Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7JPC4QFA1TBZT7KGA59VJ

The air bit at Rory’s cheeks as she huddled deeper into her coat. Winter solstice. The Veil thinned. She’d seen the rumors online—folk claiming to hear voices in the wind, to touch something that wasn’t quite there—but never *seen* it. Not until Nyx materialized beside her, a shadow made flesh, their violet eyes glowing like embers in the failing light. “Ready, Carter?” their voice was a whisper, cold as the grave, but there was a thread of something like excitement in the wind. Rory nodded, her free hand brushing the Heartstone pendant at her throat. It pulsed faintly, a slow, warm thrumming, as if it knew what lay ahead. Beside Nyx stood Isolde, her silver hair catching the last of the sunlight, pale lavender eyes sharp as a blade. She’d worn no shoes, Rory noticed, though the ground was damp with dew. No footprints, as the codex had said. “Beyond the stones,” Isolde said, her voice like wind chimes, “the line blurs. Time does not tick as it does for you.” She turned, and for the first time, Rory saw the rift— a shimmer, faint as a heat mirage, just beyond the ring of ancient oaks. The Veil. Nyx stepped forward, their shadowy form dissolving into the gloom before reappearing on the other side. “It’s a breath,” they said, when Rory hesitated. “Like holding your own heartbeat.” Rory took a step. The world shifted beneath her. One moment, she was in the chill of Richmond Park, the next, warm as a bakery oven, the scent of jasmine thick in the air. She blinked. Wildflowers carpeted the ground, blooms in every color— magenta, indigo, gold— and their petals shifted, as if lit from within. A breeze stirred, and the flowers hummed, a sound like distant laughter. “Isolde,” Rory said, turning. The Half-Fae had already moved past the standing stones, her bare feet silent on the moss. “You were right. The stones—” “The oaks,” Isolde corrected, not looking back. “They mark the boundary. The summer lands end where the winter begins, mortal.” Rory followed, Nyx close behind. The ground sloped gently downward, and up ahead, a ribbon of water glinted in the light. Not a river— the water was still, a mirror for the sky, which was the color of burnished amber. No sun, no moon, just that warm glow. She touched a nearby flower, its petals soft as silk. When she pulled her hand away, a drop of nectar remained, glowing like liquid starlight. “Careful,” Nyx said, their form shifting slightly, as if the light discomforted them. “They do not appreciate intrusion.” Rory dropped her hand. A beetle, iridescent green, crawled over her knuckle. It paused, antennae quivering, then flew off. When she looked down, the spot where it had been was now a sprig of tiny white flowers, opening before her eyes. “Magic,” Nyx murmured, their voice softening. “Not the loud kind. The *old* kind. The kind that remembers.” Isolde knelt by the water. Rory leaned over her shoulder. The reflection wasn’t of them— it was of a garden, sprawling and lush, with fountains that shot emerald water into the air, and trees heavy with fruit that glowed like rubies and sapphires. “Is that… your realm?” Rory asked. Isolde shook her head. “A pocket. Between. Earth bends here. Fae linger. Mortals… they forget.” She stood, and her eyes flickered, as if seeing something Rory couldn’t. “You came for a vision, Carter. But visions do not come easy. The Grove tests those who enter.” Rory’s hand went to the pendant. It burned now, a sharp, warm pain. “I know. But Evan—” “—the ex,” Nyx said, cutting her off. Their tone was flat, but there was a flicker of something in their eyes. *Sympathy.* “He’s in Dymas. Gluttony. They say he feasts forever.” Rory’s stomach tightened. Evan had loved food— loved *taking* it, hoarding it, then discarding it when he was sated. Now he was a soul in a realm of excess. She thought of his laugh, the way he’d called her “Rory” like it was a secret. *Softer than I remembered*, a voice in her head said. She pushed it down. “The pendant glows when near Hel,” Isolde said, her gaze fixed on the stone. “See how it pulses? It senses the rifts. Dymas is close. The Veil here is thin enough to slip through.” Nyx shifted, their shadow pooling at their feet. “Did you think I’d let you go alone? The Shades remember the tides of Hel. I can smell the fear in the air— not mortal fear, but the rot of it. Dymas feeds on it.” Rory looked at them, at the flicker of shadow that wasn’t quite solid, and felt a surge of gratitude. She’d met Nyx three months ago, a chance encounter in a London alley when she’d stumbled on a man being dragged into a shadow. He’d saved her, then vanished— only to reappear a week later, waiting outside her flat. “Why me?” she’d asked. “Because you *see*,” he’d said, then left. Now, she thought she understood. She was a liar, she told herself, but she’d learned to read people— to see the lies in their eyes. Maybe Nyx had seen that, too. They moved closer to the water. The flowers along the bank had begun to glow more brightly, their light casting prisms on the stones. Isolde stepped onto a flat boulder in the middle of the pond, and her feet didn’t disturb the water. It rippled, though, as if she’d spoken to it. “Step,” she said, extending a hand. “The surface is kind here.” Rory hesitated. The water looked inviting, but there was something about it— a wrongness, like a mirror that showed a distorted reflection. She glanced at Nyx, who nodded. “Go on,” they said. “I’m right behind you.” She stepped onto the boulder. It was smooth, warm, as if the sun itself had kissed it. The water lapped at her shoes, cold and clear. When she leaned down, she saw not her own reflection, but Evan’s— not in the flesh, but as a soul, trapped in the form he’d had when he’d first met her, slim, with dark hair and a smile that had made her knees weak. “No,” she whispered, pulling back. The image vanished, replaced by a field of grain, golden and swaying. Then a kitchen, with a stove, a sink, a table set for two. *Us*, she thought, horrified. She’d been so happy then, she realized. So *stupid*. “Evan,” a voice said. It was his voice, but deeper, warped, like a radio tuned to the wrong station. “You wanted more. Now you have it.” Rory staggered back, her hand flying to the pendant. It burned so fiercely she thought it might break through her skin. The boulder beneath her shifted, and she fell into the water. It wasn’t water. It was warm, thick, like honey. She struggled to breathe, but the liquid filled her lungs, and she felt herself sinking— not into the pond, but into something else. Memories flooded her: Evan slamming doors, calling her names, breaking her favorite mug. “You’re nothing without me,” he’d said. “A waste of space.” “I am not,” she gasped, voice carried away by the tide. The pendant glowed brighter, a beacon in the darkness. Something pulled her upward— Nyx, she realized, their shadowy form wrapping around her, lifting her out of the water. She coughed, gasping for air, and fell into their arms. “You saw,” Isolde said, her voice calm. “The Grove shows what you *need* to see, not what you *want*.” Rory pushed herself up, her eyes stinging. Nyx’s face was close, their violet eyes soft. “It was real,” she said, voice hoarse. “The guilt. The… pain.” “They are lies,” Isolde said. “Fae magic likes to play with what it knows. But the truth is— Evan is a soul. Souls are not so easily broken. They heal. They grow.” She paused, then added, “Sometimes. Depends on the soul.” Rory leaned against a nearby tree, its bark smooth and cool. The pendant had stopped burning, but it still pulsed, a gentle reminder. She looked out at the Grove, at the flowers, the water, the standing stones. It was beautiful, she decided, but also dangerous. It had shown her her fears, her regrets, her worst self. “What now?” Nyx asked, their voice breaking the silence. Isolde closed her eyes, and for a moment, she looked different— older, the lines in her face deeper, as if time had crept up on her. When she opened her eyes, her lavender gaze was sharp. “The rift to Dymas is through the east grove. But beware— Belphegor’s court is a feast of lies. They will show you what you desire most. What you *crave*. Do not reach for it.” Rory frowned. “Why?” “Because desire is a worm,” Isolde said. “It gnaws at the edges. Soon, you will do anything to satisfy it. Even betray yourself.” Nyx’s shadow coiled around their arm, a rare sign of unease. “We’ll be careful,” Rory said. “Together.” Isolde nodded, but her eyes lingered on the water, as if she saw something there— something that made her skin prickle. “Careful is not enough, mortal. You carry a blade in your pocket— the Fae blade. It will cut through the lies, but only if you trust it.” Rory felt the hilt of the dagger at her waist, the cold of the moonsilver seeping through her coat. She’d received it from Isolde three weeks ago, a gift wrapped in silk. “I trust it,” she said, without hesitation. “Good,” Isolde said. “The Grove will test you. Do not fail.” They turned, and Rory noticed for the first time the path leading into the east grove— a narrow trail, bordered by thorned bushes that glowed with bioluminescent sap. The flowers along the path had started to wilt, their petals turning gray, as if they’d seen something terrible. Nyx stepped ahead, their shadow melting into the darkness. “Shadows here are alive,” they said. “They remember.” Rory followed, her hand on the dagger hilt, the pendant warm at her throat. The air grew thinner, the light dimmer, until they emerged from the trees into a clearing. Dymas. It was everything the codex had said— a sprawling city of marble and gold, with vineyards that stretched to the horizon and orchards heavy with fruit no mortal had ever seen. The sky was amber, the air sweet with the scent of baked bread and ripe strawberries. A grand feast was underway in the central square, tables piled high with food, people laughing, singing. But Rory’s stomach turned. The air was thick with a rot— not the stench of death, but of excess. Of people eating until they could not stand, then being carried away, their bodies already forgotten, their plates filled again. Evan was there, too. He stood at the edge of the square, a plate in his hand, loaded with meat, cheese, and a fruit that looked like a grape but was the color of blood. His hair was shorter, his face more haggard, but his smile was the same— empty, greedy. “Rory,” he called, his voice loud over the music. “Come. Eat. Stay with me.” Rory’s chest tightened. She took a step forward, but Nyx’s shadow wrapped around her wrist, stopping her. “Not yet,” they said. “He is a projection. A lie.” Isolde touched her shoulder. “It is what he *wants* you to see. The version of himself he believes makes him happy. The version of you that never left.” Rory looked at Evan again. The plate in his hand had begun to fade, the food turning to ash. “It’s not real,” she said, more to herself than to them. “No,” Isolde said. “But it *hurts* like it is.” Rory drew the Fae blade. The dagger glowed faintly, its moon silver surface reflecting the amber sky. She stepped forward, the blade in her hand, and called, “Evan!” He looked up, his smile faltering. “You came.” “I did,” she said, “to tell you— I’m sorry. For leaving. For not seeing how broken you were.” Evan’s face crumpled. For a moment, Rory saw the boy she’d met all those years ago, the one who’d cried when his dog died, the one who’d stolen pies from the local bakery to share with her. “You left,” he said, voice breaking. “You left me.” “I was scared,” she said. “Scared of you. Of the way you made me feel. But you were scared, too. Of being alone. Don’t you see? We were both broken. And we hurt each other.” The feast around them began to fade, the tables, the people, the food dissolving into shadow. Evan’s figure wavered, his form becoming more indistinct. “I don’t want to leave,” he said, tears in his eyes. “I’m so tired of being hungry.” “I know,” she said, her voice soft. “But this isn’t real. You’re not here. You have to let go.” Evan looked at her, and for a moment, his eyes were clear— *he* was clear. “Thank you,” he said. “For seeing me.” Then he was gone, dissolved into shadow, and the clearing was empty. Rory lowered the dagger, her hands shaking. Nyx stepped closer, their shadow comforting. “You did well,” they said. Isolde nodded. “The rift is beyond the square. But be quick. The winter solstice wanes. The Veil will harden again. If we’re not back in an hour… we won’t be back at all.” Rory looked at the square, at the empty tables, at the shadows that shifted like living things. She thought of Evan, of the boy she’d loved, of the man he’d become. Grief and relief tangled in her chest. “Let’s go,” she said, and started forward. Nyx and Isolde fell in beside her, the Grove fading behind them as they stepped toward the rift— toward Dymas, toward answers, toward whatever lay ahead. The pendant burned once more, a final, warm pulse, as if it were cheering her on. Rory gripped the dagger hilt, her eyes fixed on the rift, and walked into the light.