Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HKD6B1GW1R1SB1BHYHSXY

The oaks stood in a ring where there ought to have been open grass. Rory checked behind her. Richmond Park stretched away under a flat grey sky, its paths muddy from last night’s rain. A cyclist passed between two distant trees. When she turned back, the trunks were closer than they had been a moment ago. “Tell me that happened,” she said. “It happened,” Nyx whispered. Their violet eyes hovered in the shadow of an oak, the rest of them only a suggestion against the bark. Isolde stepped between the trunks without brushing either one. Her silver hair moved in a wind Rory couldn’t feel. Rory followed. The city vanished. Not gradually. No thinning traffic, no last call of a crow. One step took the sound of a distant road from her ears and put her in a clearing full of birdsong she couldn’t place. Wildflowers crowded the grass, though frost still silvered the park beyond the oaks. Their petals were blue, white, and a red so dark it looked wet. Her boots sank into soft earth. Isolde’s bare feet left no mark. Overhead, branches knit into a green ceiling. Light fell through in narrow shafts, but Rory couldn’t find the sun. “Welcome to my grove,” Isolde said. Rory touched the Heartstone through her jumper. Its silver chain had caught against the crescent scar on her left wrist when she put it on that morning, and she’d almost left it behind. Now the crimson gem gave a slow pulse of heat beneath her fingers. “Your grove has a door,” Rory said. “All groves have doors. Most people mistake them for trees.” Somewhere beyond the clearing, water rang against stone. Rory followed the sound past a bank of flowers. The petals turned toward her as she passed. She stopped. They held still. Nyx emerged from the oak’s shadow in solid form, tall enough to duck under a low branch. “I dislike being watched by plants.” “Then don’t stare back,” Rory said, though she kept walking. The flowers grew thicker underfoot. None bent beneath her boots. She crouched and touched one: cool petals, a warm stem. It folded shut around her fingertip with surprising gentleness. She pulled free, and it opened again. Ahead, the ringing became louder. Rory expected a stream. Instead she found a shallow basin carved into a slab of black stone. Drops rose from its surface, struck a broad leaf hanging above it, and fell upward again. Each impact made a clear, bell-like note. “How old is this place?” she asked. Isolde stood beside the basin. “The trees remember men who wore iron before they learned to make swords.” Rory glanced at the oaks. Their bark was furrowed so deeply that pale moss grew in the cracks. At the far end of the clearing, two trunks leaned together over a gap no wider than a gate. Beyond it lay darkness with a warm edge, as if someone had lit a fire very far away. The Heartstone pulsed again. Nyx noticed her hand at her throat. “A threshold?” “I think so.” Isolde’s pale lavender eyes rested on the gap. “The grove keeps more than one kind of visitor.” “That isn’t an answer.” “It is the answer I have.” Rory took out the dagger Isolde had given her. Moonsilver lay cold against her palm, its blade shaped like a narrow leaf. In the dimness beneath the trees it gave off the faintest light. The gap between the oaks seemed to tighten. Nyx moved close enough for Rory to feel the chill of their presence. “There is a seam there. I can see it, but I cannot pass through.” “Because?” “Because something on the other side wants to know my name.” Rory looked at Isolde. “The living are invited,” the seer said. “The dead are counted. Those between are troublesome to its arithmetic.” Nyx gave a dry, whispering laugh. “Charming.” Rory thought of turning back. She thought of the unknown hand that had sent her the Heartstone, and of how it had warmed twice this week near places no portal had any business being. Whatever waited through the gap already knew how to find her. She would rather see it coming. She stepped toward the oaks. The air thickened, sweet with rotting fruit. A faint shimmer lay across the darkness. Rory pressed the point of the dagger to it. Resistance ran up her arm, as firm as glass. She drew the blade down. The shimmer parted without a sound. Heat touched her face. The gap widened, and Rory went through before she could reconsider. An amber sky filled her vision. She stood on a paved terrace overlooking a valley of vineyards. The vines climbed black trellises in straight rows, their leaves green as bottle glass and their grapes the size of plums. Beyond them spread orchards, gardens, and pale buildings with open kitchens built into their sides. Steam rose from a hundred chimneys. Somewhere below, a crowd roared with delight. Behind her, Nyx crossed the threshold and became a dark figure against the amber light. Isolde followed. The cut Rory had made closed between the oaks, leaving them standing beneath an arch of branches on the terrace. Through it, she could still see a sliver of the grove. The air smelled of warm bread, woodsmoke, crushed herbs, and something rich cooking in butter. Rory’s stomach tightened with hunger. She’d eaten an hour ago. “How long were we in the grove?” she asked. Isolde looked at the sky rather than at her. “Long enough to arrive.” Rory took out her phone. No signal. The time on the screen read 11:42. It had been 10:17 when they entered Richmond Park. She put it away. That could wait. A narrow path led down from the terrace between beds of unfamiliar plants. Some carried fruit shaped like little glass lanterns; others held blossoms with feathery black centers that smelled sharply of pepper. As they walked, Rory heard knives striking boards in quick, practiced rhythms. Voices called to one another across the valley, answering in languages she didn’t know. At the first bend, they came upon a fountain. Its basin was piled with peaches. Clear liquid ran from the mouth of a stone figure above them, washing over the fruit before disappearing through a grate. One peach had split, showing flesh the colour of sunset. A wasp crawled into the crack. It came out with a bead of juice on its head, staggered twice, and dropped onto the rim. Rory backed away. Nyx leaned over it. “Still alive.” The wasp righted itself, then returned to the peach. “Good for it,” Rory said. The hunger had sharpened enough to make her mouth water. She kept her hands at her sides. Farther down, a man in a white apron came hurrying up the path with a crate against his chest. Thin gold lettering ran along the collar of his coat. He glanced at the dagger, then at the pendant visible above Rory’s jumper, and nearly lost his grip on the crate. “Guests?” he asked. “Visitors,” Rory said. He looked over his shoulder toward the kitchens. “Not much difference here.” Before she could question him, someone shouted from below. He hurried on, the crate bumping against his knees. As he passed, Rory caught sight of what it held: small pears with dark skins, each bearing a neat bite mark. Every bite was identical. The path opened onto a broad courtyard. Cooks worked at long tables beneath striped awnings. One stretched sugar into threads fine enough to drift on the air. Another cracked open a shell as large as a serving platter, and fragrant steam rolled out. Diners crowded balconies above them, applauding when a woman lifted a shining copper lid. It ought to have felt festive. Perhaps it did to the diners. Rory saw a cook near the far wall brace one hand on a table while he worked a knife with the other. His eyes were red-rimmed. When he caught her looking, he straightened at once and smiled. The Heartstone grew hot. Rory lifted it away from her skin. Its crimson center glowed against the silver setting, brighter than it had in the grove. “Is there another portal?” she asked Nyx. Nyx had gone still. Their gaze followed the courtyard wall to a set of bronze doors half-hidden behind hanging vines. “There is a great deal behind those.” A server carrying a tray passed between Rory and the doors. On the tray stood three tiny cups of broth. The smell caught her so suddenly that she took a step after it. Roast marrow, thyme, the salt of a long-simmered stock. It reminded her of Yu-Fei’s kitchen after closing, when the last pot was left on low heat and everyone was finally allowed to eat. “Rory.” Nyx’s voice came from beside her ear. She stopped. The server was already across the courtyard, though she could have sworn he had only just passed. Isolde touched her elbow. “A feast is patient,” she said. “Hunger is not.” Rory swallowed. “I know.” But she didn’t, not yet. That was the worst of it. Everything here offered itself so beautifully that she wanted to believe the offer was honest. They crossed to the bronze doors. Embossed vines covered them, thick with leaves and curling tendrils. At their center hung a board displaying the day’s dishes in precise gold script. Rory read names of sauces, fruits, meats she could not identify. Beneath the list, a smaller card had been pinned to the wood. Reserved: Aurora Carter. For a moment the noise of the courtyard dropped away. She could hear only a knife tapping steadily against a board and the faint thud of her own heart. Nyx read the card over her shoulder. “Your benefactor has made arrangements.” Rory closed her hand around the pendant. It burned, but she held on. Across the courtyard, the tired cook had stopped chopping. He was looking at her again, all trace of his smile gone. When he saw that she’d noticed, he pressed two fingers to his lips. Then he pointed—not at the doors, but at the narrow passage beside them, where discarded crates lay stacked in shadow. Rory let the card fall back against the board. “Someone’s expecting us at dinner,” she said quietly. Isolde’s gaze shifted to the passage. “Then we should decide whether to come in hungry.” Rory looked once more at the bronze doors. Beyond them came a burst of laughter, followed by the clink of glasses. She turned toward the crates, and Nyx flowed ahead of her into the dark.