Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAJ6Q88SXFMH1TRR3ZZ30T

The air shifted as they stepped between the oaks, the scent of damp earth and exhaust fumes instantly replaced by something cloyingly sweet, like overripe fruit and honey. Rory blinked, adjusting to the dimness. Richmond Park hadn’t prepared her for *this*. It wasn’t a clearing, not exactly. More like a folding of the world, a pocket tucked between breathing trees. Wildflowers, impossibly vibrant, bloomed in a riot of color under the filtered light, and a subtle hum thrummed in the air, a vibration Rory felt in her teeth. Isolde drifted ahead, silver hair flowing like liquid moonlight. She didn’t walk, not in the conventional sense. She seemed to…glide, the grass bending to her passage without a sound, leaving no impression on the yielding earth. Nyx, normally a swirling shadow at her shoulder, had solidified, though they remained disturbingly indistinct, the edges of their form wavering like heat haze. Their violet eyes scanned the grove with a slow, unsettling deliberation. “Time is… malleable here,” Isolde said, her voice a chime carried on a breeze. “Don’t be surprised if minutes feel like hours, or vice versa.” Rory glanced at her watch. Sixty-three seconds since they’d passed the final sentinel oak. It felt like far longer. She touched the silver chain around her neck, her fingers brushing the cool, smooth surface of the Heartstone Pendant. It hadn’t pulsed, not yet. “What are we looking for, exactly?” Rory asked, her voice sounding too loud in the hushed stillness. Isolde stopped before a circle of ancient, moss-covered stones. “A thinning. A place where the whispers are loudest. The Veil is bruised here, weakened by ancient sorrows.” Nyx stepped forward, their hand—an elongated, shadowy claw—reaching out to trace a rune carved into one of the stones. “A nexus point. There’s a residual energy… Dymasian. But faint.” Dymas. Prince Belphegor’s realm of gluttony. Rory suppressed a shudder. The thought of anything leaking from *there* into London didn't bear thinking about. “Belphegor isn't known for subtlety,” she muttered. Isolde’s lavender eyes fixed on Rory. “Subtlety is for those with patience. He prefers… overwhelming sensation.” They moved deeper into the grove, following a path that wasn’t a path, more a suggestion of one. The trees grew taller, their branches interlacing to form a canopy so dense that only slivers of sunlight penetrated. Strange, luminescent fungi sprouted from the roots, casting an eerie, phosphorescent glow. Insects buzzed past, their wings shimmering with iridescent colors Rory had never seen before. It felt less like a place on Earth and more like a memory of one, a faded echo of a world that never was. Rory drew the Fae-Forged Blade from the sheath strapped to her thigh. The moonsilver felt frigid against her palm, a stark contrast to the humid air. It hummed faintly, a cold vibration that mirrored the uneasiness settling in her gut. “Just in case,” she said, more to reassure herself than the others. Nyx’s head tilted, a gesture that somehow felt predatory. “A wise precaution. Though I suspect our quarry is not… corporeal.” They reached a clearing dominated by a single, colossal oak. Its trunk was wider than a bus, its branches reaching towards the sky like gnarled, supplicating arms. Around the base of the tree, the wildflowers had withered, replaced by a patch of black, barren earth. The sweet scent had soured, replaced by a faint, metallic tang. The Heartstone Pendant pulsed. A dull, rhythmic throb against Rory’s skin. “Here,” Isolde breathed. “This is the place.” Rory cautiously circled the tree, her gaze sweeping the blackened earth. The air here was heavier, colder. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. The hum had increased in intensity, morphing into a discordant drone that made her teeth ache. “What am I looking for?” she asked. “A disruption,” Isolde replied, her eyes closed, her head tilted towards the sky. “A tear. A place where the threads of reality fray.” Rory ran a hand along the rough bark of the oak. It felt… wrong. Not just old, but *tired*. Like the tree was holding something back, straining under an immense weight. As her fingers brushed against a particularly gnarled knot in the wood, she saw it. A shimmer. A distortion in the air, like heat rising off asphalt. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A ripple in the fabric of reality, barely visible, yet undeniably present. The Heartstone Pendant was practically vibrating now, radiating a warmth that spread through her chest. “There,” she said, pointing. “By the trunk. Do you see it?” Isolde’s eyes snapped open, her lavender gaze locking onto the shimmer. “The Veil is thin indeed.” Nyx moved closer, their shadowy form resolving into something more defined, their violet eyes glowing with an almost frightening intensity. They reached out, their hand passing *through* the distortion. “It leads… elsewhere,” Nyx whispered, their voice barely audible above the drone. “To Dymas. I can feel the indulgence, the… emptiness.” Rory stepped closer, her hand instinctively tightening around the Fae Blade. The shimmer wavered, revealing fleeting glimpses of another world. Endless vineyards stretching towards a warm, amber sky. Tables laden with decadent foods, piled high with fruits, pastries, and roasted meats. Laughter, loud and boisterous, echoing from unseen halls. But beneath the surface of indulgence, there was something else. A sense of desperate hunger, of insatiable longing. “It feels… wrong,” Rory said, her voice tight. “Like a beautiful trap.” Isolde’s expression was grave. “It *is* a trap. Belphegor doesn't offer delights without a price. This rift wasn't made by chance, child. Someone opened it. Someone is calling to him.” The air around the shimmer crackled, and a voice, smooth as honey laced with poison, drifted out. “Welcome… Lost one. Come, indulge. Forget your sorrows. Everything you desire awaits.” Rory felt a pull, a subtle compulsion to step forward, to answer the voice. She gripped the Fae Blade tighter, forcing herself to resist. The cold metal grounded her. “Don’t listen,” she murmured, her voice strained. “It’s a trick.” Nyx stepped in front of her, their shadowy form partially obscuring the rift. “The call is strong. It preys on weakness, on discontent.” Isolde raised a hand, and a circle of wildflowers sprang up around them, their petals glowing with an ethereal luminescence. “The Grove offers protection, but it is not absolute. We must close this tear before it widens. Before Belphegor answers the summons.”