Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMWVNXWRTV8BH17GZ26YAG

The standing stones loomed like the ribs of some long-dead giant, their gnarled oak trunks twisted with age. Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the Heartstone Pendant tucked safely inside, its faint warmth pulsing against her sternum like a second heartbeat. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweeter—honeysuckle, maybe, though it was late November and the wildflowers beyond the stones shouldn’t have been in bloom. Nyx materialized beside her, their violet eyes flickering like candle flames in the dim light. "The grove remembers her," they murmured, voice like wind through dry leaves. "It’s been waiting." Rory exhaled, watching her breath curl into mist. "Or it’s just really good at setting the mood." She stepped forward, boots sinking into the thick carpet of moss. The moment she crossed the threshold between the stones, the world seemed to exhale with her. The sounds of Richmond Park—the distant hum of traffic, the caw of crows—fell away, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chime of something like silver bells. Isolde stood at the center of the clearing, her silver hair catching the light like spun moonlight. She turned, her lavender eyes unreadable. "You’re late," she said, though Rory’s watch insisted only three minutes had passed since they’d entered the park. Nyx tilted their head. "Time is a fickle thing here." Rory ignored them, scanning the grove. The trees here weren’t just ancient—they were *alive* in a way that made her skin prickle. Their bark shimmered with an iridescent sheen, and the leaves shifted colors as she watched, cycling through emerald, gold, and a deep, bruise-purple that reminded her uncomfortably of Nyx’s eyes. At the far end of the clearing, a pool of water reflected nothing, its surface black as polished obsidian. "Is that—" Rory started. "The Well of Echoes," Isolde said. "It shows not what is, but what could be. If you’re brave enough to look." Rory swallowed. She’d come for answers, not existential dread. "I need to know about the pendant. And the rifts." Isolde’s lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. "The Veil thins, little mortal. And you are the thread that might unravel it." She extended a hand, and in her palm lay the Fae-forged blade, its leaf-shaped edge glinting. "Take it. The moonsilver will serve you better than iron." Rory hesitated, then reached out. The moment her fingers closed around the hilt, a jolt ran up her arm—not pain, exactly, but something sharper, like the sting of frostbite. The blade hummed faintly, as if recognizing her. Nyx stepped closer to the well, their shadowy form rippling. "The water’s singing," they said. Rory joined them, peering into the obsidian depths. At first, she saw only her own reflection—dark hair, bright blue eyes, the crescent scar on her wrist. Then the surface rippled, and the image shifted. A city, but not London. Towers of black glass clawed at a sky the color of old bruises, and in the streets below, figures moved—some human, some decidedly not. A man with too many teeth grinned up at her, his fingers elongating into talons. The vision tilted, and then she was falling, the air rushing past her ears— She stumbled back, heart hammering. "What the hell was that?" Isolde’s voice was soft. "Dymas. Or a version of it." Nyx’s eyes glowed brighter. "The Veil is weakest there. The rifts… they’re not just tears. They’re *hungry*." A gust of wind swept through the grove, carrying the scent of something rich and cloying—roasting meat, honeyed wine, the sickly-sweet tang of overripe fruit. Rory’s stomach twisted. "That’s not coming from the park." Isolde’s expression darkened. "No. It’s seeping through. The solstice is coming, and with it, the feasts of Hel." Rory touched the pendant through her shirt. It pulsed hotter now, as if in warning. "We need to close the rifts before—" "Before what?" Nyx’s voice was a whisper. "Before they invite you to dinner?" A sound cut through the grove—a low, rhythmic *thump*, like a drumbeat. Rory turned. Between the trees, the shadows had deepened, pooling unnaturally. And in the darkness, something moved. Isolde’s hand tightened around Rory’s wrist. "We’re not alone." The drumming grew louder. Then, from the trees, figures emerged—tall, too tall, their limbs elongated, their mouths stretched into grins too wide for human faces. Their skin shimmered with the same iridescence as the grove’s trees, but where the bark had been beautiful, their flesh was *wrong*, shifting and melting like wax. Nyx’s form solidified, their shadowy edges sharpening into something almost human. "Helbound," they hissed. "They’ve found the rift." The first of the creatures lunged. Rory barely had time to raise the Fae blade before it was on her, its fingers—too many fingers—scrabbling at her throat. The dagger met flesh, and the creature shrieked, its skin sizzling where the moonsilver touched. It recoiled, but more were coming, their laughter high and brittle as breaking glass. Isolde’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "To the stones! Now!" Rory didn’t need to be told twice. She turned and ran, the grove blurring around her. The drumming was everywhere now, shaking the ground beneath her feet. Behind her, Nyx moved like smoke, their form flickering between solid and shadow as they lashed out at the pursuing creatures. The standing stones loomed ahead, but between Rory and safety, the ground split open. A fissure yawned wide, belching the same cloying scent from before—roasting meat, honey, decay. The Heartstone Pendant burned against her skin, searing hot. Isolde grabbed her arm. "Jump!" They leapt together, clearing the fissure by inches. Rory’s boots hit the moss on the other side, and she didn’t stop running until she’d crashed through the boundary of the standing stones. The moment she crossed back into the park, the drumming cut off like a severed thread. The air turned cold and ordinary, the scent of damp leaves and exhaust fumes replacing the stench of Hel. She doubled over, gasping. Nyx materialized beside her, their form flickering like a guttering candle. Isolde emerged last, her silver hair tangled, her breath coming fast. Rory straightened, clutching the Fae blade. The moonsilver was cold again, its hum silenced. "What the hell was that?" Isolde’s lavender eyes were grim. "A taste of what’s coming." She looked at Rory, then at the pendant still glowing faintly beneath her shirt. "The Veil is breaking. And you, little mortal, are the only one who can stitch it back together." Nyx’s voice was a whisper. "Or tear it open completely."