Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY5PSTW6G1QJDQN9B0J5YY

Silas pushed aside the curtain of hanging ivy, and the humid London air vanished. Cold, still silence rushed in to fill Rory's lungs. She stumbled forward, her boots crunching on ground that felt too soft, like moss grown over velvet. Behind her, Nyx materialized from the shadow of an ancient oak, their form shifting from a flat silhouette into a towering figure of living darkness. The violet glow of their eyes cut through the twilight gloom of the grove. "Time holds its breath here," Nyx whispered. The voice scraped against Rory's eardrums, sounding like dry leaves skittering across stone. "Do not linger too long. An hour inside might steal a week from your world." Rory gripped the Heartstone pendant hanging against her chest. The crimson gem pulsed with a faint warmth, a steady rhythm against her skin. It had led them straight to this hidden pocket within Richmond Park, away from the prying eyes of the Wardens and the tearing rifts in the Veil. She scanned the perimeter. Ancient oak standing stones formed a rough circle around them, their bark etched with symbols that seemed to writhe if she looked at them too directly. Beyond the stones, the forest opened into a clearing where wildflowers bloomed in impossible colors—petals of shifting indigo, stems that glowed with internal fire, and blossoms that chimed softly when the non-existent breeze touched them. "Isolde?" Rory called out. Her voice sounded flat, absorbed instantly by the dense, vibrant air. No answer came, only the distant trickle of water and the hum of insects that buzzed with the pitch of tuning forks. They moved deeper. Rory stepped over a root that twisted like a sleeping serpent, its scales rough and warm under her boot sole. The sky above lacked stars or moon, yet a pearlescent light emanated from the canopy itself, casting long, dancing shadows that refused to align with their sources. Nyx drifted beside her, their shadowy hand brushing a cluster of ferns. Where they touched, the ferns turned silver and froze, icicle crystals forming along the fronds in seconds. "Fae magic," Nyx murmured. "Old and wild. It does not tolerate intrusion lightly." Rory pulled her jacket tighter. The air grew colder the further they walked, a chill that seeped through her layers and settled in her bones. She spotted movement ahead—a flash of silver hair amidst the glowing flora. Isolde Varga stood by a pool of water so clear it looked like a hole in the world. The Half-Fae seer did not turn as they approached. Her silver hair cascaded down her back to her waist, shimmering with the same light as the canopy. "You bring the shadow and the stone," Isolde said. She faced the pool, her reflection absent from the surface. "The Veil trembles at your footsteps, Aurora Carter." "We didn't mean to intrude," Rory said, stopping a few paces away. She kept her hands visible, palms open. "The pendant led us here. We need answers." Isolde turned. Her pale lavender eyes locked onto Rory, piercing and unblinking. "Answers are coins spent in a market you cannot afford. But the truth... the truth is a debt that must be paid." She gestured to the ground beneath them. "Look." Rory looked down. Where Isolde stood, the grass remained undisturbed. No footprints marked her path, no blades bent under her weight. Yet where Rory and Silas had walked, deep impressions remained in the soft earth, already filling with glowing sap. "The earth knows its own," Isolde said. "And it knows the trespasser." Nyx shifted, their form rippling. "We seek knowledge of the rifts. The winter solstice approaches. The Barrier weakens." "Water finds the crack," Isolde replied, her voice melodic yet sharp. "Shadow fills the void. But fire... fire consumes both." She reached into the folds of her etherial gown and produced a slender object. The moonlight from the canopy seemed to bend toward it. She held out a dagger. The blade was leaf-shaped, forged from moonsilver that radiated a cold so intense Rory could feel it from three feet away. A faint luminescence danced along its edge. "Take it," Isolde commanded. Rory hesitated. The cold radiating from the weapon made the air around it shimmer. "What is it?" "A piece of the Court you fled," Isolde said. "It cuts through wards woven by hell-spawn. It drinks the magic of demons. Hold it, and you hold a promise of violence." Rory reached out. Her fingers brushed the hilt. A shock of icy pain shot up her arm, numbing her shoulder instantly. She gritted her teeth but did not pull away. She wrapped her hand around the grip. The cold settled, becoming a part of her, a dormant winter waiting to wake. "Why give this to me?" Rory asked, her breath pluming in the sudden drop in temperature. "Because the Gluttony realm stirs," Isolde said, her gaze drifting to the pendant at Rory's throat. "Dymas hungers. Prince Belphegor sends his chefs to harvest souls like truffles. You carry the scent of his larder on your skin." Rory's hand tightened on the Fae-forged blade. "I've never been to Hel." "Not in body," Isolde corrected. "But the stone you wear sings a song written in Dymas. It calls to them. Soon, they will come to collect the singer." A low rumble vibrated through the ground, disturbing the chime-flowers. The warm amber light of a distant sun seemed to bleed into the pearlescent glow of the grove, staining the colors sickly orange. The scent of roasting meat and spiced wine wafted through the clearing, cloying and thick, masking the fresh scent of the Fae flora. Nyx stepped in front of Rory, their shadow expanding to cover her completely. "The boundary thins. They smell the invitation." Isolde's expression remained serene, though her lavender eyes narrowed. "The Veil is a membrane, Aurora. Poke it, and the infection spreads. You opened a door when you accepted that stone." "I didn't know," Rory snapped, the cold of the blade grounding her panic. "Who gave it to me?" "A benefactor with a full belly and empty conscience," Isolde said. She turned back to the pool. "The water shows what is, not what will be. Look." Rory stepped forward, Nyx's shadow retreating just enough to let her pass. She peered into the pool. Instead of her own reflection, she saw a sprawling vineyard under a warm amber sky. Figures in tattered chef's whites moved among rows of grapevines that bore fruit resembling human hearts. In the center of the vision, a feast table stretched for miles, laden with dishes that squirmed and screamed silently. At the head of the table sat a figure bloated and magnificent, laughing as they tore into a roast that looked disturbingly like a man. "Dymas," Nyx hissed. "The realm of excess." "He comes for you, Rory," Isolde said softly. "The solstice brings the tide high. When the moon is lowest, the chefs will arrive to harvest their ingredient." Rory pulled her gaze from the pool. The image lingered in her vision, superimposed over the beautiful, terrifying grove. "How do I stop them?" "You do not stop the hunger," Isolde said, walking toward the edge of the clearing where the ancient oaks stood guard. "You starve it. Or you feed it something it cannot digest." She stopped beneath a branch heavy with glowing fruit. "The blade will buy you time. The stone will lead them to your door. You must choose which to trust before the first course is served." The amber light grew stronger, pushing back the pearlescent glow of the Fae realm. The chime-flowers fell silent. The air tasted of grease and ash. "They are here," Nyx said, their voice dropping an octave, resonating in Rory's chest. The shadows around them lengthened, detaching from the trees and coiling like snakes ready to strike. Rory raised the Fae blade. The moonsilver flared with a bright, cold light, pushing back the encroaching amber haze. The crescent scar on her left wrist throbbed in time with the pulsing Heartstone. "Stay behind me," Rory ordered Silas and Nyx, her voice steady despite the tremor in her legs. Isolde faded into the background, becoming one with the silver bark of the oaks. "The game begins," she whispered, her voice coming from everywhere and nowhere. "Do not let them taste your fear. It is the finest seasoning." The ivy curtain at the edge of the standing stones tore open. Not by wind, but by something forcing its way through from the other side. Heavy boots crashed onto the moss, crushing the glowing flowers. Figures clad in stained aprons and carrying cleavers the size of axes stepped into the grove. Their skin was pale and doughy, their eyes black pits of endless appetite. They sniffed the air, turning their faces toward Rory and the crimson glow of the pendant. One of them grinned, revealing rows of yellow, jagged teeth. "Found the main course," the creature gargled, saliva dripping onto the sacred ground. Rory shifted her stance, the cold blade feeling like an extension of her own arm. "Come and get it," she said. The lead chef charged, cleaver raised high, the amber light of Dymas flaring behind him as more poured through the tear in the Veil.