Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXREXB66CXB467HWW1R3HC

Amber light thicket through the canopy, thick as honey. Rory stepped through the ring of standing stones, her boots sinking into moss that felt more like velvet than vegetation. The transition hit her like a change in atmospheric pressure; her ears popped, and the hum of London traffic vanished. In its place, a heavy, fragrant silence settled over the clearing. "The air tastes like nectar." Rory brushed a stray strand of black hair from her face. She adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, her fingers grazing the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant beneath her shirt. The crimson gem throbbed against her collarbone, a rhythmic heat that matched her own pulse. Beside her, a humanoid silhouette rippled. Nyx moved with a fluid, terrifying grace, their form bleeding into the elongated shadows of the ancient oaks. Violet light flickered within the void of their face, scanning the perimeter. "Time does not breathe here, Aurora Carter. It waits." The whisper scraped against the air, dry as parchment. Nyx drifted forward, their feet never quite depressing the wildflowers that carpeted the forest floor. These blooms defied the season, their petals shimmering with iridescent oils and shifting colors—pulsing from bruised plum to electric gold as the party moved past. Isolde Varga led the way. The Half-Fae walked with a spine of steel, her waist-length silver hair trailing behind her like a comet’s tail. She didn't look back to see if they followed. She knew they would. The Grove didn't permit a reversal of will once the threshold crumbled. "Watch the shadows," Isolde warned. Her voice lacked the weight of human vocal cords, ringing like crystal struck by silver. "They have eyes in the Dymasian borderlands, and the Gluttony Prince keeps a long leash on his hounds." Rory gripped the hilt of the moonsilver dagger tucked into her belt. The Fae-Forged Blade felt like a shard of ice against her hip, a constant, biting reminder of the stakes. As they delved deeper into the pocket dimension, the trees changed. The gnarled bark of the oaks gave way to translucent, crystalline trunks. Inside the wood, sap flowed like liquid gold, thick and sluggish. Rory reached out, her fingers hovering an inch from a trunk. "It’s warm." "Life is a feast in the realms of excess," Isolde said, pausing beneath a weeping willow whose branches consisted of spun silver silk. "Prince Belphegor does not allow his gardens to wither. Every leaf is a calculated indulgence." A low, guttural vibration groaned through the earth. Rory froze. It wasn't a tremor, but a sound—a deep, resonant bass note that made her teeth ache. Far ahead, the amber sky fractured. A shimmering distortion hung in the air, a ripple in the fabric of the world that made the trees behind it look like they were underwater. "The Veil," Rory whispered. "A thinning patch," Nyx clarified, their violet eyes glowing brighter. The Shade drifted toward a patch of thorns that bled thick, sweet-smelling resin. "The scent of Dymas is heavy now. Sugared rot and overripe peaches." Rory smelled it then. The air grew cloying, heavy enough to coat the back of her throat. It wasn't the fresh, earthy scent of Richmond Park anymore. This was the smell of a kitchen after a week of decadence—fermenting fruit, burnt caramel, and something metallic, like blood hidden under spices. They crested a small rise and the Grove opened into a vast, sunken amphitheater of stone and glass. In the center, a fountain bubbled, but it didn't spout water. Dark, viscous wine cascaded over tiers of white marble, staining the stone a permanent, regal purple. Around the fountain, the grass had been replaced by a carpet of succulents that looked like clusters of glass grapes. "Is this where he comes?" Rory asked, her voice hushed. Isolde turned, her pale lavender eyes catching the amber light. "The Prince of Gluttony does not walk. He is carried. But his influence... his influence eats the world from the inside out." Rory stepped toward the fountain, drawn by the mesmerizing rhythm of the wine. As she approached, the Heartstone Pendant began to burn. Not the gentle warmth of a warning, but a searing, insistent heat. She gasped, clutching at her chest. "Rory?" Nyx was at her shoulder in a blur of darkness. The Shade’s presence brought a sudden, hollow cold that battled the heat of the stone. "It’s reacting to the portal," Rory hissed through gritted teeth. She looked at the fountain. The wine wasn't just falling; it was swirling into a vortex at the base of the marble basin. The shimmering distortion she’d seen earlier wasn't above them—it was right there, anchored in the liquid. "The Gateway to Dymas," Isolde said, her expression unreadable. "A place where every desire is granted, and every soul is a dish to be served." Rory pulled the pendant out from under her shirt. The crimson stone glowed with an internal, angry light, casting long, distorted shadows across her face. The crescent-shaped scar on her wrist felt tight, a phantom itch from a life she’d tried to leave behind in Cardiff. She felt small in the face of the ancient stones and the ageless Shade, a delivery girl caught in a war between cosmic appetites. "We shouldn't be here," Rory said, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. "This isn't a clearing. It’s a larder." The ground groaned again, louder this time. From the edges of the crystalline forest, the shadows began to detach themselves—not like Nyx, who was a solid entity, but like ink bleeding into water. The "hounds" Isolde mentioned were formless, shifting masses of teeth and hunger, drawn by the heat of the Heartstone and the scent of mortal blood. Nyx’s form expanded, their silhouette sharpening into a jagged, lethal edge. "The Prince’s guests have arrived for the first course." Rory drew the moonsilver blade. The metal caught the amber light and refracted it into a cold, blue gleam. The temperature around the dagger dropped further, frosting the tips of the glass-like succulents at her feet. "Tell me how to close it," Rory commanded, her voice regaining the cool edge that had seen her through the streets of London and the nightmares of her past. Isolde didn't move. She watched the ink-black hounds circle the perimeter of the fountain, her silver hair shimmering as the wind began to howl through the trees. "Closure is a human concept, Aurora. Here, there is only consumption or escape." A hound leaped. It was a blur of matted fur and too many eyes, its jaw unhinging to reveal rows of needle-like teeth that glowed with a faint, sickly green luminescence. Rory didn't think. She pivoted, the leaf-shaped blade cutting a shimmering arc through the air. The moonsilver met the beast’s throat. There was no resistance, no bone or gristle; the blade sliced through the demon’s essence like a hot wire through wax. The creature didn't scream. It dissolved into a puddle of foul-smelling sludge that hissed against the marble. "One," Nyx whispered, their shadow-claws elongating as they intercepted another three hounds in a flurry of violet strikes. Rory stood her ground by the fountain, the Heartstone Pendant now thrumming with a vibration so intense she could feel it in her molars. The wine-vortex spun faster, the scent of spirits and sugar becoming overwhelming. She looked into the depths of the swirling liquid and saw images shifting beneath the surface—grand banquet halls draped in gold, tables groaning under the weight of impossible feasts, and the distorted faces of souls whose eyes were wide with a hunger that could never be filled. "The pendant is the key," Rory shouted over the rising roar of the portal. "It’s not just a sensor, is it?" Isolde finally looked at her, a small, cryptic smile touching her lips. "A key is also a lock, if one knows which way to turn it." More hounds emerged from the crystalline trees, their growls sounding like the grinding of stones. The amber sky began to darken, the warm light being swallowed by the yawning void of the Dymasian gate. The flowers at Rory’s feet began to wilt, their iridescent oils turning black and rancid as the Prince’s realm bled into the Grove. Nyx was a whirlwind of shadow, a frantic dance of violet and black that kept the worst of the pack at bay, but they were being pushed back toward the fountain. "Choose, Aurora," Nyx called out, their voice straining as a hound’s claws raked through their incorporeal form. "The threshold is breaking!" Rory looked at the Heartstone. She looked at the silver dagger. The cold of the blade and the heat of the stone fought for dominance in her hands. She stepped onto the rim of the fountain, the stained wine splashing over her boots. The liquid felt oily and thick, pulling at her feet with a gravity that didn't belong to Earth. She plunged her hand into the vortex, the pendant gripped tight in her fist. The world tilted. The amber sky vanished, replaced by a searing, blinding crimson. The sound of the forest was killed by the roar of a thousand hungry mouths. Rory felt the Heartstone buckle, the gemstone pulsating so violently it felt like it might shatter. "Not today," she hissed, her fingers locking around the silver chain. The energy of the portal surged up her arm, a wave of pure, unadulterated gluttony that threatened to drown her mind in visions of excess. She saw her father’s face, her mother’s classroom, the cold eyes of Evan—everything she’d ever wanted or feared, served up on a silver platter. She drove the moonsilver blade into the marble of the fountain, using it as an anchor. The cold of the Fae metal surged through her other arm, meeting the heat of the Hel-stone in her chest. The clash sent a shockwave of silver and red light rippling outward. The hounds disintegrated instantly. The crystalline trees shattered, showering the clearing in a rain of glass shards. Nyx was thrown back, their shadow-form flickering wildly before stabilizing. The wine in the fountain erupted upward in a geyser of purple froth, then suddenly vanished. The vortex collapsed with a sound like a vacuum seal being broken. Rory fell forward, her knees hitting the marble as the oppressive heat of Dymas retreated, leaving behind only the cold, sharp scent of the Fae Grove. Silence returned, but it was a wounded silence. The clearing was decimated. The iridescent wildflowers were gone, replaced by gray ash. The amber light of the sky had faded to a dull, bruised twilight. Rory pulled her hand from the basin. The Heartstone Pendant was dark, its inner glow extinguished for the moment. Her moonsilver blade remained wedged in the marble, humming with a low, dying frequency. Isolde stepped through the wreckage, her silver hair untouched by the ash, her feet leaving no mark on the ruined ground. She looked down at Rory, her pale eyes reflecting the fading light. "The Prince will remember that taste," the Seer said softly. "You have denied him a seat at his own table." Rory stood up shaking. She wiped a smudge of wine from her cheek, her blue eyes hard. "I’m not on the menu." Nyx drifted back to her side, their form reconstituted but dim. "The Veil is mending, but the scar remains. This place is no longer hidden." Rory looked around at the broken glass trees and the silent standing stones. The wonder of the Grove had been stripped away, revealing the raw, dangerous machinery of the realms beneath. She reached for the hilt of her dagger and yanked it from the stone. "Then we don't stay," Rory said. "We move." The Heartstone gave a single, faint pulse against her skin—a cold, lingering reminder that some hungers were never truly sated.