Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMD70G43A05DBXN8TJ81AS

The standing stones loomed like the ribs of some long-dead titan, their gnarled oak bark silvered by centuries of wind and rain. Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the Heartstone Pendant tucked safely beneath her shirt, its faint warmth a steady pulse against her sternum. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweeter—honeysuckle, maybe, or the ghost of wildflowers that shouldn’t bloom this late in the year. "Right," she muttered, squinting at the gap between two of the stones. "Through there, then." Nyx materialized beside her, their form solidifying from the dusk shadows like ink bleeding into water. Their violet eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, casting long, shifting reflections on the moss-slick stones. "You’re certain this is the place?" Their voice was a whisper, like wind through dry leaves. Rory exhaled, fog curling from her lips. "Isolde said the grove reveals itself to those who need it. And we *need* it." She didn’t add the rest—that the pendant had grown warmer with every step, that the air between the stones shimmered like heat haze over pavement, that her skin prickled with the sense of something watching. She didn’t need to. Nyx would feel it too. She stepped forward. The world blurred at the edges. For a heartbeat, Rory thought she’d misjudged, that she’d walk straight into the stone and crack her skull open like an egg. But then the blur resolved, and she was standing in a clearing bathed in golden light, though the sky above was still the bruised purple of early evening. Wildflowers carpeted the ground, their petals unfurling even as she watched, as if time itself had stuttered. The air hummed, thick with the scent of growing things and something older, something wild. Nyx let out a low, breathless sound. "The Veil is thin here." Rory didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the woman who stood in the center of the clearing, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid moonlight. Isolde. The Seer. She was exactly as Rory had imagined—ageless, ethereal, her pale lavender eyes holding the weight of centuries. And yet, there was something *wrong* about her. Rory’s gaze dropped to the ground, searching for footprints, but the grass beneath Isolde’s bare feet was unbroken, as if she hadn’t walked there at all. Isolde smiled, slow and knowing. "Aurora Carter. You’ve come at last." Rory’s fingers twitched toward the pendant, but she forced her hand still. "You knew I would." "Of course." Isolde tilted her head, her gaze flicking to Nyx. "And you’ve brought a shadow. How… unexpected." Nyx stiffened, their form rippling like disturbed water. "I go where I please." Isolde’s laugh was the sound of wind chimes in a storm. "Do you? Even the spaces between realms have rules, little shadow. You’d do well to remember that." Rory stepped between them before Nyx could retort. "We’re not here for riddles. We need answers." Isolde’s smile didn’t waver. "Answers are never free, child. But come." She turned, her bare feet making no sound as she glided toward the far side of the clearing. "Walk with me." The grove shifted around them as they moved, paths twisting and branching like the veins of a leaf. The trees here were ancient, their trunks wide enough that Rory couldn’t have wrapped her arms around them, their bark etched with symbols that made her eyes ache if she looked at them too long. The air grew thicker, heavier, until Rory felt like she was breathing through wet silk. Distantly, she heard the sound of running water, but when she turned her head, there was nothing but more trees, their branches tangled overhead like clasped hands. Nyx drifted closer, their voice barely audible. "This place isn’t right. Time doesn’t move the same here." Rory swallowed. "I know." Isolde led them to a pool of water so still it might have been glass. The surface reflected not the trees or the sky, but a swirling vortex of colors—deep crimson, bruised purple, the sickly yellow of old bruises. Rory’s stomach twisted. The Heartstone Pendant burned against her skin, as if it recognized the hues. "The Veil," Isolde said, gesturing to the pool. "Thinner here than anywhere else in your world. A wound in the fabric of things." Rory crouched, her knees pressing into the damp earth. The water was black, depthless. "Can we cross?" Isolde’s laughter echoed, though her lips didn’t move. "Cross? No. But you can *see*." Before Rory could ask what that meant, the water rippled. The vortex of colors sharpened, resolving into an image—a sprawling city of golden spires and crumbling stone, its streets lined with stalls overflowing with food. The scent of roasting meat and spices hit Rory like a physical blow, so rich it made her mouth water and her stomach clench in equal measure. Figures moved through the streets, their forms distorted by the water’s surface, but Rory could make out the glint of horns, the flash of too-sharp teeth. Demons. And among them, humans—pale, hollow-eyed, their movements sluggish, as if they were sleepwalking. "Dymas," Nyx breathed. "The realm of Gluttony." Rory’s fingers dug into the earth. "They’re not just feasting. They’re *consuming*." Isolde’s voice was soft, almost sorrowful. "Yes. And they are always hungry." The image shifted. Now Rory saw a grand hall, its ceiling lost in shadow, its tables groaning under the weight of food—whole roasted beasts, towers of fruit, rivers of wine. At the head of the table sat a figure draped in velvet, his face obscured by the flickering light of a thousand candles. But Rory didn’t need to see his face to know who he was. Prince Belphegor. The air around him shimmered with heat, like the space above a flame. And then the image changed again. Rory saw herself. She was standing in the middle of the hall, the Heartstone Pendant glowing like a coal in her palm. Belphegor was watching her, his lips curled in a smile that made her blood turn to ice. Behind him, the shadows writhed, and for a heartbeat, Rory thought she saw Evan’s face in the darkness—her ex, his eyes black with hunger, his fingers reaching for her. She recoiled, her breath coming in sharp gasps. "What the hell was that?" Isolde’s gaze was heavy. "A warning. Or a promise. The Fae do not deal in certainties." Nyx’s voice was tight. "You said the Veil was thin here. Does that mean *he* can cross over?" Isolde didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into the folds of her dress and withdrew something slender and silver. The Fae-forged blade. Its surface was dull in the dim light, but Rory could feel the cold radiating from it, like holding a shard of winter in her hand. "Take it," Isolde said, pressing the hilt into Rory’s palm. "You’ll need it before the end." Rory’s fingers closed around the weapon. The moment she touched it, a jolt of cold shot up her arm, sharp and electric. The blade hummed, a low, keening sound that made her teeth ache. "Why me?" Isolde’s smile was sad. "Because the threads of fate have chosen you, Aurora Carter. And fate is a hungry thing." The grove seemed to hold its breath. The wildflowers at Rory’s feet trembled, their petals curling inward. The air grew heavier, thicker, until Rory felt like she was drowning in it. Nyx’s form flickered, their edges blurring like a candle guttering in the wind. Isolde’s voice was a whisper. "The solstice approaches. The Veil weakens. And the Prince of Gluttony is coming." Rory’s grip tightened on the blade. The cold of it seeped into her bones, but she didn’t let go. "Then we’ll be ready."