Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR7JRH5H3TG51083WERGMT

The Heartstone Pendant pulsed against Rory’s collarbone, a slow, insistent warmth like a second heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her bag, fingers brushing the Fae blade tucked inside. The air smelled of damp earth and something older—ozone and crushed herbs. "Still think we should’ve brought a map?" Nyx’s voice curled around her, a whisper that didn’t quite touch the air. Rory didn’t turn. The standing stones loomed ahead, their bark blackened with age, runes carved deep into the wood. "Maps don’t work here. You know that." Isolde stepped between the stones first, her silver hair catching the dim light like spun glass. She didn’t look back. "The Grove does not welcome the unprepared." A shiver ran down Rory’s spine. The last time she’d followed someone into the unknown, it had ended with a broken rib and a restraining order. But this wasn’t Evan. This was the Veil, the space between worlds, and the pendant’s heat was a warning she couldn’t ignore. She crossed the threshold. The world twisted. The trees bent inward, their branches weaving a canopy that blotted out the sky. The air thickened, sweet and heavy, like honey left too long in the sun. Rory’s boots sank into moss so soft it muffled every step. Nyx solidified beside her, their violet eyes flickering like candle flames. "Time’s different here. Don’t get lost in it." Isolde laughed, the sound like wind chimes. "Time is a river, child. You cannot lose what you do not possess." She plucked a wildflower from the ground, twirling it between her fingers. "But do hurry. The solstice weakens the Veil, and Belphegor’s hunters are never far behind." Rory’s stomach tightened. "You didn’t mention hunters last time." "Didn’t I?" Isolde’s lavender eyes gleamed. "Memory is a fickle thing." A path unfolded before them, winding through towering ferns and mushrooms the size of dinner plates. The ground hummed beneath Rory’s feet, a low vibration that thrummed in her bones. She crouched, pressing her palm to the earth. The moss pulsed. "Alive," she murmured. Nyx crouched beside her. "Everything here is alive. Even the shadows." A rustle. Rory’s head snapped up. The ferns trembled, though there was no wind. Something moved in the undergrowth—too fast, too fluid. She reached for the Fae blade, but Isolde’s hand closed over hers. "Not yet." The seer’s voice was a blade of its own. "Listen." The rustling stopped. Then, a sound like a sigh, long and slow. The ferns parted. A deer stepped onto the path. Its coat was the color of moonlight, its antlers woven with vines that bloomed with tiny white flowers. It regarded them with eyes like polished obsidian, unblinking. Then it turned and walked deeper into the grove, hooves leaving no prints. Isolde followed. Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx. "That was…" "Unsettling?" Nyx offered. "Normal," Rory finished. "For here." They walked in silence after that, the path narrowing until they had to move single file. The trees pressed closer, their bark etched with symbols that made Rory’s eyes ache if she stared too long. The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of ripe fruit and something metallic beneath it—blood? No, copper. Like old coins left in the rain. Then the path opened. A clearing stretched before them, bathed in golden light that didn’t come from the sky. The trees here were different—taller, their trunks gnarled and twisted, their leaves shimmering like stained glass. At the center stood a pool, its surface so still it looked like a mirror. But when Rory stepped closer, she saw it wasn’t water at all. It was liquid amber. The pool rippled as something broke the surface—a hand, pale and slender, fingers beckoning. Isolde knelt at the edge, her reflection wavering in the amber. "The Grove remembers you, Aurora Carter." Rory’s pulse jumped. "I’ve never been here before." "Not in this life." Isolde dipped her fingers into the pool. The amber clung to her skin, glowing faintly. "But the Veil remembers all who pass through it." Nyx shifted beside her. "That’s not ominous at all." Rory ignored them, staring into the pool. Her own reflection stared back, but wrong—her eyes too bright, her skin too pale, like something wearing her face. She reached out, and the reflection did the same. The amber rippled. A voice, neither male nor female, whispered from the depths. *"You carry the mark of Dymas."* Rory’s breath caught. The pendant at her throat burned. Isolde’s fingers tightened around hers. "Do not answer it." "But—" "The Grove tests you." The seer’s voice was sharp. "It always tests." The pool stilled. The reflection vanished. Rory exhaled, her hands shaking. The pendant’s heat faded, leaving only the cold press of the silver chain against her skin. Nyx’s shadow stretched long across the clearing. "So. That was fun." Isolde stood, brushing moss from her dress. "The path narrows from here. Stay close." The trees ahead bent inward, their branches forming an archway. Beyond it, the light shifted—amber deepening to gold, then to something richer, darker. The scent of roasting meat curled through the air, mingling with spices Rory couldn’t name. Her stomach growled. Nyx smirked. "Hungry?" Rory glared. "I skipped lunch." Isolde stepped through the archway first. "Then you’ll want to see this." The world opened again. They stood at the edge of a valley, but not like any valley Rory had seen before. The sky above was a warm, unnatural amber, streaked with clouds that looked like caramel. Below, terraced vineyards spilled down the slopes, rows of grapes so dark they were almost black. Between them, orchards of fruit trees bore apples the size of fists, their skins shimmering like polished gemstones. And the people. They moved between the rows, their skin tones ranging from deep russet to pale gold, their clothes a riot of colors—silks and velvets, embroidered with patterns that made Rory’s eyes water. Some carried baskets of fruit, others led goats with coats like spun silver. A few turned to watch the newcomers, their expressions unreadable. Nyx’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Are those—?" "Helbound," Isolde said. "Souls contracted to Dymas. They tend the gardens, prepare the feasts." Rory’s fingers twitched toward the Fae blade. "They don’t look like prisoners." "They’re not." Isolde’s gaze flicked to the pendant. "Gluttony is a sin of indulgence, not suffering. They are rewarded for their service." A man approached them, his robes embroidered with threads of gold. His smile was warm, his eyes sharp. "Visitors," he said, voice like honeyed wine. "The Grove does not often send guests to Dymas." Isolde inclined her head. "We seek Prince Belphegor." The man’s smile didn’t waver. "The Prince is… occupied. But you are welcome to wait. The kitchens are always open." Rory’s stomach growled again. Nyx shot her a look. "Subtle." The man laughed, a rich, rolling sound. "Come. The solstice feast begins at dusk. You’ll want to see it." He turned, robes swirling around his ankles. Rory hesitated, then followed. The path wound down into the valley, past stalls where vendors sold spiced wines and pastries stuffed with meat so tender it fell apart at the touch. A woman offered Rory a sample, her fingers stained red with juice. Rory took it, the flavors exploding on her tongue—sweet, savory, spiced with something she couldn’t name. Nyx leaned in. "You’re drooling." Rory swallowed. "Shut up." The man led them to a courtyard where long tables groaned under the weight of food—roasted meats glistening with fat, towers of fruit, platters of cheese so rich it looked like butter. Musicians played in the corners, their instruments strange and beautiful, the music weaving through the air like smoke. And at the head of the table, a throne of gilded wood. Empty. The man gestured to the feast. "Eat. Drink. The Prince will join you when he’s able." Rory’s fingers curled around the pendant. It pulsed once, slow and steady, like a heartbeat. Nyx’s shadow pooled at her feet. "This feels like a trap." Isolde plucked a grape from a nearby platter, rolling it between her fingers. "Everything is a trap, child. The question is whether you’re the hunter or the prey." Rory exhaled. "And which are we?" The seer’s lavender eyes gleamed. "That depends on what you’re willing to risk."