Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95W8RAQM2BR01H6DC52RXS

The air thinned, growing sharp and clean as a winter sky. Rory pulled her worn jacket tighter, though the chill wasn't entirely from the temperature drop. They stood on the cusp of something no map had ever charted. Behind them lay the familiar, damp green of Richmond Park, the distant hum of London a faded rumour. Before them, etched against the muted grey sky, were the standing stones. They weren't just large rocks; they were ancient oaks, petrified into monolithic sentinels, their bark like fossilised lightning, their silhouettes impossibly sharp. Moss thicker than velvet clung to their bases, glowing with a faint, internal luminescence that defied the overcast afternoon. Rory’s breath hitched. She’d seen old stones before, dolmens and standing circles, but these felt different. They hummed with a silent energy, a palpable thrum that vibrated in her teeth. Her crescent scar, usually a faint, pale line on her left wrist, prickled as if anticipating a sting. Beside her, Nyx was a study in stillness. Their humanoid silhouette, a creature of living, shifting shadow, seemed to absorb the ambient light, making the already dim area feel like twilight. Their faintly glowing violet eyes fixed on the stones, unblinking. They were impossibly tall, nearly a head above Rory, yet moved with an unnerving fluidity, as if water were their true medium. "The boundary," Nyx’s voice whispered, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone, barely audible over the sudden, profound quiet. "It thins here." Across from Rory, Isolde Varga remained poised, her waist-length silver hair a waterfall against the dark bark of the nearest oak. Her pale lavender eyes, ancient and knowing, swept over the stones, then her gaze settled on Rory. She offered a small, knowing smile, a mere curve of her lips. "Through the roots, the old ways sing." Rory tightened her grip on the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant nestled at her throat. The crimson gem warmed against her skin, a familiar, comforting heat that seemed to pulse in time with her own racing heart. It had been given to her by an unknown benefactor, a bauble from Dymas, the realm of Gluttony, yet it had never pulsed so strangely. Not just warmth, but a deep, resonant thrum that echoed the vibration in the stones. "What happens when we cross?" Rory asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her gut. She touched the Fae-Forged blade sheathed at her hip. Its moonsilver hilt was ice-cold, a stark contrast to the pendant's warmth, and it seemed to hum in response to the latent magic in the air, a low, almost inaudible keen. Isolde simply tilted her head. "The world dreams differently beyond the veil." That was all. A riddle wrapped in a statement of fact. Nyx extended a hand, their shadowy fingers coalescing into tangible shape, though still seeming to blur at the edges. They reached for the centre of the space between two colossal oaks. "The Veil," they whispered again. "A membrane. Here, frayed." Rory watched Nyx's hand pass through the air. For a moment, a faint, shimmering distortion flickered, like heat haze over asphalt, but far more intricate, woven with threads of starlight and mist. It was visible only to those with sight beyond the ordinary, and Rory, though she saw the world plainly, felt a prickle in her supernatural awareness, a ghost of that shimmer. "Step close," Nyx murmured, turning their head. "It can be… a disorienting passage." Taking a deep breath, Rory moved forward, keeping her eyes on the space Nyx had indicated. Isolde followed, her movements impossibly light; Rory couldn't see her feet, even where the ground was soft earth. As Rory stepped between the last two sentinel oaks, the air itself seemed to thicken, then split. It felt like walking through a waterfall of pure cold, followed by an influx of warmth so sudden it stole her breath. The world tilted, spun, then settled. The oppressive quiet of the boundary dissolved. It was replaced by a symphony of subtle, alien sounds. The rustle of leaves overhead sounded like tiny bells, not wind. A faint, melodic chirping, like glass flutes played underwater, drifted from somewhere unseen. The light shifted from overcast grey to a pervasive, gentle luminescence that seemed to emanate from the very air, casting no harsh shadows, only soft gradients of pearlescent light. Rory blinked, her eyes adjusting. She stood in a clearing unlike any she had ever imagined. Wildflowers bloomed in riotous, impossible colours, their petals shimmering with iridescent dust. Some pulsed with soft, internal light, others unfurled in shapes that defied botanical logic—spirals, fractals, geometric patterns. The grass beneath her boots was impossibly soft, a deep emerald plush that seemed to absorb sound. The air itself smelled of honey, night-blooming jasmine, and something electric, like ozone after a storm. It was sweet, intoxicating, and utterly foreign. Rory felt a dizzying sense of wonder flood her, pushing back the unease. This was the Fae Grove, Isolde’s hidden sanctuary, a place where Earth and Fae bled into one another. Her Heartstone Pendant pulsed, a steady, warm beacon against her chest. It was stronger here, a constant thrum that felt like a heartbeat, but not entirely her own. It was reacting to the potent magic of this liminal space, this pocket dimension. Nyx stood a few paces ahead, their shadowy form now weaving through the dense, luminous foliage. They moved with an innate familiarity, as if shadow itself was their native tongue. "Earth's memory," they whispered, the sound catching on the ethereal music. "But where the dream holds stronger." Isolde moved with quiet grace, her bare feet leaving no impression on the soft grass. She plucked a bell-shaped flower, its petals a deep sapphire that glowed from within. She held it for a moment, and it chimed softly in her palm before she let it fall. It landed without a sound. "The bloom drinks the light," she murmured, her gaze distant. "And the roots drink silence." Rory reached out, her fingers hovering inches from a flower that resembled a cascade of crystallised moonlight. She felt a hum in the air, a subtle vibration that seemed to resonate with the Fae-Forged blade at her hip. The blade, always cold, now felt like it was radiating that cold, a protective aura against the pervasive, sweet magic. "How does time work here?" Rory asked, the question escaping before she could stop it. The words felt heavy in the luminous air. Isolde turned her pale lavender eyes on Rory. "When the sun sighs, an age may pass. Or a moment bloom and fade before a breath." Rory swallowed. The implications were staggering. An hour outside could be a year here. Or a blink. It was a disorientation that went deeper than just sensory input; it was an existential shift. She glanced back toward the standing stones, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer still clinging to the air where they had passed through. The Veil was not a solid wall. It was a permeable skin, and they had slipped through a tear in its fabric. She ventured further into the grove, drawn by a path that seemed to materialise before her as she walked. The flowers here were taller, their colours richer, the luminescence more intense. Strange, delicate insect-like creatures with wings of spun glass flitted between them, their tiny bodies trailing motes of light. The ground sloped gently downwards, leading toward a clearing where the light coalesced into a soft, golden haze. Nyx paused, their shadow-self seeming to flatten against the trunk of an impossibly tall, silver-barked tree. Their violet eyes narrowed, fixed on something Rory couldn't yet see. "A presence," Nyx whispered, their voice growing fainter, more wind-like. "Old. And hungry." Rory instinctively reached for the Heartstone Pendant. Its warmth intensified, pulsing with a frantic beat now, like a warning drum. Beside her, the Fae-Forged blade felt colder than ice, its honed edge singing a silent song of readiness. Her scar on her left wrist throbbed, a dull ache that mirrored the pendant's urgency. Isolde, however, merely smiled, a serene expression that was utterly at odds with Nyx's warning and Rory's own rising apprehension. She didn't reach for a weapon, didn't stiffen. Her gaze was directed towards the golden haze, her silver hair catching the peculiar light. "The grove remembers its guests," Isolde stated, her voice like spun moonlight. "But it does not always offer welcome." Rory pushed aside a curtain of glowing vines, revealing the heart of the clearing. The golden haze resolved itself into a small, perfectly still pool of liquid light, not water, but something more ethereal, more radiant. Floating just above its surface was a single, impossibly intricate flower, its petals like polished obsidian, edged with diamond dust. It seemed to absorb all light, to radiate a profound stillness, a stark contrast to the vibrant life surrounding it. As Rory stepped closer, a new sound emerged from behind the pool—a low, resonant hum that vibrated the very air, shaking dust from the luminous leaves. It wasn't melodic. It was a deep, guttural drone, a sound that spoke of slow, unimaginable power. The Heartstone Pendant flared with heat, almost too hot to bear, and Rory could feel the energy crackling around the Fae-Forged blade, as if it was preparing to meet a challenge. The air crackled with unseen forces, the playful wonder of the grove now tinged with a potent, ancient threat. This was no mere garden; it was a place of deep magic, and they had stumbled into its heart.