Run: 2026-05-27-01KSMEQ7TTHC9CFX11RAWZAT2A

The grove was different at night. Not simply dark, but altered. The ancient oaks stood as silent sentinels, their twisted limbs reaching like skeletal fingers to snag Rory's dark hair as she picked her way between them. She'd been here dozens of times before, seeking solace in the hidden grove's eternal bloom of wildflowers and whispering breeze. But never after dusk. Now, the usual serenity evoked a prickle of unease. A wrongness leaked from the moon-shadowed underbrush, setting Rory's nerves on edge. Her boots crunched on the moss-strewn path, each step echoing too loud in the heavy stillness. A chilly autumn wind skittered through the clearing, making the oak leaves shiver. Their whispers sounded almost like... rorre, rorre... Rory shook her head. exhaustion, and an overactive imagination. Silly to let childish fears spook her now. She had a job to do. Her shoulders itched beneath her jacket, the unwanted gift from an unknown benefactor nestled in her pocket. She could feel its warmth even through the fabric, and swore the faint heartbeat emanated by the gemstone quickened with each step. Seeking out the Fae's hidden grove hadn't been a snap decision for Rory. But after... everything... she'd needed to escape the too-confining walls of her flat, the ever-present buzz and thrum of London, even her friends' concerned glances - all of it too much. So here she was, art their fault for believing in the magic in her stories, during the day. There was a portal to the city, they were sure... and she would've come looking in the middle of the night. Fucking idiots - she was safer haunting her own house than skulking out in fae-infested bushed after dark. But the Heartstone hung heavy in her pocket, as if it knew the truth - there was no escaping her_search for answers. And she'd surrendered so much to this already. A few hours of solitude, one last foray into faerie... she'd find the portal, claim her sanity in the arms of her sister and a good night's sleep. ...it felt like it had been hours since Rory entered the Fae Grove, though she'd only crossed through its oaken threshold moments ago. The ever-present weariness from her past still clung to her bones, but she'd shoved that down, leaving no room for anything but the unwavering forward crater of Rory Carter. Except now something kept slowing her pace. She felt it then: a rustling in the moon-blanketed underbrush nearby that shouldn't have been there. Her heart gave a warning thump in her chest, but she kept moving. There. The faint tinkle of running water reached her ears, carrying on the wind. The hidden spring-fed stream was dead ahead, just as she remembered. The fauns and greenlings often partied along its flower-lined banks when they thought themselves unobserved in the dusk. Rory skirted the waist-high azaleas and circled around the spring. Her skin prickled. Something definitely wasn't right. Somewhere a branch snapped, too loudly. And those whispers... they'd gotten worse. rorre, rorre... A droplet of cold sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades. She knew those whispers. She'd heard them from daybreak to midnight, for... how many weeks and months? She couldn't remember exactly, nor what part of her own living nightmare this was supposed to be. Not that it mattered. Any feyling had only needed to glimpse the twin walnut tattoos on her spine, and wonderment clouded with a predatory gleam dancing between her fingers. The so-called Worldly Prophecy had been the fuel in their tank, until she escaped. She hadn't thought to meet Fae back home in London, much less Richmond Park after dark. Madness. Utter madness. She pressed her hands to her temples, circling the glade in search of the quicksilver portal on legs and knees like a statue, until the slinking, unseen fae set their gaze upon her through the dusk she almost wanted to scream. Bare Glade. Bereft County. Bloodtouched Lands. Where no fey may walk, for fear of being caught nearby by any roaming mortal than comes close. My own bad making, I suppose, unwittingly seeking a switch in tempers. Rory should have known her strange journey through time and space, from faerie to Britain, meant no good. Everything seemed too vivid, too vibrant especially the pitch black... Like someone had etched the stars in gooseflesh upon her arms. Searing her with a wavering line of 'naughty naughty' All because she, and she alone, had made it through without an errant touch from Saykh's dead hands clutching her waist, while every other faery shrieked and fled back to their gilded shire. The perch called for her, the satiny breeze pushing against her veil of hair, and she needed to know someday if anyone truly came back from this realm of see-saw night and day... There had to be a reason for all of this. Something hidden in the quest for faerie, like a splinter settled too deep to pluck by hand. Rory didn't want to die. She just felt like she hadn't had a choice... A bat-like flutter of wings brushed her hair as something twisted around her body pressed her against a trunk. Still... She couldn't stop. The wrongness in the Grove gave a sickening lurch, like a carnival ride gone rough. Rory choked back a scream as the Heartstone in her pocket flashed, blazing with an inner fire. The world flipped and spun, colors strobing. A blast of heat seared her face, so fierce Rory winced. Then it was over. Blinking rapidly, she looked around. Trees rose all around, but nothing like the ancient oaks of the Fae Grove. These were narrow, tall pines, swaying beneath a sickly yellowish sky. Rory stumbled back from the twisting, gnarled trunk. Her wardrobe. The creaking stead of houses. She knew this place. Had been wary of coming here for years, with Myre-Agro Dripping Stead LEEP half-remembered covers, never believing... Her bones bubbled as they turned into something the same... They'd made her into their own before Joan. Had made her forget once, silently. And when she saw Joan making awkaward hand signs and blinking twice slow, before rapidly entering the portal... Reality really does suck, but knowing you'll never escape it - that's a special kind of torture. The roti panicked as one, a wild scrabble of clattering peels and frantic flight. The last fast-beaming face Rory saw was that of Miles. The last sound, a snarling roar ripping from his snout. Dark tendrils snaked through the undergrowth, grasping, tugging. Rory staggered back, turning. Turning. She gasped, Emmy Lou Cole, Isolde's Greenhouse, and Aneki grove. Still turning, lost to time. Never reaching home.