Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94W9N6C7H9R8S64A4NT2V5

Rory felt the Heartstone Pendant through her sweater, a steady, rhythmic thrumming like a second heart. It was warm—too warm for a piece of jewelry in the biting chill of a London autumn—but its heat was a comfort against the damp fog of Richmond Park. Behind her, the Shadow was a silent, shifting presence. Nyx didn’t make noise when they moved; they simply occupied space, a humanoid silhouette that seemed to drink the moonlight. "Is this it?" Rory whispered. Her voice felt fragile, easily swallowed by the ancient oaks. *“The Veil is thin here,”* Nyx’s voice drifted over her shoulder, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. *“Can you not see the shivering in the air, little bird?”* Rory squinted. She saw only the grey-black trunks of the park and the distant, muffled lights of the city. Then, she adjusted her focus, looking not at the trees, but the gaps between them. There it was: a faint, shimmering distortion, like heat rising from asphalt, stretching between two massive, gnarled oaks that looked less like trees and more like petrified sentinels. She stepped forward, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of the moonsilver dagger sheathed at her waist. The Fae-forged blade was cold, a sharp contrast to the pendant's heat. As she crossed the threshold between the two standing oaks, the world didn't just change; it inverted. The sensation was a physical jolt, a sudden pressure in her inner ear that made her stumble. The damp, soot-stained air of London vanished, replaced by a scent so vibrant it was almost aggressive—crushed mint, blooming jasmine, and something sharp and metallic, like ozone before a storm. Rory blinked, and the greyscale of the night exploded into a riot of impossible color. They stood in a clearing where the grass was a deep, bruised violet, soft as velvet under her boots. Overhead, the sky wasn't the charcoal of a city night, but a swirling, bruised indigo shot through with ribbons of pale lavender. There was no sun, yet the grove was bathed in a soft, sourceless luminescence that seemed to emanate from the flora itself. "God," Rory breathed. She took a step, then another. "This is Richmond?" *“This is what remains of the dream,”* Nyx said. The Shade had transitioned with her, their form appearing more solid here, their violet eyes glowing with a faint, predatory light. *“The park is a shell. This is the pearl.”* Rory looked down. Beside her boot, a cluster of translucent wildflowers shaped like tiny trumpets pulsed with a soft gold light. When she moved closer, they tilted their heads toward her, a soft, chime-like ringing sound vibrating through the air. It was beautiful, but the intelligence in the movement sent a shiver down her spine. This wasn't a garden; it was a living, breathing entity. She looked back at the oaks they had passed through. From this side, they didn't look like trees at all. They were pillars of white stone, etched with runes that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. Beyond them, London was gone. There was only a wall of silver mist, thick and impenetrable. "Time feels... thick," Rory remarked, rubbing the crescent scar on her wrist. It had begun to itch, a nervous habit she’d never quite kicked. She checked her phone. The screen was a frantic blur of flickering pixels before it went black. She shoved it back into her pocket, useless. "How long have we been here?" *“Minutes. Decades. The Grove does not care for your ticking clocks,”* Nyx murmured. They were drifting toward a dense thicket of silver-barked trees whose leaves looked like hammered copper. *“Stay on the path, Aurora. The earth here has a memory, and it does not like to be stepped upon.”* Rory followed, careful to step exactly where Nyx’s shadow fell. She noticed then that while her own boots left deep indentations in the violet grass, the grass sprang back instantly, erasing her passing as if she were a ghost. There were no footprints ahead of them, either—not even the faint trail of a deer or a rabbit. A low, melodic hum echoed through the trees, a sound that felt less like music and more like a physical vibration in her marrow. As they pushed through a curtain of weeping willow-like vines that glowed with the color of a sunset, the Grove opened up into a sprawling amphitheater of blossoms. In the center of the clearing sat a woman who looked as though she had been carved from the moonlight itself. Her silver hair fell in a shimmering cascade to her waist, and her eyes, the color of pale lavender, held a clarity that was terrifying. She wore a gown of woven spider-silk that didn't so much rest on her skin as float around it. Isolde Varga didn't stand. She simply existed in the space, a part of the landscape as much as the glowing flowers. Around her, the air seemed to move more slowly, the falling petals of the copper-leafed trees drifting in languid, impossible arcs. "The girl with the dragon's heart and the shadow that refuses to die," Isolde said. Her voice didn't carry; it simply arrived in Rory's mind, clear and bell-like. Rory stopped ten feet away. She felt an overwhelming urge to bow, or to run. "Isolde. I was told you could see what's coming." The Seer tilted her head. Her pale eyes fixed on Rory’s neck, where the crimson Heartstone continued its frantic thrumming. "I see a flame that seeks to consume a city of fog. I see a door that was never meant to be opened, and a key that thinks it is a girl." "I'm not a key," Rory said, her voice firmer than she felt. She reached for the Fae-forged blade, more to ground herself than as a threat. Isolde’s gaze drifted to the dagger. A faint, sad smile touched her lips. "Moonsilver and shadow-steel. You carry the weight of two worlds, Aurora Carter, yet you walk as if you are light. Do you know why the flowers lean toward you?" Rory looked down at the golden trumpets, which were now pressing against her shins, their chimes growing more insistent. "I assume they’re hungry." "They recognize the scent of Dymas on you," Isolde said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The realm of the Prince of Gluttony. It clings to that stone around your neck like honey. To them, you are a feast that has wandered into their dining room." Rory recoiled, pulling her sweater tighter. The Heartstone flared, its crimson glow suddenly harsh against the indigo sky. The sense of wonder she’d felt moments ago began to sour into a cold, creeping unease. The beauty of the Grove felt predatory now—the way the vines seemed to reach for her ankles, the way the air grew heavy with the cloying scent of nectar. *“The Seer speaks in truths that bite,”* Nyx said, their form wavering like smoke. They moved to stand between Rory and the flowers, their shadow stretching out to cover the golden trumpets, which immediately recoiled and fell silent. *“But we didn’t come here for a botany lesson, Isolde.”* "No," Isolde agreed. She rose then, her movement so fluid it was as if she were ascending through water. She didn't leave footprints in the moss as she approached. "You came because the Veil is screaming. You came because the Winter Solstice approaches, and the Prince of Gluttony has grown bored with his vineyards. He wants a taste of something... fresher." She reached out a hand, her fingers stopping inches from Rory’s face. Rory didn't flinch, though the air around Isolde’s hand felt like ice. "Seek the place where the river devours the light," the Seer whispered. "The Warden watches the gate, but he is blind to the shadow within his own house. If you wish to save your city, little key, you must find the one who sold the lock." "That's it? More riddles?" Rory's frustration bubbled up. "I'm a delivery girl from Cardiff, Isolde. I deal in noodles and parking tickets, not cosmic portents." Isolde’s eyes crinkled with amusement, though her expression remained solemn. "You were born of a barrister and a teacher, yes. But the blood in your veins has a rhythm older than your father’s laws. The Grove knows you. The Veil knows you. And soon, the Prince will know you as well." The Seer turned away, her form beginning to blur into the silver mist that hemmed the clearing. "Wait!" Rory shouted. "How do I get out? How do I know when to return?" Isolde’s voice drifted back, thin and ethereal. "Time is a circle in the Grove. Step through the stones when the Heartstone cools. But remember, Aurora—what you take from this place, you can never truly leave behind." With a sudden, sharp crack, the silver mist surged forward, swallowing the clearing, the flowers, and the ageless woman. Rory felt a wave of vertigo. The scent of jasmine vanished, replaced by the familiar, damp smell of rotting leaves and diesel fumes. The pressure in her ears popped. She was standing in the middle of Richmond Park, her boots sinking into the muddy London turf. The Heartstone against her chest was cold as ice. Beside her, Nyx was once again a smudge of darkness against the grey fog. Rory looked down at her wrist. The crescent scar was glowing with a faint, violet light that slowly faded back into the skin. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up: 11:14 PM. "Nyx," she said, her breath hitching. "When we went in, it was 11:10." *“Four minutes,”* the Shade whispered. *“But look at your hair, little bird.”* Rory reached up and pulled a strand of her black hair forward. Woven into the locks was a single, hammered-copper leaf, still warm to the touch, and smelling faintly of a world that didn't exist. She shivered, the silence of the park suddenly feeling more dangerous than the alien grove. The city hummed in the distance—the sound of cars, the distant sirens, the mundane throb of humanity. But as Rory looked back at the two gnarled oaks, she realized the world felt smaller, thinner, like a piece of paper that could be torn with a single, Moonsilver-tipped finger. The delivery girl from Cardiff was gone; in her place stood someone whose very pulse was now synchronized with the heart of a different realm. "Let's go," she said, her voice tight. "We have a river to find." They turned and walked back toward the city lights, leaving no footprints on the damp Earth, while behind them, the Veil shimmered once, then went still. Over the park, the moon hung low and heavy, a pale eye watching the key as it moved through the dark.