Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY965DBJSQFKX8Q951DYMM6

Rory’s black shoulder-length hair whipped her cheeks as she cut through Richmond Park’s frost-dusted paths, the crumpled receipt from her last Golden Empress delivery crinkling in her jacket pocket. She’d dropped off a carton of honey-glazed duck to a businessman near the royal deer enclosure, his quick tip barely covering the cost of her oyster card home—but Isolde’s message, delivered via Nyx’s shadow-whisper in her flat’s hallway, had trumped her shift’s end. Her left wrist burned, a faint prick of the crescent scar she’d earned falling from her father’s barrister’s bookshelf at seven, and she rubbed it against the wool of her coat, a nervous tic she’d never outgrown. The scar’s edge was still raised, a permanent reminder of the day she’d tried to reach a copy of her mother’s Welsh poetry collection, only to send a stack of legal briefs crashing down. Nyx hovered at her heel, incorporeal now, their violet-glowing eyes a faint smudge in the dusk shadow of a gnarled oak tree. When she’d first met the Shade, she’d flinched at their wind-whisper voice, but now it was a strange comfort—like the hum of her mother’s Welsh lullabies through a thin wall. “The boundary nears,” they breathed, their shadow form sliding under a splintered park bench before coiling at her feet, solidifying just enough to let her feel a cool weight against her ankle. At 6’2”, their humanoid silhouette cut a sharp line against the frost, their glowing eyes pinning her to the spot. She’d watched them shift forms before—sliding through keyholes, curling around streetlights—but their solid form still made her pause; it was too human, too much a reminder that they’d once been Aldric, a sorcerer trapped between realms in 1643 after a failed summoning ritual. Rory’s Heartstone Pendant, a thumbnail-sized crimson gem on a silver chain tucked under her shirt, pulsed faintly—warmth seeping through the fabric like a distant campfire. She’d found it tucked into her delivery bag three days prior, no note, only the faint inner glow that had made her freeze mid-dropoff. Dymas origin, she’d deduced from the faint Hel-portal pulse (she’d research Hel realms during her Pre-Law days at Cardiff University, a habit of overanalyzing every unknown until it fit into a legal brief), but she hadn’t dared tell Yu-Fei or her mother—too many questions she couldn’t answer without sounding mad. Then she saw the standing stones. Ancient oak, their bark gnarled like crumpled legal briefs left in the rain, marked the Grove’s boundary, their tops glowing with a faint silver light that didn’t match the dusk sky’s gray. Isolde stood between them, her silver waist-length hair cascading over her ethereal shoulders, pale lavender eyes locking onto Rory’s bright blue ones. Rory scanned the ground—no footprints, not even a dent in the frost, and her breath caught in her throat. The Half-Fae seer couldn’t lie, but she could twist truth like a legal loophole, a fact Nyx had warned her about before they left the flat above Silas’ bar. “Your stone beats for the thin place,” Isolde said, her voice like wind through chimes. “The glutton’s vineyard stretches its roots to our door.” Rory furrowed her brow, parsing the riddle like a contract clause she’d been hired to dissect. Glutton’s vineyard—Dymas, Prince Belphegor’s realm of excess, where helbound souls stirred exotic ingredients for grand feasts. Thin place—the Veil, which weakened with the winter solstice (only a week away, she’d noted from her calendar’s sticky note reminder to call her mother). “You mean the Heartstone’s pulsing is because of a Hel rift here?” she asked, her Pre-Law precision cutting through the cryptic words. Isolde’s lips curved into a faint smile, her silver hair catching the standing stones’ glow. “I cannot speak falsehoods. The stone’s warmth is a map, not a warning.” Nyx’s shadow form contracted, their voice a sharper whisper that made Rory’s neck prickle. “Aldric’s ritual taught me thin places bite. Cross with caution—they trap souls who don’t watch their steps.” Rory froze—she’d never heard them name their former human self, Aldric, the sorcerer who’d become trapped between realms four centuries prior. The memory of Evan’s sharp words, you’re always overthinking, you’ll get yourself trapped, flickered in her head, and she clamped down on it, her intelligence a shield against the old fear. She stepped toward the standing stones, the frost crunching under her boots—until she crossed the first oak’s shadow. The crunch vanished. The frost melted into dark, rich soil. Wildflowers burst from the ground at her feet: crimson poppies that matched her Heartstone, white daisies with golden centers, jasmine blooms that scented the air like summer, even though London’s winter had turned the park’s grass brown outside the boundary. Her left wrist’s scar burned hotter, a sharp throb that made her gasp, and she yanked back her coat sleeve to stare at the crescent mark, its edges flushing pink with the pain. “Time unspools here,” Isolde said, gliding past her—still no footprints, not even a trace of her dress brushing the wildflowers. “An hour inside is a child’s skips outside. Or a grandparent’s final breath.” Rory fumbled for her phone, pulling it from her pocket. The screen was black, dead, even though she’d charged it fully before her delivery. She spotted a discarded soda can half-buried in the wildflowers, its aluminum rusted through like it had been there for decades, while a nearby dandelion’s fluff floated toward her, fresh as a spring morning. Nyx shifted to incorporeal, their shadow sliding up a standing stone to peer at the Grove’s clearing, their violet eyes glowing brighter with what Rory took for unease. “The pendant’s pulsing is stronger,” Rory said, tucking the phone back and pressing her palm to the crimson gem through her shirt. The warmth seeped into her skin, a steady thrum that matched her heartbeat, and she realized it was syncing with the standing stones’ silver glow. “Is there a Hel portal here, hidden in the Grove’s pocket?” Isolde stopped at the clearing’s center, her silver hair catching the Grove’s amber-tinted light—a faint echo of Dymas’ warm amber sky, Rory noted, a thread connecting the two realms. She held out a hand, and the Fae-Forged Blade materialized in her palm—slender, leaf-shaped, moonsilver, its faint luminescence making Rory’s eyes water when she stared too long. “This cuts through wards,” Isolde said, her voice sharp now, no riddle to hide behind. “Against demons that creep through the Veil’s tears. Against the helbound souls that serve Belphegor.” Rory reached for it, and the cold hit her like a slap across the face, making her gasp. She’d never felt anything so cold—colder than Evan’s silent treatments that stretched for days, colder than the frost outside the Grove that had nipped her cheeks on the walk over. The blade’s weight was solid in her hand, a contrast to Nyx’s shifting form, and she curled her fingers around the hilt, her crescent scar still burning like a brand. “Why give this to me?” she asked, her Pre-Law training making her demand terms, not just accept a gift blindly. Isolde’s pale lavender eyes softened, a rare crack in her ethereal facade. “The glutton’s servants seek the Heartstone. They tracked you from Dymas to your delivery route, to your flat above the bar. You cannot outrun them—but you can cut their path before they take the stone and open a full portal to Belphegor’s realm.” Nyx’s whisper cut through the Grove’s quiet, their shadow form coiling around her ankle like a chain. “I saw them in the shadow of Silas’ bar last night—helbound souls, their breath reeking of Dymasian spiced wine. They know you have the pendant. They’re waiting for the solstice to strike.” Rory’s chest tightened, her bright blue eyes widening with the weight of the revelation. She thought of her mother in Cardiff, texting her every Sunday to ask if she was eating enough, if she was still writing her legal essays (a habit she’d kept up, even though she’d abandoned Pre-Law). She thought of Yu-Fei’s quiet concern when she’d shown up to her delivery shift with a black eye (Evan’s doing, a month before she fled to London), of the way Yu-Fei had slipped her an extra carton of fried rice without a word. She pressed the Heartstone harder against her chest, its warmth a anchor in the Grove’s unspooling time, and stared at the Fae-Forged Blade’s cold glow. She turned to Isolde, her voice steady despite the fear coiling in her gut. “If the Veil is weak here, can we seal the rift before the winter solstice? Before the helbound souls can reach the Heartstone?” Isolde’s lips curved into a riddle again, but Rory heard the truth beneath the cryptic words, parsed like a legal precedent. “The stone’s root is in the glutton’s realm. To seal the rift, you must taste the excess you fear—you must go to Dymas and unbind the stone from its origin.” Nyx’s shadow form contracted, their violet eyes flaring. “Dymas is a trap for mortals. Aldric’s ritual once brushed its edges—its excesses consume souls who cannot resist.” Rory glanced back at the standing stones, now faded like they were a memory instead of a physical boundary. A child’s laugh floated from outside the Grove, high and bright, but when she tried to pinpoint its source, it vanished, replaced by the distant creak of a Fae oak. She clutched the Fae-Forged Blade in one hand and pressed the Heartstone to her chest with the other, her crescent scar still burning a steady reminder of the risks she’d always taken to protect the people she loved. Her quick, out-of-the-box thinking kicked in—she’d research Dymasian portals at the university library tomorrow, she’d draft a plan like a legal strategy, she’d not let the glutton’s servants trap her like Evan once had. The Grove’s wildflowers bloomed brighter, their scent overwhelming now, and Rory stepped toward the clearing’s center, her boots sinking into the rich soil without a sound. She was in over her head, but for the first time since she’d fled Cardiff, she didn’t feel trapped—she felt prepared, her intelligence and the two artifacts in her hands a shield against the realms that sought to claim her. Nyx’s shadow slid down the standing stone to join her, their violet eyes softening with a flicker of what might have been respect, and Isolde glided beside them, her silver hair weaving through the wildflower stems without a single petal being crushed. The Veil’s thinness hummed in the air, the Heartstone’s pulse a steady drumbeat, and Rory knew the next step would be dangerous—but for the first time in years, she was ready to run toward the fight, not away from it.