Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYANTK3R9PNQJQXYWBSCRNR

Aurora’s hand sweats against the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant. The pendant presses warmer than usual, a dull throb like a pulse just beneath her skin. She glances at it, the deep crimson gemstone catching the weak winter sunlight filtering through the oak trees. *Veil’s thinning*, she thinks. Not that she needed the stone’s guidance—her gut had been coiling since Nyx materialized in her flat, shadow shifting like smoke, voice a whisper in her ear: *“Winter solstice. The Boundary frays. You’ll need the blade.”* She’d grabbed the Fae-Forged Blade hidden in her closet, its moonsilver edge cold as a grave, and met Nyx at the gate of Silas’ bar. They’d waited an hour for Isolde, who arrived as if from nowhere, her silver hair glowing in the gray afternoon, no footprints marring the muddy path of Richmond Park. Now, they stand before the ancient stones—ancient, but not in the way the park’s oaks are. These stones are alive, their bark rough as skin, leaves full and green even though the season’s turning. Nyx shifts beside her, a wisp of shadow thickening into a 6’2” silhouette, violet eyes narrowing. “Too bright,” they say, and Aurora realizes the air isn’t air anymore. It’s *rich*, like honey mixed with rain, and the birdsong—there is no birdsong—fades into a hum, low and steady, as if the world is breathing. “Through,” Isolde says, her voice a sigh, and steps between the stones. Aurora follows. The moment her boot touches the other side, the world *changes*. The sky is not the park’s gray. It’s amber, warm as candlelight, streaked with clouds that seem to flow upward, not downward. The trees around them aren’t oak—they’re something else, their leaves iridescent, shifting from gold to blue to green as the wind stirs. The ground is soft, moss that glows like crushed starlight, and wildflowers—poppies, lilies, flowers Aurora doesn’t recognize—burst from the earth in colors that shouldn’t exist. *Blood red*, *pale lavender*, *sunshine yellow* so bright it hurts her eyes. She blinks, and one of the flowers closes, its petals folding into a tight bud that pulses. “Time’s different,” Nyx says, and Aurora checks her phone. 3:17 PM. Her watch—old, a gift from her dad—reads 3:19. “Inside,” Isolde says, already moving, and Aurora hurries after her. They walk a path that isn’t there an hour ago. It winds through the grove, past a fountain where the water isn’t water—it’s liquid diamond, refracting the amber sky into a rainbow that splinters the air. Nyx pauses, shadow rippling. “Hel,” they whisper. Aurora’s hand flies to the pendant. It burns now, hot enough to make her yank it free, the stone glowing like a smoldering coal. “Close,” she says, and Nyx’s silhouette flickers, becoming more shadow than form. “Your kind doesn’t fare well near the Veil’s tears.” Isolde laughs, a sound like wind chimes. “Tears, yes. But not *tears* you’d recognize, little Rory. The Fae Grove is between. A pocket. A *gift*.” She stops, turns. Her lavender eyes lock onto Aurora’s, and for a second, Aurora sees it: a vision. A crown of thorns, a blade at her throat, the Heartstone shattered. But then Isolde blinks, and it’s gone, replaced by a smile. “You carry the Stone of Dymas. It hums for the gluttons’ realm, for the prince who hoards feasts like they’re life itself. Interesting. Very interesting.” “Isolde,” Nyx says, and the seer’s attention flicks to them. “You’ve warned us of the price, but what of the *sight*? We didn’t come here for pretty flowers.” Aurora steps closer, the pendant still hot. “What’s under all this?” Isolde sits on a rock, her silver hair pooling around her like a veil. She plucks a wildflower, its purple petals glowing, and turns it between her fingers. “Under the *lies*. The Veil is thin. Thinner than it’s been in centuries. Winter solstice, remember?” She plucks a petal, lets it fall. “The Fae take what they want from the mortal world at solstice. The Helborn, too. They slip through the cracks. Dymas doesn’t *need* portals—they *steal* them.” Aurora’s throat tightens. “Eva. She’s been acting strange. Dreaming of endless feasts, but not the good kind. Cold, empty feasts. Like the food doesn’t *exist*.” Isolde’s gaze sharpens. “Eva. The Irish girl with the luck of the beer-drunk. She carries a sliver of Dymas’ taint, doesn’t she? The desire to *consume*—not for hunger, but for *more*.” She plucks another petal, lets it fall. “The Grove is a mirror. What you see here is what you’ll take. Or what you’ll *stop*.” Nyx kneels, shadow wrapping around the glowing moss like a blanket. “Why bring us here? To see the problem, not solve it?” “To *feel* it,” Isolde says. “The boundaries aren’t just between realms. They’re within. The Heartstone will guide you. The Blade will cut through what’s invisible. And you—Rory—you’ll think. You always think.” She stands, and Aurora notices her feet don’t touch the moss. “Follow the thrum. It leads to the weak point. The place where the Veil breathes.” They move on. The grove grows wilder—trees with branches that twist into spiral staircases, a river that sings, its voice like a harp played by wind. Nyx points out a creature hiding in the undergrowth: a fox with nine tails, each tail a different color, its eyes the same faint violet as Nyx’s. “A shifter,” they say. “Common here. They guard the water.” The fox flicks its tail, then melts into the shadow of a tree. Aurora’s pendant burns hotter. She stops, bends, and brushes the moss with her free hand. It’s not just glowing—it’s *pulsing* in time with her heartbeat. The thrum Isolde mentioned is there, a low vibration in her bones. “It’s that way,” she says, pointing east. “The stone’s getting stronger.” Nyx’s shadow shifts, eyes narrowing. “There’s something *hungry* in that direction. Not for food. For … *entry*.” Isolde’s smile is grim. “Then we move faster.” They walk for what feels like hours, though Aurora’s phone still reads 3:22. The sky darkens, but there’s no sunset—only the amber light fading to a deep, warm gold. The trees thin, and suddenly they’re in a clearing, larger than the park’s green, with a single stone at its center. It’s not an oak, not a stone at all—*it’s a rift*. Aurora gasps. The air around the stone shimmers, a distortion like heat above asphalt, but brighter, more vivid. The thrum of the pendant is deafening now, the gemstone glowing so brightly she has to shield her eyes. “That’s it,” she says. “That’s the Veil’s tear.” “*Not* a tear,” Isolde says, and steps beside her. “A gate. The Helborn don’t need to *break* the Veil—they just need to *unlock* it. And the Heartstone? It’s a key. Dymas forged it to call the worthy. The ones who can stop him.” “Why us?” Nyx asks, shadow rippling with tension. “Why now?” “Because the solstice is almost here,” Isolde says. “And Eva—she’ll walk through this gate before midnight. She’ll carry a feast back to the mortal world, and it won’t be food. It’ll be *hunger*—black, insatiable, until she’s nothing but a shell, feeding Dymas’ hunger.” She pauses, looks at Aurora. “You once outran an abusive man with nothing but a can of mace and your wits. You can outsmart a prince.” Aurora grips the Fae Blade in her hand. It’s cold, colder than any metal should be, but she doesn’t flinch. “What do we do?” Isolde plucks a petal from her hair—pale lavender, glowing—and drops it into the rift. The moment it touches the shimmering air, the petal burns, white-hot, and the rift pulses. “You don’t close it,” she says. “You *divert* it. Lead the Helborn back to where they came. Dymas wants Eva because she’s *hungry*—feed him something else. A *lie*. A vision of plenty that’s nothing but dust.” Nyx shifts, becoming a wisp of shadow, and steps into the rift. The shimmering air parts, and for a second, Aurora sees Nyx’s old self: a man, with dark hair and a sword, screaming as the shadows claimed him. Then Nyx is back, shaking her head. “There’s a guard. Three of them. They’re not mortal. Their shadows are *thick*.” “Then the Blade will cut through the wards,” Aurora says. She draws it, the moonsilver edge catching the amber light, and the rift glows brighter, as if it recognizes the weapon. “We need to get inside. Close the gate from the other side.” Isolde’s hand rests on her arm. “Be careful, Rory. The Veil’s tears don’t just break the boundary—they break *you*. If you linger too long, you’ll be stuck here. A mortal caught between worlds.” Aurora thinks of Eva, laughing at parties, then quiet, staring at empty plates, her eyes hollow. She thinks of her dad, telling her stories of Ireland, of the law that can’t fix everything but can protect you. She tightens her grip on the pendant, its heat now a steady warmth, not a pulse. “I’m not going to linger.” She turns to Nyx. “Can you create a distraction? Keep the guards busy?” Nyx’s shadow solidifies, a grin flickering in their eyes. “Always.” Then Aurora steps into the rift. The world *swallows* her. It’s not dark. It’s a sea of amber, light so bright it hurts, and the air tastes of roasted fruit and something sharp, like vinegar. She hears music—loud,欢快, a symphony of drums and strings—and the sound of laughter, endless laughter. Ahead, there’s a hall, larger than a cathedral, its walls lined with mirrors that reflect feasts of every kind: roasted swans, towers of pastries, vats of wine that flow like water. And at the end of the hall, a man in a crown of thorns, his eyes black as coal, sitting on a throne of bones. That’s Dymas. That’s the prince of gluttony. Aurora’s hand trembles, but she doesn’t drop the sword. She looks for Eva, and there she is, standing at the edge of the hall, her eyes wide, her hands outstretched. “Eva!” Aurora calls. “Come on—now!” But Eva doesn’t move. She stares at the tables, at the food, her mouth watering. “But it’s *real*,” she whispers. “It’s so *real*.” Aurora takes a step forward. The floor is cold, marble that feels like ice. The air thickens, and she hears Nyx shout—a sound like wind through a canyon, then a roar of pain, then silence. *Guards down*, she thinks. “Eva, *look* at me!” She grabs her arm, and Eva flinches, but her eyes don’t leave the food. “It’s a trap. He’s using your hunger to lure you in. To take *you*.” Eva’s mouth twists, a snarl. “You don’t understand. He can *give* me everything. I won’t be poor anymore. I won’t be *nothing*.” Aurora glances at the man on the throne. He’s watching her now, a slow, hungry smile spreading across his face. “Eva, listen to me. The food isn’t real. It’s just smoke and mirrors. But *you*—*you* are real. And if you step through that gate, you’ll never be real again. You’ll be a ghost, feeding his hunger.” Eva’s eyes flicker, just for a second, and Aurora sees it: doubt. Grief, even. “My mum… she used to say… ‘Aurora, don’t fill your heart with what you can’t keep.’” Aurora’s throat tightens. “She was right. Come on. Let’s go home.” Eva takes a step toward her. The tables rattle, dishes shattering, and the crown on Dymas’ head tightens, his eyes narrowing. “Foolish girl. Return the Heartstone, and I’ll let you both live.” Aurora’s hand goes to her necklace. The pendant is on fire, but not with heat—with light. She rips it off, holds it high. “Take it. But leave us alone.” She hurls the Heartstone at the throne. The gemstone shatters, sending a wave of light across the hall. Dymas screams, a sound like nails on a blackboard, and the mirrors explode, glass raining down. The hall shakes, and Aurora grabs Eva’s hand, pulling her toward the gate. Nyx is there, shadow shifting, and they run for the rift, the ground crumbling beneath them. Behind them, the hall collapses. Aurora steps through the gate, into the Fae Grove, and stumbles. Isolde catches her, steadying her, and Aurora looks back. The rift is gone, the stone at the center of the clearing now just a smooth, gray rock. The sun has risen in the park, casting gray light over the trees. Eva is shaking, her eyes wide. “My mum… she said… ‘Aurora, don’t fill your heart with what you can’t keep.’” Aurora pulls her into a hug. “She was right. Let’s go get some breakfast. Silas makes the best hash browns this side of the Veil.” Eva laughs, a wet, shaky sound, and pulls away. “Hash browns. Yeah. Hash browns.” Isolde smiles, and her hand brushes Aurora’s scar, the small crescent on her wrist. “You did well, Rory. You always do.” Aurora looks at Nyx, who is now a wisp of shadow, watching the clearing. “We did well. Together.” Nyx’s voice is a whisper. “The Veil will mend. For now.” They walk back to the stones, the sun rising higher, the grove fading, the amber sky turning gray. Aurora’s hand finds its way to her wrist, the scar there a faint, warm reminder of home. And somewhere, in the distance, a feast begins. But that’s a story for another time.