Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR11KV7PDSJ1RSKRDYD41Y

The air inside the Richmond clearing tasted different, thick with the scent of blooming jasmine despite the London chill biting at the edges of the park beyond. Aurora stopped at the line of ancient oak standing stones, her hand instinctively drifting to the hilt of the dagger at her hip. The moonsilver was cold, even through the leather of her jacket, a constant chill that reminded her of the weight she carried. Beside her, Nyx shifted. The shadowy figure rippled, their form solidifying from a wisp of smoke into a tall, humanoid silhouette. The faint violet glow of their eyes cut through the twilight gloom of the grove. The threshold is here, Isolde said. Her voice was soft, melodic, yet it carried over the rustle of the year-round wildflowers that carpeted the ground around them. The Half-Fae seer stood barefoot on the grass, her silver hair cascading down to her waist like a waterfall of moonlight. She did not sink into the soft earth. Where her feet touched the soil, no impression remained. You want us to walk into empty air? Aurora asked. She kept her tone level, though her pulse hammered against the small crescent scar on her left wrist. Not empty. Full. Isolde turned. Her pale lavender eyes seemed to look through Aurora, focusing on something distant. The Veil is thin here. Thinner than it has been in centuries. The winter solstice approaches. The barrier breathes. Aurora looked at the space between two of the oak stones. To her human eyes, it was just dusk settling over Richmond Park. But the Heartstone pendant beneath her shirt was warm. It pulsed against her sternum, a rhythmic heat that matched the beating of her own heart. It had started glowing faintly ten minutes ago, the deep crimson gem casting a bloody light through her thin sweater. Nyx stepped forward, their voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over pavement. It is not empty to me. The shadows here... they stretch inward. Trust the stone, Rory, Isolde said. She never used nicknames unless the truth required softening. It cannot lie to you. Aurora exhaled, a plume of white breath vanishing into the strange, still air of the grove. She trusted Isolde as much as she could trust anyone who spoke in riddles, and she trusted the blade Isolde had given her. She took a step. The resistance was physical, like wading into a pool of cold syrup. The sounds of London traffic, the distant hum of the M25, the bark of a dog, all vanished instantly. The pressure popped in her ears. The grey twilight of Earth shattered. Aurora stumbled forward onto solid ground, but the sky above was no longer grey. It was a warm, bruised amber, glowing without a visible sun. The air hit her face, heavy and humid, smelling of roasted grapes, spiced meat, and earthy decay. She straightened, her hand tightening on the Fae-forged blade. Nyx materialized fully beside her, their form darker against the amber backdrop. Isolde stepped through last, the shimmering distortion of the Veil rippling around her like water before sealing shut. Welcome to Dymas, Isolde said. Aurora turned in a slow circle. They stood on a ridge overlooking a sprawling valley. Vines as thick as tree trunks twisted across the landscape, heavy with grapes the size of fist-sized plums that gleamed like polished amethysts. Orchards stretched into the distance, laden with fruit that seemed to glow from within. It was a landscape of excess, lush and overwhelming. It is beautiful, Nyx whispered, though their shadowy form seemed to recoil slightly from the intensity of the light. But it is hungry. Aurora felt the observation in her bones. The beauty here was aggressive. The vines didn't just grow; they reached. The grass was too green, too thick. The Heartstone burned hotter. Aurora pulled it from under her sweater. The crimson gem was pulsing rapidly now, the inner glow bright enough to cast shadows on her palm. It reacts to the proximity of Hel portals, she said, recalling the brief explanation Isolde had given her in the back of the bar. But we are already in Hel. We are in the realm of Gluttony, Isolde corrected. She walked past them, her silver hair stirring in a wind Aurora could not feel. The portals here are many. Prince Belphegor enjoys guests. Especially those who bring gifts. Aurora clipped the pendant back against her skin. The warmth was comforting, grounding her against the surreal vista. She looked down at her boots. They were caked in London mud, starkly out of place against the vibrant, alien flora. How long do we have? Aurora asked. Time is a fluid currency here, Isolde said. She stopped at the edge of the ridge, looking down toward a distant palace made of bone and marble nestled among the vineyards. An hour here could be a minute in your world. Or a year. Great, Aurora muttered. Just what I needed. More uncertainty. Nyx drifted closer to her, their solid form brushing against her shoulder. It felt like standing in a drafty doorway. You are afraid. I am cautious, Aurora corrected. There is a difference. Caution is the seasoning of survival, Isolde said. She turned back to them, her expression unreadable. But you cannot stay on the ridge. The vines will sense your hesitation. They feed on indecision. As if on cue, the grass near Aurora's boot twitched. A tendril of vine, no thicker than a rope, slid silently across the ground toward her ankle. It moved with purpose, like a snake sensing heat. Aurora didn't flinch. She drew the moonsilver dagger. The blade hummed, a low frequency vibration that she felt in her teeth. The air around the steel shimmered with cold. She slashed downward. The blade cut through the vine effortlessly. The plant didn't bleed sap; it bleed a dark, viscous fluid that smelled of old wine. The vine recoiled, hissing into the soil. Effective, Nyx noted. Fae steel cuts through wards and flesh alike, Isolde said. But do not draw blood from the land unless you intend to pay for it. Everything here has a price. Aurora sheathed the blade. The cold seeped back into her hip, a familiar anchor. She looked out over the amber valley again. In the distance, she could see figures moving among the orchards. They were tall, too thin, their movements jerky and unnatural. Helbound souls, contracted from Earth. She could see the faint shimmer of chains on their wrists, visible only when the amber light hit them at a certain angle. We need to move, Aurora said. Standing here makes us targets. Isolde smiled, a rare, thin expression. The Seer walks where the path opens. Follow my steps. Do not step where I do not step. Why? Nyx asked. Because the ground remembers who walks upon it, Isolde said. And in Dymas, memory is a trap. She began to walk down the slope, her bare feet finding purchase on the lush grass without leaving a trace. Aurora watched her closely, memorizing the placement of each step. She signaled for Nyx to follow. As they descended into the valley of excess, the air grew heavier, sweet to the point of nausea. The amber sky seemed to press down on them. Aurora kept her hand near the dagger, her eyes scanning the twisting vines. The Heartstone pulsed against her chest, a steady rhythm in a world that felt like it was holding its breath. She thought of her flat above Silas' bar, the smell of stale beer and polish, the predictable routine of delivery shifts. That life felt a world away. Here, the fruit looked ready to burst, the shadows held teeth, and the sky never darkened. Keep moving, she said softly, mostly to herself. Nyx drifted at her flank, a shadow in a land of light. Isolde led them toward the bone palace, her silver hair flowing like a banner. Aurora stepped carefully, avoiding the places where the grass seemed too still, listening to the whisper of the wind that wasn't wind, and feeling the heat of the stone against her skin. They were deep in the belly of the realm now. There was no going back until the job was done. Aurora tightened her grip on the hilt of her blade and stepped forward into the golden haze.