Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAB9BHX4HX7RV8DT48BV8M

Rory pushed brambles aside with a scuffed work boot, the Golden Empress restaurant logo on her jacket catching the late autumn sun. Her straight black shoulder-length hair stuck to the sweat on her neck, and she fidgeted with the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant tucked under her collar—thumbnail-sized deep crimson gem, faint inner glow, a gift from a stranger who’d pressed it into her hand after a delivery run to a derelict warehouse last week. Nyx trailed at her heels, a humanoid shadow that shifted between incorporeal wisp and solid silhouette, their faintly glowing violet eyes cutting through the dappled shade of Richmond Park’s oak trees. “This is foolish,” Nyx’s voice whispered, carried on the wind as if filtered through dead leaves. “Seers trade riddles for regrets. Your flat above Silas’ bar is safer than chasing ghostly prophecies.” Rory’s bright blue eyes darted to the gnarled oak standing stones ahead—ancient, their bark carved with faint, twisting marks she couldn’t place. “Eva said Isolde’s the only one who can explain why this thing pulses when I pass abandoned subway tunnels,” she said, lifting her left wrist to brush the small crescent scar there—childhood accident with a broken teacup, her father’s barrister papers scattered across the kitchen table that day, her mother’s Welsh teacher’s voice softening the sting of the cut. She’d fled Cardiff and her Pre-Law studies six months ago, running from Evan’s shattered beer bottles and sharp words, Eva’s text (“London’s waiting—come crash with me”) her lifeline. The delivery job at Yu-Fei Cheung’s restaurant paid just enough for rent, but the pendant’s mysterious pulse had turned her quiet nights above the bar into sleepless hours of speculation. Then Isolde appeared, sitting on a mossy stone at the center of the standing stones, no footprints marring the dew-dusted grass around her. Her silver waist-length hair cascaded over her ethereal shoulders, pale lavender eyes fixed on Rory’s pendant as if she could see its glow through the jacket fabric. “The scar that bleeds memory meets the stone that binds worlds,” she said, her voice like wind through chimes, light but unyielding. “You carry a piece of the amber sky.” Rory paused, her cool-headed intelligence kicking in. “Amber sky? What does that mean?” Nyx’s silhouette stretched, solidifying just enough to reveal the line of their jaw. “Dymas,” they whispered. “The Gluttony realm of Hel—its sky is warm amber. The pendant’s origin, perhaps?” They were once Aldric, a human sorcerer trapped between realms in 1643 during a failed summoning, and the name Dymas made their shadow form flicker, a reminder of the helbound souls they’d once seen slipping through rifts. Isolde’s lips curved into a faint smile, and she glided to the edge of the standing stones, no sound of footsteps disturbing the grass. “Cross the oak’s bond, and the veil between what is and what was will thin,” she riddled. “But beware: an hour here is a breath or a lifetime out there.” Rory glanced at her mother’s vintage watch, its leather strap cracked from years of use. 3:17 PM. She stepped over the base of a standing stone, and the watch’s hands froze. When she blinked, they spun forward three hours, then back ten minutes, the ticking restarting in a frantic staccato. Nyx followed, their solid form reaching 6’2” as they stepped into the clearing beyond, their violet eyes widening at the sight before them. The Fae Grove burst with life that defied late November. Wildflowers bloomed in a riot—crimson poppies, snow-white daisies, deep blue bluebells—all tangled together, their petals glistening with dew that never evaporated. The air smelled like honey and crushed mint, and the sky hung low, a soft iridescent blue that didn’t match the overcast gray of Richmond Park outside. Rory knelt, her work jacket brushing the flowers, and touched a clover with four leaves; it glowed faintly under her fingers, the light seeping into her skin like a warm breath. “It’s impossible,” she murmured. “Wildflowers don’t bloom in winter.” “Time is a toy here,” Nyx’s voice whispered, their shadow form contracting as they leaned against a standing stone. “The Grove exists in a pocket between Earth and the Fae realm—its seasons feed on wonder, not the sun’s cycle.” Their shadow flickered again, a ghost of Aldric’s failed ritual echoing in the shift. Rory stood, brushing flower petals from her jeans, and the Heartstone Pendant began to pulse—warm, insistent, its deep crimson glow brightening until it cast a faint red hue on her collar. She gasped, yanking it from under her jacket, the silver chain digging into her neck. “It’s never done this before,” she said, her cool composure wavering for a split second. Nyx’s silhouette tensed. “Hel portal,” they whispered, their voice sharp with warning. “The pendant pulses near rifts between Earth and Hel. Aldric’s old notes spoke of such artifacts from Dymas, carried by helbound souls who escape the vineyards of excess—chefs contracted from Earth to cook for Belphegor’s grand feasts.” Isolde glided over, her silver hair catching the Grove’s iridescent light, and nodded. “I cannot lie,” she said, her Fae compulsion tying her words to truth, “but I can lead you to the edge of the story. The amber sky’s children crave the Fae’s breath—they slip through the Veil’s winter weakening, when it’s thinnest, to barter for freedom. The stranger who gave you the pendant was a helbound soul, a chef from Dymas’ vineyards who escaped a portal near your Cardiff flat’s old subway tunnel.” Rory’s eyes widened. Her childhood flat in Cardiff had been above an abandoned subway tunnel, the same one where she’d cut her wrist on the teacup—during a winter solstice, when the wind had howled so loud she’d thought the walls would cave in. “My accident,” she said, touching the crescent scar. “That was during a winter solstice. The Veil was weak then?” Isolde’s lavender eyes softened. “The scar is a mark,” she riddled. “It’s the Veil’s breath touching your skin, a reminder that you’ve always been closer to the rifts than you think. The chef left the pendant to warn you—Dymas’ Prince Belphegor is sending helbound souls to find Fae-touched portals, to steal the Grove’s magic for his gluttonous feasts. He craves the Fae’s time-bending power to make his feasts last forever.” Nyx’s shadow form flared, their violet eyes blazing. “Belphegor’s competitions force helbound souls to cook for his amusement,” they whispered. “If he finds this portal, he’ll drain the Grove dry to feed his excess.” Rory’s cool-headed thinking kicked back in, and she folded her arms. “What can I do? I’m a delivery person, not a soldier.” Isolde glided to a mossy rock and picked up a slender, leaf-shaped dagger, its moonsilver blade catching the Grove’s light. It was cold to the touch when she pressed it into Rory’s hand, the metal sending a shiver up her arm. “This Fae-Forged Blade cuts through magical wards, and it’s deadly to demons,” she said. “A gift for the one who carries the amber sky’s stone. It will protect you when the rifts open wider.” The dagger’s frostbit edge pressed into Rory’s palm, a tangible reminder of the Fae’s exiled power—Isolde had been cast out of the Courts for sharing visions with mortals, and this blade was a piece of the home she’d lost. Rory turned the dagger over, her fingers wrapping around the hilt. The cold seeped into her bones, but it felt like an anchor—something solid in a world of shifting time and riddles. “Why me?” she asked. Isolde’s voice softened, her riddles fading for a moment. “You fled excess once—Evan’s controlling rage, your father’s insistence on Pre-Law. You know how to outthink gluttony’s pull. The Veil chose you because you don’t crave more than you need.” She paused, then added, “But beware: the pendant’s pulse will grow stronger as Belphegor’s portals multiply. The winter solstice is coming, and the Veil will weaken again.” Rory glanced at her mother’s watch. It now read 5:23 PM, but when she pulled her phone from her jacket pocket—she’d forgotten to turn it off—the lock screen showed that two days had passed since she’d left her flat above Silas’ bar. Nyx’s shadow form contracted, and they whispered, “We need to leave. Your delivery shift is long over—Yu-Fei will be wondering where you are. The bar’s regulars will ask about your absence, too.” Rory nodded, tucking the dagger into her jacket pocket and the pendant back under her collar. She stepped back over the standing stone, and the watch’s hands reset to 3:18 PM, the ticking steady again. The wildflowers faded from her sight, replaced by the bare brambles of late autumn, and Isolde’s form vanished, leaving no trace of her presence save for the faint smell of honey in the air. As they walked back toward the park’s exit, Rory touched the crescent scar on her wrist, then the dagger in her pocket. The Heartstone Pendant pulsed faintly under her collar, a quiet warning of the amber sky’s children waiting beyond the Veil. She was a delivery person from Cardiff, a girl who’d fled an abusive ex and a life she didn’t want—but now, she carried a blade from the Fae, a stone from Hel, and a riddle that tied her childhood scar to the fate of two realms. The wind picked up, carrying Nyx’s whispery voice: “The Veil’s weakening is coming. We’ll need to be ready.” Rory’s bright blue eyes fixed on the subway tunnel entrance in the distance, and she nodded—cool-headed, intelligent, already spinning the first threads of an out-of-the-box plan to outwit a prince of gluttony.