Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY89QV61AX8W891QWZP6E43

The sesame oil stain on Rory’s Golden Empress delivery apron had crusted into a faint amber patch by the time she and Nyx ducked off Richmond Park’s potholed path into the undergrowth. She’d torn off her bike helmet mid-pedal when the Heartstone Pendant around her neck had throbbed so hard it had dug into her sternum—its deep crimson gem, no bigger than her thumbnail, glowing faintly through the thin fabric of her uniform blouse. Her left hand drifted to the crescent scar on her wrist, a childhood accident’s memento she still rubbed when her cool-headed facade threatened to crack, and she glowered at the dead screen of her delivery phone. Nyx’s incorporeal form coiled around her ankle like smoke, their faintly glowing violet eyes cutting through the London dusk to fix on a cluster of gnarled oak trunks she’d mistaken for storm-felled deadfall. “The boundary stones,” Nyx’s voice whispered through her hair, a breeze that didn’t stir a single leaf. They shifted into solid form for a heartbeat—6’2” of living shadow, their silhouette sharp enough to slice the smog-hazed light—before dissolving again, their whisper fading into the rustle of unseen foliage. “You cannot perceive them yet; the Veil blurs mortal sight here. But cross their threshold, and the world will unspool.” Rory squinted, her bright blue eyes straining until her temples ached. Then something shifted: she blinked, and the oaks weren’t just trunks anymore. They were ancient standing stones, their bark carved with faint, swirling runes she couldn’t parse, their canopies weaving a canopy so thick it blocked the distant wail of a London bus. Moss oozed between their cracks, and wildflowers burst from the earth at their bases—tulips with scarlet petals, poppies leaking ink-black sap, snowdrops glistening with frost—all blooming at once, a chaos of seasons that made her breath catch. That’s the Grove, she thought, her fingers tightening around the Heartstone’s silver chain. The Fae-touched pocket Isolde’s prophecies had led them to. She stepped over the stones’ invisible threshold first, her scuffed delivery boots sinking into moss that hadn’t been there a second ago. The air hit her like a wave of honey and petrichor, and her watch’s hands stutter to a halt, the ticking dying in her ear. Nyx’s solid form flickered when they followed, their shadowy edges fraying as the pocket realm’s unstable magic tugged at the rift between their shade self and the mortal plane. “The time here is a liar,” Nyx’s whisper curled around her, their voice thinner than before. “An hour inside can be minutes. Or days.” Rory’s throat went dry. She’d fled Cardiff to escape Evan’s manipulations, to trade Pre-Law textbooks for dumpling delivery routes and a flat above Silas’ bar, but this—this pocket between Earth and the Fae realm—was a kind of escape she’d never imagined. She scanned the clearing: wildflowers carpeted every inch of the ground, their scents mixing into something that made her stomach growl (a faint echo of Dymas’ gluttony realm, she thought, remembering the Heartstone’s Dymasian origin) and oak trees whose leaves hummed when the wind touched them. She knelt to pluck a snowdrop, its frost melting on her fingertips, and noticed something odd: the ground had no footprints. Not hers, not Nyx’s solid form’s, not even the faint indentations a rabbit might leave. “The Seer leaves no mark,” Nyx’s whisper answered her unspoken question. They’d shifted back to incorporeality, their violet eyes glowing brighter as they drifted toward the clearing’s center. “She glides like smoke through her grove.” The Heartstone pulsed warmer, so hot it burned through her blouse. Rory fumbled with the silver chain to yank it out, and its deep crimson glow flared, casting faint red streaks across the wildflower carpet. She remembered its codex behavior—pulses near Hel portals—and her cool-headedness kicked in, her quick out-of-the-box thinking kicking into gear. “It’s reacting,” she said, her voice tight. “Is there a Hel rift here? Belphegor’s servants from Dymas?” Nyx’s shadow coiled higher around her arm. “The Grove’s pocket bleeds into the Veil. Dymas’ Heartstone senses the fracture—Belphegor’s master chefs, who contract helbound souls from Earth for their feasts, may be trying to carve a portal through the Fae-touched space. They crave the Grove’s time distortion; an hour of their gluttonous feasts could stretch into years for their mortal victims.” A rustle from the oak canopy made them both freeze. Rory’s hand flew to her wrist scar, and Nyx’s form solidified again, their shadowy fists clenched. Then a figure stepped out from behind a gnarled trunk: silver hair cascading to her waist, pale lavender eyes that glowed like distant stars, ethereal features that looked both 300 years old and ageless. Isolde Varga, the Half-Fae seer exiled from the Fae Courts, and when Rory glanced at her feet, she saw it—no footprints, not even a faint dent in the moss. “The crimson stone of excess’s lap burns where the Veil frays,” Isolde said, her voice like wind through chimes, riddles wrapping her words as the codex promised. She couldn’t lie, but Rory could already tell she’d mislead if it suited her. “The shadow that was Aldric walks between worlds, but the mortal who fled her chains holds the key to plugging the feast-maker’s hole.” Rory’s jaw tightened. She’d fled Evan’s abuse, yes, but she’d never thought her flight would tie her to Fae seers and shade beings and Hel’s gluttony realm. “You’re Isolde,” she said, her voice steady despite the Heartstone’s throbbing. “We need to know how to stop Belphegor’s servants from opening that portal.” Isolde’s lips curved into a faint, otherworldly smile. She glided toward them, her silver hair brushing the wildflowers without bending a single petal, and held out a slender, leaf-shaped dagger. Its moonsilver blade was always cold to the touch, Rory could tell even before she took it, and it glowed faintly with a light that wasn’t from the Grove’s canopy. The Fae-Forged Blade, she realized, the artifact Isolde’s prophecies had hinted at—one that could cut through magical wards, that was particularly effective against demons. “Cut the shadow’s thread that ties the feast-maker’s servants to the Veil,” Isolde said, her riddles sharpening. “But beware: the time you spend here will unspool outside. The mortal’s delivery shift may be over before she steps back through the stones, or it may have never begun.” Rory’s fingers wrapped around the dagger’s hilt, the cold seeping into her bones, and she glanced at her watch again—still frozen at 4:17 p.m., the time she’d stepped into the undergrowth. Nyx’s shadow form flickered, their violet eyes fixing on the Heartstone’s glowing crimson gem, and Rory felt the weight of the artifact in her hand, the weight of the rift between Dymas’ gluttonous vineyards and the Grove’s wildflower chaos. She rubbed her wrist scar once more, her cool-headedness settling over her like a blanket, and stepped toward the clearing’s edge, where the Heartstone’s pulse was now so strong it made her chest ache. Nyx’s whisper curled around her: “The Veil frays farther there. Belphegor’s chefs are already carving their portal.” Rory’s eyes darted to the distant standing stones, to the faint shimmer of the Veil she could now see (thanks to the Grove’s magic), and she tightened her grip on the Fae-Forged Blade. Outside, London’s buses wailed, but inside the Grove, the only sounds were the oak leaves’ hum and the Heartstone’s throb. She didn’t know how long she’d be here—minutes, days, hours—but she knew one thing: she’d fled Cardiff to take control of her life, and she wouldn’t let Belphegor’s gluttonous servants yank that control away again.