Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQWWWB9R085TN499T7R06X

The chill of the late autumn air clung to Rory’s jacket, a damp London grey that seeped into her bones. Beside her, Nyx was a column of deeper darkness against the bruised twilight, a void that drank the meager light. They moved through the skeletal trees of Richmond Park, the crunch of dead leaves under Rory’s boots the only sound. “We are close,” Nyx whispered, the voice a rustle of dry paper carried on no discernible wind. Up ahead, a ring of massive oaks stood like arthritic fingers clawing at the sky. They were ancient, their bark a gnarled map of centuries. These weren’t just trees; they were monuments. As they drew nearer, Rory felt a strange pressure against her ears, a low hum that vibrated in her teeth. It wasn't a sound, but the ghost of one. Nyx drifted forward, their form blurring at the edges, becoming less a man and more a man-shaped hole in the world. They paused between two of the largest oaks, which formed a natural gateway into the clearing beyond. “The threshold. Step through, Aurora Carter. What you know of the world will not serve you here.” Rory’s hand went to the Heartstone Pendant tucked beneath her collar. Usually, its faint warmth was a comfort, a secret heat against her skin. Now, it was inert, a cold pebble of polished stone. She took a breath, the air tasting of wet earth and decay, and stepped between the sentinel oaks. The world tilted on an unseen axis. The pressure in her ears vanished, replaced by a silence so profound it felt like a weight. The sounds of the city, the distant drone of traffic and the wail of a far-off siren, were gone. Sliced away. The damp London chill evaporated, replaced by air that was soft, sweet, and redolent with the scent of honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine—flowers that had no business blooming in November. Rory’s bright blue eyes widened. The clearing was bathed in a pearlescent twilight that seemed to emanate from the very air itself, a silver-gold glow with no discernible source. The grass was a shade of emerald she’d only ever seen in paintings, thick and cushiony under her boots. And the flowers. Drifts of them, a riot of impossible color. Foxgloves grew beside summer roses, and brilliant bluebells carpeted the ground beneath ferns dripping with dew. It was beautiful, an artist’s fever dream of a perfect English garden. It was also deeply wrong. “What is this place?” she asked, her voice sounding small and clumsy in the pristine stillness. Nyx had solidified again, their vaguely humanoid shape a stark silhouette against the fae light. They seemed more at ease here, their shadows deeper, more defined. “A pocket. A bubble of what was, stitched to the fabric of what is. The Veil is thin here. In places, it is not here at all.” Rory walked deeper into the grove, her boots making no sound on the absurdly plush grass. She ran a hand over a swath of poppies, their petals as soft as worn velvet. No insects buzzed. No birds sang from the branches of the silver-leafed trees that ringed the glade. The utter lack of ambient life was more unsettling than any monster. It was a perfect, sterile beauty. She glanced at her wrist, at the small, crescent-shaped scar that was a permanent reminder of a childhood mistake. A nervous habit. She tugged down her sleeve. Time felt sluggish, syrupy. A minute might have passed, or an hour. She felt unmoored, a boat cut loose from its dock, drifting on a silent, waveless sea. This must be what they meant about time in Fae-touched places. A trap for the unwary. They followed a path that was less a trail and more a suggestion in the grass, a slight depression that led toward the center of the clearing. Nyx moved without effort, a shadow gliding over the ground, but Rory felt a strange lethargy, as if she were walking through water. At the heart of the grove stood a woman. She was turned away from them, gazing into a small, unnervingly still pool of water. Waist-length silver hair cascaded down her back, shimmering in the twilight glow. She wore a simple gown of pale grey that seemed to absorb the light around her. As Rory and Nyx approached, the woman turned, and the breath caught in Rory’s throat. Her beauty was sharp, crystalline. It wasn't human. Her features were too symmetrical, her skin too luminous. Her eyes, the color of pale lavender, held an ancient, knowing light that made Rory feel like a child. This was Isolde Varga. The Seer. “The daughter of Carter steps into the quiet wood,” Isolde said. Her voice was like wind chimes, melodic and yet without warmth. She had not moved from her spot, yet she now stood directly in their path. Rory looked down at the soft earth around Isolde’s bare feet. There were no footprints. “And she brings the night with her.” Nyx inclined their head, a gesture of respect that was somehow unnerving coming from the ageless Shade. “Seer. We seek guidance.” Isolde’s pale lavender eyes fixed on Rory. “Guidance is a map. I offer only a signpost, and the road it points to is often the one you would least wish to travel.” Her gaze dropped to the pendant at Rory’s throat. “The ember of Dymas is cold here. The Master of the Feast has no power in a land that does not hunger.” Rory swallowed, her throat dry. The Seer’s riddles were famous, and she was already lost. “I need to know how to stop them. The rifts, the things coming through the Veil—” “You ask how to mend a tapestry when you do not yet know the thread.” Isolde’s gaze was piercing, seeing more than Rory was comfortable with. “You seek a weapon against the darkness, yet you carry a key to one of its doors.” She raised a slender hand. Lying on her palm was a dagger. It was made of a pale, glowing metal that looked like captured moonlight, the blade slender and shaped like a willow leaf. Moonsilver. The air around it seemed to shimmer with cold. “A question for a question,” Isolde said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “When a door is opened, do you seek to close it, or to slay that which steps through?” Rory thought of the creature in the alley, the fear, the helplessness. Her answer came without hesitation. “You slay it. So it can’t hurt anyone else.” A faint smile touched Isolde’s lips, a fleeting, secretive thing. “A mortal’s answer. Direct. Brutal. True.” She held the weapon out. “Then you will have need of this. A gift for a gift. Your certainty for its edge.” Hesitantly, Rory reached out and took the dagger. The moment her fingers touched the hilt, an intense, biting cold shot up her arm, so sharp it felt like a burn. The blade was impossibly light, an extension of her own hand. It seemed to hum with a silent, waiting energy. A Fae-forged blade. A weapon that could cut through things other than flesh and bone. “It will not warm to your touch,” Isolde said, her hands now empty. “Its heart is the winter moon. It will serve you well in the places where shadows bleed.” Suddenly, the Seer’s focus shifted, her eyes looking past Rory, past the grove, into a distance Rory couldn’t comprehend. “The falling star leaves a scar upon the sky. Find it before it strikes the earth, or the coming night will be one without end.” And just like that, the spell was broken. Isolde was still there, a statue of silver and grey, but the intensity of her presence had withdrawn. The audience was over. Nyx made a low, whispering sound of departure, and turned, their form dissolving back into a more fluid darkness. Rory clutched the Fae blade, the cold a solid, real thing in this dreamlike place. She gave the Seer a final, questioning look, but Isolde’s lavender eyes were distant, already lost in another vision, another time. Rory turned and followed Nyx back the way they came, the cold weight of the moonsilver dagger a stark and terrifying promise in her hand.