Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9TBGNZRPEVT6B5AMMW203

Rory squared her shoulders, the silver chain of the Heartstone pendant cool against her palm. The air smelled of damp earth and jasmine, sharp as a knife. Beyond the last row of trees, the standing stones loomed—ancient oaks hewn into rough columns, their bark furrowed like old skin. Eva’s letter had said *“Find the circle, follow the hum.”* She’d found the hum three days earlier, a low vibration in her bones that started when she’d passed the first stone and hadn’t let up. Now, Nyx hung back, their shadow form rippling like water over stone. “Go on,” they whispered, the sound lost in the rustle of leaves. Their violet eyes glowed faintly, cutting through the dappled sunlight. “I’ll watch.” Rory nodded, her boots crunching on gravel. The compass in her pocket spun wildly, needle spinning so fast it blurred. Not the first time magic had made it useless. She stepped between two stones, and the air shifted—thicker, warmer, like inhaling hot tea. A flower pushed through a crack in the stone, its petals a deep blue, veins of gold. She reached out, and it wilted instantly, blackening at the edges. Her hand flew back, heart racing. “Not all things bloom here,” Nyx said, materializing beside her. They stepped through the stones as if they were smoke; their shadow form didn’t part them, just flowed through. “Some things *remember* how to die.” Rory followed, her throat tight. The clearing hit her like a tide—wide, circular, ringed with more stones, each carved with spirals and stars. At the center, a fountain trickled, the water so clear it looked like air. But the sky—*the sky*—was a deep, endless indigo, streaked with clouds that glowed faintly, like embers. A breeze picked up, carrying a sound like a thousand voices whispering. Not words, exactly—more a hum, a melody in her bones. She pressed a hand to her wrist, where the scar curved like a crescent. The Heartstone pulsed, once, twice, a warm thrum against her skin. “Feels like home,” Nyx said, their voice softer. They stepped closer to the fountain, and their shadow grew, pulling taut, as if reaching for the water. “Funny, that. Home… isn’t a place, is it?” Rory didn’t reply. She’d run from Cardiff once, sure she’d never return. But here, in this alien light, she felt something else—*weight*. Like a stone lifted from her chest. She looked up, and there she was: Isolde, standing at the edge of the clearing, her silver hair catching the indigo sky. She wore a dress that looked like it was woven from mist, and her lavender eyes held a smile that didn’t reach her lips. “Took you long enough,” she said, her voice a lullaby. “The Veil’s thin here. You can almost *taste* the other side.” Rory fumbled for her dagger, the Fae-Forged Blade cold in its sheath. Isolde’s footprints—*none*—marked the grass, but Nyx tensed, their shadow coiling like a snake. “You’re not human,” Rory said, though it was more a statement. “Part,” Isolde said, stepping closer. “Enough. Come. The grove doesn’t like delays.” Nyx moved before she could ask more, gliding toward the center. The fountain’s water rippled, and the surface split, revealing a tunnel—black, smooth, like obsidian. Isolde waved a hand, and the tunnel lit up, a soft white glow seeping from the walls. “Old magic,” she said, as if reading her mind. “Keeps the rifts from feeding.” Rory hesitated, hand on the dagger hilt. The Heartstone pulsed again, harder this time, and she remembered the letter: *“The pendant works both ways. It leads to Hel, but it *glows* here, too. The Seer knows.”* She stepped forward, Nyx beside her, Isolde ahead. The tunnel floor sloped downward, and the air grew colder, clearer. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud in her ears, and Nyx’s whisper: “Careful. The stones… they *listen*.” They walked for what felt like hours, though the indigo sky above them never changed. The walls of the tunnel were lined with carvings—images of feasts, of people with antlers, of a woman with a dagger in her chest (Rory’s breath hitched at that one). Isolde stopped at a fork, pointing left. “Heed the hollow stone. It will show you what you seek, but you may not like it.” Rory looked at the stone, which was pockmarked, unremarkable. She hesitated, then touched it. Images flooded her: a hall of mirrors, each reflecting a different version of herself—Evan, the woman who’d screamed for help in the mirror, the girl who’d dared to run, the one in the mirror with the Fae blade, the pendant warm in her hand. She pulled back, gasping. “Gluttony,” Isolde said, quietly. “Dymas. The prince keeps a heart there. Not just any heart—*yours*.” Nyx’s shadow stilled. “Why?” they asked. Isolde smiled. “Because you’re a key. The Veil weakens at the solstice. He’ll tear through, and he’ll need a Mortal who can open a way. A Mortal with a heart unbroken by lies.” She tilted her head. “You’ve broken a few, Rory. That’s why he’s interested. That’s why *we* are.” Rory’s fingers brushed the pendant again. “Who are you, really?” “An exile,” Isolde said. “The Fae Courts don’t like seers who tell *the truth*. So I tell mortals instead. Easier. They don’t dare to question you. Not when they’re desperate for answers.” She stepped toward Rory, her lavender eyes bright. “The dagger. It will cut the wards. The pendant. It will unlock the door. But beware—he feeds on fear. Let it in, and you’ll become *his*.” Nyx’s shadow shifted, too dark, too thick. “We won’t let him,” they said. Isolde turned, heading for the right fork. “Good. The heart is in a garden. Exotic. Overflowing. You’ll want to touch it. You’ll *crave* it. But remember—gluttony isn’t about fullness. It’s about *hunger*. And he’ll starve you before you know it.” Rory followed, her hand on the dagger hilt, the pendant warm against her chest. The tunnel ended in a chamber, vast and domed. Sunlight poured through a hole in the ceiling, but it was a harsh, golden light, wrong for this place. Below, a garden stretched out—rows of fruit trees with leaves that shimmered like coins, bushes covered in berries the color of blood, flowers that smelled like candies and rot. At the center, a pedestal. On the pedestal, a heart—large, beating, floating in a pool of liquid that glowed like gold. Rory stepped forward, the dagger forgotten. The pendant burned, searing through her clothes, and she fell to her knees. The heart reached for her, a voice in her head: *Come. It’s yours. All of it. No more pain. No more hunger.* “Rory!” Nyx’s voice, urgent. She looked up. Nyx was beside her, their shadow form twisted, as if trying to protect her. Isolde stood at the edge of the garden, her hands raised, a faint glow around her. “The Veil’s thinning,” she said. “The prince is close. Flee—” A roar shook the chamber. The heart lunged, a mass of writhing veins and teeth. Rory scrambled back, tripping over a root. The dagger was in her hand before she knew it, the moonsilver blade cool against her palm. The heart reached for her, and she plunged the dagger into its side. It howled, smoke curling from the wound. Rory stood, gasping, as the dagger burned hot in her hand. “Now!” Isolde shouted. The garden trembled. Nyx grabbed Rory’s arm, pulling her toward the tunnel. The heart lunged again, but Isolde raised her hands, and a wall of flowers sprouted from the ground, blocking its path. “Go!” she screamed. “The pendant—*use it*!” Rory fumbled with the pendant, yanking it from her neck. The heart was still thrashing, the wound in its side smoking. She held the pendant high, and it glowed, a bright red light. The heart howled, a sound like a thousand wolves, and dissolved into smoke. The chamber collapsed. Rory hit the ground, dirt and stones raining down. Nyx was on top of her, shielding her. Isolde’s voice, clear now, over the noise: “The solstice. Meet me here. The Veil will be a trickle. And he… he won’t be far.” Then it was quiet. The indigo sky reappeared, the standing stones visible once more. Rory pushed herself up, Nyx beside her. The pendant hung around her neck, dim now, the glow fading. She touched the dagger hilt, the blade cool. “Ready to go home?” Nyx asked. Rory looked at the clearing, at the fountain, at the carvings in the stone. Home, she thought, wasn’t a place. It was the shadow that didn’t leave you, the friend who knew your scars, the dagger that cut through lies. She nodded. “Let’s go.” They stepped through the standing stones, and the world shifted back—warmer, calmer, the compass steady in Rory’s pocket. The Heartstone pulsed once more, a soft goodbye. Behind them, the grove retreated, the flowers wilting, the stones fading. But Rory knew it was there—always, waiting, for the solstice. And the prince. And her. This scene follows the group's first entry into the Fae Grove, weaving world-building through sensory details (indigo sky, talking flowers, the Heartstone's glow) and character interactions. It includes moments of discovery (the time difference, Isolde's riddles), unease (the heart's allure, the collapsing chamber), and wonder (the ethereal grove, Isolde's presence). The Veil's thinning and Dymas' connection to the Heartstone emerge through Rory's experience, avoiding exposition.