Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY92CSBDA43TV187YVRB39J

Rory slung her delivery bag higher on her shoulder. The crescent scar on her left wrist caught the winter sun as she adjusted the strap— a memento from the childhood fall that had broken her wrist and her faith in her barrister father’s overbearing rules, a fall he’d dismissed as a “foolish lapse in focus” during a cross-examination drill. Nyx loomed beside her, their solid form a 6’2” silhouette of living shadow with faintly glowing violet eyes that cut through the park’s gray mist like shards of stained glass. Isolde walked ahead, her silver waist-length hair streaming behind her like a frozen waterfall; Rory watched, fascinated, as no footprints marred the dew-dusted grass in her wake, not even a crinkle of frost under her bare feet. They reached a cluster of ancient oak standing stones, their gnarled branches twisted into knots that looked like clenched fists, their bark scored with faint runes Rory couldn’t decode. The air shifted here—thicker, sweeter, laced with the scent of jasmine and pine even though neither plant bloomed or grew in Richmond Park’s winter landscape. A faint hum thrummed through the ground, vibrating up Rory’s boots. Rory’s Heartstone Pendant pressed against her chest under her shirt. The deep crimson gem, strung on a thin silver chain and given to her by an unknown benefactor outside the Golden Empress restaurant, pulsed once with faint warmth, its glow seeping through the fabric. She stopped. “Something’s off with the pendant.” Nyx’s shadow form rippled at the words, a faint wisp of black smoke leaking from their elbow— a sign of their discomfort as a Shade bound between realms. They tilted their head, their whispery wind-carried voice cutting through the stillness, each word a cool breath on Rory’s neck. “It tastes of Hel’s excess here—sweet rot under honeyed air, the same tang I smelled when I slipped through a portal to Dymas’ vineyards last moon.” Isolde turned. Her pale lavender eyes locked on Rory’s bright blue ones. She traced a finger along the edge of a standing stone, her ethereal features unreadable, her touch leaving a faint silver dust on the rough oak. “Knots untangle for those who do not fear the thread’s fray.” Rory frowned. Her quick, out-of-the-box thinking kicked in—she’d learned to decode cryptic words from her father’s cross-examinations, to pick out truths hidden in roundabout phrases. “You’re saying we pass through the stones.” Isolde’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Footsteps that do not exist lead to doors that do not show.” Rory stepped forward. She placed a hand on the rough oak of a standing stone. The pendant pulsed again, faster this time, its warmth seeping into her skin like a cup of spiced tea she’d forgotten she’d held. Nyx followed, their solid form flickering as they crossed the invisible boundary between Richmond Park and the Fae Grove, their violet eyes narrowing at the shift in magic. The world shifted. Rory blinked. Wildflowers burst from the ground at her feet—snowdrops tangled with sunflowers, poppies nodding next to frost-kissed daisies—all blooming in a riot of color that defied the winter outside, their petals glistening with a dew that never evaporated. The sky stretched overhead, a pearlescent blend of pink and silver that had no trace of the park’s gray mist, its light casting no shadows even though Nyx’s form should have blackened the grass. Ancient oak trees lined the clearing, their leaves glowing with a faint moonlit sheen that cast dappled patterns across the grass, patterns that shifted when no wind blew. She checked her phone. The screen was dead—no battery, no signal, no trace of the 3 PM delivery of sweet and sour pork she’d bailed on to follow Isolde. She pulled her father’s old pocket watch from her jeans pocket, a brass thing he’d given her for her 18th birthday before she’d fled Cardiff, and found its hands frozen at 2:17. Nyx stumbled. Their shadow form wavered, shrinking for a heartbeat before they reclaimed their solid shape, more black smoke leaking from their shoulders. They gripped a standing stone’s edge to steady themselves, their whispery voice holding a edge of fear—something Rory had never heard from the ageless Shade who’d once been Aldric the sorcerer trapped between realms in 1643. “It carries Fae magic—poison to those bound between worlds. It sears my shadow, makes me crave the cold of the spaces between realms.” Isolde turned. She stepped toward a stream that curved through the clearing, its water singing a wordless tune that mimicked the pendant’s pulse, its current glistening with silver dust. “Water that remembers forgets the thirst of those who drink.” Rory knelt beside the stream. She dipped her fingers into the water. It was cold—colder than the winter rain she’d delivered through that morning, colder than the ice Evan had pressed to her wrist after a fight—yet it didn’t make her shiver. Her crescent scar burned for a heartbeat before the sensation faded, leaving a faint silver dust on the scar’s edge. “The water’s got a kick—leaves dust on my scar.” Nyx leaned away from the stream, their shadow form flickering so much they almost slipped into incorporeal form. Their whispery voice cracked slightly, a reminder of their human past. “It’s Fae-forged water—washes away the bonds of those who are not Fae. I’d dissolve into shadow if I touched it.” Rory pulled her hand from the water. She wiped it on her jeans, her eyes darting to the standing stones they’d crossed. No sign of the park lay beyond them—only the glowing oak trees and the singing stream, their sounds blending into a hum that throbbed in her skull. She adjusted her delivery bag, her fingers brushing the Fae-Forged Blade Isolde had given her—moonsilver, leaf-shaped, always cold to the touch—tucked into the bag’s side pocket, a weapon she’d hidden from her flatmates above Silas’ bar. Isolde continued forward. She stepped onto a circle of white mushrooms that glowed faintly with moonlight, their caps thick and fleshy, their stems oozing a clear sap that glistened like glass. The mushrooms brightened when her foot touched them, casting a soft silver glow across the grass that mixed with the pendant’s crimson pulse. “Mushrooms that glow mark paths that stretch beyond the clock’s tick.” Rory followed. She stepped onto a mushroom. It hummed under her weight, its glow seeping into her shoe, making her toes tingle. The pendant pulsed again, faster this time, its warmth seeping into her chest, making her breath catch. “How long have we been here?” Isolde turned. Her voice was sharp, her riddle laced with a truth she couldn’t hide—she was bound by Fae compulsion to never lie, but she twisted her words to mislead. “An hour’s breath is a minute’s blink is a day’s slumber—choose your count, for the clock’s hands are blind here.” Nyx’s shadow form rippled again, more black smoke leaking from their elbows. They gestured to the sky, their violet eyes narrowing at the unchanging pearlescent light. “The light hasn’t shifted. Not since we entered. No sunrise, no sunset—just this endless glow.” Rory’s stomach tightened. She’d fled Cardiff to avoid her abusive ex Evan, to build a quiet life as a delivery person in London, to sleep without waking to his shouts, but now she stood in a pocket realm where time bent like a broken ruler, where Fae magic seared Shades and water left silver dust on her scar. She adjusted her delivery bag again, her fingers brushing the blade’s cold hilt, and ran a finger over her crescent scar, a nervous tic she’d developed after Evan had mocked the scar as a “weak spot.” She stepped off the mushroom circle. She walked toward a cluster of oak trees, their glowing leaves rustling in a wind that had no source, their branches twisting into shapes that looked like faces. A wildflower—a deep blue bloom she’d never seen before, its petals edged with silver—brushed her ankle. Its petals left a faint silver dust on her jeans, dust that glowed when she touched it. “The flowers don’t make sense—they bloom out of season, leave dust that glows.” Isolde’s voice carried from behind her, her footsteps silent even though she’d moved closer. “Sense is a mortal chain—break it to see the bloom, to taste the truth under the honeyed air.” Nyx followed Rory. They reached out a shadowy hand to touch a glowing oak leaf. The leaf shriveled under their touch, turning to ash before it hit the ground, the ash dissolving into the grass without a trace. Their whispery voice held a note of sorrow, a reminder of their failed summoning ritual in 1643. “Fae magic rejects my shadow—sees me as a intruder from Hel’s excess, even though I’m bound between realms.” Rory’s tongue touched her lips. She tasted the sweet air of the Grove and then the faint tang of Hel’s excess (as Nyx mentioned) on her tongue, a sweet rot that clung to her throat. She walked toward the stream again, her eyes locked on the silver dust floating on its surface. “The water’s singing matches the pendant’s pulse.” Isolde’s voice carried from the mushroom circle. “Pulses are ties—bind the Hel-made to the Fae-forged, bind the mortal to the ageless.” Rory pulled the Fae-Forged Blade from her delivery bag. Its moonsilver metal glowed faintly in the oak tree’s light, its cold touch sending a jolt up her arm, making her grip tighten. The blade’s leaf shape caught the pendant’s crimson glow, mixing the two colors into a deep purple that glistened on the blade’s edge. She held the blade aloft. Her crescent scar was fully visible on her left wrist as she did, the silver dust from the wildflower glistening on its edge. “I’m not leaving without knowing who gave me the pendant.” Isolde’s lips curved into a smile. She traced a rune on the oak tree’s bark, her fingers leaving a silver trail that glowed for a heartbeat before fading. “Answers are thorns—pluck them and bleed, for the giver’s hands are stained with Dymas’ vineyard wine and helbound souls.”