Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8W5SETF46GJMRZNKTG4Y9J

The air in Richmond Park held the damp, green smell of recent rain. Rory pulled her jacket tighter, the crescent scar on her left wrist itching faintly—a nervous habit. Beside her, the shadows beneath a broad oak tree deepened, coalesced, and Nyx stepped forward, their form solidifying from a humanoid silhouette of living shadow into something more defined, though their edges still bled into the gloom. “It is here,” Nyx whispered, the sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. Their faintly glowing violet eyes were fixed on a circle of ancient oaks ahead. The trees were too perfectly spaced, their trunks too straight, and between them stood rough-hewn standing stones, moss-covered and leaning inward as if sharing a secret. Rory’s fingers went to the silver chain at her neck, finding the deep crimson Heartstone pendant. It was cool and inert against her skin. “The standing stones Isolde mentioned?” “The boundary,” Nyx confirmed. “The Veil is thin here. A stitch, not a tear.” As they approached, Rory felt a subtle pressure in her ears, like ascending in an aeroplane. The light changed, too—the grey English afternoon sun took on a honeyed, antique quality, painting the grass in gold. The sounds of the park—distant traffic, a dog barking—faded, replaced by a profound, watchful silence. She glanced at Nyx. “Ready?” Nyx simply flowed forward, passing through the gap between two stones. There was no resistance, but the air shimmered like heat haze for a second. Rory took a steadying breath—the cool-headedness she was known for felt like a thin veneer here—and followed. The world shifted. It wasn’t a violent change, but a subtle reordering of reality. The clearing beyond the stones was larger than it should have been, stretching away into a dappled woodland of silver-barked trees she didn’t recognise. The sky overhead was the same, yet the light was different, softer, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Wildflowers carpeted the ground in impossible profusion: blossoms of sapphire, amber, and pearl bloomed side by side, their scent a heady mix of jasmine, cinnamon, and cold stone. “Wow,” Rory breathed, the word inadequate. “Time is… elastic here,” Nyx murmured, their shadowy form seeming more substantial in this light. “Do not trust the sun’s position.” Rory looked down. Her own footprints pressed into the soft moss. She glanced behind her. Nyx left none. But ahead, leading towards the heart of the grove, she saw a trail of faint impressions—not footprints, but slight depressions in the flowers, as if someone of impossible lightness had passed. Isolde. They began to walk. The silence was broken by a delicate, glass-like birdsong that seemed to come from above, but when Rory looked up, she saw no birds. Only leaves moving in a breeze she couldn’t feel. The air was still and warm, like a summer evening held in a cup. The deeper they went, the more alien the flora became. Trees with bark that shimmered like mother-of-pearl, vines that dripped with clear, sweet-smelling sap. Once, she saw a pool of perfectly still water, its surface reflecting not the trees above, but a star-strewn sky and a warm, amber-hued landscape of distant vineyards. Dymas. The Heartstone at her neck gave a single, distinct pulse of warmth. She clutched it, the sudden heat a shock. “Did you see that?” Nyx had stopped, their violet gaze on the pool. “A window. A weak point. This place touches many realms.” Their voice was tinged with something like longing. “It reminds me of the between-spaces.” Unease prickled the back of Rory’s neck. The wonder was still there, but it was now edged with a sense of vulnerability. They were guests in a place that did not obey the rules she knew. She checked her watch; the second hand was moving erratically, sometimes freezing, sometimes spinning. They found Isolde by a small, natural spring that bubbled up between the roots of the largest oak yet. The Half-Fae seer was as ethereal as her description: silver hair that cascaded like moonlight to her waist, pale lavender eyes that saw too much. She stood on the moss, and Rory noted with a chill that the soft ground showed no impression beneath her bare feet. “You have passed the old stones,” Isolde said. Her voice was melodic, but each word felt carefully weighed. “Not many of mortal blood do so without invitation.” “We were told you could help us,” Rory said, keeping her own voice steady. “We need to understand the… disruptions. The things coming through.” Isolde’s lavender eyes drifted to the Heartstone pendant, then to Nyx’s shadowy form. “A child of cards and a whisper of what was. You seek knowledge in a realm that trades in riddles.” She moved, gliding rather than walking, to the base of the oak. From a hollow, she drew a long, cloth-wrapped bundle. “The Veil weakens with the winter’s breath. But a stitch can be pulled, or a stitch can hold.” She unwrapped the bundle. The object within gleamed with a cold, pale light. It was a dagger, slender and leaf-shaped, forged from a metal that looked like captured moonlight. Moonsilver. The Fae-Forged Blade. “A gift,” Isolde said, holding it out. “And a test. Steel bites flesh. This bites magic. It will cut wards, and it will sting the demons of Hel.” Her eyes held Rory’s. “But all gifts in this grove have a price. The price is the path it sets you on.” Rory reached for it. The hilt was shockingly cold, a deep chill that seeped into her palm. The blade seemed to drink the light, glowing faintly from within. It was beautiful and deadly. “What path?” Rory asked. Isolde smiled, a cryptic, sorrowful curve of her lips. “The one you are already walking. The one that leads from a flat above a bar, through shadows, to a prince’s feast.” She turned her gaze to the pool that reflected the amber sky. “You have seen the window to gluttony’s realm. The stone around your neck knows its gates. This blade may open them, or close them. I cannot say.” Nyx stirred, a ripple of darkness. “Your visions. What have you seen of us?” The seer was silent for a long moment. “I see a choice, served on a golden platter. I see a shadow that remembers being a man. I see a heart that is not a heart, beating warm against a throat.” Her lavender eyes locked on Rory. “And I see you, Aurora Carter, at a table laid for a guest who is also the main course.” The words settled in the grove like a frost. The wonder of the place now felt like the beautiful veneer on a trap. Rory’s fingers tightened around the cold hilt of the blade. The Heartstone pulsed again, a steady, warm rhythm against her chest, as if in answer to the distant call of that amber world. “We should go,” she said quietly. Isolde nodded. “Time is already pulling at your heels. An hour here is but minutes in your London, but the path out is only clear while you remember the way you came.” Rory turned, the Fae-Forged Blade heavy in her hand. Nyx fell into step beside her, their form dissolving slightly at the edges, blending with the long, stretching shadows of the grove. The walk back felt shorter, the woods less enchanting, more watchful. The standing stones appeared ahead, and as they passed between them, the pressure in her ears popped. The sounds of Richmond Park returned—the rustle of real leaves, the distant hum of the city. The sky was grey once more. She looked back. Just a circle of old trees and mossy stones. No wildflowers of sapphire and pearl. No pool showing alien skies. But the cold dagger in her hand was real. And the pendant at her throat was still warm.