Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA4EEWN1ZYRA300RX6A8PT

The air tasted of overripe fruit and something metallic, like warm pennies. Rory adjusted the strap of her bag, the weight of the Fae-Forged Blade familiar against her hip. Ahead, Isolde moved with a grace that felt less like walking and more like drifting, her silver hair a shimmering banner in the muted light. Nyx flowed beside her, less a companion and more a shadow mimicking a person, the edges of their form blurring against the verdant density of Richmond Park. “Are you certain this is the place?” Rory asked, voicing the doubt that had been pressing on her since Isolde had led them off the marked paths. Isolde didn’t turn. “Certainty is a brittle thing, child. Let’s say… overwhelmingly probable.” Rory shot a glance at Nyx, who offered no comfort, only the unsettling sensation of being watched by something that wasn’t quite seeing. The air grew noticeably warmer, the scent of fruit intensifying to a cloying sweetness. They passed between two ancient oak trees, their gnarled branches interwoven like skeletal fingers, and the world shifted. It wasn’t a dramatic change, not a flash of light or a sudden burst of color. It was subtler, a realignment of perception. The familiar green of the park faded, replaced by a riot of blooms Rory couldn't name. Flowers in shades of amethyst and gold spilled across the ground, their petals impossibly intricate. Vines thick as pythons coiled around trees, laden with fruit that glowed with an internal luminescence. “This…” Rory breathed, searching for a word that wouldn’t feel inadequate. “A thinning,” Nyx’s voice whispered, barely audible above the hum of insects. “A place where the weave between worlds is… porous.” The grove wasn’t large, maybe the size of a tennis court, but it felt boundless, as if it stretched inward, defying Euclidean geometry. The one constant was the relentless, overwhelming presence of life. Orchids clung to the bark of trees, their roots exposed and pulsing with a faint, violet light. Strange, melodious chirps and whistles echoed through the air, a symphony of unseen creatures. Isolde stopped before a ring of standing stones, each etched with symbols Rory didn’t recognize. They weren’t runes, not exactly. They possessed a flowing, organic quality, like vines sculpted into glyphs. “The boundary,” Isolde murmured, running a pale hand over the cool stone. “Here, the border blurs. Time eddies. Be mindful where you place your gaze.” Rory’s hand instinctively went to the Heartstone Pendant beneath her shirt. It pulsed with a faint warmth, a rhythmic throb that resonated against her skin. She hadn’t noticed it before, but now it felt… urgent. “Hel proximity?” she asked, her voice hushed. Nyx flickered, their form momentarily solidifying. “A ripple. Faint, but present. Dymas, I suspect. Though the currents are… convoluted.” Dymas. The realm of Gluttony. The thought left a sickly sweet taste in Rory's mouth. The pendant’s warmth intensified, almost uncomfortably. Isolde ignored them, her lavender eyes fixed on the center of the stone circle. “The Seer’s Pool awaits. But the path is not straight. It reflects what you *seek*, not what *is*.” A pool. Rory hadn’t expected a pool. She’d been picturing some sort of… threshold, a shimmering portal. The Seer’s Pool materialized before them, not by being revealed, but by coalescing, the air above the earth liquefying into a surface of dark, obsidian water. It wasn't perfectly round, but rather, organically shaped, like a teardrop. “Observe,” Isolde said, her voice losing some of its cryptic quality, replaced by a solemn tone. “But do not *look*.” Rory hesitated, then knelt at the edge of the pool. The water was still, reflecting nothing but the distorted shapes of the surrounding foliage. It felt… ancient. The weight of centuries pressed down on her, a suffocating sense of history she couldn’t comprehend. As she stared, the surface began to ripple, not from any disturbance in the air, but from within the water itself. Images coalesced, fragmented and fleeting. A lavish banquet table groaning under the weight of impossible foods. A vineyard stretching endlessly under a warm amber sky. A figure cloaked in shadow, their face obscured by feasting. Rory felt a pull, a magnetic force drawing her gaze deeper. Suddenly, she saw her father, Brendan, laughing, surrounded by plates piled high with food. But his laughter was strained, his eyes hollow. He reached for another goblet, his hand trembling. “Father?” Rory whispered, her voice cracking. “Do not linger on what is past, child,” Isolde warned, her hand gripping Rory’s shoulder. “The pool shows echoes, temptations. It does not offer truth.” Rory ripped her gaze away, gasping for air. Her heart hammered against her ribs. It had felt… so real. “What did you see?” Nyx asked, their voice a dispassionate murmur. “My father,” Rory said, shaking her head, trying to dispel the lingering image. “He… he was at a feast. But it wasn’t right. It felt… wrong.” Isolde nodded slowly. “Dymas preys on desires, on excess. Your father’s fondness for a good meal is known to the realms.” Rory's hand tightened around the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade where it rested against her side. “He wouldn’t…” “The realms do not concern themselves with ‘wouldn’t’,” Nyx said, their tone bleak. “Only with ‘is’.” Isolde stepped closer to the pool, her silver hair brushing against the dark water. “I seek knowledge of the Veil’s weakening. Show me the source of the rift.” The pool churned again, the images shifting and swirling. This time, Rory didn't dare to look directly. Instead, she focused on Isolde’s face, watching her expression change as she… perceived. Isolde’s face paled, her lavender eyes widening with something that wasn’t quite fear. She stumbled back, catching herself on one of the standing stones. “By the Courts,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. “A convergence. A deliberate tearing.” “What is it?” Rory asked, her hand instinctively reaching for the blade. “Not a natural weakening,” Isolde said, her gaze fixed on something beyond the pool, beyond the grove. “Someone… something is forcing the Veil. It’s centered on a place… a building. Old. Stone. London, but not *of* London.” The Heartstone Pendant flared with heat, almost burning through Rory’s shirt. It was definitely Dymas. And whatever was happening, it was far beyond a simple ripple. It was a deliberate assault. “The Wardens should be alerted.” Rory said, her mind already racing through potential contacts. Isolde shook her head. "They are… preoccupied. Distracted by shadows within shadows. This is something else entirely.” She looked at Rory, her gaze piercing. “You have a role to play, Aurora Carter. A piece of the puzzle that even I cannot see.” Nyx, who had been silent until now, shifted closer, their form coalescing into something almost solid. “The veil thins,” they said, their voice echoing with an ancient weariness. “The echoes grow stronger. The feast… begins.”