, and the colours *clung*, staining her boots in iridescent hues before fading. "Your pendant’s reacting," Nyx observed. Rory glanced down. The Heartstone at her throat had begun to glow, not the faint pulse it gave near Hel-rifts, but a steady, deep crimson, like an ember held to the skin. She touched it, half-expecting heat. It was cool. Almost *soothing*. "Great. So we’re standing on a Hell-mouth *and* a Fae pocket realm." She adjusted the chain, tucking the stone under her shirt. "Any chance this place is just *beautifully* lethal, or—?" Nyx didn’t answer. Their attention had shifted upward. Rory followed their gaze. The trees ended abruptly fifty paces ahead, giving way to a clearing—and in its centre, a pool. Not water. *Light*. A perfect circle of liquid radiance, its surface rippling with colours that didn’t have names. It cast no reflection, only a glow that made the air above it *shimmer*, like heat off asphalt in high summer. Nyx took a step toward it. "Ah." Rory caught their arm—or where an arm would’ve been, if Nyx had been fully solid. Her fingers passed through shadow, but Nyx stilled all the same. "Wait." She crouched, studying the ground. The moss here was thinner, revealing patches of something else beneath. Not soil. *Bones*. Small, delicate—bird, maybe, or something equally fragile. They were arranged in a pattern, a spiral leading right to the pool’s edge. Nyx’s voice dropped. "A warning, or an offering?" Rory didn’t like either option. She stood, brushing her hands off on her jeans. "Isolde said the Grove gives answers. But nothing’s free with the Fae." "Nothing’s free anywhere," Nyx murmured. The light in the pool *pulsed*, as if in response. The colours deepened, swirling into shapes—almost faces, almost words—before dissolving back into the luminous soup. Rory’s skin prickled. "We didn’t ask a question." "No." Nyx’s form darkened, their edges bleeding into the grove’s shifting shadows. "But *something* did." The air pressure changed. A weight, like the moment before a thunderclap, pressed down on Rory’s shoulders. The Heartstone burned against her collarbone. She yanked it free, holding it up. The crimson glow had intensified, threads of black weaving through the light like cracks in glass. Nyx’s voice sharpened. "Rory." She turned. The trees had *moved*. No—not moved. *Grown*. The silver trunks had thickened, branches elongating, weaving together into a lattice above the pool. The gaps between them were no longer gaps but *eyes*, hollows of darkness watching, *waiting*. And the flowers—the ones that had withered at Nyx’s touch—were back. Not on the vines this time. They sprouted from the moss at their feet, petals unfolding with wet, tearing sounds. The centres weren’t just dark. They were *empty*. Little voids, hungry and deep. Rory’s breath came faster. "We should go." Nyx didn’t argue. They reached for her— The pool *exploded*. Not with sound, not with force—with *light*. A geyser of it, arcing upward before crashing down in a wave that hit Rory like a physical blow. She staggered, arms flying up to shield her face. The light *burned*, not with heat but with *meaning*, images searing behind her eyelids: —A crown of antlers, shattered. —A hand, pale as marble, pressing a knife into another’s palm. —A city, drowning in fire. —A name, whispered in a voice that wasn’t hers: *"Malphora."* The vision cut off. Rory gasped, blinking spots from her vision. The grove was still. The trees had retreated to their original positions. The void-flowers were gone. The pool had returned to its gentle, rippling glow. Nyx’s form flickered, their voice tight. "You saw something." Rory’s hands shook. She clenched them into fists. "Yeah." "Care to share?" She swallowed. The name still echoed in her skull. *Malphora.* It tasted like copper. "Not yet." Nyx studied her for a long moment. Then, with a ripple of shadows, they turned toward the path—or what Rory hoped was the path. "Then we walk." Rory followed, but her gaze lingered on the pool. The light within it had dimmed, the colours muted, as if it had spent itself. As if it had *given* something. She adjusted the Heartstone, the metal warm now against her skin. The name coiled in her thoughts, insistent. *Malphora.* The grove seemed to hum around her, the trees leaning in just a fraction, as if listening. Waiting.