Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAGA38FBZCY6R6W39QDV2H

The air tasted of honey and something sharper, cleaner, like rain on hot stone, when Rory pushed through the last of the park’s winter-thinned oaks. She slowed, hand drifting to the chain under her coat, where the Heartstone Pendant pressed warm against her chest—a faint, insistent pulse, as if the gem itself were leaning in, eager. Nyx had materialized beside her without sound, their shadowy form shifting slightly, as if the realm around them *tingled* in a way only a Shade could feel. “Too bright,” they whispered, their voice a gust of wind through dry leaves. “Not the cold.” Rory glanced at her phone. 3:17. She’d set out from the flat at 2:45, two hours before sunset, to deliver a takeout to a client in Richmond. Now, the park’s afternoon light was mellow, golden, as if no November chill had ever touched it. She frowned, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear—her left wrist, where the crescent scar from falling off a bike as a child crisped, prickled. *Something’s off*, she thought. *Too off.* Ahead, through the boughs of an ancient oak, she saw them: the standing stones. Not the rough-hewn pillars of old, but weathered circles of wood, their trunks wide enough to wrap her arms around, bark black as obsidian, leaves a glossy green that didn’t belong in late October. Knotted carvings ran along their edges—spirals, what might have been eyes, a symbol Rory didn’t recognize but her chest ached to. *Symmetry*, she noted, that’s when her compass started spinning. Not the digital one clipped to her belt, but the needle inside her skull, flipping wildly, as if the Grove itself were a magnet. “Here,” Isolde said. Rory jumped. The Half-Fae stood at the stone circle’s edge, her silver hair drifting as if through a current, her lavender eyes alight. She wore a dress of linen, dyed indigo, the hem frayed as if by centuries of rain. *No footprints*, Rory realized. Not in the mulch, not in the soft earth. Just the faint indent of her shadow, pooling around her boots. “You take too long,” Isolde added, tilting her head, but there was no rebuke in her voice—only amusement. “The Veil’s thin here today. Winter solstice.” “Of course it is,” Rory said, stepping closer. The pendant burned now, a hot press beneath her skin. “How’d you—” “Prophecy,” Isolde said, cutting her off. She gestured to the stones, and a ripple passed through them, as if the wood itself breathed. “But here. *Touch*.” Nyx moved first, her hand stirring the air beside a trunk. The wood, which had looked solid a moment ago, dissolved into smoke, revealing a narrow gap beyond—a *threshold* between realms, mist curling through it, the light on the other side a deeper, bluer gold. Rory’s breath hitched. She’d heard tales of the Fae Grove, of the pocket between Earth and the Faerie realm, but never imagined she’d stand at the edge of one. “Careful,” Nyx warned. “The Stone doesn’t take kindly to those who doubt.” Rory reached out, her fingers brushing the wood. It was cool, almost damp, like aged oak, and when she pressed, it *squished*—not wood, but something alive, slime-like, under the bark. The Heartstone burned hotter, a sharp pain now, and she yelped, pulling her hand back. A drop of blood beaded on her palm, and when she looked, the pendant’s crimson gem had dulled, as if it too had flinched. Isolde nodded. “It recognizes you. The one the Heartstone chose. Come.” Nyx stepped through first, her shadow form solidifying into a 6’2” shape—pale skin, black hair that rippled like smoke, eyes a faint violet, glowing. They paused at the threshold, glancing back. “It’s… *hungry* in there. For more than souls.” Rory’s throat went dry. She glanced at her phone again—3:42. *Forty-five minutes*, she thought, but her phone felt heavier, as if the battery were draining fast. No, that wasn’t right. She’d left it at home, hadn’t she? No, it was here, in her hand, screen cracked from a fall last week. She frowned, squinting at the time. *3:43*. *Forty-eight minutes*. “Time bends,” Isolde said, as if reading her mind. “An hour here is a minute. A day… well. Don’t fret the clock. Fret the *whispers*.” The Grove hit them all at once. The air smelled of crushed mint and something sweet, cloying, like overripe peaches—exotic, *wrong*. The light was golden, but softer, as if filtered through a veil, and the trees were not oaks, but something taller, slimmer, their leaves a iridescent green that shifted to blue when the wind shifted. Wildflowers carpeted the ground—red, purple, white, petals waxy to the touch—that Rory didn’t recognize, their scent thickening the air. A stream babbled to her left; when she stepped toward it, the water rippled, forming a face—a woman with silver hair, her lavender eyes wide—then dissolved, leaving only the gurgle of the current. “Magic,” Nyx said, their voice a rasp. They shifted, their shadow form thinning, as if the Grove itself were feeding their essence. “This is what it means to be between realms. The magic *bleeds* into you.” Rory knelt, brushing a flower—white, with a center like liquid starlight—off a stem. It didn’t wilt, even as she plucked it; instead, it flickered, the starlight spreading up her arm, making her skin tingle. She dropped it. “What if… what if we stay too long?” Isolde sat on a boulder, her feet floating a few inches above the ground. “Then you’ll dream in elven. Or forget your name. Choose carefully, little Rory. The Grove remembers. It *hungers* for memories, for secrets.” She tilted her head, and Rory noticed she had no ears—only pointed tips, hidden under her hair. “You seek answers. About Evan. About the Heartstone. About Nyx’s *past*.” Nyx’s shadow flickered. “Did you see that? When I told her—” “*Not yet*,” Isolde said, raising a hand, and Nyx fell silent. Her violet eyes dimmed, as if the light were being squeezed from them. “Listen. The Veil is thin. Winter solstice. Rifts will form. Through those rifts, Hel comes.” “Hel?” Rory said. The name tasted metallic. The Heartstone burned so hot she had to take it off, holding it in her palm. It glowed now, a deep crimson, the gem rippling like liquid fire inside its silver chain. “In Cardiff, they talk of Hel—gluttony. Prince Belphegor. The feasts. The souls.” “Gluttony is the least of it,” Isolde said. She stood, and the flowers around her bent away, as if avoiding her. “The Heartstone is a key. To Dymas. To the feast. But it is *alive*. It feeds on desire. On hunger. And you… you carry it. Because you *hunger*. For what you lost. For what you fear.” Rory’s hand tightened around the pendant. She thought of Evan, of his fists, of the way he’d laughed when she’d flinched. Of Eva, dead in a car crash last year, her text unread on Rory’s phone. *Hunger*, Isolde was right. She ached for the safety she’d lost, the love she’d never found. The Heartstone *responded*, throbbing in her palm, as if it too hungered. “Cut it out,” Nyx said, their voice sharp. They stepped closer, their shadow form coiling like a snake. “Stop twisting her. You always twist.” Isolde smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Fae do not lie. But we *mislead*. Look closer, Rory. At the Grove. At the rifts. At the *truth*.” She raised a hand, and the air in front of Rory rippled, forming a vision: a palace made of marble, white as bone, its walls covered in vines that dripped honey. Inside, tables groaned under the weight of feasts—roast boar, peaches the size of heads, wine that glowed like rubies. Souls in sable cloaks knelt, offering their tongues, their appetites, *their lives* to a figure in black velvet, a crown of thorns on his head. Prince Belphegor. Rory staggered back, the pendant slipping from her hand. “It’s not just a key. It’s a *bait*.” “Bait for what?” Nyx said. “For *you*,” Isolde said. “For all who hunger. The Heartstone will lead you to Dymas. To the feast. And in the feast… you will find answers. But beware. Gluttony does not *give* answers. It *consumes* them. It consumes *you*.” The stream gurgled again, and this time, the face it formed was not a woman, but a man—pale, with black hair that rippled like smoke, a scar on his wrist. Aldric. Nyx’s past. The sorcerer who’d become a Shade. Rory’s chest ached. *That’s him*, she thought. *That’s why the pendant called to me.* “Why me?” she asked. “Why give me the Heartstone?” Isolde’s eyes closed. “Because you are a bridge. Between realms. Between life and hunger. Between the lies we tell ourselves and the truth we fear.” She paused, then added, “The Fae Grove chooses its champions. It sees what others miss. It sees *you*—cool-headed, quick, *hungry* for survival.” A wind picked up, blowing the wildflowers away, and the standing stones hissed. Rory felt the time shift then, a disorienting lurch, as if the world had been rolled up like a scroll. When it settled, the sun was lower, painting the sky a deep orange. She checked her phone—4:07. *Fifty-two minutes*. But her muscles felt tight, as if she’d been running, and her throat was dry, as if she’d been shouting. “Time,” Isolde said, nodding. “It does not wait. The rifts will open soon. Before the solstice. You must leave with Nyx. Be ready. The Heartstone will guide you—but you must *listen*.” Nyx shifted closer, their shadow form merging with Rory’s, as if they were sharing her breath. “She’s right. The Grove does not keep its secrets. It *tests* them.” They paused, then added, “And Aldric… he was once like you. A man who made a bargain for power. And look where it got him.” Rory stood, gripping the Heartstone. It was still warm, but the pain had faded, replaced by a quiet hum. She thought of Evan, of Eva, of the way she’d fled London, of the life she’d built—small, ordinary, *safe*—in a flat above a bar. But safety, she realized, was a feast too. A quiet, insidious one. And the Heartstone was a knock at the door, promising more. “Let’s go,” she said. Isolde smiled, and the wildflowers bloomed again, a riot of color. “Go. But remember: the Veil is thin. And Hel’s hunger is even thinner.” They walked back to the standing stones, the Grove fading behind them—its light, its scents, its time—until the tree trunks dissolved into smoke, and the park’s winter air hit them, sharp and cold. Rory’s phone buzzed, a text from her boss: *Flat’s yours tonight. Extra tips for the overtime.* She ignored it, squeezing Nyx’s hand. “Ready?” Nyx nodded, their violet eyes bright. “Ready.” Rory looked at the sky, at the first stars pricking through the dark. The Heartstone hummed, low and steady, and she knew—this time, there would be no turning back. The feast was waiting. And she was hungry.