Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF2V8NH2E5XF0EP0N3AHBN

The Heartstone pendant pulsed with a warmth that seeped through Rory's shirt, a steady rhythm against her skin that grew stronger with each step. The forest around them had shifted — not in a way she could point to exactly, but in the quality of the air, the slant of the light through the canopy, the way the shadows seemed to hold themselves differently. The trees here were older, their trunks wider than any she'd seen in Richmond Park, their leaves a deeper, more vivid green that shimmered with an otherworldly iridescence. Nyx moved ahead of them, a living shadow that flowed between the trees rather than walked. Even in their incorporeal form, they cast no shadow of their own — a detail that made Rory's skin prickle with unease. Isolde followed behind, her silver hair catching the filtered light like strands of moonlight woven through the air. Rory touched the pendant again, feeling its heat intensify. "It's getting stronger," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The forest seemed to demand quiet, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the delicate balance of this place. "The Heartstone responds to Hel's proximity," Isolde said, her voice musical and strange. "But we are not yet in Hel itself. This is the threshold — the space between worlds where the Veil grows thin." They emerged into a clearing where the ground was covered in a carpet of flowers that shouldn't exist together — snowdrops and bluebells, foxgloves and forget-me-nots, all blooming simultaneously regardless of season. In the center stood three ancient oak trees, their branches intertwined to form a natural archway. Runes were carved into their bark, glowing with a soft silver light that pulsed in time with Rory's pendant. "The standing stones," Isolde murmured, moving toward them with reverence. "They mark the boundary between realms." Rory approached cautiously, reaching out to touch one of the runes. The moment her fingers made contact, the Heartstone flared with heat, and she snatched her hand back with a hiss. "What the hell was that?" "The stones recognize the Heartstone," Isolde explained. "They know you carry a piece of Hel within this realm." Nyx solidified beside them, their form coalescing from shadow to something almost human — tall, with indistinct features that seemed to shift when Rory tried to focus on them. "We should move quickly. The longer we linger in the threshold, the more attention we'll draw." "Attention from what?" Rory asked, but the question died on her lips as she noticed movement in the shadows beyond the clearing. Not Nyx's shadow — something else. Something that watched. Isolde's hand found her arm, cold and firm. "Do not look directly. They are the border guardians, and they are curious about strangers who pass through their domain." Rory forced her gaze forward, toward the archway of trees. Through it, she could see a landscape that didn't belong in Richmond Park — rolling hills covered in vineyards heavy with grapes the color of amethyst, orchards where trees bore fruit in impossible combinations, and in the distance, the spires of a city that gleamed like polished amber. "Dymas," Isolde said, following her gaze. "The realm of Prince Belphegor. But we must be cautious — the Prince does not welcome uninvited guests, especially those carrying Hel-forged artifacts." The Heartstone pulsed again, and this time Rory felt a pull toward the archway, a magnetic attraction that made her feet move forward almost of their own accord. She stopped herself with effort, turning to face Isolde. "You knew about this pendant. You knew what it was when you gave it to me." "I suspected," Isolde corrected gently. "The Heartstone is rare, and those who bear it are often drawn to Hel whether they wish it or not. But I did not know you would be its bearer until I saw you." "Why me?" Rory asked, the question that had haunted her since receiving the pendant. Isolde's lavender eyes held ancient wisdom that made Rory feel like a child. "The Heartstone chooses its bearer for reasons even the Fae cannot always discern. Perhaps it sees something in you that others do not." Nyx moved between them, their form solidifying further until Rory could make out sharp features and eyes that held no pupils — just endless, consuming darkness. "Speculation can wait. We have a mission, and we are running out of time." They stepped through the archway together, and the world shifted around them like a kaleidoscope turning. The air grew warmer, carrying scents that made Rory's mouth water — baking bread, roasting meat, spices she couldn't name. The ground beneath their feet changed from forest loam to smooth stone that glowed faintly with the same amber light she'd seen in the distance. "Welcome to Dymas," Isolde said, her voice tinged with something Rory couldn't quite identify — nostalgia, perhaps, or regret. The city before them was a marvel of excess and beauty. Buildings rose in graceful curves, their surfaces decorated with mosaics that depicted scenes of feasting and celebration. Bridges arched over canals filled with water so clear Rory could see fish swimming below, their scales reflecting colors that seemed to shift and change. The architecture was unlike anything she'd seen in London — a blend of classical Greek columns, Middle Eastern domes, and something else entirely that defied categorization. But it was the people — if they could be called that — who truly made Rory's breath catch. They moved through the streets in a constant flow of activity, some carrying baskets of exotic fruits, others pushing carts laden with wheels of cheese and loaves of bread. There were humans among them, but also beings of light and shadow, creatures with horns and tails, and things that seemed to be made entirely of crystal or liquid metal. A group of children ran past, laughing, their skin the color of burnished copper, their eyes glowing like tiny suns. They paid no attention to the newcomers, too absorbed in their game. "The Prince's subjects," Isolde explained. "Helbound souls who have found their place in Dymas. Here, they serve the realm through creation rather than destruction." Nyx's form flickered, their attention drawn to movement in the shadows between buildings. "We are being followed." "Of course we are," Isolde said calmly. "Prince Belphegor's spies are everywhere. But they will not approach while I am with you — my presence grants you a measure of protection, at least for now." Rory touched the Heartstone again, feeling its warmth intensify as they moved deeper into the city. The streets were alive with sound — music from unseen musicians, the chatter of countless conversations in languages she couldn't understand, the sizzle of food cooking in countless kitchens. Everywhere she looked, there was abundance — food, drink, beauty, pleasure. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. "Why would anyone want to leave this place?" Rory asked, unable to keep the wonder from her voice. Isolde's expression grew sad. "Because all excess comes at a price, Aurora. In Dymas, the price is your soul. The longer you stay, the more you become part of the realm itself, until you are no longer truly yourself, but merely another piece of the Prince's domain." They turned down a narrower street, and the sounds of the city faded behind them. Here, the buildings were older, their surfaces carved with scenes that made Rory's skin crawl — images of consumption and excess taken to horrific extremes. Bodies merged with furniture, faces stretched in eternal pleasure or agony, mouths open in silent screams. "This is the old quarter," Isolde said quietly. "Where the Prince's oldest subjects dwell. They have forgotten what it means to be human, if they ever were human at all." Nyx solidified fully, their form now that of a tall human man with sharp features and eyes that held centuries of darkness. "We should move faster. The wards are changing — something is wrong." Rory felt it then, a shift in the air like the moment before a storm breaks. The Heartstone burned against her chest, and she looked up to see the amber sky darkening, clouds gathering that hadn't been there moments before. "The Prince knows we're here," Isolde said, her voice tight with tension. "He's closing the city." The streets around them began to change — buildings shifting, walls moving, the very layout of the city rearranging itself like a puzzle being solved. Rory grabbed Isolde's arm as the ground beneath them tilted, and they stumbled together. "We need to find shelter," Nyx said, their voice a whisper on the wind. "Somewhere the Prince's influence cannot reach." But as Rory looked around at the transforming city, at the beauty that was becoming something else, something hungry, she realized that in Dymas, there might be nowhere truly safe. The Heartstone pulsed against her chest like a second heartbeat, and she wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake in coming here. The air grew heavy with the scent of cooking meat and baking bread, but beneath it lay something else — the coppery tang of blood, the sweetness of decay. The city was changing, becoming something else, and Rory had the sudden, terrible certainty that they were being herded, guided by unseen hands toward a destination they wouldn't choose for themselves. "Welcome to Dymas," Isolde whispered again, but this time there was no wonder in her voice, only warning. "Welcome to the realm of endless appetite."