Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAEWV41WDFHXTXWD4VEPXB

Rory's boots crunched over the frost-kissed grass of Richmond Park, the winter chill nipping at her exposed neck despite the woolen scarf she'd wrapped tight. The Heartstone Pendant hung heavy against her chest, its faint warmth a constant reminder of the unknown benefactor who'd slipped it into her delivery bag weeks ago. She glanced sideways at Nyx, who glided beside her in their semi-solid form—a towering silhouette of swirling shadows, edges blurring into the dim twilight like ink bleeding on wet paper. Their violet eyes glowed faintly, scanning the treeline ahead. "You sense it too?" Rory asked, her voice low, breath fogging the air. The park felt wrong tonight, the usual joggers and dog-walkers absent, as if the world had conspired to empty the space for them. Nyx's response came as a whisper on the wind, threading through the bare branches overhead. "The air shimmers. A tear in the Veil, perhaps. Or something older." They'd come seeking answers—rumors of a seer in the park, a half-fae exile who spoke in riddles but never lied. Eva had mentioned her once, in a hushed tone over pints at Silas' bar, but Rory hadn't believed it until the pendant started pulsing during her last delivery shift, leading her here like a compass needle. Nyx had tagged along uninvited, their shadowy form slipping from an alleyway as if summoned by her unease. Up ahead, a cluster of ancient oaks loomed, their trunks twisted into shapes that mimicked standing stones—gnarled roots forming archways, bark etched with symbols that seemed to shift when Rory blinked. She hesitated, fingers brushing the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a habit from childhood accidents that always surfaced when nerves prickled. "Through there," Nyx murmured, their form flickering incorporeal for a moment, tendrils of shadow testing the air like curious fingers. Rory nodded, steeling herself, and stepped forward. The moment her foot crossed the invisible threshold between the oaks, the world tilted. A faint shimmering distortion rippled across her vision, like heat haze over pavement, and then it was gone. But everything changed. The chill vanished, replaced by a balmy warmth that smelled of blooming jasmine and wild honey. Wildflowers erupted underfoot—vibrant poppies, lupines, and foxgloves in riotous colors, blooming impossibly in what should have been midwinter. They carpeted the ground in a living mosaic, petals unfurling as if greeting intruders. Rory knelt, touching one tentatively; it was soft as silk, releasing a scent that made her head swim with memories of sun-drenched Welsh fields from her childhood. "This isn't right," she whispered, standing. The sky above was no longer the slate-gray of London dusk but a canopy of interwoven branches forming a verdant dome, sunlight filtering through in golden shafts that danced like fireflies. But it wasn't sunlight—not truly. It pulsed with an inner rhythm, warm and alive, casting no shadows where shadows should fall. Nyx solidified beside her, their humanoid shape more defined now, standing at their full six-foot-two height. "Time bends here. An hour inside might steal days outside. Or minutes." Their voice echoed strangely, as if carried from a great distance, though they stood close enough for Rory to feel the cool void emanating from their form. Unease coiled in her gut. She thought of her flat above the bar, the part-time shifts at Golden Empress, the life she'd scraped together after fleeing Cardiff and Evan. This place felt like a dream she'd once had, vivid and inescapable, where stepping wrong meant never waking. "We should find her quickly. The seer—Isolde, right?" Nyx nodded, their violet eyes narrowing. "She is near. The shadows whisper of her presence." They pressed deeper into the grove, the pathless clearing unfolding like a labyrinth that reshaped itself. Vines twisted up tree trunks, bearing fruits Rory didn't recognize—plump orbs that glowed faintly, emitting a soft hum like distant bees. One brushed her arm as she passed, and a jolt of energy surged through her, sharpening her senses. She heard things now: the rustle of leaves that sounded like murmured secrets, the trickle of a stream she couldn't see, and farther off, a melodic chime like wind through crystal. Discovery came in waves. They crested a gentle rise, and there it was—a crystal-clear pool nestled in a hollow, its surface mirror-smooth, reflecting not the grove but starry skies that didn't match the dome above. Rory leaned over, her bright blue eyes staring back from the water, framed by her straight black hair. But in the reflection, her scar on the wrist gleamed silver, and faint lines of light traced her veins, as if the pool revealed hidden truths. "What is this?" she breathed, dipping a finger in. The water was warm, rippling outward in perfect circles that distorted the stars into swirling galaxies. A fish—or something like it—darted beneath, scales iridescent and shifting colors like oil on water. "A scrying pool, perhaps," Nyx said, their form bending low without disturbing the surface. "Fae-touched. It shows what might be, or what was." They reached out a shadowy hand, and the water recoiled, forming tiny waves that lapped at the edges with a sound like laughter. Rory pulled back, a shiver of wonder mixing with dread. The grove was beautiful, yes—wondrous in its defiance of seasons and logic—but it felt watchful, as if the flowers turned their faces to follow her, and the trees leaned in to listen. She clutched the Heartstone Pendant through her shirt; it pulsed warmer here, though this wasn't Hel. Was it reacting to the thinned Veil? The barrier between worlds, she'd heard Nyx call it once, weakening in winter like now, during the solstice approach. Deeper they went, the air growing thicker with that honeyed scent, almost cloying. Unease gnawed at her when they stumbled upon a ring of mushrooms, perfect white caps forming a fairy circle that hummed with faint energy. Rory circled it warily, remembering old Welsh tales her mother spun about fae traps. "Don't step in," she warned Nyx, though the shade needed no such caution—their form simply flowed around it, incorporeal wisps teasing the edges. But Nyx paused, their violet glow intensifying. "Something stirs." Their voice dropped to a bare whisper, wind rustling leaves. Rory froze, heart pounding. From the underbrush emerged... nothing at first. Then she saw it: no footprints marred the soft earth, but wildflowers bent aside as if pushed by an invisible walker. A figure materialized from the haze—an ethereal woman with waist-length silver hair that flowed like liquid moonlight, pale lavender eyes locking onto them with unnerving intensity. She was shorter than Rory, about five-foot-five, but her presence filled the grove like an ancient oak. Isolde Varga, the Seer. "You tread where mortals falter," Isolde said, her voice a riddle wrapped in melody, each word twisting like vines. "A shadow without sun, and a heart that pulses with stolen fire. What seeks you in my grove?" Rory swallowed, stepping forward despite the knot of unease twisting tighter. The woman's gaze pierced her, seeing too much, and yet her feet left no mark on the grass—no footprints, as if she floated just above the world. "We're looking for answers. About this." Rory pulled out the Heartstone Pendant, its deep crimson gem catching the false sunlight, glowing with an inner fire. Isolde tilted her head, silver hair cascading. "Ah, the glutton's bauble, from Dymas where feasts never end and bellies burst with longing. It warms near the gates of Hel, does it not? But here, in this pocket between realms, it hungers for more." She couldn't lie—Rory had heard that much about fae—but her words misled, circling the truth like predators. Nyx shifted, their form solidifying protectively beside Rory. "We seek the one who gave it. And knowledge of the Veil's rifts. Shadows speak of unrest." Isolde's lavender eyes sparkled with amusement or warning—hard to tell. "Unrest brews where barriers thin, especially now, as winter's breath weakens the shroud. But gifts from Hel carry prices, mortal child. Indulgence lures, yet devours." She glided closer, leaving no trail, and extended a hand. From nowhere, she produced a slender dagger—moonsilver blade, leaf-shaped and cold to the touch, faintly luminescent even in the grove's light. "Take this, forged in courts I once called home. It cuts wards and demons alike. A gift, for the path ahead grows thorny." Rory accepted it hesitantly, the hilt chilling her palm like frost. Wonder bloomed in her chest—this blade, a piece of fae legend, now hers. But unease lingered; why give it? What did Isolde see in her visions that she wouldn't say outright? As they spoke, time's trickery revealed itself. What felt like minutes stretched—the golden light in the grove shifted to a softer amber, as if hours had passed, though Rory's watch had stopped the moment they entered. Outside, in the mortal park, who knew how long they'd been gone? Days? Weeks? The thought sent a chill through her, despite the warmth. They delved into questions, Isolde's riddles unfolding layers of lore. She spoke of the Veil's shimmering distortions, visible only to those like Nyx with supernatural sight, monitored by wardens Rory had never heard of. Of Hel's realms, like Dymas with its amber skies and endless orchards, ruled by a prince of sloth and excess. Of fae courts where time twisted even more capriciously than here. Discovery peaked when Isolde led them to the grove's heart—a massive oak, its trunk hollowed into a natural chamber lined with glowing fungi that pulsed like heartbeats. Inside, visions danced on the walls: fleeting images of Rory's past—her father's stern face in Cardiff, Evan's cruel grip, the flight to London—and futures hazy, portals yawning open to worlds of shadow and flame. Unease crested into near-panic when a low rumble shook the grove, vines tightening like snares. "The Veil strains," Isolde warned, her riddles sharpening. "Intruders probe from beyond. Demons scent weakness." Nyx's form darkened, ready to slip into shadows. Rory gripped the fae-forged blade, its cold edge a comfort. Wonder warred with fear—this place, alien and alive, had peeled back layers of her world, revealing wonders she'd never imagined. But as they prepared to leave, the standing stones humming with farewell, Rory couldn't shake the feeling that stepping out would change everything, the grove's magic clinging to her like pollen, promising more discoveries—and dangers—yet to come.