Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQK9A083C1ZHQ55MRA79SZ

The air changed before the trees did. Rory exhaled, her breath curling into silver mist that lingered too long, as if the cold itself were thick. The standing stones loomed ahead—ancient oaks fused together in an unnatural arch, their bark blackened with age and something older, something that hummed beneath her fingertips when she brushed against them. The Heartstone at her throat pulsed once, warm as a heartbeat. Nyx shifted beside her, their form rippling like spilled ink. *"This place is not for us,"* they murmured, voice a whisper of wind through dead leaves. *"But it will tolerate us. For now."* Eva—who had dragged them here with that reckless glint in her eye—stepped forward first, boots crushing frost-kissed wildflowers that shouldn’t have been blooming in December. The petals didn’t wilt. They *shivered*, tiny tremors running through their stems before they righted themselves, unharmed. Rory flexed her fingers around the hilt of the Fae blade at her belt. The moonsilver was cold, always cold, but the chill seeped deeper here, into her bones. She could feel the weight of Isolde’s warning in the weapon’s balance: *"Some doors should not be opened twice."* Too late now. The moment they crossed beneath the arch, the world *twisted*. Not like stepping through a door. Like being unspooled and rewoven. Rory’s stomach lurched—not nausea, but the sensation of her edges blurring, her skin prickling as if dipped in static. The air smelled of wet earth and something sweetly metallic, like crushed mint and old pennies. When her vision cleared, the grove stretched before them in impossible dimensions. The trees were too tall. Their trunks were smooth as polished bone, their branches laden with leaves that shifted color as she watched—emerald to gold to deepest violet, like fabric caught in a shifting light. The ground beneath her boots was springy, covered in moss that gave slightly with each step, as if she walked on something alive. When she crouched and pressed her palm to it, the moss warmed to her touch, tiny tendrils curling around her fingers before retreating. Eva let out a low whistle. "Bloody hell. It’s like the garden at the Ritz if the Ritz was designed by someone on *really* good drugs." Nyx didn’t answer. Their shadowy form had gone rigid, their violet eyes fixed on the horizon—or where the horizon *should* have been. The grove had no end. No walls, no fence, no distant treeline. Just more trees, more shifting light, more of that humming silence that wasn’t silence at all, but a thousand whispers just below hearing. Rory stood, brushing moss from her knees. "Isolde said the grove exists *between*. So… we’re not on Earth anymore?" *"Not entirely."* Nyx’s voice was tighter than before. *"And not not on Earth. The Fae realms don’t obey the same rules."* A rustle in the undergrowth. Rory’s hand flew to the Fae blade, but it was only a fox—no, not a fox. Its fur was too blue, its eyes too knowing. It paused ten feet away, tail flicking, before dissolving into a scatter of leaves that skittered away on an unfelt wind. Eva grinned. "Okay, that was cool." Rory didn’t share her enthusiasm. The Heartstone pulsed again, slower this time, like a held breath. She touched it, half-expecting it to burn. It didn’t. But the warmth spread, creeping up her throat, behind her ears. A warning? A welcome? "Guys." Eva was staring at her feet. Or rather, the lack of them. Rory looked down. The moss bore no footprints. No crushed stems, no disturbed earth. Just an unbroken carpet of green, as if they hadn’t walked at all. Nyx’s form flickered. *"Time works differently here. We could stay an hour and return to find years have passed. Or decades."* Eva’s grin faltered. "You’re joking." *"I do not joke about the Fae."* A sound cut through the hum—a melody, high and clear, like wind chimes made of ice. Rory turned toward it without thinking. The others followed. The deeper they went, the stranger the grove became. The trees here grew in impossible spirals, their bark etched with symbols that made Rory’s eyes ache if she stared too long. The air thickened, not with mist, but with *light*—golden motes drifting lazily, catching on her lashes, her hair. When she reached for one, it dissolved against her skin, leaving a fleeting warmth. Then the stream. It cut through the grove like a vein of liquid silver, its surface so still it might have been glass. Rory knelt at its edge, expecting to see her reflection. But the water showed her nothing. Just depth, endless and dark. "Don’t touch it," Nyx said sharply. Too late. Eva had already dipped her fingers in. She gasped, yanking her hand back. "It’s—" Her voice cracked. "It’s *cold*. Like, *burning* cold." Rory peered closer. The water wasn’t just still. It was *waiting*. A ripple. Something moved beneath the surface—pale, elongated, *wrong*. Rory recoiled as a hand (it had too many fingers) pressed against the underside of the stream’s mirror-smooth surface. The fingers splayed, then curled in a slow, beckoning gesture. Eva scrambled back. "What the *fuck*?" Nyx’s form solidified, their edges sharpening into something almost human. *"We are being watched."* The hand vanished. The water returned to its eerie stillness. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. "By what?" *"By the grove itself."* Nyx’s voice was a blade of shadow. *"This place is alive. And it is deciding whether or not we are prey."* A breeze stirred the branches above. The leaves whispered, a sound like hushed laughter. Rory’s scar—old, half-forgotten—ached suddenly, a phantom sting on her wrist. She clenched her fist. "We should go," she said. Eva didn’t argue this time. They retraced their steps—or tried to. The grove had shifted. The path behind them was gone, replaced by a tangle of thorned vines that hadn’t been there before. The thorns weren’t brown or green. They were the color of dried blood. Nyx exhaled, a sound like wind through a crack in the world. *"It’s herding us."* "Herding us *where*?" Eva’s bravado had frayed at the edges. Rory didn’t answer. She was staring at the heart of the grove, where the trees parted around a clearing. And in the clearing— A woman. No. Not just a woman. *Her*. Isolde stood beneath a tree whose branches cradled a nest of glowing orbs—fruit, maybe, or something else entirely. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulders like moonlight given form, her lavender eyes fixed on them with the weight of centuries. She wore a dress of woven vines and petals, the fabric shifting colors as she moved. "Took you long enough," she said. Eva made a choked sound. "You’re real." Isolde smiled. It wasn’t a kind expression. "As real as the grove allows." Rory’s fingers twitched toward the Fae blade. "You led us here." "I *invited* you." Isolde tilted her head. "There is a difference." Nyx’s form rippled, their voice a growl. *"You knew we would come."* Isolde’s gaze flicked to them, amused. "Of course. The Heartstone called to you, didn’t it, Aurora? And Nyx—" Her smile deepened. "You cannot resist a door left ajar." Rory’s throat was dry. "What do you want?" Isolde reached up, plucking one of the glowing orbs from the tree. It pulsed in her palm, casting shifting light across her face. "The Veil weakens. The solstice approaches. And something is coming through the rifts." She tossed the orb into the air. It hung there, suspended. "Something *hungry*." Eva swallowed. "And you need our help." Isolde’s laughter was the sound of wind through leaves. "Oh, child. I don’t *need* anything." The orb dropped. She caught it before it hit the ground. "But you? You need *mine*." The grove held its breath. Rory exhaled. "Tell us what’s coming." Isolde’s smile was the sharpest thing in the clearing. "Not *what*, Aurora Carter." She stepped forward, the moss parting beneath her bare feet. "Who."