Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HKFHY8NKQBP28JB8YMG3Y

The deer stopped at the edge of the clearing. It stood between two oaks with its ears tipped forward, watching Rory as if she were the strange animal here. Perhaps she was. The trees behind her belonged to Richmond Park, with its muddy paths and distant traffic. The trees ahead had trunks as thick as cottages, their bark folded into ridges that looked almost carved. “Those are your standing stones?” Rory asked. Isolde glanced back. Her silver hair caught what little daylight reached the ground. “Oak remembers longer than stone.” “That’s not an answer.” “It is the one I have.” Nyx drifted past them, a tall silhouette barely distinct from the shade beneath the branches. Their violet eyes fixed on the gap between the oaks. “The deer cannot see through.” Rory looked again. The animal had turned its head toward Isolde’s voice, but its gaze kept sliding off the space where they stood. She took a step sideways. The deer noticed her at once and stamped a forefoot. When she stepped back between the trees, its attention wandered. A cold prickle ran along her arms. Isolde waited with one hand against the nearest trunk. Rory had come this far because the Heartstone had warmed against her chest every time she turned toward Richmond Park, and because the last time it had done that, she had found a tear in the Veil behind a boarded-up shop. She wanted to know where it was leading her now. She stepped between the oaks. The sounds of the park vanished. No traffic, no distant voices, no deer moving through bracken. In their place came water, a soft rush from somewhere ahead, and a low hum Rory felt in her teeth. She looked back. The deer stood a few yards away, still staring into the trees. For an instant the gap shimmered around it. Then the branches seemed to crowd together, and she could no longer make out the path she had left. “That,” she said, “would have been useful to mention.” “You asked where the entrance was,” Isolde said. Rory rubbed her arms and followed. Wildflowers spread beneath the trees in thick, uneven drifts. Bluebells stood beside autumn crocuses and white blossoms Rory had no name for. Their scents rose separately as she passed: honey, damp earth, something sharp as crushed mint. A pale moth settled on her sleeve. Its wings were marked with two small gold circles, and when it took flight the circles blinked like eyes. Nyx moved ahead without disturbing a petal. Isolde’s hem brushed the flowers, though the soft ground beneath them showed no prints. Rory left a clear trail of muddy trainers. “Do you ever get tired of that?” she asked. “Of what?” “Making it look like I’m the only one breaking in.” Isolde’s mouth curved. “The grove knows you came.” The path curved away from the entrance. Rory could still see the oaks through the branches, then could not, though she had walked no more than twenty paces. She stopped and turned. Three narrow paths led back, each lined with the same white flowers. Nyx halted beside her. “Keep your eyes on Isolde.” “I was.” “You looked back.” Rory chose not to argue. Beneath her shirt, the Heartstone gave a slow pulse of warmth. She slipped two fingers inside her collar and drew it out. The crimson gem, no larger than her thumbnail, glowed faintly against its silver chain. Isolde’s gaze dropped to it. “It wakes here?” “It started near the car park.” “And now?” “Warmer.” Isolde looked toward the three paths behind them. For the first time since Rory had met her, the seer appeared unsure. “What?” Rory asked. “The grove has opened its doors to us. I did not expect it to open that one.” Before Rory could ask which one, a bell rang. The sound was clear and close. Rory looked up into the branches. No bell hung there. A second note followed, lower and farther away, then a third from somewhere beneath her feet. “Is someone else here?” “Many things are here,” Isolde said. “Stay on the path.” They went deeper. The trees grew farther apart, revealing a stream that crossed their way over a bed of smooth black stones. Its water ran uphill. Rory crouched at the bank and watched a fallen leaf travel steadily against the slope until it vanished under an arch of roots. On the far side, ferns rose higher than her waist. Their fronds unfolded as Nyx approached and folded again behind them. Rory set a foot on the first stone. It tipped beneath her weight. She caught herself, swore, and reached for the next. Nyx turned, one hand extended. Their fingers were solid when she took them, cool and dry as old paper. They held her steady while she crossed. Halfway over, Rory saw faces in the water. She froze. A woman looked up from the stream, black hair drifting around her head. Rory recognised her own bright blue eyes. The face changed before she could lean closer. Now she saw a boy with a broken front tooth, then an older man whose mouth moved soundlessly. “Don’t answer them,” Nyx whispered. “I haven’t heard anything.” “They are trying.” Rory hurried over the last stones. On the bank, she turned to find Isolde standing in the middle of the stream, looking down. The water flowed around her bare ankles. “Who are they?” Rory asked. “Those who came to the water carrying questions.” Isolde stepped onto the bank. “Not all of them found a way home.” Rory looked back at the faces. The stream showed only stones and an amber leaf pressing uphill. They passed beneath an arch of woven branches. Glassy fruit hung from it, each one holding a moving speck of light. When Rory drew close, one brightened. Inside it she glimpsed a kitchen table, a man’s hands spread over a newspaper, rain at the window. Her father’s hands. She stopped so abruptly Nyx nearly passed through her. The fruit swayed, and the picture shifted. Brendan Carter raised his head. Rory could see the edge of his face, the grey coming into his hair. “Rory,” Nyx said. She touched the fruit before she could stop herself. The skin was cold. The kitchen vanished. A dozen voices rose around her, all speaking at once, and a thread of light began to wind around her finger. Rory jerked her hand away. The thread stretched after her, fine and sticky. Nyx swept an arm through it. Their shadow took on weight, and the light snapped. A sharp scent like burnt sugar filled the air. Isolde came back along the path. “Did it ask you for something?” “No.” Rory rubbed her finger. There was no mark. “It showed me my dad.” “That was the asking.” Rory looked at the hanging fruit. Others had brightened now. She saw a street outside her old flat in Cardiff, Eva’s face at a station platform, the dark stairs up to the room above Silas’ bar. One fruit near the top held a warm amber sky over vineyards she had never seen except in troubled sleep. The Heartstone pulsed hard against her chest. “Dymas,” she said. Isolde followed her gaze. “Perhaps.” “You know what that is.” “I know what you saw.” Rory let the distinction pass. She had learned that pressing Isolde for a straight answer usually produced a riddle and a headache. “Why would this place show it to me?” “Come and see.” The path opened onto a broad clearing. Ancient oaks ringed it, their roots rising above the grass in great knotted ridges. At its centre stood a pool, perfectly round and still. Wildflowers grew right to its edge, but none leaned over the water. Above it hung a sky Rory had no business seeing. The grove’s own light was a soft grey-green. In the pool, amber clouds moved over long rows of vines. A breeze crossed the clearing and carried the smell of ripe pears and roasting meat. Rory’s stomach tightened with hunger, though she had eaten before they entered the park. Nyx came up beside her. Their outline had sharpened, their shoulders and hands clearer than she had ever seen them outdoors. “Something is pressing close,” they said. Rory reached for the Fae-forged dagger at her hip. The moonsilver hilt was cold even through her sleeve. Isolde had given it to her at the grove’s boundary, with the warning that a blade could open a way as readily as it could close one. At the time Rory had thought the warning needlessly dramatic. The pool shivered. A small ring widened across its surface, though nothing had fallen in. Then another. A pearl-coloured distortion hung just above the water, almost invisible except where it bent the far roots out of shape. The Veil. Rory had seen it shimmer at the shop in London, with the Heartstone burning against her skin and a demon’s hand forcing its way through. This distortion looked delicate by comparison. She was not reassured. “How long has it been here?” she asked. “The pool?” Isolde said. “Longer than I have.” “The tear.” Isolde watched the rings cross the water. “It was not there yesterday.” “When was yesterday?” The seer gave her a sharp glance. Rory felt a brief, sour satisfaction. Nyx stepped toward the pool. Amber light caught in their violet eyes. “I hear plates.” Rory listened. Beneath the stream and the distant bells came the clatter of dishes, a burst of laughter, and a voice calling something she couldn’t make out. The smell of food strengthened. Her mouth watered. A pear rolled out of the pool. It crossed the grass without leaving a wet trail and came to rest against Rory’s trainer. Gold-skinned, fragrant, ordinary-looking. She stared at it. “Don’t,” Isolde said. “I wasn’t going to.” The pear split. Inside, its seeds were tiny red stones. They began to beat in time with the pendant. Rory backed away. Around the clearing, the flowers bowed toward the pool. Nyx seized her elbow and pulled her behind one of the raised roots just as a second fruit broke the surface, followed by a silver platter. The platter hung halfway through the distortion. On it lay glazed birds with their heads tucked beneath their wings. The laughter grew louder. Rory heard footsteps approaching from the other side. “Can you close it?” she asked Isolde. “I can hold the grove’s edge. The rest is yours.” “Of course it is.” Rory drew the dagger. Its leaf-shaped blade caught the dim light, pale and steady. She could cut a ward with it; Isolde had shown her that much. She had not tried cutting a tear between realms. Nyx looked at the platter. “Someone is setting a place.” “For us?” “For the one carrying the stone.” The pendant was hot enough to hurt. Rory hooked a finger under the chain and lifted it off her skin. Its glow brightened. In the pool, among the vines, a long table came into view. Candles burned despite the daylight. At its nearest end sat a single empty chair. Something moved behind the chair. Rory caught the shape of a hand resting on its carved back, then it withdrew. The pear at her feet pulsed again. Rory knelt and studied the distortion. It had edges: a wavering seam where the grove’s reflection met the amber sky. The platter pressed through near the top, widening it a little more with every movement. If she struck at the centre, she might cut it open. The seam seemed a better bet. “Isolde. Keep whatever’s there from coming farther.” The seer laid both palms against the nearest oak. Its leaves trembled. Roots shifted beneath Rory’s knees, tightening around the pool. The platter stopped moving. Nyx’s shadow spread across the grass and covered the fallen pear. Its little heartbeat fell silent. Rory stepped to the water’s edge. Heat rolled against her face, rich with the smell of spices and baked bread. Her hand shook once. She tightened her grip on the dagger and traced the seam with its point. The blade met resistance, like cloth drawn taut. She cut downward. A sound rang through the clearing like a wineglass breaking. The amber sky folded inward. Rory saw the long table buckle in the reflection, candles streaking sideways. A voice shouted from very far away. Then the pool showed only grey clouds and Rory’s own face, pale beneath her black hair. The silver platter dropped into the water and sank without a splash. For a while none of them moved. Rory stayed crouched with the blade in her hand, watching for another ripple. The Heartstone cooled slowly against her skin. When she finally sheathed the dagger, her fingers ached. Isolde took her hands from the oak. Dark lines marked the bark beneath her palms. “Is it shut?” Rory asked. “For now.” Rory looked at the pool. Its surface reflected the branches above, though the scent of ripe pears still lingered. “The grove opened the door.” “It showed us where one had opened,” Isolde said. “There is a difference.” Footsteps sounded behind them. Rory turned, dagger half drawn. No one stood beneath the trees. The marks leading into the clearing were her own muddy footprints. A second set began at the pool’s edge and ran back along the path, neat prints pressed into the grass by narrow, pointed shoes. They had not been there when she arrived. Nyx saw them too. Their violet eyes followed the trail into the ferns. “We should leave,” they said. For once, Isolde offered no riddle. She led them toward the stream, and Rory followed, keeping the pool in sight until the oaks closed around it.