Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8VPKB56HMEEV2MMWYEBAD

The air smelled of jasmine and something sharper, metallic, like crushed mint, as Rory led the way through Richmond Park. The moon hung low, a sickle, but it cast no light through the branches, which loomed like skeletal fingers. Nyx walked at her shoulder, their shadow rippling as if alive—whether from excitement or the grove’s proximity, Rory couldn’t tell. Behind them, Isolde’s silver hair glinted even in the dimness, a beacon. She wore a dress of forest green, and her bare feet left no print in the dead leaves. “Almost,” Rory said, though her voice wavered. She pressed a hand to the nearest standing stone. It was oak, gnarled, its bark split to reveal something paler beneath—bone? Or polished stone? The Heartstone pendant at her throat pulsed, faint but insistent, a warm thrum like a bee in a jar. *This is it*, she thought. The rift in the Veil, Isolde had called it, but Rory had seen the pendant glow like this once before, in a dream of a place where the sky was amber and tables groaned under feasts. Hel, Nyx had murmured, when Rory had confessed the dream. *Gluttony’s city*. “Ready?” she asked, not looking back. Nyx’s form solidified—taller now, 6’2”, a silhouette of shifting shadows that resolved into a woman with a face like crepuscular light. “The edge hums,” they said, and Rory realized she’d been holding her breath. In front of them, the trees thinned. Not away from the park, but… *in*. A clearing opened, and the world tilted. The sky was not gray. It was amber, the color of honey left in the sun, and streaked with clouds that looked painted—swirls of violet and gold that didn’t quite match the stars. The air was warm, but not oppressive, as if the grove trapped a summer evening forever. The grass beneath their feet was not green but *alive*, a deep, iridescent teal that shifted when they stepped, releasing a scent like crushed pearls. Flowers bloomed everywhere: peonies the color of ripe pomegranates, lilies with petals that changed from pink to blue to green depending on where you stood, and a vine with tiny yellow flowers that, when Rory brushed one, tickled her palm with a sound like a wind chime. “Time doesn’t *move* here,” Isolde said, and indeed, the light felt unchanging. The sun—or whatever it was—hung low in the amber sky, not rising or setting. “An hour might be a breath,” she added, and Rory glanced at her watch; it was 11:17. When she looked up again, Isolde was still standing there, her lavender eyes steady. “Not just a breath,” the seer said, smiling. “Perhaps a year.” Nyx let out a low, whistling laugh. Their shadow coiled around the base of a tree, leaving a trail of ink-black smoke that seeped into the bark. “Between,” they said. “The Veil is thin here. Thinner than the rest of Earth.” They took a step toward a cluster of trees, and their form flickered—solid, then a wisp, then solid again, like a candle guttering. “Demons slip through here,” they added, quieter. “Shades too.” Rory’s chest tightened. The Heartstone pulsed harder, and she realized she still clutched the Fae-Forged Blade in her hand, its moonsilver blade cold against her palm. Isolde had pressed it into her fingers the night before, saying, *“It cuts what the world hides.”* Now, when she looked at it, the blade glowed faintly, a silver light that rippled along its edge, as if sensitive to the magic in the air. “Why bring us here?” she asked, nodding at the grove. “The pendant… it leads to Hel. To Dymas.” Isolde’s lips curved. “The Seer does not *lead*. She *shows*.” She turned, and Rory followed, Nyx close behind, through the trees. The grove opened into a glade, and Rory stopped. At its center was a spring, its water so clear she could see stones at the bottom, smooth and oddly shaped—crystals? Or maybe bones. But the water didn’t reflect the sky or the trees. It reflected *memories*. Rory leaned in, and for a moment, she saw a man with her father’s face, standing in a hall of amber light, a girl with her mother’s eyes pressing a pendant into his hand. Then it was gone, replaced by a vision of Dymas: tables heaped with platters of meat, rivers of wine, a prince with horns of shadow sitting on a throne of ivory. And then— “Stop,” she said, stepping back. Her head ached, and she felt sweat break out on her brow. The Heartstone burned hot against her chest. Isolde’s voice was soft, but sharp. “The Veil frays here. Fae magic, mortal hope, Hel’s hunger—they gnaw at it. Rifts open. And when they do… Dymas feeds.” She knelt by the spring, and her footprints appeared—pale, ghostly, like they’d been pressed into dust. “The stone,” she said, tapping the edge of the water. “It’s a key. Not to open, but to *breathe*.” Nyx knelt too, their shadow pooling into the spring. Where their fingers touched the water, ripples spread that were not waves but *shadows*, stretching outward into the air. “The Veil is a skin,” they said. “Here, it’s thin enough to see through.” They looked up, their violet eyes wide. “I can *taste* the realms on either side. Hel’s stench—greed, rot—but under that… Fae magic, sweet and bitter. Like honey and poison.” Rory sat on a rock, the blade still in her hand. She traced the leaf-shaped hilt with her thumb, and it hummed, a low note that vibrated in her bones. “Why not tell me this before?” she asked Isolde. The seer plucked a flower from the grass—red, with petals that looked like silk—and sniffed it. “Because you would not have *listened*. You would have tried to *fix* it, Rory Carter. But the world does not break because it is *broken*. It breaks because it is *alive*. And sometimes, to heal it, you must let it *breathe*.” She tossed the flower into the spring, and it didn’t sink. It floated, spinning, as if caught in an invisible current. “Eva,” Rory said suddenly. The name slipped out before she could stop it. Isolde and Nyx turned to her. “She told me to come here. To find the grove. She said… she said I had to *stop* something. A rift. A prince from Dymas.” Isolde’s smile was sad. “Eva Ellis. She was a good girl. Too good.” She stood, brushing grass from her dress. “Your necklace. It once belonged to her mother. Jennifer Carter’s sister. A sorceress. She died trying to close a rift. Left the pendant as a legacy. A reminder that some doors, once opened, cannot be closed. Only *watched*.” Nyx shifted, their shadow thickening. “Watch. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Shades. We watch the living, and we watch the dead. And we watch *between*.” They tilted their head. “The rift is growing. Closer to the surface. If it breaks… Dymas will pour through. And not just demons. *Hunger*. Souls that have forgotten how to hunger for anything but more.” Rory stood, the blade heavy in her hand. “Then we fix it. We close the rift.” Isolde laughed. “A seer does not *fix* things, Rory. She shows them. You think the Fae Courts exiled me for sharing visions? No. They exiled me for *telling* them the future wasn’t a cage. It’s a thread. You can weave it, but you can’t cut it.” She walked to the edge of the glade, where the trees grew thick, and lay a hand on one of the trunks. It was warm, like a pulse. “The standing stones are a circle, old magic, to keep the rift bound. But the magic is fading. The Veil… it’s bleeding.” Nyx stepped beside her, their shadow merging with the stone. “What do you need us to do?” Rory asked. Isolde turned, her eyes glowing. “You already know. The pendant. The blade. You. The girl who ran from Evan, who delivered dumplings in the rain, who thinks she’s just a delivery person. *You* are the key. Because you see the world not as a problem to solve… but as a story to *live*.” She paused, then added, “And stories have endings. Some happy. Some not. But all stories end with a choice.” Rory looked down at her hand. The Heartstone pulsed, warm now, steady. The blade hummed. The spring sparkled, reflecting not just memories but possibilities. She thought of Evan, of the way he’d hit her, of the fear in her chest when she’d fled. Of Cardiff, of her parents’ faces when she’d called to say she was safe. Of Nyx, shifting between shadow and form, as if they were made of all the things the world tried to hide. Of Isolde, who’d seen her future and not flinched. “We stay,” she said. “We watch. We… *be* the story.” Isolde smiled. “That’s the first part. The rest is already written. You just have to read it.” The wind picked up, and the trees rustled. In the distance, Rory thought she heard a sound like laughter—warm, rich, the clink of crystal. She knew it for what it was: the feasts of Dymas, starting early. The Veil was thin here, thinner than ever. And somewhere, beneath the grass, the rift waited. She took a step toward the trees, Nyx and Isolde falling into step beside her. The Heartstone glowed, a beacon, and the Fae blade hummed, eager. The world was alien, wondrous, and alive—and she was finally, completely, *here*. The amber sky shifted, just for a moment, and Rory saw it: a crack in the air, a fraying of the light, like a broken mirror. It was small, now, but growing. She pressed her hand to the Heartstone. It burned, a promise. This was the edge. And she was ready to step over.