Run: 2026-10-07-01M4ASWGNCEFCBHX0MHPCJDPD2

The air smelled of crushed petals and damp earth as Rory stepped through the gap in the ancient oak’s gnarled roots. The world beyond the standing stones didn’t so much shift as unfold, like a held breath finally released. The grove stretched before her, a living tapestry of impossible greens and golds, wildflowers blooming in defiance of the London winter they’d left behind. The trees here were too tall, their trunks twisted with age, their leaves shimmering as if dusted with starlight. The light itself was wrong—soft, diffused, as though filtered through water. Nyx materialized beside her, their form rippling like smoke given weight. “Careful,” they murmured, their voice a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. “Time here is a fickle thing.” Rory glanced back, but the gap they’d entered through was already gone, swallowed by the undergrowth. Eva would’ve hated this—no clear path, no rules, just the creeping certainty that the world had tilted beneath their feet. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, fingers brushing the cold weight of the Fae blade Isolde had given her. The moonsilver dagger hummed faintly against her thigh, as if sensing the shift in the air. The Heartstone pendant at her collarbone pulsed once, warm as a heartbeat. She exhaled, watching her breath curl in the air despite the grove’s unnatural warmth. A rustle in the undergrowth. Rory froze, hand drifting toward the dagger. A fox—no, not a fox. Its fur was the deep blue of twilight, its eyes like polished silver. It watched them for a long moment, then darted between the trees, its tail flicking as if beckoning. Nyx’s shadow stretched long and thin, their violet eyes narrowing. “That was no beast of Earth.” Rory followed. The ground beneath her boots was spongy, thick with moss that didn’t crunch underfoot but yielded like a living thing. The air hummed, a low vibration in her bones, as if the grove itself were purring. The trees here grew in impossible spirals, their bark etched with symbols that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. She tore her gaze away, focusing instead on the fox’s retreating form. It led them to a clearing where the grass grew in perfect, concentric circles, each ring a different shade of green. At its center stood a pool, its surface so still it might have been glass. Rory crouched at the water’s edge, peering into its depths. The reflection staring back wasn’t hers. A woman with her mother’s sharp cheekbones and her father’s stubborn set to her jaw looked up at her, but her eyes—her eyes were the color of storm clouds, and they held a knowing that Rory didn’t possess. She jerked back. The image rippled, then settled into her true reflection, though her pupils were still too wide, too dark. Nyx’s whisper brushed her ear. “The grove shows what was, what is, what could be. Do not trust the water.” Rory swallowed. “Noted.” She stood, brushing dirt from her palms. The fox had vanished, but now there were others—dozens of them, their blue and silver forms darting between the trees like living shadows. They didn’t approach, but their presence was a pressure against her skin. The deeper they went, the more the grove seemed to breathe. Vines shifted when she wasn’t looking, coiling around tree trunks in patterns that almost looked like words. The air smelled sweeter here, cloying, like honey left too long in the sun. Rory’s head swam. She reached for the Heartstone, its warmth a steady anchor. Then she saw the stones. Not the standing stones that marked the boundary, but a circle of them, half-buried in the earth, their surfaces worn smooth by time. They weren’t like the oaks—these were older, their origins lost to memory. And between them, suspended in the air as if caught in an unseen wind, were threads of light. Thin as spider silk, they shimmered in colors she had no names for, weaving in and out of the stones like a loom left mid-work. Nyx’s form flickered, their edges blurring. “The Veil,” they breathed. “It’s thin here. Too thin.” Rory stepped closer, drawn despite the unease coiling in her gut. The threads pulsed, and for a moment, she thought she saw shapes in them—faces, landscapes, things that might have been or were yet to come. One thread, a deep, bruised purple, seemed to vibrate in time with her heartbeat. She reached out. Nyx’s hand—solid for once—closed around her wrist. “Don’t.” Their grip was cold, but not unkind. “Some threads are not meant to be touched.” Rory hesitated, then pulled her hand back. The thread’s pull didn’t lessen, though. It was like standing too close to a fire, the heat licking at her skin. “What happens if I do?” Nyx’s voice was a sigh. “You might unravel something. Or be unraveled yourself.” A gust of wind, though there were no leaves to stir it, sent the threads swaying. The grove seemed to hold its breath. Rory’s fingers twitched. She’d spent her life running from things—from Evan, from the law degree she’d never wanted, from the ghost of who she might have been. But this—this was a pull, not a push. A question, not a demand. She took a step forward. The moment her fingertips brushed the purple thread, the world exploded into light. It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. It was like diving into ice water—the shock of it stole her breath, but beneath that was a clarity so sharp it hurt. She saw the thread stretch between her and something else, something vast and hungry. A realm of amber skies and feasts that never ended. Dymas. The name slotted into her mind like a key in a lock. And then— A voice, smooth as aged whiskey. *Little thief.* Rory gasped, stumbling back. The thread snapped, recoiling like a whipped rope. The grove shuddered. The threads of light flickered, then dimmed, as if a candle had been blown out. Nyx’s grip on her wrist tightened. “You’ve been seen.” The air turned thick, syrupy. The trees groaned, their branches twisting as if in pain. The blue foxes yipped, their forms dissolving into mist. Rory’s skin prickled. “Seen by what?” Nyx didn’t answer. Their form was already dissolving, their violet eyes wide. “We need to leave. Now.” Rory didn’t argue. The grove had turned from wondrous to hostile in the span of a heartbeat. The ground beneath her feet seemed to tilt, the colors bleeding together. She broke into a run, Nyx a shadow at her heels. The trees blurred past her, their bark now jagged, their leaves blackening at the edges. The standing stones appeared ahead, the gap between them shimmering like a heat haze. Rory didn’t slow. She hurled herself through, Nyx close behind. The world lurched— —and they were back in Richmond Park, the winter air biting at her lungs. The grove was gone, as if it had never been. Only the faint scent of crushed petals lingered, clinging to her clothes. Rory doubled over, hands on her knees, gasping. The Heartstone was cold now, its glow dormant. Nyx materialized beside her, their form flickering like a dying flame. “That,” they said, voice strained, “was a mistake.” Rory straightened, her pulse still hammering. The thread’s touch had left her fingers numb, as if she’d pressed them to frost. She flexed them, watching the blood return. “Yeah,” she said, because what else was there to say? “But at least we know one thing.” Nyx tilted their head, their violet eyes dimmer than before. “Oh?” She met their gaze. “Prince Belphegor knows I exist.”