Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAM3Y6R3JV17A4VZ9G1289

Rory clutches the crimson Heartstone Pendant at her throat, its faint warmth seeping through the silver chain to press against the crescent scar on her left wrist. She shifts her delivery bag’s strap higher on her shoulder—still dusted with flour from the Golden Empress’s morning dumplings—and glares at the faint shimmering distortion winking between two ancient oak standing stones marking Isolde’s grove boundary. Isolde stands beside her, silver waist-length hair catching no wind, her pale lavender eyes fixed on the rift. Nyx drifts a foot off the ground, their humanoid shadow form rippling as they test the Veil’s weakening winter solstice pulse. The pendant flutters like a living thing. Rory’s fingers curl tighter around the gem. The stones hum. Vine’s breath lures the hungry, scar’s weight anchors the lost; the amber gate eats time but spits back what it costs. Rory’s quick thinking ties the riddle to her pendant’s warmth and the scar’s childhood anchor. She taps the gem with a nail. The cost’s tied to the souls here, isn’t it? Nyx solidifies, their 6’2” form casting no shadow in the grove’s dappled light, their faintly glowing violet eyes narrowing at the rift’s edge. The Veil’s tear reeks of excess—Hel’s gluttony clings to every wisp of energy. They step through the rift first, their shadow form flickering as they breach the barrier. Rory follows, her boots hitting soil that thrums under her soles. Isolde glides after, leaving no footprints. Amber bleeds over the horizon. Vineyards strung with grapes the color of crushed amethyst curl up sloping hills, their leaves glistening with a dew that catches the strange light and drips into soil that hums with a low, thrumming energy. Orchards burst with fruit she’s never seen—melon-sized orbs striped with emerald and gold, their rinds glowing faintly, their scent a mix of burnt honey and jasmine. A river of thick, syrupy nectar twists through the valleys, its surface dotted with floating wine goblets that clink together without wind. Rory stops. She plucks a gold-striped orb from a low-hanging branch. Its skin gives under her fingers, oozing a clear liquid that stings her scar when a drop falls. A figure slumps past her—thin, gaunt, their skin a sickly gray, their hands calloused from tending vines. They don’t glance at her; their eyes are blank, as if their thoughts have been scraped clean. Nyx shifts to incorporeal form, drifting through the soul’s body without resistance. They re-solidify beside Rory, their whisper voice cutting through the hum of the soil. They signed contracts for taste—traded their mortal freedom for a lifetime of plucking fruit no human tongue can bear without madness. Isolde glides to the soul’s side, her pale lavender eyes tracing the lines of their calloused hands. The fruit’s song hooks the greedy, the lost’s chains feed the vine; the prince’s table waits for those who won’t decline. Rory drops the orb. It splatters on the soil, and the hum of the ground intensifies for a heartbeat before fading. She brushes the sticky liquid from her fingers, her gaze darting to the distant sky where a column of sweet-smelling smoke rises. A grand feast unfolds on a hilltop ahead—long tables heaped with pastries tall enough to touch the amber sky, roasts of exotic beasts with scales that glint like polished copper, bowls of jellies that shift color with every breath. Figures in elaborate silk robes laugh and gorge themselves, their mouths stuffed with food, their eyes wild with excess. Helbound souls weave between the tables, refilling goblets and replacing empty plates without a word. Rory’s pendant pulses faster, its warmth spreading up her neck to her jaw. She clutches it, her scar throbbing in time with the gem’s beat. She spots a warden’s badge glinting on one of the feast’s servers—a small, silver token she’s seen pinned to the coats of men who patrolled the park’s rift points. The server’s eyes are blank, too; the badge hangs loose, as if it’s a leftover from a life they no longer remember. Nyx drifts toward the feast, their shadow form rippling as they pass through a floating goblet. The goblet’s wine freezes for a heartbeat before flowing again. The wardens didn’t catch this rift—its pulse was hidden by the grove’s time warp. Rory’s quick mind connects the dots: Isolde’s grove’s time distortion masked the Hel portal from the Wardens. She steps toward the feast, her delivery bag bouncing against her hip. Isolde glides beside her, her silver hair catching the amber light for the first time, casting no shadow. The rift’s hide is the grove’s breath, the pendant’s beat is the door’s key; the prince’s secret waits where the nectar runs free. Rory follows the river of nectar upstream, away from the feast’s chaos. The vineyards thicken here, their amethyst grapes clinging so tightly to the branches they bend under the weight. A giant tree looms ahead—its trunk wide enough to fit three of her side by side, its branches dripping with fruit that glows like molten ruby. Helbound souls circle the tree, their hands moving in a rhythmic pattern as they pluck the ruby fruit and toss it into wicker baskets that float beside them. Rory stops. She notices a crack in the tree’s trunk—faint, shimmering, the same color as the Veil’s rift. Her pendant pulses so hard she can feel it through her coat. She leans in, her scar brushing the tree’s bark. The bark is warm, like the pendant, and it hums in time with the gem’s beat. Nyx solidifies beside her, their faintly glowing violet eyes fixed on the crack. That’s a secondary rift—leads deeper into Dymas, to the prince’s private gardens. Isolde glides to the crack, her pale lavender eyes tracing its edges. The crack’s breath is the prince’s greed, the soul’s toil is the fruit’s seed; the blade’s cold will cut what the pendant’s heat will feed. Rory’s hand flies to the Fae-Forged Blade she tucked into her delivery bag—Isolde’s gift, moonsilver, always cold to the touch. She’d forgotten it was there until Isolde’s riddle triggered the memory. A helbound soul drifts to her side, their gray hand holding out a ruby fruit. They don’t speak; their blank eyes fix on her scar. Rory takes the fruit. Its skin is warm, like the pendant, and it pulses in her hand. Nyx shifts to incorporeal form, drifting through the crack. They re-solidify on the other side, their whisper voice carrying back through the rift. The gardens hold more than fruit—they hold the contract that binds these souls to the prince. Rory tucks the fruit into her delivery bag, her fingers brushing the cold moonsilver blade. She clutches the Heartstone Pendant, her scar throbbing in time with its pulse. The amber sky darkens a fraction, as if the realm itself is watching them. Isolde glides to the crack, her silver hair flowing behind her though there’s no wind. The time’s thread is fraying, the rift’s breath is weak; the choice’s weight is the scar’s silent speak. Rory steps toward the crack. She places a boot on the other side, the soil’s hum vibrating up her leg. Nyx drifts beside her, their shadow form wrapping around her arm for a heartbeat—cold, like the Fae blade—before shifting back to incorporeal. The souls’ memories are trapped in the garden’s flowers; we can free them if we find the prince’s ledger. Rory glances at the helbound soul still standing beside her. They’ve turned back to the giant tree, their hands resuming their rhythmic plucking. She takes another step into the secondary rift’s other side. The vineyards here are thicker, the fruit glows brighter, and the hum of the soil is louder. She can hear the distant clink of goblets from the feast, but it’s muted now, as if she’s stepped into a secret corner of Dymas. A giant butterfly flutters past her—its wings the color of burnt amber, its body made of swirling shadow. It lands on her delivery bag, and her pendant pulses once, twice, before settling into a faint warmth. Rory stops. She stares at the butterfly. Nyx solidifies beside her, their faintly glowing violet eyes tracing the butterfly’s shadowy wings. That’s a messenger of Prince Belphegor—he knows we’re here. Isolde glides to the butterfly, her pale lavender eyes fixed on its wings. The messenger’s song is the prince’s gaze, the blade’s cut is the cage’s haze; the memory’s key is the scar’s hidden blaze. Rory clutches her left wrist, her crescent scar throbbing. She’d never thought her childhood accident’s mark would mean anything more than a reminder of a broken bike and a bloody knee. Now, it’s tied to the pendant, the blade, the rift—everything. She plucks the butterfly from her bag. It doesn’t flutter away; it sits in her palm, its shadowy body warming slightly. She takes another step deeper into the prince’s private gardens. The vineyards give way to a garden of giant flowers—their petals the color of crushed velvet, their centers oozing a sweet nectar that drips into the soil. Helbound souls tend to the flowers, their hands moving in the same rhythmic pattern as the fruit pickers. Rory’s delivery bag brushes a flower’s petal. A drop of nectar falls on her scar, and the Heartstone Pendant pulses so hard she gasps. She looks up. A grand palace looms ahead—its walls made of polished amber, its towers twisting toward the darkening sky. Goblets float around its entrance, their wine glinting like liquid fire. Nyx shifts to incorporeal form, drifting toward the palace’s entrance. The ledger’s in the palace’s library—tied to a vine that grows through the window. Isolde glides beside Rory, her pale lavender eyes fixed on the palace. The palace’s doors are the greed’s gate, the ledger’s words are the souls’ fate; the scar’s fire is the escape’s date. Rory grips the Fae-Forged Blade’s hilt through her delivery bag. The blade’s cold seeps through the fabric, calming her racing heart. She’s a delivery person from Cardiff, a pre-law dropout who fled an abusive ex—she’s not a hero. But her quick thinking has gotten her out of tighter spots than this. She steps toward the palace’s entrance. A helbound soul stands guard at the doors—tall, broad, their skin a sickly gray, their hand resting on a sword hilt that glints like molten iron. They don’t glance at her; their eyes are blank. Rory stops. She pulls the Heartstone Pendant from under her coat, holding it up to the guard’s blank eyes. The gem’s crimson glow catches their attention—for a heartbeat, their eyes flicker with a faint memory, a flash of a mortal life before they signed their contract. Nyx re-solidifies beside her, their whisper voice cutting through the palace’s quiet hum. That’s the first crack in their chains—we can widen it. Rory nods. She tucks the pendant back under her coat, her scar throbbing in time with its pulse. She grips the blade’s hilt tighter, ready to step past the guard into the palace.