Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR8NHPTT9H6P4PRP2FAP37

Aurora paused at the edge of the clearing, every nerve alive. Before her rose a ring of ancient oaks, gnarled limbs arching skyward like silent sentinels. Warm amber light filtered through a haze that shimmered at the boundary of vision—an imperceptible quiver that spoke of a barrier between worlds. Her fingers curled around the worn silver chain at her throat, where the Heartstone Pendant pulsed with a faint inner glow, as if a heartbeat from somewhere unseen. Nyx drifted beside her, form rippling like smoke caught in a breeze. The Shade’s faintly glowing violet eyes watched the stones with a predator’s calm. In solid form they would stand six foot two, but here they hovered barely above the dew-slick grass, limbs elongated shadows. Their voice came as a hush at Aurora’s ear: “Once we cross, time drifts like drifting petals on a slow current. Moments lengthen.” Aurora drew a measured breath. She tested the dagger at her hip—a slender, leaf-shaped blade of moonsilver, cold against her palm even above the leather of her coat. It never warmed to human touch. Isolde’s gift, Isolde’s warning. She tucked it back, fingers lingering on the hilt, and stepped forward. The instant she crossed the oak ring, the air changed. It tasted of wildflowers in bloom, heady and impossible, and carried a soft hum like distant bells underwater. Aurora’s footsteps left no trace on the moss-carpeted floor. She looked back: the dew-dappled grass lay unmarred. A thrill of unease slid up her spine. Wildflowers of impossible color—turquoise poppies, lavender bells—bent toward her, petals quivering. She brushed a finger across a bloom the size of her palm. It glowed faintly where her skin brushed it, as though alive to her touch. Petal edges seemed to undulate, breathing. She jerked her hand away, heart pounding. Nyx leaned close. Their shadow melded with the undergrowth. “Watch where you step,” they murmured. “Here, the Grove records each footfall. But it gives nothing back.” Aurora swallowed. She felt naked, tracked by invisible eyes. She tightened her grip on the pendant. Its warmth spread through her chest. A comfort, and a warning. They moved deeper, among the standing stones, each carved with lines that seemed to shift under scrutiny. Aurora felt dizzy as the carvings pulsed with memory—ancient spells entwined with laughter and tears. She recalled Isolde’s words: “The stones hold the hush of centuries.” She dared not touch them. All around, the grove whispered. Leaves rustled though no breeze stirred. A distant conversation, half-heard, drifted between the trunks: laughter and the clink of glass, then a child’s soft sob. Aurora’s pulse spiked; she scanned the underbrush. Nothing stirred but blossoms. Nyx drifted ahead, silhouette softening at the edges. They paused by a pool, water black as obsidian. Its surface held a perfect mirror of sky, but the image trembled, distorting into shapes that dissolved as soon as she blinked. A face? A pair of wings? Aurora couldn’t tell. “You see it?” Nyx’s whisper brushed her ear. She knelt at the water’s edge. The pendant grew warmer, thrum growing insistent. She caught her reflection—bright blue eyes dulled by wonder and fear—superimposed on shifting illusions beneath the glassy surface. The water beckoned. She wavered, as if drawn by a secret promise, then shook her head. “Not yet,” she managed. “We keep moving.” Nyx inclined their head, and together they skirted the pool. The path narrowed between trees whose bark shimmered with pale lavender veins, like Isolde’s eyes. Moonlight—though a sun orb hung low and golden—filtered through unseen openings, lending the grove a twin day-night aspect. Time lost meaning. Each step stretched seconds into minutes. Aurora’s watch lay hidden in her coat; she knew hours might slip by like droplets through a sieve. They passed an orchard where the fruit glowed with muted opalescence. Pear-shaped pods dangled from twisted branches, their skins translucent. One lay at Aurora’s feet, fallen onto velvet moss. She reached for it, heart hammering with curiosity—then felt Nyx’s shadow fall over her hand. “Some fruits bear sweetness; others harbor ruin,” they cautioned. Their voice was a silk ribbon in the stillness. Aurora hesitated, imagining the pulp searing her throat, or worse—enchanting her mind. She closed her palm around the pod and tossed it aside. It struck a root and cracked open with a wet sigh. A dark seed rolled free, then sprouted vines that retracted into the earth. The orchard stilled. She exhaled sharply. “Let’s go.” They pressed on, the canopy overhead growing denser until the amber light dimmed to a dusk glow. Shadows danced between the trunks, not Nyx’s but countless slender shapes—branches or spirits, she couldn’t tell. Every now and then, a petal drifted down, ghost-soft, to vanish at her feet. Then the grove opened into a wider clearing encircled by stones far larger than the first ring. In the center rose a pool of moonlit water with steps of silvery stone. At its brink stood Isolde Varga, tall and ageless, silver hair falling to her waist, pale lavender eyes luminous in the half-light. She turned at their approach. The wildflowers at her feet leaned toward her, petals trembling. Aurora felt gravity shift, as though the oracle’s presence weighted the very air. Isolde’s voice came like wind rustling autumn leaves. “Rory Carter, bearer of the Heartstone, and Shade of the Between—welcome where footprints vanish and time untethers.” Aurora squared her shoulders. The Fae-Forged Blade felt ice-cold against her thigh. She drew it, the moonlight catching its leaf-shaped edge. “We seek your counsel.” Isolde inclined her head. “You seek truth, but truth is a blade that cuts both flesh and spirit.” She lifted a slender hand, and the water pulsed with silver light. A ripple spread, and images rose: a tear in a boundary, sky lit by an amber glow, a faceless figure stepping through. Aurora recognized the faint shimmer of the Veil, distorted with cracks. Her pendant glowed fiercely. “Belphegor’s realm,” Isolde whispered. “Gluttony’s cradle, where souls sweeten on the tongue of excess. A portal weakens at solstice—now its strength wanes.” She let her gaze drift past the trio, as though peering through the Veil itself. “What you carry sings to Hel.” Aurora’s breath caught. The pendant pulsed again, rhythm quickening. She glanced at Nyx. The Shade’s form shivered, edges softening. Nyx’s voice was a distant echo: “I feel the pull. A door yawns in the amber air.” The oracle continued: “Take this knowledge as a gift and a curse. One false step, and the feast will claim you.” She raised her palm, and a silver petal drifted down, settling on Aurora’s blade. The dagger shivered, luminescence flaring along its length. Aurora sheathed the blade with shaking fingers. “What must we do?” Isolde’s lips curved in a smile both kind and terrible. “Walk without leaving marks. Step through the door without surrendering your soul. The Heartstone will warm when the gate breathes open, but heed its warning: warmth can herald both welcome and ruin.” The shimmering at the grove’s edge grew more pronounced—a quiet dance of light and shadow where oaks curved inward. Aurora felt vertigo as the air pulsed. Nyx drifted closer, shadow touching the rune-etched stone circle. “Balance on the edge,” Isolde said. “Gather your courage. The solstice’s heartbeat will guide you.” Aurora swallowed. She looked down at the pendant’s steady glow, then at the threshold swirling with amber haze. Every instinct screamed to step back, to stay safe. Yet she straightened her spine and advanced. The ground beneath her toes seemed to hum, brimming with possibility. Behind her, Nyx’s form coalesced into solidity, elongated fingers brushing Aurora’s shoulder in silent support. The hush of the grove deepened, every petal, every ripple, every hidden sentinel waiting. Aurora lifted her chin. Heartstone warm against her chest, dagger cold at her side, she crossed into the amber light. The boundary sighed open like a breath, and she stepped forward into the unknown.