Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8RHATAN2GVKFQP8BTD4F4

Aurora's fingers tightened around the Heartstone Pendant as the silver chain warmed against her skin. The faint pulse quickened, a steady thrum that matched the beat of her heart. She glanced at Isolde, whose silver hair caught the last slivers of daylight filtering through Richmond Park's ancient oaks. The half-fae's pale lavender eyes fixed on the cluster of standing stones ahead, their bark-twisted forms etched with runes that seemed to shift like breathing vines. "Through there," Isolde murmured, her voice a soft chime that blended with the rustle of leaves. "The boundary bends for those who know its song." Nyx lingered at Aurora's side, their shadowy form flickering in the dappled light. The shade's violet glow dimmed, as if the fading sun pulled at their edges. "This place hums with old magic. Older than the shadows I slip through." Aurora nodded, her straight black hair brushing her shoulders. She adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, a habit from her shifts at the Golden Empress, even here in the wild heart of the park. The air thickened as they approached the stones, carrying a scent of blooming jasmine and something sharper—ozone, like a storm unborn. No footprints marked the mossy ground behind Isolde; she glided forward, her waist-length silver tresses swaying without a whisper of wind. They stepped between the oaks. The world tilted. Aurora's stomach lurched, as if the earth had exhaled and swallowed them whole. The transition hit without warning—no shimmer of the Veil, just a sudden hush that smothered the distant traffic hum of London. Colors bloomed brighter: wildflowers unfurled in riots of crimson and gold, petals unfolding as if greeting intruders. The sky above stretched endless, a dome of perpetual twilight laced with threads of silver mist that curled like living smoke. "Where..." Aurora's voice trailed off. She spun, boots sinking into soil that felt too soft, too alive, pulsing faintly beneath her soles. Isolde's lips curved in a knowing arc. "The Grove welcomes you. Breathe it in—the air tastes of forgotten summers." Nyx extended a tendril of shadow, testing the mist. It recoiled from their touch, then danced closer, weaving patterns that mimicked ancient knots. "No boundaries here. Just echoes." Aurora pressed on, the pendant's warmth now a insistent glow against her chest. Her bright blue eyes scanned the clearing: a hidden pocket where trees twisted into arches, their branches heavy with fruit that gleamed unnaturally—plums the size of fists, dripping nectar that sizzled on the ground. Birds with feathers like shattered opals flitted between limbs, their songs a cascade of notes that formed no melody, just pure sensation rippling through the air. She reached out, fingers brushing a low-hanging berry cluster. Juice burst warm and sweet on her tongue when she popped one into her mouth, flooding her veins with a rush that sharpened every sense. The world's edges crispified; she heard the individual flutter of petal against petal, felt the Grove's heartbeat syncing with her own. "Careful," Isolde called from ahead, her form weaving through a thicket of ferns that parted like courteous servants. "The gifts here bind as much as they delight." Nyx chuckled, a sound like wind scraping over gravel. "Bindings are my trade. This place? It whispers secrets in the dark." Deeper they ventured, the path—if one could call the undulating grass a path—leading to a central glade ringed by crystal-clear pools. Water lapped at pebble shores, but the reflections showed not their faces, but fractured glimpses: Aurora saw herself as a child, laughing in Cardiff rain; Nyx glimpsed a long-forgotten ritual circle under a blood moon; Isolde's pool rippled with visions of towering Fae spires, half-veiled in thorns. Aurora knelt by the nearest pool, her crescent scar on her wrist catching the ethereal light. "These aren't just mirrors. They're..." "Windows," Isolde finished, her lavender gaze distant. "To threads untaken. The Grove holds time like a lover—loose, yet possessive." A low rumble echoed from the underbrush, not thunder, but something organic, like roots grinding against stone. Nyx solidified, their humanoid silhouette stretching to full height, shadows coiling around their form like defensive armor. "Company approaches. Not hostile. Curious." Aurora drew the Fae-Forged Blade from her belt, its moonsilver length cold and humming in her grip. The leaf-shaped dagger caught the twilight, glowing faintly as if feeding on the ambient magic. She rose, heart pounding, as shapes emerged from the treeline: deer-like creatures with antlers branching into floral crowns, eyes luminous as fireflies. One nuzzled Isolde's hand, unafraid, while others circled the group, their hooves silent on the bloom-strewn earth. "Guardians," Isolde explained, stroking the creature's muzzle. Fur soft as silk parted under her fingers. "They sense the outsider's mark." Her eyes flicked to Aurora's pendant, which now pulsed brighter, casting crimson flecks across the glade. The pendant. Aurora's mind raced back to the stranger who'd slipped it into her bag during a delivery run—anonymous, urgent. It had led them here, through Silas's bar whispers and Eva's frantic calls about Veil rifts widening near the park. But now, in this place where hours might stretch to days, unease prickled her skin. The air grew heavier, laced with a metallic tang that undercut the floral sweetness. Nyx ventured toward a cluster of standing stones at the glade's far edge, these ones carved from obsidian veined with quartz that hummed a low vibration. "Feel that? The Veil thins here. Like a membrane stretched too far." Aurora followed, blade still drawn. The stones formed a circle, each taller than Nyx's solid form, surfaces etched with symbols that writhed under scrutiny—spirals uncoiling into eyes, eyes blooming into stars. Touching one sent a jolt up her arm; visions flashed: amber skies, endless tables groaning under feasts of impossible fruits, laughter echoing from shadowed halls. "Dymas," she breathed, pulling back. The name surfaced from Isolde's earlier riddles, spoken in her flat above the bar. Gluttony’s realm, a slice of Hel where excess reigned. Isolde nodded, her expression unreadable. "The pendant calls to its kin. A door waits, if you seek it." Unease coiled tighter in Aurora's gut. The Grove's wonder soured at the edges—the flowers now seemed to watch, their centers dark pools mimicking eyes; the mist thickened, brushing her skin with fingers that lingered too long. Nyx phased partially incorporeal, scouting ahead, their whisper-voice carrying back. "A archway forms. Beyond, warmth like swallowing sun." They pressed on, the group tightening formation. The arch materialized from twisted roots and blooming vines, framing a distortion in the air—a tear in reality where the twilight deepened to amber. Heat wafted through, carrying scents of spiced meats roasting over unseen fires, fruits bursting with juices that promised oblivion. Aurora hesitated, the blade's chill grounding her. "This isn't just exploration. It's a threshold." "Thresholds define us," Isolde replied, stepping closer. Her bare feet left no imprint on the vibrant grass. "Cross, and taste the excess. Or turn back, and wonder what feasts await the bold." Nyx's form shimmered, violet eyes flaring. "I've danced between realms before. This one pulls like hunger." The creatures with floral antlers lowed softly, a chorus that urged them forward. Aurora sheathed the blade, its luminescence fading, and gripped the pendant. The pulse thundered now, syncing with the arch's growing hum. She glanced at her companions—Isolde's ethereal calm, Nyx's shadowy anticipation—and nodded. They crossed. The shift ripped through Aurora like a gulp of scalding wine. The Grove's cool embrace vanished, replaced by a balmy rush that enveloped her body. The sky arched overhead in warm amber, streaked with clouds that resembled drifting platters of congealed honey. Ground underfoot yielded like sun-warmed dough, embedded with crystals that chimed softly with each step. Vast vineyards stretched to horizons, grapes swelling to the size of melons, skins translucent and veined with gold. Orchards followed, trees laden with fruits she couldn't name—oranges that pulsed with inner light, apples etched with runes that glowed when the breeze stirred them. Air thick with aromas: cinnamon-laced winds, the sizzle of invisible grills, a undercurrent of something fermented and deep. "What is this place?" Aurora's voice emerged husky, her throat parched despite the humidity. Isolde inhaled deeply, silver hair lifting in an unfelt current. "Dymas. Where want becomes feast, and feast becomes chain." Nyx laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally far. "No shadows here to hide in. Everything laid bare, ripe for taking." They wandered deeper, the landscape unfolding in layers of indulgence. A river snaked nearby, its waters not clear but effervescent, bubbling with tiny fish that darted like living candies. Aurora dipped a hand in; the liquid clung, sweet and effervescent on her skin, drawing a reluctant sigh from her lips. Discovery piled upon discovery. They stumbled into a clearing where helbound souls—translucent figures in aprons—tended gardens of herbs that sang when plucked. One soul, a burly man with a chef's tattoo faded on his arm, offered a stem that trilled a melody, its leaves unfurling into edible notes that burst with flavor on the tongue—salt, then fire, then cool mint. "Take," the soul grunted, eyes hollow yet gleaming. "Prince Belphegor's bounty. Eat, and forget the toil above." Aurora accepted, chewing slowly. The taste ignited memories of her mother's Welsh feasts, but amplified—roasts that melted into symphonies, breads that whispered comfort. Wonder swelled, but so did the unease; her stomach knotted, as if the flavors rooted deeper than hunger. Nyx plucked a cluster of berries from a nearby bush, shadows flickering as they savored. "Aldric would have loved this. Before the trap." Their voice dropped to a whisper, carried on the amber breeze. Further in, grand pavilions rose, silk canopies billowing over tables that stretched endlessly. Culinary competitions raged: demons in fine livery judged platters of phoenix eggs poached in nectar, souls competing with dishes that shifted forms mid-bite—from soup to solid, savory to sin. Laughter boomed, a cacophony that vibrated through bones, stirring an itch Aurora couldn't scratch. Isolde paused at the edge of one pavilion, her lavender eyes narrowing. "Riddles in every morsel. The excess blinds, but the chains? They forge in silence." A demon overseer approached, horns curling like pastry dough, skin flushed with perpetual warmth. "Newcomers? Sample the wine. It flows from the vines' very hearts." Aurora's pendant burned hot now, its crimson glow piercing her shirt. She felt the pull—a deeper chamber, perhaps, where portals yawned wider. The air grew oppressive, scents overwhelming, each breath a temptation to indulge until movement faltered. Nyx tensed, form solidifying. "Something stirs beneath. A hunger not sated by fruit." The group exchanged glances, the wonder fracturing into wariness. Aurora's hand drifted to the blade's hilt, its cold a stark counter to the realm's heat. They moved on, deeper into Dymas' embrace, the amber sky watching with indifferent plenty.