Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY91CPEG9706AXB6B0CDCHQ

Rory’s delivery jacket scraped against the bare oak branches of Richmond Park, the December wind nipping at her straight black shoulder-length hair. She tucked her left hand into her pocket, pressing her thumb to the crescent scar on her wrist—old habit from the childhood fall that had split the skin—before her fingers brushed the cold hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade. The moonsilver, leaf-shaped dagger sat in a leather sheath she’d stitched herself, its chill seeping through the fabric even through her jacket. Around her neck, the Heartstone Pendant thrummed—a deep crimson thumbnail-sized gem on a silver chain, warm as a sun-warmed stone, its faint glow visible through her shirt when she leaned into the weak winter light. Nyx drifted beside her, their humanoid shadow silhouette stretching to 6’2” in the dimming sun, faintly glowing violet eyes fixed on the circle of ancient oak standing stones ahead. Their voice was a whisper carried on the wind, barely audible over the rustle of dead leaves: “The shadows between these stones hum with the spaces I know. A rift lingers here—your pendant’s song is proof.” Isolde waited at the edge of the stone circle, her silver waist-length hair catching the light like spun starlight, pale lavender eyes crinkling at the corners in a smile that didn’t reach her ethereal, ageless face. She took a step forward, and Rory’s breath caught—there were no footprints in the frosted grass beneath her bare feet. The Half-Fae seer’s compulsion meant she couldn’t lie, but Rory had learned to read the gaps in her riddles since the seer had pressed the Fae blade into her hand three days prior. “Your pendant sings of Hel’s gluttonous realm,” Isolde said, her voice like wind through crystal. “The Veil weeps winter’s cold—its strength frays, as the solstice’s breath draws near.” Rory checked her phone, the screen glitching when she held it up to the stones. Her last delivery had been to a café near the park, and she’d told Yu-Fei she’d be back in an hour—now the time stamp flickered between 2:17 and 5:43. “I don’t have time for time tricks,” she said, cool-headed as ever, her quick thinking kicking in. “If the rift’s to Dymas—Prince Belphegor’s realm of vineyards and feasts—why’s it here, in your grove?” Nyx’s shadow form flickered, shifting to incorporeal for a heartbeat before solidifying again. “The grove is a pocket between worlds,” they whispered. “Shadows bleed through from all realms when the Veil weakens. I can slip into the crevices—see what lingers beyond.” Isolde gestured to the stones. “Cross the threshold, and the grove will show you its truths. But beware: an hour within may be a minute without… or a day. The earth does not dictate time here.” Rory hesitated, then stepped toward the first stone. The Heartstone’s thrumming intensified, its warmth spreading up her neck to her jaw. When she brushed her hand against the oak stone, it hummed—deep, resonant, like a cello string plucked by an invisible hand. Nyx drifted through the stone beside her, their shadow merging with the crevices before reemerging on the other side, their violet eyes glowing brighter. Inside the grove, Rory’s breath caught. Wildflowers bloomed in a riot of color at her feet—poppies red as her pendant, daisies white as snow, bluebells that glowed faintly in the shade—all blooming in December, when the rest of the park was bare. The oak trees above had lush, green leaves, their branches swaying to a rhythm that didn’t match the wind outside. A sharp, fermented tang mixed with the sweet honey scent of wildflowers, and Nyx’s whisper curled around her: “That is Dymas’ vineyard breath. The rift’s edge carries it here.” She knelt, running her fingers over a poppy’s waxy petal—when she pressed it, a drop of crimson sap oozed out, matching her pendant’s hue. She wiped the sap on her delivery jacket, her thumb brushing the crescent scar, and thought of Evan—his sharp words, the way he’d grabbed her wrist that night, the fall that had left the mark. The sap glowed faintly on her sleeve, and Isolde said, in a riddle: “The scar’s mark is a key. The sap’s song is a lock. The shadow’s hand is the turn.” Nyx drifted to a faint shimmer in the air—a rift edge only they and Isolde could see—and slipped into its shadow. When they emerged, their violet eyes burned brighter than ever. “I saw Dymas’ sprawling vineyards, helbound souls plucking grapes that rot as soon as they touch their hands. Prince Belphegor’s chefs hunt for new ingredients, and this rift is their door.” Rory stood, her bright blue eyes fixed on the shimmer, and pulled the Fae-Forged Blade from her pocket. Its cold hilt made her gasp, and she realized its moonsilver edge was faintly glowing in the grove’s light—reacting to the rift’s energy. “If Belphegor’s chefs want the grove’s wildflowers,” she said, cool-headed, “sealing the rift isn’t enough. We need to warn the Wardens—they monitor the Veil’s rifts, right?” Isolde shook her head, her silver hair cascading down her back. “The Wardens do not see the between places. They see only rifts that break Earth’s skin. This grove is a pocket—they cannot find it.” Nyx’s whisper carried unease: “I am bound to the mortal plane, but if the rift grows, I may be trapped between Dymas and the grove. My shadow form cannot withstand the glutton’s hunger for long.” Rory’s quick thinking kicked in. She plucked a wildflower from the ground, its waxy petal in her hand, and pressed it to the Heartstone Pendant. The pendant’s warmth merged with the flower’s sap, and she said: “If the wildflowers tie to the rift’s energy, we can mark its location. When the solstice comes, we’ll return to seal it permanently.” Isolde’s pale lavender eyes crinkled in a real smile—first time Rory had seen it. “You see what is not. The seer’s eye is blind to what the flightful heart sees.” Time shifted then. Rory checked her phone—two minutes had passed since she’d entered the grove, but her internal clock screamed that an hour had gone by. Unease coiled in her stomach as she noticed the grove’s wildflowers beginning to wilt at the rift’s edge, their sweet scent fading into the fermented tang of Dymas. Nyx’s shadow form flickered, and they whispered: “The rift is growing. Helbound souls drift through now—their hunger clinging to the wilted petals.” Rory pressed the Fae-Forged Blade into the ground beside the rift, its cold seeping into the earth, and wrapped both hands around the Heartstone Pendant. The warmth spread up her arms, and she began to hum the rhythm of its thrumming—low, steady, matching the rift’s faint pulse. Nyx emerged from the shadow, their form stabilizing, and whispered: “You bind the rift’s song to yours. The Veil’s fray slows.” Isolde’s voice dropped, no riddle this time: “You have the gift of the between—your flight from your past has made you a bridge between realms.” Rory stopped humming, her breath coming in short gasps. The rift’s shimmer faded, the fermented tang dissipated, and the wildflowers perked back up, their honey scent returning. She looked down at her left wrist—her crescent scar glowed faintly in the grove’s light. Isolde stepped beside her, her voice a final riddle: “The glutton’s vine bears fruit that rots. The seer’s eye sees what is not. The shadow’s hand holds what is lost.” Rory checked her phone again—2:19, only two minutes since she’d left the park’s frosted grass. She slipped the Fae-Forged Blade back into her pocket, the Heartstone resting warm against her chest. “I need to get back to my delivery shift,” she said. “Yu-Fei will fire me if I’m late.” Nyx drifted toward the oak standing stones, their shadow form feeling like cool air against her skin. “I will follow. The shadows will warn you if the rift returns.” Isolde took a step back, no footprints in the wildflower-strewn earth, and said: “The grove will wait. The solstice’s breath will test your bond.” Rory stepped through the standing stones, the winter wind nipping at her again. She glanced back—only bare oak branches and frosted grass greeted her, no sign of the grove’s wildflowers. She tucked her thumb into her pocket, pressing it to her crescent scar, and headed toward the café, the Heartstone’s faint thrumming a quiet reminder that her life as a delivery person in London was over—she was now a bridge between realms, a blade in hand, a shadow at her side.