Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WYPBS0M2TN6SEE441GDXP

The air in Richmond Park held the damp, earthy chill of a London afternoon, the grey sky threatening rain. Rory pulled her jacket tighter, the small crescent scar on her wrist a familiar pale mark against her skin. She glanced at the shadow stretching long beside her, a humanoid silhouette that seemed to drink the light. “You’re certain this is the place?” The whisper that answered came not from a mouth, but from the space around her, a soft vibration in the air. “The boundary is near. Can you not feel it?” Rory shook her head. She felt nothing but the cold. The Heartstone Pendant resting against her collarbone was inert, a cold crimson stone on a silver chain. She touched the Fae-Forged Blade secured at her hip, its moonsilver hilt a constant, comforting chill. Isolde’s directions had been vague—a certain arrangement of trees, a specific bend in the path just after the third ancient oak. They’d been walking for an hour. “There.” Nyx’s form solidified slightly, a gesture of one shadowy arm pointing ahead. Between two massive, gnarled oaks, the air shimmered. It wasn’t a mirage; it was a faint, rippling distortion, like heat haze off tarmac, but tinged with a subtle silver light. The Veil. Rory’s breath caught. She’d seen distortions before, near the helbound restaurants of Soho, but never anything so… deliberate. “This is it,” she murmured. She stepped forward, and the world changed. The damp chill vanished, replaced by a soft, perfumed warmth. The sound of distant traffic and bird calls from the park melted away into a profound, living silence. They stood in a ring of towering oak trees, but these were not the oaks of Richmond. Their bark was silver-grey, smooth as polished stone, and their leaves were a vibrant, impossible gold, glowing with their own inner light. The ground underfoot was a carpet of moss so thick and soft it yielded like memory foam. Wildflowers bloomed everywhere—velvet purple blossoms the size of her fist, delicate white stars that chimed like crystal when a breeze she couldn’t feel stirred them, and twisting vines heavy with berries that pulsed with a soft, bioluminescent blue. “Time moves differently here,” Nyx whispered, their violet eyes glowing faintly within the shadow of their form. They reached out a hand, and a shimmering golden leaf drifted down, dissolving into motes of light before it touched the moss. “An hour inside could be minutes outside. Or days.” A spike of unease tightened Rory’s stomach. “Helpful. How do we know when to leave?” “We don’t.” They moved deeper into the grove. The air tasted of honey and crushed herbs. The light had no single source; it emanated from the leaves, the flowers, the very moss, casting everything in a dreamlike, dappled luminescence. There were no shadows, except for Nyx themself. Rory kept her hand on the hilt of her blade. Its cold was a sharp contrast to the ambient warmth. A stream appeared, cutting across their path. The water was clear as diamond, and silent. It made no sound as it flowed over smooth, milk-white stones. Rory knelt, compelled. She reached a hand toward the surface. “Don’t.” Nyx’s warning was a breath. Rory paused. In the perfect mirror of the water, she saw her own reflection—her straight black hair, her bright blue eyes wide with wonder. But behind her, the reflection of the grove was wrong. The golden trees were skeletal and black, the flowers withered husks. A figure stood amidst the decay, a tall shape with silver hair and pale lavender eyes, watching her. Isolde. Rory snatched her hand back. The vision vanished, the water showing only the beautiful, glowing grove. “It shows what is,” Nyx murmured, crouching beside her. Their shadowy form seemed to bleed into the stream’s edge. “And what could be. This is a place of truth, even when it lies.” “That’s comforting.” Rory stood, her heart hammering. The wonder was still there, but it was now edged with a razor of dread. This place was not just beautiful; it was aware. They crossed the stream by stepping on the wide, flat stones. Rory expected a splash, a wetness, but her boots made no sound, and the stones were dry. On the other side, the grove opened into a wide clearing. At its centre stood a circle of standing stones, not rough-hewn granite, but living wood—ancient oak trunks so vast their tops were lost in a golden haze. Carved into their surfaces were intricate, swirling patterns that seemed to shift and move when she looked at them directly. In the middle of the circle, the moss was trampled. Rory moved closer, Nyx flowing soundlessly beside her. There were impressions in the soft green carpet, the shape of feet. But as she stared, the impressions began to fade, the moss springing back as if never touched. “She leaves no footprints,” Nyx said. A voice, melodic and ancient, spoke from everywhere and nowhere. “Footprints are for those bound to a single path.” Rory spun. Leaning against one of the living oak stones was a woman. Her silver hair cascaded to her waist, shimmering like a waterfall of moonlight. Her eyes were the pale lavender of twilight, and she wore a simple dress of woven moss and spider-silk. She was ethereal, ageless, and she left no impression on the moss where she stood. Isolde. The Seer’s gaze drifted over them, lingering on the Fae-Forged Blade at Rory’s hip. A faint smile touched her lips. “You carry a piece of my home. It sings of old wars and older promises.” “We need—” Rory began. “You need answers.” Isolde pushed off from the stone and walked toward them. She made no sound. The wildflowers did not bend beneath her steps. “Answers are costly. They change the path.” Nyx’s form rippled, a sign of tension. “We have crossed your threshold.” “And time is bleeding around you.” Isolde stopped a few feet away. She looked at Nyx, her head tilting. “A shadow that was once a man. You walk between, as I do. Your price is different.” “What do you want?” Rory’s voice was steadier than she felt. The pendant against her chest was warming, a slow, faint pulse. But this wasn’t a Hel portal. Why was it reacting? Isolde’s lavender eyes fixed on the Heartstone. “Ah. You carry a hunger with you as well. A stone from a realm of consumption. It feels the magic here, the ancient power. It whispers to you of gates.” Rory’s fingers closed around the pendant. It was warm now, almost hot. “What is it doing?” “Remembering.” Isolde turned and gestured toward the far end of the clearing. Beyond the circle of oak stones, the grove seemed to deepen, the light growing dimmer, the golden leaves giving way to a deeper, emerald canopy. “The answers you seek lie further in. But the grove deepens. It becomes more itself. More true. Not all minds can bear the weight of such truth.” She looked back at them, her expression unreadable. “Will you see? Or will you turn back and carry your questions into the mortal world, where they will fester like untreated wounds?” The choice hung in the perfumed air. The wonder of the place was now a palpable pressure, a beautiful, terrifying weight. The unease was a cold thread in Rory’s gut, but beneath it burned a fierce, stubborn curiosity. She had come this far. She met Nyx’s glowing violet gaze. The Shade gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Rory turned back to Isolde. “We’ll see.” The Seer’s smile deepened, holding no warmth, only a profound, ancient knowing. “Then follow. And do not touch the water again.”