Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMFFWPV78GRRXFR8XM1FF5

The party of four stood at the edge of the Fae Grove, ancient oak standing stones marking the boundary between the mortal world and the realm beyond. Rory, her dark hair tied back, fingers brushing the crescent scar on her wrist, stared into the clearing with bright blue eyes full of trepidation and curiosity. Beside her, Nyx shifted from solid shadow to an incorporeal silhouette, their violet eyes glowing faintly. Silas, the stoic warden, ran a hand through his graying hair, his expression grim. And Isolde, ethereal and otherworldly, smiled enigmatically at the threshold. "Time moves differently within," Isolde warned in a voice that sounded like riddles spun from silver threads. "An hour may be minutes or days without." Rory nodded, clutching the Heartstone Pendant around her neck. The deep crimson gem pulsed with a faint inner warmth, a compass guiding her through the unknown. She glanced at Silas, who gave a curt nod, his hand resting on the hilt of his Fae-Forged Blade, a weapon rare and coveted, its moonsilver leaf-shaped dagger cold and luminescent. As one, they stepped across the threshold, the air shimmering like a mirage around them. The moment they passed the standing stones, a sense of otherness washed over Rory, a feeling of being untethered from the world she knew. The grove bloomed with wildflowers, vibrant and otherworldly, their petals shimmering like mother of pearl. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, intoxicating and lush. Nyx, ever the explorer, drifted ahead, their shadowy form passing through patches of dappled sunlight. "The time distortion is fascinating," they whispered, more to themselves than the others. "It's like the fabric of reality is woven differently here." Rory walked along a path made of iridescent stones that seemed to change color with every step, her boots making no sound on the smooth surface. To her left, a stream meandered lazily, its waters clear and sparkling. She knelt to cup her hands, the water icy and sharp, tasting of mint and something ineffable, like the essence of magic itself. "The Veil is thin here," Silas commented, his voice low and gravelly. Rory straightened, looking where he pointed. The air shimmered with a faint, undulating distortion, almost invisible but for the keen eye. "It's why this grove exists in a pocket between realms." Isolde, moving with a grace that belied her three centuries, led them deeper into the grove, her silver hair catching the light in ways that made Rory think of moonbeams dancing on water. They came to a clearing where a large, flat-topped boulder sat like an altar, its surface covered in intricate runes that glowed with a soft, inner light. "This is one of the ley lines," Isolde explained, her pale lavender eyes reflecting the glow of the runes. "It's a conduit of magic, running deep beneath Hel, Earth, and the Fae Realms." Rory stepped closer, awestruck by the pulsing energy she could feel emanating from the boulder. It thrummed in her bones, an echo of the Heartstone's warmth. Tentatively, she reached out, her fingertips brushing the runes. They flared at her touch, reacting to the pendant, and a sudden rush of images flooded Rory's mind—a glimpse into the tapestry of worlds beyond her own. She saw the opulent vineyards of Dymas, the realm of Gluttony, where exotic fruits grew in abundance, tended by souls condemned to indulge in endless feasts. Prince Belphegor lounged on a throne of carved mahogany, his tables laden with delicacies that would put earthly banquets to shame. Rory felt a momentary pang of hunger before the scene shifted, replaced by the ethereal beauty of the Fae Courts, where time flowed like a lazy river, and the denizens danced beneath silver moons. Rory blinked, the visions fading but leaving an imprint on her heart—a yearning for the wonders that lay beyond the Veil. She turned to find Isolde watching her, a knowing look in the seer's ageless eyes. "You bear a great responsibility," Isolde said, her voice taking on the cadence of prophecy. "The Veil weakens, and rifts tear at the edges of the worlds. You must mend what is sundered, Rory of Earth, or watch as the realms collide in chaos." Rory felt the weight of the pendant against her chest, its warmth now a burden. She looked to Silas, whose expression was unreadable, and then to Nyx, whose shadowy form seemed to waver with uncertainty. "I don't understand," Rory admitted, her voice small in the face of Isolde's pronouncement. "But you will," Isolde replied with a cryptic smile. "When the winter solstice comes, and the Veil is at its thinnest, the path will be clear. Until then, keep your wits sharp and your friends closer." With that, the seer turned, her silver hair swirling like mist, and walked back along the path. Rory stared after her, feeling as though the ground had shifted beneath her feet, revealing a chasm of possibilities and dangers she had never imagined. Beside her, Nyx solidified into a solid form, their hand reaching for hers. "We'll figure this out together," they promised, and Rory was grateful for the reassurance. Silas cleared his throat, his attention on the runes still pulsing with magic. "Best not to linger too long," he advised. "There's no telling what effect this place might have on us if we stay much longer." Rory nodded, feeling the tug of reality just beyond the grove's boundary. She took one last look at the clearing, memorizing the wild beauty that seemed to throb in time with the Heartstone's pulse, and then turned to follow her companions back to the world she had always known—but which now seemed somehow smaller and less vibrant than the wonders that lay hidden just beyond the Veil.