Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7WMGB27JTF1QHC1KT05E3

Rory’s boots crunched on the frost-kissed grass of Richmond Park, her breath misting in the crisp December air. The winter solstice hung like a heavy breath, and her fingers flexed around the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip—moonsilver, cold as a grave, its leaf shape glinting faintly. Beside her, Nyx shifted into a more solid form, their violet eyes glowing like embers in the dim light. Lately, they’d been slipping into shadow more often, as if the world itself was fraying at the edges. Ahead, Isolde emerged from the trees, her silver hair a halo around her face, her lavender eyes unblinking. She left no prints in the snow, as always. “You brought it,” she said, nodding at the Heartstone Pendant beneath Rory’s jacket. The crimson gem pulsed, warmer now, as if sensing the grove’s proximity. Rory had no idea who’d given it to her—maybe a thank you for a delivery, maybe something else entirely—but it had started glowing when Evan’s ghost had brushed her shoulder in September. *Not a ghost*, she thought now. *Hellspawn*. Nyx’s voice was a whisper, carried on the wind. “The Veil is thin here. Too thin.” They glanced at the trees, their fingers trailing through a shadow until it coiled around their wrist like a bracelet. “We’ll have to move fast.” Isolde stepped forward, and the world *shook*. Not with a rumble, but a hum—a vibration that made Rory’s teeth ache. The trees around them blurred, their trunks melting into mist, and when she blinked, the empty path was gone. In its place: ancient oaks, their branches gnarled with age, their bark shimmering like mother-of-pearl. The sky was a soft, honeyed gold, not blue, and the air smelled of jasmine and something sharper, like ozone. “Welcome,” Isolde said, her voice echoing. “To the Fae Grove.” Rory stared at the standing stones—tall, weathered, their surfaces carved with runes she couldn’t read. They marked the boundary, Isolde had told her, but not between realms. Between *now* and *then*. She ran a gloved hand over one stone, and her fingers brushed something alive: a faint tingle, like electricity. “How…?” “Time bends here,” Isolde said. “An hour inside may be minutes outside. A day may be years. But do not fear the stretch. The grove is kind to those who mean well.” She turned, and Rory noticed the way her hem didn’t catch on the grass, the way the light clung to her skin like a second shadow. “Follow. The Heartstone will guide you.” The pendant pulsed faster, a thrumming that matched Rory’s heartbeat. She glanced at Nyx, who was already moving toward a cluster of wildflowers—orchids, their petals shifting from indigo to gold. “You’ve been here before.” “Once,” they said, plucking one and letting it dissolve into shadow. “A gift. To remember.” They didn’t elaborate, but their voice softened, almost nostalgic. Rory stepped over a root, her boots sinking into moss that glowed pale green, as if alive. The grove was larger than it should be—trees that curved upward, vanishing into the gold sky, a path that twisted in on itself, revealing new vistas with every step. To her left, a meadow erupted in red poppies, their petals glowing like embers. To her right, a waterfall spilled into a pool, and when she leaned closer, she saw her reflection—but it wasn’t her. Her eyes were violet, her hair a swirling mass of ink, and her hands… *pulsing* with shadow. She stepped back, startled, and the vision vanished. “Mirror of the Self,” Isolde said. “Shows what you might be, not what you are. Ignore it, if it troubles you.” Rory nodded, her throat tight. She’d been running from *what she was* for months—Evan’s abuse, the ghost that wouldn’t leave, the way her heart fluttered when Nyx’s shadow brushed hers. But here, in this place, the mask felt heavier. She touched the Heartstone, and it warmed, as if it knew. They walked for hours—though Rory wasn’t sure how many, the sun never seemed to move—and the trees thinned, revealing a clearing. At its center stood a stone altar, and around it, a circle of Fae-summoned candles, their flames blue. But the real wonder was the pool: not of water, but of light, a swirling mass of silver that rippled with images—battles, feasts, a crown of thorns, a city burning. Nyx’s hand closed around Rory’s wrist, their shadowy fingers cold. “That’s Hel,” they said, their voice tight. “Dymas. The court of Gluttony. I’ve seen it in my dreams.” Rory stared at the pool, as a vision overtook her: a prince with pearlescent skin and horns, laughing as a soul writhed on a platter, roasted alive. The prince’s eyes found hers, and he smiled. *Welcome*, he seemed to say. *Come play.* She shook her head, the vision fading. “How do you know that’s real?” “Because the Veil is fraying,” Isolde said, kneeling beside the altar. Her fingers brushed the stone, and the candles flared, blue light washing over her. “Winter solstice. The barrier weakens. Rifts form. Demons slip through.” She picked up a small bone—ivory, carved with runes—and set it on the altar. “This is a Warden’s bone. They patrol the Veil, but their ranks are thin. The Heartstone… it’s a key. To close the rifts. To keep them from spilling over.” Rory’s breath caught. “Why me? I’m just a delivery person.” Isolde smiled, a rare softness in her voice. “You are more than you know. The Heartstone chose you for a reason. And you… you *think* differently. You see the gaps. The places between what is and what could be.” She stood, and the pool of light dimmed, revealing a door—solid, oak, carved with images of the grove’s history. “That door leads to Dymas. But beware. Gluttony preys on欲望 (desire), on the hunger that never ends. You will feel it. The prince will *offer* you everything. Do not take it.” Nyx stepped into the light, their shadowy form merging with the pool. “I’ll go with you.” “No,” Isolde said immediately. “The Veil is thin, but Dymas is a realm of fire and flesh. A Shade like you… you would burn. Or worse. Become part of the feast.” Rory looked at Nyx, whose violet eyes were bright. “What if I can’t go alone?” Isolde placed a hand on her shoulder. “You are not alone. The grove has guarded you long before you knew it. And I… I will guide you. Through the riddle, through the feast, through the prince.” She took a small vial from her cloak—pale green liquid—and pressed it into Rory’s hand. “Herb of forgetfulness. It will calm the hunger. Drink it, if you must.” Rory tucked the vial into her pocket. The Heartstone pulsed again, and she realized they’d been standing still, the air thick with anticipation. The door loomed, and beyond it, she could smell smoke—smoky meat, rich sauces, something sweet and cloying, *sublime*. “Remember,” Isolde said, her voice low. “The prince is not a man. He is a hunger. A void. He thinks he wants *you*, but he only wants to devour. And you… you are the key to closing the Veil. To stopping him. Do not let him trick you.” Nyx’s shadow curled around Rory’s arm, a silent promise. She drew the Fae-Forged Blade, its edge singing. The runes on the stone altar flared to life, glowing green, and the air hummed. She took a step forward, the cold of the blade seeping into her hand, and pushed the door open. The world *exploded*. Fire and light, sounds of laughter and clanging silver. A feast hall that stretched to the sky, its ceiling a dome of crystal, letting in the amber light of Dymas. Tables groaned under platters of meat—steak, roasted swan, ribs smothered in sauce—while servants poured wine from golden goblets. And at the head of the hall, on a throne of bones, sat Prince Belphegor. He was beautiful. Tall, with black hair that fell to his shoulders, eyes the color of molten gold, a smile that could melt stone. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his horns were ivory, curved like a ram’s. But his hands… they ended in claws, sharp as daggers, and his breath smelled of rotting fruit. “Welcome, little mortal,” he said, his voice like a velvet rope. “I’ve been waiting for you. The Heartstone called to me. It *sings* to me.” He lifted a goblet, and the crystal dome trembled. “Come. Sit. Eat. Drink. Let me show you what pleasure is.” Rory’s throat went dry. The air was thick with the scent of food, of desire—*her* desire, to be wanted, to be *seen*. She thought of Evan, of his hands on her wrists, of the way he’d called her “useless.” Then she thought of Nyx, of their shadowy touch, of the way they’d saved her from the hellspawn in that alley. She thought of Isolde, of her riddles and her wisdom, of the way she’d looked at Rory like she saw something worth saving. “I don’t want your pleasure,” she said, her voice steady. “I want to close the rift. To stop you from hurting anyone else.” Belphegor’s smile faltered, and for a moment, his eyes were black—empty, hungry. “Foolish girl. You think you can *stop* me? I am Gluttony. I am hunger. I am *eternal*. You cannot kill what is already part of you.” The Heartstone burned through Rory’s jacket, searing her skin. She stumbled back, gasping, and the Fae Blade in her hand glowed, hot and bright. The servants turned, their eyes the same black as the prince’s, and began to move toward her—a tide of hunger, of *longing*. Nyx’s shadow erupted from the shadows, coiling around Rory’s legs, keeping her from falling. “Go!” they yelled. “Through the door! The rift is behind you—*close it*!” Rory looked at the door, then at the prince, at the servants, at the hall that seemed to stretch on forever. She thought of the grove, of the standing stones, of Isolde’s voice: *You see the gaps. The places between what is and what could be*. She raised the Fae Blade, and the runes on its edge flared to life, green and fierce. “You’re not part of me,” she said, her voice breaking. “I choose better.” She charged. The servants lunged, their claws slashing, but the blade cut through them like butter, sending them dissolving into smoke. The prince laughed, a sound like a furnace, and rose from his throne, his horns glinting in the light. “Prove it. Prove you are *worthy* of being devoured.” He came at her, faster than a snake, his claws aimed for her throat. Rory ducked, rolling, and the blade sliced through his leg. He roared, black blood spurting, and the crystal dome cracked. “You *dare*?” he said, his voice rising. “I will make you *beg* for death!” Rory ran, the Heartstone burning higher, guiding her toward a column of smoke—the rift, Nyx had said. Behind her, the hall collapsed, the prince’s screams mixing with the roar of fire. She reached the rift, and the walls of the dome fell, revealing the amber sky of Dymas. The Heartstone pulsed, a beacon, and she pressed her palm to it, feeling the magic surge through her. “Isolde was right,” she whispered. “The prince is a void.” She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the grove, on the standing stones, on the warmth of the Fae Blade in her hand. And then, with a scream of power, she pulled. The rift closed. The world went still. Rory fell to her knees, gasping, as the Heartstone dimmed, its glow returning to a faint pulse. The Fae Grove was gone, replaced by the snow-covered woods of Richmond Park. Nyx appeared beside her, their form solid, their violet eyes wide. “You did it,” they said. She looked at her hand, at the crescent scar on her left wrist, at the blade in her hand. “I don’t know what to do next.” Isolde stepped from the trees, her silver hair wind-tossed, her lavender eyes glowing. “You have a friend in a bar below you. A man named Silas. He’s been watching you. He can help you understand the Heartstone. The Fae Blade. The rifts.” She smiled, a small, sad smile. “The grove is patient. But it does not forgive waiting.” Rory stood, the blade in her hand, the pendant warm against her chest. She thought of Evan, of the ghost, of the prince, and she felt… *lighter*. Not because she’d won, but because she’d *tried*. Because she was more than the shadows, more than the hunger, more than the people who’d tried to break her. She took Nyx’s hand, and they walked into the park, the snow crunching beneath their boots. Behind them, the trees stood silent, watching. And somewhere, in the distance, the Heartstone pulsed. A new rift, maybe. Or maybe a sign. Either way, Rory was ready. She had a blade. She had a pendant. She had friends. And she had a hunger of her own—for justice, for truth, for the life she was going to build, *on her own terms*. The world, she knew, would never be the same.