Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8VJ2JEKDCX8NNQJ4M3H2CN

The air in Richmond Park tasted of damp earth and late autumn decay, but the moment Rory’s fingers brushed the moss-covered surface of the first standing stone, the taste changed. It became sweet, thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and ripe blackberries—a fragrance that had no place in November. “This is the boundary,” Nyx’s voice arrived not as a sound but as a suggestion, a whisper that threaded itself through the rustling leaves above. Their form, a humanoid silhouette of shifting darkness, seemed to bleed into the long shadows cast by the ancient oaks. “The stones are a door. You must step between them.” Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag. The Heartstone Pendant lay against her chest, a familiar weight beneath her jumper, but it remained still and cool. No pulse of warmth here. This wasn’t a tear to Hel. This was something else. She took a breath and walked between two towering monoliths of gnarled oak that looked more like petrified giants than trees. The world shimmered. The noise of distant traffic vanished. The grey November light softened, warmed, and took on a golden, honeyed quality. Underfoot, the muddy path gave way to a carpet of moss so lush it felt like walking on a sponge. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible profusion—velvet pansies in deep purples, star-shaped blossoms of frost-white, and clusters of tiny blue bells that chimed with a faint, glassy tinkle as a breeze she couldn’t feel stirred them. “It’s spring,” Rory said, her own voice startlingly loud in the profound quiet. “It is every season,” Nyx murmured. They had solidified beside her, their faintly glowing violet eyes surveying the grove. “Time here is not a line. It is a pool.” Rory crouched, touching the petals of a crimson flower. They were cool and slightly damp. A fat, golden bee drifted past her ear, its buzz a low, contented hum. She straightened and looked back. The standing stones were still visible, but the park beyond them was a blur, a watercolour painting left in the rain. “We should not linger in the threshold,” Nyx whispered. “Places between have a habit of folding in on the unwary.” They moved forward. The grove opened up into a clearing dappled with that strange, source-less golden light. More oak stones formed a loose circle ahead, but these were carved with spirals and knot-work that seemed to move if she looked at them from the corner of her eye. The air thrummed with a silent energy, a vibration that set her teeth on edge and made the small scar on her left wrist itch. “Do you hear that?” she asked. Nyx tilted their head. “Hear what?” “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” There were no birds, no insects beyond that single bee, no rustle of creatures in the undergrowth. The silence was a physical presence, a weight on her eardrums. The only sounds were the chime of the flowers and the soft crush of moss under her boots. A stream cut across the clearing, its water clear as crystal and moving in utter silence. Rory knelt at its bank. The water reflected the amber sky, but not her face. Instead, the surface showed a flickering montage—a glimpse of her own hand holding a steaming cup of tea in her flat above Silas’ bar, a flash of Cardiff University’s law library, the snarling face of Evan, blurred and distorted. She jerked back. “The water shows memories,” Nyx said, crouching next to her. Their shadowy form cast no reflection at all. “Or possibilities. It is difficult to tell which is which in a place like this.” “That’s not comforting.” “It was not intended to be.” Rory stood, brushing moss from her knees. The unease was a cold knot in her stomach, contrasting sharply with the grove’s overwhelming beauty. It was like being inside a dream that was just about to turn. She unslung her bag and felt for the weight of the Fae-forged blade wrapped in cloth inside. The moonsilver metal was always cold, a reassurance now. They followed the silent stream upstream. The flora grew more bizarre. Trees with bark that shimmered like mother-of-pearl bore fruit that glowed with a soft internal light, pulsing gently like slow heartbeats. A patch of mushrooms emitted a soft, bioluminescent azure glow, and their caps, when Rory leaned close, seemed to be covered in a fine, silver dust that swirled in miniature vortices. “Don’t touch,” Nyx advised, their whisper carrying a note of urgency. “The glimmer-spores would show you wonders while your body slept for a century.” She snatched her hand back. The discovery came as they rounded a bend. The stream fed into a small, perfectly circular pool. At its centre, on a stone that broke the water’s surface like an altar, sat a simple wooden cup. It was old, the wood darkened with age, but unadorned. The water around it was still, not a ripple disturbing its surface. “An offering?” Rory guessed. “A test,” Nyx corrected. “The Seer is near. She knows we are here. This is a question.” “What’s the question?” “Whether you are thirsty.” Rory stared at the cup. The compulsion to pick it up, to dip it into the impossibly clear water and drink, was sudden and fierce. It felt like her own idea. She took a step forward. “Consider,” Nyx’s whisper froze her in place. “In the old tales, to eat or drink in a Fae place is to bind yourself to it. Time, as I said, is a pool here. You might sip and find a decade has passed in the world outside.” She thought of Eva, waiting for her call. Of Silas wondering where she was. The cool-headed logic she prided herself on reasserted itself. This was not a place for impulsive acts. She looked from the cup to the surrounding trees. “I’m not thirsty,” she said, her voice firm. The moment she said it, the cup vanished. Not like it was taken, but as if it had never been. The stone in the pool was bare. A path of flat, grey stones appeared at the edge of the water, leading into a denser part of the wood where the trees grew so close their branches wove a canopy that blocked the golden light. The air grew cooler. The scent of flowers was replaced by the smell of old parchment, damp stone, and something metallic—like ozone after a lightning strike. The new path was narrow. Rory went first, the Fae blade now unwrapped and held loosely at her side. Its edge caught the faint light and gleamed with a moonlit sheen despite the gloom. The trees here were different. Their leaves were silver, and they tinkled like a thousand tiny bells when a breeze moved through them. The sound was beautiful and utterly alien. “We are in the deep grove now,” Nyx said, their form becoming more diffuse, blending with the shadows between the silver trees. “Her home is a reflection of her mind. It will be… ordered according to a logic that is not our own.” The path ended at another clearing. This one was smaller, dominated by a single, massive oak whose trunk was wide as a car. Its roots formed natural steps and hollows, and in one large hollow, a low table was set with a simple ceramic teapot and two cups. Steam curled from the spout. A woman sat on a root opposite the table. She had silver hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, merging with the colour of her simple grey dress. Her eyes were the pale lavender of twilight. She did not look up as they entered, but her hands, long-fingered and delicate, were poised over a scattering of polished river stones on the table. Rory stopped at the edge of the clearing. She saw the woman’s feet, bare, resting on the moss. Where she had walked to her seat, there were no impressions in the soft green carpet. Isolde Varga, the Seer, finally lifted her gaze. Her expression was serene, ageless, and utterly unreadable. “The stone that does not thirst,” she said, her voice like dry leaves scattering over ice. “And the shadow that casts no reflection. You have passed the first question.” She gestured to the empty space on the root beside her. “Sit. The second question is longer in the asking.”