Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY81EYM64QPMKC8ZGX0NXEY

The air smelled wrong the moment they stepped through the standing stones—thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something that clung to the back of Rory’s throat like a held breath. She paused just inside the grove, her fingers tightening around the silver chain of the Heartstone pendant. The pendant pulsed faintly against her collarbone, warm as a heartbeat, and she exhaled slowly, trying to steady the way her pulse had spiked. The light here was different. Not the golden haze of London at dusk, nor the sickly glow of streetlamps, but something softer, diffused, as if the sun itself had been filtered through layers of silk. The trees—ancient oaks, their bark etched with runes Rory couldn’t decipher—stood like sentinels, their branches weaving overhead into a canopy so dense it blotted out the sky entirely. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible profusion, their petals shimmering with a faint, iridescent sheen. A breeze stirred, carrying the murmur of voices that weren’t voices at all, but something like wind chimes made of whispers. Nyx moved ahead without hesitation, their shadowed form slipping between the trees like smoke given shape. Rory followed, her boots sinking slightly into the spongy earth. The ground beneath her feet felt alive, pulsing with a rhythm just beneath perception. She glanced at Isolde, who walked beside her with an air of quiet certainty, her silver hair catching the dappled light like spun moonlight. The Seer’s lavender eyes were fixed on the path ahead, unreadable as always. “You said this place was hidden,” Rory murmured, keeping her voice low. Isolde turned her head just enough to meet Rory’s gaze. “Hidden from those who do not seek.” Ahead, Nyx had stopped. They stood perfectly still, their silhouette flickering at the edges as if caught between two states of being. Then, with a sound like fabric tearing, they dissolved into shadow and reformed a few paces deeper into the grove, their violet eyes gleaming in the dim light. “They’re testing the boundaries,” Isolde said, as if reading Rory’s unspoken question. “The Veil is thin here. Easier to slip through.” Rory swallowed. The Veil. The word settled in her mind like a stone. She’d heard of it—fragments of lore from Isolde’s riddles, whispers in the back alleys of London where the air hummed with something older than the city itself. But this was the first time she’d stood where the barrier between worlds was thin enough to touch. Nyx gestured sharply, and Rory followed, her pulse quickening as the trees closed in around them. The deeper they went, the more the grove seemed to shift, as if the very air was alive. The flowers here were different—petals like stained glass, their colors too bright, too *wrong*. Some pulsed with a faint inner light, others seemed to drink in the dimness, their edges blurring like reflections on water. Then she saw it. A clearing. At its center stood a circle of standing stones, older than the oaks, their surfaces carved with spirals and sigils that made Rory’s head ache just to look at them. And beyond the stones, where the light should have been swallowed by the trees, there was a glow—a soft, golden radiance that didn’t come from the sky. It came from *nowhere*, and yet it was undeniably there, casting long, shifting shadows that moved as if breathed upon by an unseen wind. Rory stepped forward, her boots crunching on something that wasn’t quite earth. Petals, maybe. Or ash. She reached out, her fingers hovering just above the glow. The heat was warm, but not oppressive, like standing too close to a fire that had been banked for centuries. “What is this place?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Isolde didn’t answer right away. She was staring at the glow, her expression unreadable. “A threshold,” she said at last. “Where the Fae realm bleeds into ours.” Nyx drifted closer, their form flickering like a candle flame. “And beyond?” Isolde’s lips curved, just slightly. “Beyond is where the answers lie.” Rory’s fingers twitched. She wanted to touch the light, to press her palm against it and see if it burned or if it was as insubstantial as it looked. But something held her back—a instinct, maybe, or the memory of the way the Heartstone had pulsed when they’d first entered the grove. Then she heard it. A sound like a sigh, but deeper, richer, as if the very air had exhaled. It came from the trees, from the stones, from the glow itself. Rory’s breath hitched. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Nyx’s voice cut through the silence, low and urgent. “We are not alone.” Rory spun, her hand flying to the hilt of the Fae-forged blade at her belt. The dagger was cold against her skin, its familiar weight a small comfort in the sudden tension. The trees were still. Too still. Then she saw them. Figures. Not people. Not exactly. They moved like smoke given form, their edges blurred, their faces—if they had faces—hidden in shifting shadows. They stood just beyond the glow, watching. Waiting. Rory’s grip tightened on the blade. “How many?” Isolde’s voice was calm, almost amused. “Enough.” Nyx’s form rippled, darkening, thickening, as if they were drawing power from the shadows themselves. “They do not mean us harm,” they said, though their tone held no certainty. “They are guardians.” One of the figures stepped forward. It—*he*—was taller than the others, his form more solid, his edges sharper. His eyes glowed faintly, like embers in the dark. He tilted his head, studying them with an intensity that made Rory’s skin prickle. Then he spoke. His voice was like wind through dead leaves, dry and whispering. *“You have come to the place between.”* Rory’s breath caught. She’d heard that voice before. In dreams, maybe. In the spaces between waking and sleep, when the world felt thin enough to see through. Isolde took a step forward, her voice steady. “We seek answers.” The figure’s lips curled, though whether in amusement or disdain, Rory couldn’t tell. *“Answers are not given. They are taken.”* A rustle in the trees. Another figure emerged, this one smaller, her form wispier, her presence lighter. She—if she was a *she*—studied Rory with eyes like polished silver. *“The Seer’s companion,”* she murmured. *“The blade bears her mark.”* Rory’s fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger. The cold bite of the moonsilver was a grounding force in the sudden unease coiling in her stomach. “What do you want?” The first figure tilted his head, considering. *“We want nothing. But the grove hungers. And hunger must be fed.”* Isolde’s voice was smooth, unhurried. “We have no offerings to give.” *“No?”* The figure’s voice was a breath of wind, carrying the weight of centuries. *“Then perhaps you will leave. Before the grove decides otherwise.”* Rory’s pulse pounded in her ears. She could feel the weight of the Heartstone against her chest, its warmth a steady pulse. She could run. She could fight. But something in the way the figures watched her—something in the way the air itself seemed to hold its breath—told her that neither would be enough. Then Nyx moved. They stepped forward, their shadowed form rippling like liquid. *“We do not fear your grove,”* they said, their voice a whisper carried on the wind. *“But we do not bow to it, either.”* The figures stilled. The air between them crackled, charged with something Rory couldn’t name. Then, slowly, the first figure inclined his head. *“Bold words for one who walks between realms.”* *“I walk where I please,”* Nyx replied. A beat of silence. Then the figure’s lips curved, just slightly. *“Then you will find the grove’s patience… limited.”* The tension eased, though not entirely. The figures melted back into the shadows, their forms dissolving like mist in sunlight. The glow at the center of the clearing pulsed once, twice, then settled into a steady, golden radiance. Isolde exhaled, long and slow. “We are not welcome here.” *“No,”* Nyx murmured. *“But we are not forbidden, either.”* Rory sheathed the blade, her hands still trembling slightly. She turned back to the glow, to the standing stones, to the place where the world felt thin enough to see through. Somewhere beyond that light was an answer. She could feel it, like a current beneath the surface of the water, pulling her forward. She took a step. Then another. The glow didn’t burn. It didn’t resist. It simply *was*, a threshold waiting to be crossed. Rory’s breath came faster. She was close now. Close enough to see the way the light shimmered, close enough to feel the heat of it against her skin. Then she heard Isolde’s voice, soft but firm. *“Rory.”* She turned, her heart pounding. The Seer was watching her, her lavender eyes unreadable. *“The grove does not give its gifts freely.”* Rory swallowed. “What does that mean?” Isolde’s lips curved, just slightly. *“It means that everything has a price.”* Behind her, Nyx’s voice was a whisper. *“And some prices are steeper than others.”* Rory looked back at the glow. At the threshold. At the place where the answers waited. She took a deep breath. Then she stepped forward.