Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYDRZEEWZ4PRA3BZ8DFFP8

The roots of the ancient oaks twisted through the earth like gnarled arthritic fingers, clutching at the soil of Richmond Park. Rory paused, her boots sinking slightly into the loam. Ahead, the air shimmered. Not the heat haze of a summer road, but a colder, fracturing distortion. The Veil. She touched the crescent scar on her left wrist, a nervous habit she couldn’t shake. The moonsilver blade strapped to her hip pulsed with a rhythmic, icy chill, a heartbeat of frozen metal. "This is it." Nyx materialised from the dappled shade of the treeline. Their form flickered, a solid silhouette of darkness against the fading twilight. Violet eyes glowed faintly in the gloom, fixed on the shimmering barrier. "The boundary is thinner here. I can hear the hum of the other side." Rory took a breath, tasting ozone and wet earth. She stepped forward. The sensation of crossing the Veil hit her like a physical blow. A sudden drop in pressure, popping in her ears, and the world tilted on its axis. The grey twilight of the park vanished, replaced instantly by a landscape that vibrated with saturated colour. She stumbled, catching herself against the rough bark of an oak that hadn't been there a second ago. "Steady." Nyx drifted through the barrier behind her. They didn’t stumble. The shadow-being elongated, stretching upwards as if relieved to be away from the rigid physics of the mortal plane. "The light is wrong here," Rory murmured, straightening up. She looked up. There was no sky, only a vast, swirling canopy of violet and gold nebulae, suspended like a painting over the grove. "Where is the sun?" "Here, the light comes from the life itself. Not a star." Rory unclipped the torch from her belt, flicked it on. The beam was weak, swallowed instantly by the ambient luminescence of the clearing. She clicked it off, useless. Wildflowers carpeted the ground, their petals glowing with inner bioluminescence. Blues, pinks, and violent oranges that seemed to shift hue when she looked away. None of them looked like earthly species. The stems were translucent, revealing veins of liquid light pumping through them. She knelt, running a finger over a fern that curled away from her touch. It felt like cool glass. "Don't touch the Nightshade. It bites." Rory snatched her hand back. A thorn on the fern had elongated, dripping a translucent venom. "Thanks for the warning." "I only observe." She stood, brushing damp soil from her jeans. The air here tasted sweet. Too sweet. Like nectar mixed with copper. It coated the back of her throat, heavy and cloying. They moved deeper into the grove. The trees here were colossal, their trunks as wide as houses, covered in silver moss that chimed softly in a breeze she couldn't feel. The silence wasn't empty; it was expectant. Every rustle, every chime of moss, felt like a whisper just out of earshot. Rory checked her watch. The second hand was frozen, twitching erratically between ticks. "Time," she said, holding up her wrist. "It’s lagging." "An hour could be a day. Or a minute. The grove does not care for mortal schedules." "Great. I have a shift at the Golden Empress tomorrow." Nyx drifted ahead, their shadow form casting no darkness on the vibrant grass. Instead, the light seemed to bend around them, refracting into prisms. "There is movement ahead." Rory’s hand went to the hilt of the Fae-forged blade. The metal bit into her palm, freezing cold. It grounded her, the sensation of the cold real and sharp against the dreamlike haze of the grove. "Isolde?" "Perhaps. Or something else that wears a pretty face." The path opened up into a circular clearing dominated by a pool of water so still it looked like a mirror laid flat on the ground. The surface reflected the nebulous sky perfectly. Not a ripple disturbed it. Rory approached the edge. The scent of water was crisp, cutting through the cloying sweetness of the flowers. She leaned over, staring into the depths. The reflection showed her face, pale and wide-eyed. But behind her, the sky swirled with faces, screaming in silent rapture. She flinched, looking up. The real sky was empty. "It shows what you fear," Nyx whispered, their voice sounding like wind through dead leaves. "Or what you desire." "It showed chaos." Nyx circled the pool, leaving no trail in the moss. "The Fae do not deal in absolutes. Truth is a fluid here." Rory turned away from the water, the unease in her gut twisting tighter. The grove was beautiful, terrifyingly so. It felt like walking through a church where the god was still alive and watching. "We need to find Isolde. She has answers." "Seeking is easy. Finding is the trap." "Always riddles with you." "I am a shadow. Shadows have no substance, only shape." A chime rang out, clear and piercing, shattering the quiet. It came from the far side of the clearing. Rory drew the blade fully. The moonsilver flared, a pale blue light answering the ambient glow. "Showtime." They moved toward the sound. The flora grew denser here, the glowing leaves intertwining to form a natural archway. As they passed under it, the temperature plummeted. Frost bloomed on the leaves, turning the vibrant greens to crystalline whites. In the center of a small, secluded hollow stood a figure. Isolde. She looked younger than the stories suggested, yet older than the stones. Her silver hair fell like a river of mercury, pooling on the ground around her feet. She wore a dress woven from spider-silk and twilight, shifting colours with every breath. Rory stopped. The Seer stood with her back to them, facing a stand of ancient standing stones that hummed with a low, resonant frequency. Isolde turned. Her eyes were pale lavender, devoid of pupils, glowing with a soft, terrifying inner light. She smiled, but the expression didn't reach those inhuman eyes. "The daughter of Cardiff brings the darkness to the light." Rory didn't lower the blade. "We need to talk." "Talk is a clumsy tool. It breaks more than it fixes." Isolde took a step forward. Rory glanced down. The Seer’s feet were bare, but they left no imprint in the frosted grass. Not even a bent blade. She walked above the earth, untethered. "The Veil is tearing," Rory said, forcing her voice to remain steady. "I saw the rift. The pendant burned." Nyx drifted to Rory’s side, a protective wall of shade. "The balance shifts. The hungry ones are waking." Isolde tilted her head, listening to a voice only she could hear. She raised a hand, fingers long and slender, pointing to the Heartstone hanging around Rory’s neck. "A shard of Gluttony, worn by a creature of Duty. Irony is a favorite spice of the courts." "Can you help us or not?" "I cannot mend the Veil. I can only show you where the threads have frayed." Isolde gestured to the standing stones. The air between the pillars rippled, distorting. Through the gap, Rory saw a glimpse of another place. A warm amber sky, endless vineyards heavy with fruit that looked too succulent, too ripe. Dymas. Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. The smell of the place drifted through the rip—a scent of roasting meats, spiced wine, and decay. "Gluttony," Nyx hissed, their form vibrating. "Prince Belphegor stirs," Isolde said, her voice dropping an octave, sounding like two people speaking at once. "He smells the opening. The feast is being prepared, and you are the guest of honour." Rory gripped the hilt of the blade until her knuckles turned white. "How do we close it?" "You do not close a door that has been nailed open from the other side." Isolde drifted closer, the air around her cooling until Rory could see her breath misting. "You must destroy the nail." "Which is?" "The Heartstone you wear is a key. But every key fits a lock. And some locks are cages." Rory looked down at the crimson gem. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat, warm and comforting. A lie. It was a trap. "If I destroy it, I lose my way in." "If you keep it, you lose your way out." Nyx shifted, their shadow darkening, absorbing the light from the strange plants. "The choice is false. There is always a third path." Isolde’s lavender eyes snapped to the Shade. "The shadow speaks of paths it cannot walk. You are bound to the in-between, Nightwhisper. You cannot step into Hel." "I don't need to step into Hel to tear it down." The tension in the clearing tightened, a drawn bowstring. The frost on the grass crept closer to Rory’s boots. The standing stones hummed louder, a vibration rattling her teeth. Isolde laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Brave. Foolish. The best combination." She turned back to the viewing portal in the air. The image of the amber vineyards flickered and died, replaced by swirling black smoke. "Go," Isolde commanded, though her tone was light, conversational. "Before the grove decides to keep you forever. It has been hungry since the last solstice." Rory hesitated. She wanted answers, a clear map, a plan. All she had were riddles and a scary magic knife. "What do we do when we get there?" Isolde looked over her shoulder, her eyes swirling with galaxies. "Survive. The rest is merely details." She waved her hand, and the world dissolved. The standing stones, the frost, the glowing flowers—they all spun into a blur of colour. The pressure returned, squeezing Rory’s chest, the sickening lurch of reality snapping back into place. She gasped, stumbling forward, her boots hitting the grey, hard-packed dirt of Richmond Park. The air smelled of exhaust fumes and wet dog. Normal. Boring. Safe. Nyx stood beside her, their form barely visible in the streetlights filtering through the trees. "Well," Nyx whispered, the sound barely audible over the distant traffic of London. "That was helpful." Rory looked down at the Heartstone. It was dull, lifeless stone now. But against her hip, the Fae blade still hummed with its cold, waiting song. "Back to the drawing board." She turned her back on the oak trees and walked toward the city lights.