Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA7RY87WD7NE5A62HVAF5R

The air smelled like honey and damp earth, thick with the scent of blooming jasmine that didn’t exist in London. Rory Carter adjusted the strap of her backpack, her fingers brushing the cold metal of the Fae-forged blade at her hip—a gift from Isolde, one she still wasn’t entirely sure she deserved. The pendant around her neck, the Heartstone, pulsed faintly against her collarbone, its crimson glow casting shifting shadows across the moss beneath her boots. She wasn’t the only one breathing shallowly. Nyx moved like smoke beside her, their silhouette rippling at the edges as they tested the boundaries of their form. The Shade had warned them this place would be different—*alive*, in a way that defied mortal logic—but Rory hadn’t expected the way her skin prickled with awareness, like the hairs on her arms had been replaced by tiny, trembling antennae. The grove wasn’t just a clearing in Richmond Park. It was a wound in the world, a place where the rules of time and space bent like willow branches in the wind. Isolde walked ahead, her silver hair catching the dappled light in a way that made it seem less like hair and more like moonlight solidified into strands. She didn’t turn back, didn’t offer reassurance. She never did. But Rory had learned to read the half-Fae’s silence: the way her shoulders relaxed just slightly, the faintest tilt of her chin toward the path ahead. *This is safe. For now.* The standing stones loomed at the grove’s edge, their barkless trunks twisted into shapes that looked like they’d been carved by hands that didn’t quite know how to hold a knife. Rory reached out, her fingers hovering just shy of the rough surface. The moment she touched it, a jolt shot up her arm—not pain, but something like static, like she’d stuck her tongue to a battery. She jerked back, her wrist scar throbbing in sympathy. “Careful,” Nyx murmured, their voice the kind of whisper that made her teeth ache. “The stones remember.” Rory exhaled through her nose. “Remember what?” “Everything.” Nyx’s form flickered, darkening for a heartbeat before settling back into something resembling solidity. “They’ve seen the grove stretch and shrink like a lung. They’ve watched mortals stumble in, wide-eyed, only to leave broken or mad. They don’t forget.” Isolde had stopped at the center of the clearing, where the wildflowers grew in impossible colors—blossoms the shade of bruises, petals that shimmered like oil on water. She didn’t look at them. She was staring at the ground, her pale lavender eyes fixed on something Rory couldn’t see. “What is it?” Rory asked, stepping forward. Isolde didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The earth beneath Rory’s boots wasn’t earth at all. It was *soft*, like treading on a thick carpet of velvet, but when she knelt to press her palm into it, her fingers sank an inch before the soil resisted, cool and yielding. She pulled her hand back—and her fingers came away damp, but not with water. With something *thicker*, like syrup or slow-moving honey. She licked it off her thumb without thinking. The taste exploded across her tongue—sweet, but beneath it, something metallic, like blood and copper. She gagged, spitting onto the ground. The moment the droplet hit the soil, it *moved*, wriggling like a living thing before dissolving into the earth. Nyx’s laughter was a dry rustle of leaves. “You’ve just tasted the grove’s hunger.” Rory wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s *alive*.” “Of course it is.” Isolde’s voice was mild, but her fingers twitched at her sides, as if she were resisting the urge to reach for something—anything—to ground herself. “This place feeds on perception. It gives what you need. It takes what you fear.” Rory swallowed. “And what does *it* need?” Isolde’s lips curved, just slightly. “A sacrifice.” The word hung between them, heavy as the humidity. Rory’s pulse jumped. “What kind of sacrifice?” “That depends on the taker.” Isolde finally turned, her gaze locking onto Rory’s. “But the grove always collects.” Nyx drifted forward, their shadow stretching unnaturally long across the flowers. “Show us the heart of it.” Isolde didn’t hesitate. She stepped deeper into the grove, and the world seemed to *shift* around her. The flowers bent toward her path, their petals unfurling like fingers beckoning her onward. The air thickened, pressing against Rory’s skin like a held breath. She could feel the weight of the Veil here, thin as spider silk, but present all the same. The winter solstice was still weeks away, but the Barrier was weaker than it had been in London, flickering at the edges of her vision like heat haze. “Can you *see* it?” Nyx asked, tilting their head. Rory blinked. “See what?” “The Veil.” Nyx’s violet eyes gleamed faintly, as if lit from within. “The boundary between here and the rest. It’s thinner here. You just have to *look*.” She did. And there it was—a shimmering distortion, like heat rising off pavement, but *wrong*, like the world had been painted with a brushstroke too heavy, too deliberate. She reached out, her fingers passing through it like mist. On the other side, she could *almost* see the amber glow of Dymas, the realm of Gluttony, its vineyards sprawling like a fever dream. “Fuck,” she breathed. Nyx chuckled. “Language.” Isolde had stopped at the grove’s center, where the flowers grew in a perfect circle around a single, gnarled oak. Its bark was black as pitch, its branches twisted into shapes that made Rory’s stomach clench. The tree didn’t have leaves. Instead, its limbs were wrapped in what looked like *ribbons*—long, silver strands that moved when she wasn’t looking, coiling and uncoiling like serpents. “What is that?” Rory asked. “Memory,” Isolde said softly. “The grove’s memories. The things it has seen. The things it has *taken*.” Nyx stepped closer, their shadow merging with the tree’s branches for a heartbeat before pulling back. “It’s beautiful.” Rory wasn’t so sure. The air here was heavier, charged with something electric. She could feel her pulse in her throat, in the tips of her fingers. The Heartstone pendant burned against her skin, its warmth seeping through her shirt like a brand. “Isolde,” she said, “what’s the worst thing that could happen here?” The half-Fae turned, her lavender eyes unreadable. “You could leave a part of yourself behind.” Rory’s breath hitched. “Like what?” “Like your name.” Isolde’s voice was quiet. “Like your voice. Like the shape of your shadow.” Nyx’s laughter was a dark, velvety sound. “Or like your *soul*.” Rory’s grip tightened on the strap of her backpack. “That’s not helpful.” Isolde’s lips quirked. “Nothing ever is.” She reached out—and touched the oak. The moment her fingers brushed the bark, the world *shifted*. The grove didn’t just change. It *unfolded*, peeling back like the layers of an onion. Rory gasped as the standing stones behind her *moved*, their roots writhing like serpents before snapping upright in a new configuration. The flowers twisted into shapes that made her stomach lurch—faces, screaming, their petals stretched into silent mouths. The air smelled like burning sugar and something older, something *rotten*. And then— A voice. Not in her ears. *In her mind.* *“You are not welcome.”* Rory stumbled back, her heel catching on a root. Nyx caught her arm, their touch cold as ice. “Did you hear that?” “Yes,” Rory hissed. Isolde didn’t look surprised. She didn’t look *afraid*, either. Just… tired. “The grove speaks. It always does.” *“You carry the scent of the Veil,”* the voice slithered into her thoughts. *“You carry the taste of the mortal world. You do not belong here.”* Rory’s hands shook. “What do we do?” Isolde’s fingers were still pressed to the tree. “We listen.” *“The grove hungers,”* the voice whispered. *“It hungers for *truth*.”* Nyx’s grip on Rory’s arm tightened. “What the hell does that mean?” Isolde didn’t answer. She was staring at the tree, her breath coming faster now. The silver ribbons wrapped around the branches *moved*, coiling tighter, tighter— And then one of them *snapped*. It lashed out like a whip, striking Isolde across the face. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry out. But her eyes widened, just for a second, before she reached up and *caught* the ribbon, her fingers closing around it like she was holding a living thing. *“You have lied to us,”* the voice hissed. *“You have *hidden*.”* Isolde’s voice was steady when she spoke, but Rory could hear the strain beneath it. “I have not lied.” *“You have withheld,”* the grove accused. *“You have kept secrets from the ones who seek you.”* Isolde’s grip on the ribbon tightened. “I have given them what they needed.” *“And what do *you* need?”* Silence. The grove was *waiting*. Rory’s throat was dry. “Isolde—” “*Answer,*” the voice demanded. Isolde’s breath hitched. For the first time, Rory saw something raw in her eyes—something like fear. Or maybe it was *longing*. And then, quietly: “I need to be *seen*.” The words hung in the air. The grove was still. And then— The ribbons *relaxed*. The flowers unfurled, their petals smoothing into gentle curves. The standing stones stilled. The air lightened, the oppressive weight lifting like a held breath being released. Isolde exhaled, her shoulders sagging just slightly. She let the ribbon slip from her fingers, and it dissolved into the bark like smoke. Nyx was watching her with something like awe. “Well. That was new.” Rory’s legs felt unsteady. “What just happened?” Isolde turned to her, her expression unreadable. “The grove tests its guests. It offers truths in exchange for honesty.” “And what did it offer *you*?” Nyx asked. Isolde’s fingers brushed the pendant at her throat—a silver chain Rory hadn’t noticed before, one that matched the blade at Rory’s hip. “A reminder.” Rory frowned. “Of what?” Isolde’s gaze locked onto hers. “That even the exiled can still be *found*.” The grove was quiet again. Too quiet. Rory swallowed. “So. What now?” Isolde stepped back from the tree, her movements deliberate. “Now, we leave.” Nyx tilted their head. “Just like that?” “Just like that.” Isolde’s voice was firm. “The grove has spoken. It has taken what it needed.” Rory’s fingers twitched toward the Heartstone pendant. It was still warm, but the pulse had steadied. “And what did *it* take?” Isolde’s smile was sad. “A name.” Rory’s breath caught. “Yours?” Isolde didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Because as they turned to leave, Rory saw the oak’s bark *shift*, the silver ribbons coiling tighter around the branches—and one of them, just for a heartbeat, *glowed* with the same pale lavender as Isolde’s eyes. Nyx was the first to break the silence. “Well. That was *cheery*.” Rory didn’t laugh. She was too busy watching the grove’s edge, where the standing stones were already beginning to *blur*, their forms flickering like candle flames in the wind. The Veil was thinning. And something was *coming through*.