Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7MX7XZM4M9MVG1KVSR6ZC

The air smelled wrong the moment they stepped through the standing stones. Rory’s boots sank into damp earth that gave way too easily, as if the ground itself had forgotten how to hold weight. She paused, fingers brushing the rough bark of an oak so ancient its rings had grown in spirals, defying time. Nyx moved ahead, their shadow stretching unnaturally long across the moss, as if the light here bent to some unseen rule. “This isn’t just a grove,” Rory muttered, voice low. “It’s a *place*.” Isolde didn’t answer. She never did, not in words that made sense. Instead, she turned her head—slow, deliberate—and her lavender eyes caught the dappled light filtering through the canopy. The trees here weren’t just tall; they *leaned*, their branches twisting into shapes that almost looked like hands reaching for something just out of sight. Nyx’s fingers twitched at their sides. “The Veil’s thinner here. I can feel it.” Rory’s pulse jumped. She’d read about the Veil in fragments of old texts, but feeling it was different. It prickled against her skin like static, a hum beneath the silence. She reached for the Heartstone pendant tucked beneath her shirt, the crimson gem warm against her palm. It pulsed once, faintly, as if in agreement. “You’re bleeding,” Isolde said suddenly. Rory blinked. A thin line of dark red welled from her wrist, the crescent scar she’d had since childhood. She hadn’t even noticed the cut. “What?” Isolde’s gaze was fixed on the wound. “The grove doesn’t like strangers.” Nyx’s shadow deepened, pooling at their feet like spilled ink. “Or it doesn’t like *her*.” Rory ignored them, pressing her thumb to the cut. The blood didn’t stop. Instead, it *moved*, creeping up her arm in a slow, deliberate trail, as if something was pulling it toward her elbow. She hissed, jerking her hand back—but the blood had already stopped. No mark remained. “What the hell was that?” Isolde smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “A test.” The grove shifted around them. One moment, the path was a narrow dirt trail winding between ferns and wildflowers that bloomed in impossible colors—purple like bruises, blue like frozen fire. The next, the flowers had *moved*. Petals unfurled toward them, stems bending in unnatural arcs, as if the grove itself was breathing. Nyx exhaled sharply. “It’s reacting to the blade.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the hilt of the Fae-forged dagger at her belt. The moment she’d drawn it, the air had grown heavier, the scent of damp earth and something metallic—like old coins—filling her lungs. The trees groaned, their leaves rustling though there was no wind. “It knows what you are,” Isolde murmured. Rory swallowed. “What *are* we?” Isolde’s lips curled. “Not what you think.” They pressed deeper into the grove. The standing stones loomed ahead, their surfaces carved with spirals and symbols that made Rory’s head ache just to look at them. The ground beneath her feet shifted from soft earth to something slick and smooth, like polished stone, then back again. Shadows stretched where there should have been light, and the light itself seemed to *pulse*, as if the grove was alive. Nyx stopped suddenly. Their breath hitched. “There.” A clearing opened before them, bathed in golden light that didn’t come from the sun. At its center stood a pool of water so still it looked like glass. But the surface wasn’t flat—it *rippled*, though nothing touched it. And beneath the water, shapes moved. Not reflections. Not illusions. *People.* Or what looked like them. Figures with too-long limbs, their faces blurred as if the grove itself refused to let them be seen clearly. One reached out a hand toward the surface, fingers brushing the water—but the moment they did, the ripple distorted, and the figure *changed*. Their form stretched, warped, then settled into something else entirely. Rory’s stomach twisted. “What are they?” Isolde stepped forward, her bare feet not disturbing the water’s surface. “Echoes.” Nyx’s voice was a whisper. “Of what?” “The things that *shouldn’t* be here.” The water’s ripples accelerated, the figures beneath growing more frantic. One lunged upward— —and the grove *screamed*. The trees shuddered. The flowers withered in an instant, their petals crumbling to dust. The air turned thick, suffocating, like breathing through wet wool. Rory’s skin prickled, her vision swimming. She fumbled for the dagger, gripping the hilt as the ground beneath her feet *shifted*. The pool’s surface exploded. Water sprayed upward in a geyser, and from its depths rose a shape—tall, skeletal, its limbs too long, its fingers ending in claws. Its face was a void, a darkness that *pulled*, like staring into a black hole. It had no eyes, but Rory felt them anyway, burning into her skull. “Run,” Nyx hissed. Rory didn’t need to be told twice. She turned—and the grove *closed* behind them. The path vanished. The standing stones shifted, their surfaces sealing together like a wound knitting shut. The trees groaned, their branches twisting into a barrier, leaves forming a thicket that blocked the way back. The air smelled of ozone and something older, something *hungry*. Isolde’s voice cut through the panic. “It’s not letting us leave.” Nyx’s shadow writhed, their form flickering between solid and smoke. “Then we don’t leave.” Rory’s breath came in ragged gasps. The thing in the pool had vanished, but the grove still *felt* wrong. The ground beneath her feet was no longer earth—it was *stone*, cold and unyielding, carved with the same spirals as the standing stones. She pressed her palm against it, and the stone *pulsed* beneath her touch, as if it had a heartbeat. “What is this place?” she demanded. Isolde’s smile was serene. “A door.” Nyx’s voice was a blade. “To where?” The grove answered for her. The standing stones *moved*. Not shifted. Not groaned. *Moved*, like gates swinging open on unseen hinges. Beyond them, darkness yawned—a void that wasn’t empty, but *full*, pressing against the edges of Rory’s vision. The air smelled of burnt sugar and something metallic, like old blood. And then the whispers started. Not words. Not voices. *Sounds*, like fingers dragging across glass, like breath against a microphone, like a thousand voices speaking at once but saying nothing. Rory’s grip tightened on the dagger. The Heartstone pendant burned against her chest. Isolde took a step forward. “Don’t,” Nyx warned. She didn’t listen. Her foot crossed the threshold—and the world *shifted*. The grove dissolved. The standing stones crumbled to dust. The air turned thick, cloying, the scent of spiced wine and roasting meat filling Rory’s lungs. She staggered, her vision swimming as the ground beneath her feet changed from stone to something softer, something *alive*—vines, petals, the press of too many bodies in too small a space. Nyx’s shadow stretched out, their form flickering as they tried to anchor themselves. “We’re not in the grove anymore.” Rory’s fingers found the dagger’s hilt again. The blade was ice-cold, but it *burned* in her grip. Ahead of her, a feast stretched out beneath a sky the color of amber. Tables groaned under the weight of platters piled high with fruits she didn’t recognize, meats that steamed in their own juices, desserts that glistened with syrups thick as honey. Servants—no, *slaves*—moved between the tables, their faces hollow, their movements jerky, as if they were being pulled by strings. And at the center of it all, seated on a throne of gilded bone, was a man. His skin was the color of polished mahogany, his eyes black as pitch. He wore a crown of twisted silver, and in his hands, he held a goblet brimming with wine that *moved* even as he didn’t drink from it. Prince Belphegor. Rory’s breath caught. The feast *noticed* her. Heads turned. Forks clattered. The whispers became words—hushed, greedy, *hungry*. And then the music started. A violin’s cry, high and keening, like a soul being torn apart. The slaves began to dance, their movements stiff, unnatural, as if they were being forced to perform. The air hummed with the scent of roasting flesh and something sweeter, something *wrong*. Belphegor’s gaze locked onto hers. And he *smiled*. His teeth were too white. Too sharp. “Welcome,” he said, his voice like velvet over a blade. “To Dymas.”