Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAZQWASR6KJCRHKJ3ZRM8T

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 glanced at Nyx, who stood motionless beside her, their shadowed form drinking in the scene like a thirsty thing. The Shade’s violet eyes flickered—once, twice—before settling on the path ahead, which wasn’t a path at all. It was a shift in the light, a ripple in the air where the world had unzipped itself just enough to let them slip through. Isolde moved first, her silver hair catching the dappled sunlight that filtered through the canopy above. The trees here were wrong—too tall, their bark etched with spirals that pulsed faintly, like veins beneath translucent skin. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible colours, petals the shade of bruises and molten gold, their scent thick and cloying, like honey left too long in the sun. “Breathe,” Isolde murmured, though her voice carried no warning. It was more a reminder than an instruction. Rory exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the Fae-forged blade at her belt. The metal was cold, as always, but here, in this place, it seemed to hum against her skin. She didn’t ask how. She didn’t ask why they were here. Questions would come later, when the wonder had worn thin and the edges of this world started to chafe. Nyx drifted forward, their shadow stretching unnaturally long, as if the light itself was reluctant to touch them. The ground beneath their feet didn’t so much as creak. Rory envied that. Her own steps made wet, sucking sounds, like she was walking through mud that wasn’t there. Then the grove opened up. The standing stones fell away, and the world dropped into a clearing so vast it made Rory’s chest ache. The air here was warmer, thick with the scent of something sweet and rotting at once—like overripe fruit left to ferment in the sun. Vines coiled around ancient oaks, their leaves broad and waxy, dripping with dew that wasn’t dew. It pooled on the ground, glinting like oil. “This isn’t natural,” Rory said, though she already knew. Isolde didn’t answer. She was too busy watching the horizon, where the sky wasn’t sky at all. It was a smear of colours—amber bleeding into violet, then something darker, like the bruise beneath a cut. The trees here were different too. Their branches twisted into shapes that made Rory’s stomach clench. Some looked like hands. Others like mouths. Nyx’s voice slithered into the silence, soft as a blade dragged across silk. *“You feel it too.”* Rory didn’t have to ask what *it* was. The pressure in her skull, the way her pulse thrummed in her throat like a trapped thing. The world here wasn’t just *different*. It was *hungry*. She adjusted the Heartstone pendant beneath her shirt. It pulsed once, twice, warm against her skin. A warning? A guide? She didn’t know. But the pendant had led them here, hadn’t it? From the alley behind Silas’s bar, where it had glowed like a dying ember in the dark, to the standing stones in Richmond Park, where the air had gone thin and the world had *leaned*. “How far do we go?” she asked, though she already suspected the answer. Isolde turned to her, her lavender eyes reflecting the unnatural light. “Far enough.” That wasn’t an answer. But then, it never was. Nyx moved again, their shadow detaching from their form and slithering ahead like a living thing. Rory followed, her boots sinking deeper into the earth. The ground here was soft, almost spongy, as if the land itself was breathing. She reached out, her fingers brushing against a vine. It was warm. Too warm. She jerked her hand back. “Don’t touch anything,” she said, though the words felt stupid even as they left her mouth. Of course she wouldn’t touch anything. This place was a knife’s edge, and she was already bleeding from standing too close. Isolde didn’t react. She was too busy watching the horizon, where the sky had darkened further, the colours bleeding together like ink in water. The trees here were closer now, their branches weaving together to form a canopy that shut out what little light there was. The air was thick, cloying, the scent of overripe fruit choking her. Rory’s throat tightened. “This isn’t the grove,” she said. Isolde finally looked at her. “No.” Nyx’s shadow flickered, their form shifting as they turned to face her. *“The grove is a door. Not the destination.”* Rory swallowed. “And where *is* the destination?” Isolde’s lips curled, just slightly. “Somewhere you don’t want to be.” The words hung between them, heavy as the air. Rory didn’t ask again. She didn’t need to. Because then she saw it. A break in the trees. A gap in the world. And beyond it—light. Not the sickly, bruised light of the grove, but something *clean*. Something *bright*. It pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and sure, and for a moment, Rory let herself hope. Then she saw the figures standing in that light. Tall. Too tall. Their forms wavered, like heat haze over pavement, but she could make them out—just. Silhouettes against the glow, their outlines sharp and wrong. One of them turned, and Rory’s breath caught. It was watching her. Watching *them*. Nyx’s shadow coiled tighter around their form. *“We’re not alone.”* Isolde’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, something sharp. “No. We’re not.” Rory’s fingers twitched toward the Fae blade. The metal was cold, familiar. A comfort in this place. But the figures in the light didn’t move. They just *stood there*, watching. Waiting. And then the ground beneath Rory’s feet *shifted*. Not an earthquake. Not a tremor. Something worse. The earth *pulled* at her boots, trying to drag her deeper, into the soft, spongy ground. She stumbled back, her heels digging into the dirt, but the land resisted. It wanted her. It *hungered*. Nyx’s shadow lashed out, wrapping around her ankle like a living thing. *“Run.”* She didn’t need to be told twice. Rory turned and sprinted, her lungs burning, her boots slipping in the damp earth. Behind her, Isolde moved with eerie grace, her silver hair whipping around her like a banner. Nyx was a blur of shifting shadow, their form flickering in and out of sight as they kept pace beside her. The trees loomed closer, their branches twisting like grasping fingers. The air was thick, suffocating, the scent of rot and sugar clogging her throat. She could feel it—the world *breathing*, watching, *waiting*. And then they were at the edge of the grove. The standing stones loomed ahead, their surfaces slick with something that wasn’t moisture. It *pulsed*, like veins beneath skin. Rory skidded to a halt, her chest heaving, her vision swimming. Isolde didn’t slow. She stepped through the stones—and vanished. Nyx’s shadow stretched out, brushing against the boundary. *“Go.”* Rory didn’t hesitate. She lunged through the stones—and the world *snapped* back into place. She was in Richmond Park again. The air was cool, crisp, *real*. The standing stones were just stones. The trees were ordinary oaks. The ground beneath her feet was solid. She collapsed to her knees, her hands trembling. The Heartstone pendant burned against her skin. And then she heard it. A whisper. *“You shouldn’t have come.”* Rory’s blood turned to ice. Because the voice hadn’t come from the grove. It had come from *behind* her.