Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAFNDNA1P9AH3WFFP97G36

Rory adjusted her Golden Empress delivery bag’s strap, the fabric scratchy against her left wrist—her crescent scar pulled faintly, a ghost of childhood broken glass. She stepped over a frosted dandelion in Richmond Park’s usual oak-lined path, then froze. Isolde stood ten feet ahead, silver waist-length hair catching the gray winter sun, and not a single footprint marred the frosted grass beneath her pale boots. Nyx loomed beside Rory, their solid 6'2" form’s shadowy edges flickering like a dying candle’s flame; their faintly glowing violet eyes locked on the circle of gnarled oak standing stones Isolde now faced. Rory’s Heartstone pendant—crimson, thumbnail-sized, strung on a thin silver chain—throbbed against her chest, a warm pulse that seeped through her wool sweater. She pressed a finger to it, the metal cold even with the pendant’s heat. "No marks." Isolde turned, her pale lavender eyes unblinking. Her lips curved in a faint, ethereal smile, and she stepped closer—still no footprints, even as she shifted her weight. "Roots drink what steps deny; the unweighted find the hidden sky." Nyx’s voice curled around Rory’s ears, a whisper carried on a wind that didn’t stir the nearby mortal trees. They shifted their stance, their shadowy hand brushing Rory’s delivery bag; the fabric dimmed for a split second, as if drained of color. "The Veil’s shimmer clings here—threads of Fae weave through mortal dirt. My solid form strains; the Grove’s magic tugs at the realm-bound edges of my shadow." Rory nodded, her cool-headed wit kicking in. She’d fled Cardiff for London to escape Evan, to take her delivery job and crash in the flat above Silas’ bar—she was used to adapting to strange shifts, but this felt bigger than a missed delivery or a bar brawl. She stepped toward the standing stones, her boot crunching the frost; Isolde’s hand shot out, her fingers cold as the Fae-Forged Blade she’d gifted Rory (she’d tucked it into her delivery bag that morning, its moonsilver edge glinting when she’d checked). "Pause. The threshold bites those who rush the song." Rory halted. She glanced at Nyx, who’d let their shadowy edges bleed into the mortal grass—no bend, no trace of their touch. She then looked back at the standing stones: their bark was etched with faint, swirling runes she couldn’t read, and the air between them hummed like a beehive she’d stumbled on during a delivery to a suburban garden. She pulled her phone from her pocket, checking the time—3:17 p.m.—then stuffed it back. When she stepped through the standing stones with Isolde and Nyx, she froze again. The grass beneath her boots was soft, not frosted. Wildflowers bloomed in a riot around her: bluebells, poppies, daisies, all blooming at once, their petals glowing with a faint inner light. The sky above was a soft silver, not the gray London overcast, and the air smelled like honey and burnt cedar—something she’d never encountered on a delivery route. She pulled her phone out again; the screen was black, dead, and when she pressed the power button, nothing happened. "My phone’s dead. Clock read 3:17 five minutes ago—now it’s stuck." Isolde wandered toward a cluster of wildflowers, plucking one between her fingers; it didn’t wilt, even as she crushed its petal slightly. She turned back, her voice laced with riddle. "Sand slips fast where petals stay; an hour’s song may outlast a day." Nyx’s solid form flickered, their violet eyes flaring brighter. They reached for a wildflower, but their shadowy hand passed through it, leaving a faint trail of shimmering dust. They let out a quiet, wind-whispered exclamation. "My shadow cannot grasp the Grove’s life. Aldric’s old sorcerer senses tingle—this place holds memories I thought I’d lost to the realm between." Rory’s crescent scar throbbed again, louder this time. She pulled the Fae-Forged Blade from her delivery bag, its moonsilver edge glowing faintly in the Grove’s silver light; it was cold to the touch, as always, and she gripped it tightly, her cool-headed focus cutting through the rising unease. She scanned the clearing, noticing a small pool of water tucked between two oak trees—its surface was still, but when she stepped closer, she didn’t see her reflection. She saw her old Cardiff flat: Evan’s fist slamming into the wall, her shoving clothes into a duffel bag, Eva’s text popping up on her old phone—Flee to London. I’ve got a couch for you. "That’s my old flat in Cardiff—when I packed my bag for London." Isolde joined her at the pool, her silver hair brushing the water’s surface; no ripples formed. She spoke, her riddle sharp. "Reflection’s breath is not your own; it feeds on what you’ve left unknown." Nyx leaned over the pool, their shadowy form stretching over the water. They let out a wind-whispered gasp. "My sorcerer self’s face flickers there—Aldric’s failed summoning ritual in 1643, the circle of candles melting into the stone floor, the Veil swallowing me whole. The Grove’s water weaves the forgotten into its skin." Rory’s delivery bag felt heavier suddenly, as if it was filled with Evan’s old letters, with her Pre-Law textbooks she’d left in Cardiff, with all the things she’d tried to leave behind. She slung it off her shoulder, dumping it onto the soft grass; only her delivery slips, a leftover spring roll from Golden Empress, and the Fae-Forged Blade’s sheath tumbled out. She stared at the spring roll, its wrapper slightly crinkled—she’d grabbed it during her lunch break, forgetting to eat it. Nyx’s shadowy hand brushed the spring roll; the wrapper dimmed, then brightened again, as if the Grove was testing its mortal texture. They turned to Rory, their voice steadying. "The Grove does not recognize mortal scraps. It judges what’s bound to your soul, not your bag." Isolde wandered away from the pool, toward a cluster of taller oak trees. She called back, her riddle echoing through the Grove’s quiet. "The standing stones guard the door; the pool tells the unspoken core." Rory knelt, picking up the spring roll. She took a bite, the sweet and savory flavors bursting on her tongue—something normal, something mortal, in this alien place. She stood, gripping the Fae-Forged Blade in one hand and the half-eaten spring roll in the other. She glanced at Nyx, who’d shifted to a slightly incorporeal form, their shadowy edges blending with the oak trees’ shadows but not dissolving. "The Veil’s rift here—does it link to Hel too? My Heartstone’s still pulsing." She pressed a finger to her pendant, the warm pulse still thrumming against her chest. Nyx’s violet eyes locked on the pendant, their voice curving with curiosity. "Hel’s portals hum with a different heat, but the Veil’s threads are tangled here—Fae and mortal and Hel, all woven into the Grove’s roots. Your pendant senses the tangled rift, not just Hel’s doors." Isolde stopped at the taller oak trees, turning back. She had no footprints leading to her, no trace of her passage through the wildflowers. She spoke, her riddle sharpened by the Grove’s magic. "Tangled threads do not break; they weave the path you cannot take." Rory’s cool-headed thinking kicked in. She tucked the Fae-Forged Blade back into her delivery bag, slinging the strap over her shoulder. She stepped toward Isolde, her boot pressing a wildflower’s petal— it glowed brighter, then curled slightly, as if acknowledging her presence. Nyx followed, their solid form flickering again, their shadowy hand brushing Rory’s arm; she didn’t feel a touch, just a faint chill that seeped through her sweater. She noticed a faint shimmer in the air above the taller oak trees—The Veil’s appearance, visible only to those with supernatural sight. Nyx pointed to it, their wind-whisper voice tight. "The Veil’s shimmer—here’s the rift point the Wardens monitor. They haven’t found it yet; the Grove’s magic hides it." Rory nodded. She’d never thought her delivery job would lead her to a Fae-touched Grove, to a Shade and a Half-Fae seer, to a rift in the Veil that hid forgotten memories. She took another bite of the spring roll, savoring the mortal flavor, as she followed Isolde deeper into the Grove’s wildflower-lined path. The Heartstone pendant pulsed again, warmer this time, and her crescent scar pulled faintly— a reminder of her past, of her present, of the unknown she was now stepping into. She glanced at the wildflowers passing by, their glowing petals painting streaks of color across her peripheral vision, and noted that Nyx’s shadowy edges now clung to the flowers’ light, as if the Grove’s magic was beginning to soften the realm-bound strain of their form.