Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX39KV6TFXHAM0XSBAKDY7

The air in Richmond Park was crisp with the promise of autumn, but the Heartstone pendant around Aurora Carter’s neck pulsed with a persistent, low-grade heat. Nyx moved beside her, a humanoid silhouette of shifting shadow that drank the late afternoon light. They had followed the pendant’s pull to a ring of ancient, gnarled oaks at the park’s northern edge. “The standing stones,” Rory whispered. The stones weren’t stone at all, but living trees, bent and twisted into perfect arches. Their bark was silvered, smooth as worn bone. “A boundary,” Nyx’s voice was a whisper that seemed to come from the rustling leaves overhead. “The air tastes different here. Thinner, and older.” Rory reached out, her fingers hovering an inch from the nearest trunk. A faint shimmer passed through the air, a heat-haze distortion that made the world beyond the ring waver. She took a step forward. The transition wasn’t a step so much as a slide. One moment, the chill of an English park. The next, a breath of warm, perfumed air that carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth. The light had changed, softening to the perpetual gold of a summer twilight. Behind her, the oak archway remained, but through it, she saw not Richmond Park, but a reflection of this same grove from a slightly different angle. Nyx solidified fully beside her, their violet eyes scanning the clearing. “We are between. This place is a stitch in the Veil.” The grove was a perfect circle, carpeted in moss so green it seemed to glow. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible profusion—deep blue blossoms next to crimson spikes, silver fronds that chimed softly in a non-existent breeze. Time felt thick, syrupy. Rory’s watch had stopped. “She leaves no footprints,” Nyx observed, pointing to the moss. Ahead, the path was marked by smooth, pale stones that seemed to guide them toward the grove’s heart. The sound of falling water grew louder, a gentle, constant patter. They followed it. A small spring bubbled up from between the roots of a colossal, weeping willow whose leaves were not green, but a cascade of liquid silver. Sitting beside the spring on a low, flat rock was a woman. Her hair was a waterfall of moonlight, streaming over her shoulders to pool on the moss. She wore simple robes the color of dusk. When she looked up, her eyes were the pale lavender of a fading bruise. “You followed the red thread,” the woman said. Her voice was melodic, each word precise and clear. “The stone called, and you answered. That is the way of gifts from Dymas. They are never given, only… returned.” Rory’s hand went to the pendant. It was warm against her skin. “Are you Isolde?” The woman inclined her head. “I am what remains of that name. And you are Aurora, who runs from a shadow that is not her own. And you,” her lavender eyes shifted to Nyx, “are a question that was never answered. A soul between realms. You are both far from your proper places.” Nyx took a step forward, their form flickering at the edges. “We seek knowledge. The nature of the pendant. The nature of the door that opened in Soho.” Isolde’s gaze was unsettlingly direct. “A door was opened. A debt was incurred. The stone is a key, and a compass, and a beacon. It points to the door that was opened, and it calls to the one who opened it. Such is the law of transaction in the amber realms.” She turned her palm upward. On it rested a dewdrop, perfectly spherical. Inside the droplet, Rory saw a miniature, shifting landscape of vineyards under an amber sky. “Gluttony is not merely for food. It is for experience. For sensation. For possession. Someone has developed a taste for something on this side of the Veil, and they have left a token to find their way back for another helping.” The droplet vanished, absorbed into Isolde’s skin. “The winter solstice approaches. The Veil thins. The door will open wider. The key will turn more easily.” A cold knot tightened in Rory’s stomach. “How do we stop it?” “A door can be closed,” Isolde said, her eyes drifting to the silver-leaved willow. “Or it can be removed from its hinges. One requires a lock. The other requires a blade.” She reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew a long, slender object wrapped in grey silk. She let the silk fall away. The blade was maybe ten inches long, wrought from a metal that looked like quicksilver frozen mid-drip. It was leaf-shaped, with veins of a darker silver running along its length. The air around it grew several degrees colder. Rory could see her own breath fog. “Moonsilver,” Nyx breathed, their voice holding a note of reverence Rory had never heard. “Fae-forged. That is a relic of the Courts.” “It was,” Isolde corrected gently. “Now it is a gift. A gift for the one who carries a key she did not ask for.” She held the dagger out to Rory, hilt first. “It can cut what other blades cannot. Wards. Bindings. Certain doors.” Rory hesitated. The cold emanating from the weapon was intense, a dry, ancient chill that seeped into her bones. She glanced at Nyx, who gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. She reached out and took the hilt. The cold was a shock, but not painful. It was the clean, sharp cold of a winter star. The blade was lighter than it looked, perfectly balanced. As her fingers closed around the grip, a faint, milky luminescence awakened along the darker veins, pulsing once before settling into a steady, soft glow. “It will serve you,” Isolde said. “While your path and its purpose are aligned. Remember, it is a blade of severance. It makes distinctions. It separates one thing from another. Use that quality wisely.” Rory carefully slid the blade into the inner pocket of her jacket. The cold was muted through the leather, a constant, reassuring presence against her ribs. “The door in Soho,” Rory pressed. “Who opened it?” Isolde’s expression grew distant, her lavender eyes clouding as if viewing something far away. “I see a hunger wrapped in mortal skin. A palate jaded by earthly delights, seeking a sharper spice. I see a hand that accepted a gift in a place of amber skies and honeyed wines. The connection is made. The invitation is given. More than that…” She blinked, and her gaze focused again, sharp and clear. “More than that is a path you must walk. Visions are like maps drawn in fog. They show you the shape of the land, not the stones on the path.” She stood, and Rory realized Isolde’s feet did not press into the soft moss. She left no impression at all. “Our time here ends. An hour in this grove is a minute in your world, or a day. The balance is never certain. You should not stay longer.” She gestured toward the way they had come. The path of pale stones gleamed faintly. Nyx bowed their head, a gesture of deep respect. “Our thanks, Seer.” Isolde’s lips curved in a smile that held centuries of sadness. “Do not thank me. I have given you a blade and a direction. Both will cut you before this is done.” She turned and walked toward the silver willow, her form dissolving into the shimmering curtain of leaves as if she had never been there. The grove was silent save for the endless trickle of the spring. The floral perfume seemed cloying now. The wondrous, alien beauty of the place carried an edge of claustrophobia. Time moved wrong here. “We should go,” Rory said, her voice barely above a whisper. They retraced their steps along the pale stones. The Heartstone pendant had cooled against her chest, dormant once more. The Fae blade was a line of cold fire in her pocket. As they passed back through the arch of living oak, the world snapped back into focus with a visceral jolt. The air was cold and damp with London’s evening chill. The light was the murky grey of impending dusk. Behind them, the ring of trees was just trees again, ancient and quiet. Rory checked her watch. The digital display blinked, then settled. Only fifteen minutes had passed. She looked at Nyx, whose form was once again insubstantial, blending with the growing shadows of the park. “An hour inside can be a minute or a day,” she repeated. “We were fortunate,” Nyx whispered. “This time.”