Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7KGGRCPARTFGDF92S2MAJ

Rory’s scuffed delivery boots skid to a halt at the edge of a ring of gnarled oak standing stones, their bark furrowed like the palms of a centenarian’s hands, crusted with a faint silver residue that glints in the winter solstice’s thin sunlight. She tugs the collar of her Golden Empress restaurant jacket tight against the frost that nips at her cheeks, her bright blue eyes locking on the wildflowers cascading up each stone’s base—crimson poppies, sun-yellow daisies, purple lupines, all blooming when the rest of Richmond Park’s flora lies crumpled under a blanket of white. Her left wrist’s crescent scar tugs, a faint throb she ties to the Heartstone Pendant tucked under her shirt; the deep crimson gem pulses once, warm enough to seep through the thin cotton and settle against her skin. Nyx drifts beside her, their humanoid shadow form wavering between solid and incorporeal, faintly glowing violet eyes narrowing at the stones’ silver residue. Their whisper-on-wind voice tangles with the rustle of oak leaves that shouldn’t be moving in the still air—no breeze stirs the rest of the park’s branches. This space bites my shadow. It won’t hold solid for long if we linger at the edge. Isolde steps past them, her silver waist-length hair catching a stray beam of amber light that has no business cutting through the overcast winter sky, weaving it into strands that glow like liquid moonlight. She leaves no footprints in the frost-dusted grass, her ethereal frame gliding like smoke over the frozen ground without so much as a crinkle of ice under her bare feet. Her pale lavender eyes fix on Rory, her riddle-laced speech wrapping around the group like a thin veil. The stones guard the breath of two worlds. Step through, and the clock’s hands snap free. Rory’s jaw tightens—she’s heard Isolde’s cryptic twists before, when the Half-Fae seer pressed the Fae-Forged Blade into her palm after a delivery run gone wrong, but the uncertainty of the unknown coiled in her gut isn’t something she can outthink with the pre-law logic she’d abandoned in Cardiff. She grabs the blade clipped to her belt, its moonsilver hilt cold enough to make her fingers prickle even through her frayed wool glove, the slender leaf shape catching the strange amber light into a faint luminescence that paints the grass at her feet with pale blue streaks. Nyx shifts fully solid for a heartbeat, their 6’2” frame towering over Rory’s 5’6” form, their shadow stretching long enough to blot out a clump of poppies, before flickering back to incorporeal, their violet eyes never leaving the stones. I’ve slipped through Veil rifts before, when the winter solstice weakens the barrier between Earth and Hel, but this one hums different. No acrid stench of Dymasian vineyard rot. Only Fae honey and forgotten spells that tickle the edges of my old mortal memories. Rory steps through the first stone’s gap. The frost vanishes. A wave of warmth wraps around her, thick with the scent of jasmine and ripe blackcurrants, even though winter’s frost should have scoured every sweet thing from the earth. She blinks, and the oak leaves above her bloom into bright green, their edges glistening with dew that drips onto her jacket’s collar, cool enough to make her flinch. She checks her phone—her delivery app’s clock flashes 1:07 PM, then 3:42 PM, then 12:19 PM, the numbers sputtering like a dying bulb before the screen goes black entirely. She jostles it, slaps its back, but it stays dead. The clock’s broken. Rory’s words come sharp, her bright blue eyes darting between her lifeless phone and the wildflowers carpeting the grove’s floor, each petal glowing with a faint inner light that shifts from crimson to gold when she steps closer. A stray daisy petal falls onto her palm; she tucks it into her mouth, and it bursts with the taste of blackcurrant and honey, sweet enough to make her tongue tingle. Isolde glides deeper into the clearing, her silver hair weaving through the branches of a willow that droops with blush-pink blossoms no willow should bear in December, their petals drifting to the ground without a sound. Broken is a mortal word. Here, time bends to the grove’s breath—an hour inside can stretch to a day outside, or shrink to a minute, depending on the stones’ mood. Nyx drifts after her, their shadow form stretching and coiling around the willow’s branches, their faintly glowing violet eyes widening at the way the wood absorbs their shadow instead of reflecting it, as if the tree is drinking in their essence for sustenance. It’s feeding on my form. Not harmful. Curious. Like a child prodding a strange bug with a stick. Rory shoves her dead phone into her jacket pocket, her fingers brushing the Heartstone Pendant again—this time, it pulses in a steady rhythm, a warm thrum that seeps through her shirt and into her chest, matching the beat of her heart. She steps deeper, the Fae-Forged Blade held loose at her side, and spots a pool of water tucked between two jagged stones, its surface so still it mirrors the warm amber sky above instead of the willow’s branches or the wildflowers around it. She kneels, her scuffed boots sinking into the soft, mossy ground that feels softer than any blanket she’s ever owned, and touches the water—its temperature shifts from scalding hot to icy cold in a heartbeat, making her yank her hand back, her fingers tingling with the aftershock. The water’s not right. Rory’s voice tightens, her crescent scar throbbing again as she stares at the pool’s unblinking mirror, where a faint reflection of the Veil’s shimmering distortion flickers at the edge. Isolde pauses at the pool’s edge, her pale lavender eyes locking on the water’s surface, her silver hair trailing into the pool without wetting a single strand. It shows what the Veil lets slip. Not truths. Glimpses—fragments of what was, what could be, what the Fae Courts buried to protect their secrets. Nyx drifts to the pool’s other side, their shadow form stretching into the water—instead of a reflection, a faint image of a 17th-century sorcerer (Aldric, their past self) flashes across the surface, his hands clutching a tattered summoning scroll, his face twisted with fear before a shimmering Veil rift swallowed him whole. It knows my name. The one I buried when I became a shade. The grove’s digging up the bones of my mortal life. Rory’s cool-headedness kicks in, her quick out-of-the-box thinking sparking as she unclips the Fae-Forged Blade and dips its moonsilver tip into the pool. The water hisses, sending up a cloud of steam that smells like burnt honey and iron, and the image of Aldric solidifies for a heartbeat—his scroll bears a symbol matching the crescent moon carved into her Heartstone Pendant, his lips moving in a word she can’t hear before the rift yanks him away. I see him. The sorcerer. Your past. His scroll has my pendant’s symbol. Rory’s words cut through the steam, her bright blue eyes locking on Nyx’s faintly glowing violet ones, her fingers tightening around the blade’s hilt. Nyx’s shadow form flickers, shrinking into a smaller silhouette for a moment before expanding again, wrapping around the pool’s edge like a blanket. It’s a bait. The grove wants us to dig deeper, to tie the threads of my past to your pendant, to the Veil’s fray. Isolde glides away from the pool, her silver hair trailing behind her as she heads toward a cluster of wildflowers that glow brighter than the rest—crimson poppies with silver edges, their petals humming with a faint sound that’s not quite a song. She plucks one, its petals leaving no stain on her pale fingers, and tucks it behind Rory’s ear, where it glows against her straight, shoulder-length black hair. Digging uncovers roots. Roots tie to the Veil’s tears. Tears that lead to Dymas—where Helbound souls tend to the vineyards that feed Prince Belphegor’s gluttonous feasts. Rory brushes the poppy behind her ear, its glow warming her cheek, and follows Isolde. The Heartstone Pendant’s warm pulse grows louder, enough to make her chest hum, and she notices that the air around the bright wildflowers shimmers—a faint distortion she now recognizes as the Veil, weakening with the winter solstice, its shimmering edges rippling like a pond struck by a stone. She reaches out, her fingers brushing the shimmer, and a jolt of electricity zaps her, making her yank back, her fingers tingling for minutes afterward. The Veil’s here. Weak. Winter solstice’s doing. Rory’s words come breathless, her crescent scar throbbing so hard she has to press her hand to it, the pressure easing the pain just a little. Nyx drifts to her side, their shadow form wrapping around her wrist for a moment—their touch is cold, like a block of ice pressed to her skin, but it eases the scar’s throb entirely, the pain vanishing as if it never was. The Wardens monitor rifts like this, but they can’t see Fae-touched ones. This grove’s hidden from their sight. Isolde’s pale lavender eyes lock on Rory’s bright blue ones, her riddle-laced speech sharpened by the Fae compulsion that forbids lies, her voice dropping to a whisper that carries over the grove’s hum. The scar’s throb is a map. The Heartstone’s pulse is a key. The blade’s cold is a shield. All three tie you to the Helbound soul who gave you the pendant. Rory’s cool-headed logic kicks in, her mind racing through the fragments she’s gathered—the pendant’s symbol on Aldric’s scroll, the Veil’s fray leading to Dymas, the grove’s time shifts unlocking hidden memories. She steps closer to the shimmering Veil rift, the Fae-Forged Blade held firm at her side, and spots a flicker of something beyond it—sprawling Dymasian vineyards under a warm amber sky, Helbound souls in tattered robes tending to plump grapes, a figure in a black hood watching her from the edge of the vineyard before the rift snaps shut for a heartbeat. I saw Dymas. A hooded figure. Rory’s words are a whisper, her bright blue eyes wide with wonder and unease, the poppy behind her ear glowing brighter at the mention of the Hel realm. Nyx’s faint glowing violet eyes narrow, their shadow form shifting fully solid for a few seconds, their 6’2” frame towering over her, their hands balled into fists (a mortal habit they can’t shake). The hooded figure’s the benefactor. A Helbound soul from Dymas. They’re tied to Aldric’s summoning ritual. Isolde glides to a cluster of smaller standing stones tucked behind the willow, their surfaces carved with the same crescent moon symbol as Rory’s pendant, their edges glowing with a faint amber light. She glides around them, leaving no trace of her passage, her silver hair glowing with the same light as the stones. The Veil’s tears weave threads between Earth, the Fae realm, and Dymas. These stones are a knot in those threads. Rory follows, her scuffed delivery boots sinking into the mossy ground that now smells like ripe peaches and pine, a scent that clashes with the jasmine and blackcurrant but somehow works. She pauses at one of the smaller stones, running her fingers over its carved symbol—she feels a faint vibration, a hum that matches the Heartstone Pendant’s pulse. She presses her pendant to the stone. The stone glows, sending a wave of warmth through her body that eases every tight muscle in her back (an ache from hours of delivery runs), and a hologram-like image bursts forth—an unknown hooded figure (the Helbound soul) handing the pendant to a younger Rory, her face hidden by a hood, standing outside Silas’ bar where she lives, before vanishing into a Veil rift that flickered with the same amber light as Dymas’ sky. I don’t remember this. I was living above Silas’ bar then, fresh from Cardiff, but I never saw anyone like that. Rory’s words come sharp, her bright blue eyes locking on the image as it fades, the stone’s glow dimming a little. Nyx’s shadow form wraps around the stone, their faintly glowing violet eyes narrowing at the way the glow pulls their shadow into the stone’s core, as if the stone is drinking in their shadow to power the image. The grove’s unlocking what the Veil hid. Your mind blocked the memory to protect you from the Hel realm’s tug. Isolde glides to the center of the smaller stone ring, her silver hair glowing with the same light as the stones, her ethereal frame seeming to merge with the glow for a heartbeat. The lock guards a memory. A memory that ties the Veil to Dymas, to Aldric’s summoning, to your benefactor’s deal with Prince Belphegor. Rory’s cool-headed logic kicks in. She presses the Heartstone Pendant firmer to the stone. The stone’s glow brightens, and the image expands—she sees the hooded figure talking to Prince Belphegor in a Dymasian feast hall, piles of exotic food spread across a long table, the figure handing over a scroll (Aldric’s summoning scroll) in exchange for the Heartstone Pendant, before vanishing through the Veil rift to find Rory. They made a deal. For my pendant. Rory’s words come firm, her bright blue eyes locking on the image as it fades, the stone’s glow dying down to a faint hum. Nyx’s shadow form shifts back to solid for a heartbeat, their 6’2” frame looming over her, their voice a whisper-on-wind that carries urgency. The deal’s tied to the Veil’s fray. If we don’t untangle it, Dymasian demons will slip through the rift and into London. Isolde’s pale lavender eyes lock on Rory’s, her riddle-laced speech cutting through the grove’s hum. Memories are threads. Threads weave fate. Rory yanks her pendant away from the stone. The glow dies. She tucks the pendant back under her shirt, her fingers brushing the Fae-Forged Blade at her belt. She glances at the grove’s edges, where the oak standing stones now glow with a faint amber light, the Veil’s shimmering distortion flickering between them. She feels the Veil’s fray again, a faint tug at her chest, and knows they’re only scratching the surface of the grove’s secrets. We need to go deeper. Rory’s words are firm, her bright blue eyes locking on the center of the smaller stone ring, her hand tightening around the Fae-Forged Blade’s hilt.