Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNEXVQG9YSADK0N251CC4DG

The air in Richmond Park was crisp with the promise of autumn, but beneath the sprawling boughs of an ancient oak, the chill felt different. It was a cold that seeped into the bone, smelling of damp earth and something older, like stone lichen and forgotten promises. Rory stood before the circle of standing stones, her shoulder-length black hair stirring in a breeze that didn’t touch the rest of the park. The oaks were gnarled and impossibly large, their trunks etched with spirals that seemed to shift if she looked at them from the corner of her bright blue eyes. “This is it,” she murmured, her voice swallowed by the quiet. Beside her, the air thickened and darkened, coalescing into a humanoid silhouette. Nyx resolved from the shadows between two trees, their form solidifying into a tall, slender figure of living darkness. Faintly glowing violet eyes regarded the stones. “The boundary is thin here. Threadbare. It smells of honeysuckle and regret.” “Charming,” Rory said, her fingers unconsciously finding the Heartstone pendant at her throat. It was warm against her skin, a steady pulse like a second heartbeat. She’d taken to wearing it under her shirt, a secret comfort. Today, it felt more like a compass needle, tugging her forward. She’d come seeking answers. Visions of an amber sky and a feast that never ended had plagued her sleep for weeks. Eva, her ever-pragmatic friend, had finally cracked and whispered a name over cheap wine: *Isolde Varga*. Find the stones where the wildflowers bloom in winter. And here they were. In late October, a riot of snowdrops, bluebells, and foxgloves carpeted the forest floor within the stone circle, defying season and sense. Rory took a deep breath, the scent overwhelmingly sweet, and stepped between two moss-clad monoliths. The world did not so much change as *settle*. The sounds of distant London traffic vanished, replaced by a profound, ringing silence broken only by the trickle of unseen water. The light softened, diffusing through a canopy that seemed higher, the leaves holding a silver sheen. She looked back. The standing stones were still there, but the park beyond them looked hazy, like a memory viewed through old glass. “Time moves differently here,” Nyx whispered, their voice the sound of dry leaves skittering over stone. They drifted beside her, their shadowy form less distinct, blending with the dappled light. “An hour can be a minute. A minute can be a day. Do not linger without purpose.” Rory moved forward, her trainers sinking into thick, emerald moss. The grove opened into a clearing where the silver-trunked trees formed a natural cathedral. Wildflowers climbed their bases, glowing with a faint internal light—pale blues and luminescent whites that pulsed gently. In the centre, a small, perfectly still pool reflected not the sky, but a tapestry of stars that belonged to no constellation she knew. And there, by the water, was Isolde. The Half-Fae Seer was sitting on a low, flat stone, her back straight, her hands resting in her lap. Hair the colour of spun moonlight fell in a straight cascade to her waist, almost blending with the simple grey shift she wore. She was ageless, not young, not old, but carved from time itself. Her eyes, when she lifted her head, were a pale, unsettling lavender. “You have brought a shadow with you, daughter of Cardiff,” Isolde said. Her voice was melodic, each word precise and layered, like a chord being struck. “And you wear a stone from a hungry realm. An interesting bouquet you present.” Rory stopped a respectful distance away, her cool-headed nature wrestling with a spike of primal awe. “You’re Isolde. I was told you could help me.” “I see what is, what may be, and what is threads upon the loom.” Isolde’s gaze drifted past Rory to Nyx. “And I see what is trapped between. Hello, Aldric. Does the whispering of the Void still echo in you?” Nyx went very still. Their violet eyes flared briefly. “That name is ash. It has no meaning here.” “All names have meaning. They are hooks upon which we hang our souls.” Isolde returned her attention to Rory. “You dream of Dymas. The amber sky. The endless table. You feel the pendant warm when you pass a certain alleyway near the river, where the air smells of roasting meat and despair.” A shiver traced Rory’s spine. “How do you know that?” “I know because you are here, and you are troubled, and the Veil is particularly thin near those who attract such trouble.” Isolde rose. She moved without a sound, and Rory saw with a start that where her bare feet touched the moss, no impression was left. “You have stepped through a door, Aurora Carter, and now you stand in the hallway. Many other doors are opening. Prince Belphegor’s chefs are always seeking new… ingredients. And your resonance is… unique.” “What does that mean?” Rory’s mind was racing, her lawyer’s training scrabbling for logical footholds where none existed. “It means you are a candle in a dark place,” Nyx intoned softly. “You draw attention.” Isolde nodded. “The shadow speaks true. You require more than visions. You require a ward. And a warning.” She walked to the base of the largest tree and reached into a hollow that Rory was certain hadn’t been there a moment before. When her hand emerged, she held a dagger. It was slender and leaf-shaped, forged from a metal that looked like liquid mercury frozen solid. It gleamed with a cold, moonlit radiance. Isolde offered it hilt-first. “A gift. Forged in the deeper courts, of moonsilver. It is always cold. It can cut through glamours and wards. It will bite deeply those who feed on mortal essence.” The Seer’s lavender eyes held Rory’s. “I cannot lie. This blade is coveted. It is a danger to possess. It is also, I foresee, necessary for you to keep.” Rory hesitated, then took the dagger. The hilt was shockingly cold, like holding a shard of winter. It seemed to leech the warmth from her palm, yet it was perfectly balanced. A faint, bluish glow emanated from its edge. She slid it carefully into the inner pocket of her jacket, the cold seeping through the material. “The warning?” Rory asked, her voice tighter than she intended. “The Veil weakens with the winter solstice,” Isolde said, drifting back to her stone. “The hungry places will press close. Your stone is a key as much as it is a compass. Doors will open for you that should remain shut. You must learn to discern which thresholds to cross. Not all feasts are meant to be joined. Some are meant to be refused, or ruined.” The grove seemed to grow darker as she spoke. The starry reflection in the pool swirled, and for a dizzying second, Rory saw not stars, but a vast, sun-drenched landscape of vineyards under an amber sky. A long table groaned under platters of impossible, glistening fruits and roasted beasts she couldn’t name. A figure at the head of the table, indistinct and vast, turned its head. She felt a pull, a deep, visceral hunger that was not her own. The vision snapped away. She was back in the grove, breathing hard, the Heartstone burning against her chest like an ember. “You see,” Isolde said softly. “You are already walking the path. The memory of Dymas is upon you.” Nyx’s form rippled, stretching towards Rory as if to shield her. “We should leave. This place… the threads of time are snagging on us.” Rory nodded, her throat dry. The wonder of the grove was now undercut by a profound unease. The beautiful, timeless clearing felt less like a sanctuary and more like the antechamber to something immense and terrifying. She had come for answers and had been given a weapon and a riddle. “Thank you,” she managed to say to Isolde. The Seer merely inclined her head. “Remember, daughter of Cardiff: to refuse a gift from the Fae is a grave insult. To accept one is a binding. You have accepted. Walk carefully.” Rory turned, the cold weight of the Fae-forged blade a constant, sobering presence against her ribs. She walked back through the silver trees, Nyx flowing beside her like a living patch of night. The glowing wildflowers seemed to watch her go. When she passed between the standing stones again, the transition was a sudden, sensory slap. The deep, floral silence was replaced by the distant rumble of a plane, the chatter of birds, the ordinary chill of an English autumn afternoon. She stumbled, blinking in the mundane grey light. She looked back. The circle of oaks stood as it had, but the stones looked just like stones now, and the flowers at their feet were ordinary, brown, and autumnal. The grove was gone, hidden away. Nyx solidified fully beside her, their violet gaze thoughtful. “The blade is a significant debt.” “I know,” Rory said, touching the pendant again. It was cooling now, back to a gentle warmth. She felt changed, as if the grove’s air had stained her somehow. She had entered a place out of a storybook and emerged with a piece of its magic, heavy and dangerous in her pocket. The world hadn’t changed, but her place in it had irrevocably shifted. The path was ahead, leading towards an amber sky, and all she had to navigate by was a cold blade, a warm stone, and the whisper of a shadow at her side.