Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0N1BMC44FJKHNAS07DXJR

The air changed the moment they stepped through the braided ring of ancient oak stones. The dull chill of early spring in Richmond Park surrendered to a deep, fragrant stillness, as if they had descended beneath the skin of the world itself. Bosky shadows braided with light twisted oddly, bending and swimming like waves on a dark sea. Aurora stepped forward, the small pulse of warmth from the Heartstone at her throat growing faint but certain. “This... isn’t the park anymore,” Rory said, her voice low, barely above a whisper. Nyx hovered beside her, shifting from corporeal shadow to near invisibility, the faint violet shimmer in their eye-slits flickering with interest. “Not quite,” they murmured, voice soft as wind threading through bare branches, “something old lives here still.” Isolde floated ahead, her silver hair catching dappled shafts of sun that fractured oddly in the shifting light. She left no prints on the mossy carpet below, and the wildflowers bloomed in impossible riotous hues around her feet—violets impossible to name, blues that winked in and out of focus like glimpses of dreams. The air thrummed, a quiet pulse not unlike the steady beat of a heart. Rory reached for the moonsilver dagger strapped at her side, the Fae-Forged Blade cool under her fingers. The grove breathed beneath their feet, shifting, sounding faintly as if it whispered secrets in a tongue only half-heard. “Time can be a trick here,” Isolde said softly, voice like wind-carved glass, “an hour inside may stretch; or vanish.” Rory blinked, scanning the strange convergence of colors and light that danced across a low-hanging branch. Leaves shimmered as though coated in dew made of starlight, each one vibrating slightly, as if alive with something beyond nature’s common ken. Nyx drifted forward until their form solidified beside a towering oak, its bark etched with spirals of runes that gleamed like moonlight carved in stone. Their fingers traced the marks reverently. “These runes,” Nyx whispered, voice fading like a sigh, “bind the Veil here. A threshold—strong, but old.” Rory swallowed, swallowing the familiar tightening in her chest. The Veil. That trembling, invisible membrane separating Earth from the realms beyond. They had chased its weakness before—fought shadows spilling through—but this place felt untouched by earthly decay, older than memory. As they walked deeper, the grove shifted subtly beneath their feet. The air thickened, carrying the warmth of distant hearths mingled with a faint tang of smoke—but no fire could be seen. Sounds of laughter echoed faintly, hollow and far away, as if carried from a revel beyond reach. “This place,” Rory muttered, “it feels alive. Hungry. Like it’s waiting.” Isolde’s pale lavender eyes regarded her carefully. “Gluttony’s touch, you mean. The hunger of Dymas folded in a slumbering peel.” She gestured near a cluster of vines dripping berries that glowed faintly amber in the dim air. “A taste of Hel masked beneath the sweet.” Rory’s gaze locked on the berries. Some pulsed faintly, others hung heavy with a dark, oily sheen. Her fingers twitched, resisting the urge to pluck one. “Could be poison,” she said flatly. Nyx shifted toward her side, shadow rippling like water. “Or a beckon. Both.” That word spiked her skin. The blind hunger of Dymas — Prince Belphegor’s realm of excess — had dragged souls into gyres of endless indulgence. The taste of its orchards, the scent of its vineyards echoed like a call that would never quit. They moved on, stepping over roots that writhed like slumbering serpents beneath the moss. The trees arced overhead, branches weaving a vaulted ceiling shot through with white-gold light. Somewhere unseen, water tinkled—something like a creek, though the sound shimmered oddly, as if flowing in a dream. “I hear it too,” Rory said. “Like water beneath ice.” Nyx melted briefly into a pool of darkness pressed against the bark. “Not everything here is settled,” Nyx said. “Some place between thoughts.” Isolde’s lips lifted in that faint, knowing smile without humour. “A crossroads is not always a welcome one.” Rory’s gaze fell on a carved stone beneath an ancient tree, worn smooth as river rock. The carving depicted a delicate balance: a figure with wings half-fledged, half-shadowed, holding scales that glimmered violet under Isolde’s gaze. “The Shadow and the Seer,” Rory breathed. “What tale is this place weaving?” “An old story,” Isolde said, voice like the rustle of silk, “and one not finished yet.” They pressed forward until the ground flattened into a wide clearing nestled beneath leafless oaks like a cathedral carved of living wood. In the center, a pool lay still as a mirror, utterly black and edged in wildflowers that pushed and burst like flames of blue and violet. Rory took a cautious step forward and saw her reflection shimmer and twist as if the water drew beneath the surface. “There’s something in there,” she said, her eyes narrowing. The pendant at her throat pulsed warm, steady, calling. Nyx’s shape coalesced beside her, faint glowing violet eye flickering. “Eyes shall see, but hearts may not welcome.” Isolde circled the pool, voice low and weaving, “Drink not, nor peer too deep. For what mirrors offer are riddles staring into you.” Rory knelt and reached out a trembling hand, feeling something almost magnetic beneath the water. Fingers brushed the surface and a ripple crawled outward, distorting their reflections into strange shapes: shadow-skinned figures, ghost-limned wings. The hair on Rory’s neck prickled. A shiver slipped through the clearing, and the wildflowers bowed like they sensed a storm rolling just out of sight. Nyx’s form grew solid and protective beside her. “The Veil breathes thinner here. A soft wound in the Boundary.” Isolde’s gaze returned to Rory. “A glimpse, chosen or forced—a passage.” Rory swallowed hard, heart thudding in her ears. Her scarred wrist itched beneath the sleeve, as though something beneath the skin pulsed in warning. “What happens if I reach in?” she asked, voice tight. Isolde smiled like a slanted moon. “Sometimes, what answers you already carry.” Below the surface, something stirred—a coil of darkness trembling and alive, pulling with cold urgency. Rory’s fingers hovered, trembling, thick with both hope and dread. Nyx’s shadow stretched protectively. “Don’t,” Nyx whispered, voice barely there, “some depths are better left untouched.” Rory jerked her hand back. The water stilled, the flowers lifting their heads once more as if nothing had changed. Yet the silence dragged—heavy as mourning. “This place chooses,” Rory said quietly, standing. “The Veil bends—but what waits beyond is always watching.” Isolde moved beside her, smoothing her silver hair. “One step inward shifts the balance. One step outward leaves questions burning.” The grove pulsed softly with ancient life. Somewhere, faint laughter echoed—warm, terrible. Rory bit back a shiver and took a breath. “Then let’s see how far the Boundary will let us go.”