Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7PNJDRTWYCHFYHWWBF1DJ

The air smelled wrong the moment they stepped through the standing stones. Rory Carter exhaled sharply, her breath fogging in the sudden chill. The scent was rich—earth and damp moss, but beneath it, something sweet and cloying, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. She tightened her grip on the Fae-forged blade at her belt, its cold bite reassuring against her palm. Nyx moved beside her, their shadowy form rippling like ink in water, silent as ever. Isolde glided ahead, her silver hair catching the dappled light that filtered through the canopy of ancient oaks, though the trees here were wrong—too tall, their leaves too broad, their bark etched with symbols that made Rory’s eyes ache if she stared too long. The grove wasn’t a grove at all. It was a wound in the world. The standing stones marked the edge of it, their surfaces slick with a sheen that wasn’t moisture. Rory reached out, fingers hovering just above the stone. When she touched it, her skin prickled, as if she’d brushed against static. The symbol carved into the surface pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. She jerked her hand back. “What the hell *is* this place?” Isolde didn’t turn. “A door,” she said, voice soft, almost musical. “And doors should not be opened without invitation.” Nyx tilted their head, violet eyes faintly glowing in the dim light. “You invited us,” they murmured, though Rory knew better—Isolde had brought them here, not the other way around. The ground beneath their feet shifted. Not underfoot—*around* them. The earth seemed to breathe, rising and falling in slow, deliberate waves. Rory stumbled, her boot sinking into something soft and yielding, like stepping onto a mattress of moss. She looked down. The grass wasn’t grass. It was a carpet of bioluminescent flowers, their petals unfurling in time with her heartbeat, pulsing with a faint, eerie light. She crouched, brushing her fingers over one. The moment she touched it, the bloom flared brighter, then dimmed, as if disappointed. She snatched her hand back. “Don’t,” Isolde warned, though she didn’t sound angry. Just weary. Rory stood abruptly. “Why not?” “Because it remembers,” Nyx said. “And it hungers.” Ahead, the trees thinned, revealing a clearing bathed in golden light. Not sunlight—something warmer, richer, like the glow of a forge seen through smoke. The air hummed, vibrating in Rory’s chest. She could *taste* it, metallic and sweet, like honeyed wine left too long in the sun. Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but the thought of food made her skin crawl. Isolde stepped forward, her bare feet leaving no impression on the ground. Rory watched, fascinated, as the Half-Fae seer moved through the grove like she was part of it, like the world bent to her will. “The Veil is thin here,” Isolde said. “Thinner than most realize.” Rory’s fingers twitched toward the Heartstone pendant tucked beneath her shirt. It pulsed faintly against her skin, warm as a living thing. “How thin?” Isolde didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out, and the trees parted for her—not violently, but as if they *wanted* to let her pass. The air in the clearing was thick, heavy with the scent of spice and roasting meat. Rory’s mouth watered despite herself. She swallowed hard, forcing the sensation down. Nyx drifted forward, their shadow stretching unnaturally long across the ground. “We’re not alone.” Rory followed their gaze. At the center of the clearing stood a table, laden with food. Not a feast—just a single platter, heaped with roasted meats, fruits so ripe they glistened, bread still steaming. The sight of it made her stomach clench. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until now. Her fingers itched. She flexed them, nails digging into her palms. “Don’t touch it,” Isolde said, voice sharp. Rory ignored her. She stepped closer, drawn despite herself. The meat smelled incredible—smoky, spiced, *perfect*. She reached out— A hand clamped around her wrist. Nyx’s grip was like ice. Rory yelped, jerking back. The pendant around her neck flared, its crimson glow casting eerie shadows across her face. “What the *hell*?” “It’s not real,” Nyx whispered. “None of it.” Rory blinked. The table was still there. The food still smelled divine. But now, when she looked closer, the edges of the platter *shimmered*, like heat haze over asphalt. She swallowed. “What do you mean?” Isolde’s voice was a sigh. “This is Dymas. The realm of Gluttony.” Rory’s breath caught. “We’re in *Hel*?” “Not yet,” Isolde said. “But we’re close enough.” The wind shifted, carrying a new scent—burnt sugar, copper, something *wrong*. Rory’s skin prickled. The pendant grew warmer, its glow intensifying until it was nearly blinding. She fumbled for it, pulling it free from her shirt. The moment her fingers closed around the Heartstone, the world *snapped* back into focus. The table was gone. The clearing was empty. But the air still smelled like roasting meat. Nyx’s voice was a whisper. “The Veil is tearing.” Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She could see it now—the distortion, a rippling in the air like heat off pavement, but wrong. *Alive*. The edges of the world bent and warped, as if reality itself was unraveling. She took a step forward, then stopped. The ground beneath her feet was no longer solid. It *pulsed*, like a living thing. Isolde’s hand shot out, gripping Rory’s arm. “Don’t.” “What is this?” Rory demanded, voice tight. “The end,” Nyx murmured. “Or the beginning.” A sound cut through the silence—a laugh, rich and deep, like gravel shifting in a riverbed. Rory spun, heart hammering. The trees at the edge of the clearing *moved*. Not swayed. *Moved*. Their branches twisted, forming shapes—faces, hands, things that weren’t quite right. The air thickened, pressing in on her like a physical weight. Then he stepped into the light. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His skin was the color of polished mahogany, his eyes black as pitch. He wore a coat of dark velvet, embroidered with silver thread that glinted like fresh blood. A crown of antlers rested on his head, their points sharp as knives. Prince Belphegor. Rory’s breath left her in a rush. She knew him. Not from stories—from *dream*s. Visions, fragments of a world she’d never been meant to see. His smile was slow, deliberate. “Ah,” he said, voice like honeyed poison. “Visitors.” Isolde didn’t flinch. “You’re not welcome here, Belphegor.” The prince tilted his head. “Neither are you, little seer.” His gaze flicked to Rory. “But you—” He stepped closer, and the world *tilted*. The air smelled like fire and iron. “You are *delicious*.” Rory’s hand flew to the Fae blade. The cold bite of the moonsilver was the only thing grounding her. “Stay back.” Belphegor chuckled. “Or what? You’ll stab me?” He spread his arms. “Go ahead. Try.” Nyx moved like smoke, slipping between Rory and the prince. “She doesn’t need to.” Belphegor’s smile didn’t waver. “No?” He snapped his fingers. The ground *ripped*. A chasm opened beneath Nyx, swallowing them whole. Rory lunged, but Nyx was already gone—vanished into the darkness, their shadow stretching, twisting, *dissolving*. The prince’s laughter echoed as the wound in the earth sealed itself. Silence. Rory’s hands shook. She clutched the Heartstone, its warmth the only constant in this nightmare. Isolde’s voice was barely a breath. “We have to go. *Now*.” Rory didn’t argue. She turned—and froze. The grove was changing. The trees were *wrong*. Their bark blackened, their leaves curling like burnt paper. The flowers at their feet had turned to ash. The air smelled like smoke. And at the center of the clearing, where the table had been, stood a new figure. Tall. Gaunt. His skin stretched too tight over his bones, his fingers too long. He wore a chef’s coat, stained with something dark and glistening. His eyes were hollow. He held a knife. And he was *smiling*.