Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQKPP26V0CYDSKQVQC7977

The transition wasn’t a violent tear, nor a sudden plunge into darkness. It was a blink, a hitch in the rhythm of the world, where the gray drizzle of Richmond Park simply ceased to exist. One moment, Rory was crunching over gravel, the damp London air clinging to her hair and coat. The next, the gravel had softened into a carpet of moss that felt like velvet beneath her boots, springy and alive. She stopped, her breath hitching in her throat, and blinked rapidly to clear the sudden shift in light. The sky above wasn’t the heavy, slate-laden ceiling of England. It was a dome of vibrant, impossible twilight, painted in strokes of indigo and violet that bled into a horizon that seemed too close, yet infinitely far away. There was no sun, no moon, only a pervasive, ambient luminescence that seemed to emanate from the very air she breathed. "Easy," a voice whispered, the sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. Nyx materialized beside her, their tall form coalescing out of a patch of darkness that clung to the base of a towering silver birch. Their violet eyes flared with a faint, cautious light as they scanned the perimeter. "The Veil is gossamer here. You can feel it, can't you? Like static on the skin." Rory nodded, rubbing her arms. The hair on her forearms was standing on end. It felt as though she had swallowed a buzzing bee, a low-voltage hum vibrating in her chest. "It’s quiet," she whispered. "Too quiet." "Not quiet," Isolde corrected, her voice melodic and distant. The Half-Fae stood a few paces ahead, framed by the ancient oak standing stones that marked the boundary. In this light, her silver hair seemed to flow like liquid mercury, pooling around her feet on the moss. She turned, her pale lavender eyes regarding Rory with an expression that hovered between pity and amusement. "It is merely that the city has stopped screaming. Listen." Rory closed her eyes for a moment, forcing her breathing to steady. She listened. Past the thumping of her own heart, she heard it. A low, harmonic resonance, like a bow being drawn across the strings of a cello, but deeper, more resonant. It vibrated in the marrow of her bones. "It's the trees," Rory realized, opening her eyes. "Everything sings here," Isolde said softly. She turned and began to walk deeper into the grove, her silver hem trailing through the ferns. Rory stepped forward to follow, then froze. She looked down at the moss where Isolde had just walked. There were no footprints. Not even a depression in the thick vegetation. The moss sprang back the instant Isolde’s foot left it, leaving the ground pristine and undisturbed. "Don't stare too long at the path," Nyx murmured, gliding at her shoulder. They were currently maintaining a solid form, their dark silhouette stark against the ethereal flora. "Fae paths have a habit of wandering if you give them too much attention." Rory forced her gaze up, taking in the rest of the grove. It defied the biology she knew. Trees with bark like polished obsidian twisted in spirals that shouldn't be structurally sound, their branches weaving together to form archways overhead. Hanging from these boughs were fruits that looked like crystal goblets, filled with a swirling, nectarous liquid. Wildflowers bloomed in riotous clusters—orchids with petals that shimmered like oil on water, roses with centers that glowed with a soft, pulse-like rhythm. She reached out, her fingers hovering near a bluebell that seemed to be made of glass. "I wouldn't," Nyx warned, their voice a dry rasp. "I wasn't going to touch it," Rory said, though she snatched her hand back. She instinctively touched the hilt of the dagger at her hip. The Fae-forged blade, Isolde’s gift, was always freezing, a distinct chill that seeped through her jeans. But here, the metal felt different. It wasn't cold; it was vibrating, faintly thrumming against her palm as if it were waking up after a long sleep. "It recognizes its birthplace," Isolde said without turning around. She moved with an ethereal grace, her feet barely seeming to make contact with the ground. "Come. The center breathes easier." They walked for what felt like minutes, but the light didn't shift. Time was a slippery concept here. Rory checked her watch, the digital face blank. She pressed the button, but the LCD just flickered and died. "Don't bother," Nyx said. "We step out of the river when we come here. Minutes or days could be passing on the other side." Rory felt a twist of anxiety in her gut. She thought of her flat above Silas’s bar, the pile of undelivered takeaway menus for the Golden Empress sitting on her counter. The normalcy of it felt galaxies away. The path widened into a circular clearing dominated by a pool of water so still it looked like a mirror made of glass. The water was black, yet it reflected the violet sky with perfect clarity. There were no ripples, no movement, until a single petal from a floating blossom drifted down and touched the surface. Instead of a ripple, the water turned to light. Rory flinched back, her hand going to her chest. Beneath her jacket, the Heartstone pendant was suddenly blazing hot against her skin. She grabbed it through the fabric, wincing. Usually, the crimson gem only pulsed when she was near a rift to Hel, a warning system for demonic intrusion. But there was no sulfur here, no stench of rot. Just the overpowering scent of ozone and night-blooming jasmine. "Why is it reacting?" Rory asked, her voice tight. "Is this a portal?" Nyx drifted closer to the pool, their shadowy form elongating as they peered into the depths. "No sulfur," they noted. "But the magic… it is dense. The pendant reacts to the thinness of reality. Here, the Veil is not a wall, Aurora. It is a suggestion." Isolde stopped at the edge of the pool. She looked into the water, her reflection staring back with eyes that were not lavender, but pure, void-black. "The Heartstone was forged in Dymas," she said, her riddle-like tone sharping. "It knows the taste of the Other. This place is not Earth, nor is it Hel. It is the space between. The pendant is confused." "Great," Rory muttered, releasing the pendant. "I'm carrying a compass that spins at the crossroads of the universe." She stepped closer to the water, drawn by an inexplicable pull. The air here tasted metallic, sharp on her tongue. She looked at the trees lining the clearing; they weren't just growing, they were breathing. The bark expanded and contracted with a slow, rhythmic sigh that raised gooseflesh on her arms. Around the edges of the pool, stones jutted from the ground—not random rocks, but arranged in a deliberate, geometric pattern that hurt Rory’s eyes if she stared at it for too long. The angles were wrong, sharp and aggressive, yet beautiful. "What is this place?" Rory asked, her voice dropping to a whisper as if speaking too loudly might shatter the glass-like water. "A sanctuary," Isolde replied. She turned to Rory, and for a moment, the human saw the weight of three centuries in the Seer’s youthful face. "A place where those who do not belong may rest for a moment. The Fae Courts have no reach here. The Princes of Hel have no desire for it. It is a pause in the great war." Nyx drifted toward the edge of the light, their form becoming hazy, less distinct. "It feels… old," the Shade murmured. "Older than the stones in the park. Older than the summoning that took my humanity." "It is the memory of the world before it was divided," Isolde said. Rory knelt by the water’s edge, ignoring the damp soaking into her jeans. She leaned over, staring into the black depths. She expected to see her own reflection—the messy black hair, the blue eyes, the tired lines of a delivery girl who fought demons on her days off. Instead, the water shifted. The image rippled, not outward, but inward. She saw a city burning, its towers twisted into spires of glass. She saw a faceless figure in a crown of thorns. Then, just as quickly, the vision shattered, replaced by the reflection of the violet sky. She recoiled, sitting back hard on the moss. "Did you see that?" Isolde crouched beside her, her silver hair brushing Rory’s shoulder. "The water shows what is, what was, and what might yet be. It is a fickle thing." "I saw a fire," Rory said, her heart hammering against her ribs. "There is always a fire," Isolde said cryptically. She reached out, her hand hovering over the water. "Do not fear the vision, Laila. Fear the moment the water goes clear." Rory looked back at the pool. It was already calm again, the surface like polished obsidian, hiding its secrets deep within. The heat in the Heartstone pendant had faded to a dull, rhythmic throb, like a second heartbeat against her sternum. She stood up, brushing the moss from her jeans. Her hand brushed against the hilt of the Fae blade again. The vibration had settled into a steady hum, reassuringly solid. "We should stay moving," Nyx said from the periphery of the clearing. "Standing still in a place like this… it invites things to notice you." "The shadows are always so skittish," Isolde teased gently, though there was no malice in it. She straightened her robes. "Come. There is a bench where the starlight touches the ground. We will talk there." Rory took one last look at the impossible clearing—the breathing trees, the light-water, the twilight sky that defied the laws of meteorology. It was terrifying and beautiful in equal measure, a place that felt like a fever dream made real. She tightened her grip on the dagger’s hilt and followed the Seer, stepping carefully over the moss that held no footprints, walking into a world where time had forgotten to tick.