Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTYVE6P9Y0D6YKFW9W1P93Q

The Heartstone pendant burned through Aurora’s gray delivery sweater, a steady thrumming against her sternum that had not let up since she’d navigated the clogged back streets of Bermondsey the night before. She’d locked up Golden Empress an hour early, left the crumpled takeout bags in her flat above Silas’ bar, and hailed a bus to Richmond Park, the only place Isolde had ever deigned to meet mortals who weren’t desperate for prophecies they didn’t understand. She knelt beside the gnarled cluster of oaks known locally as the Hanging Oaks, their branches twisted like gnarled fingers, and spotted the faint shimmering distortion in the air just ten feet away— the Veil, Isolde had explained last week, the thin barrier between Earth and the other realms, visible only to those who carried supernatural markers or had been touched by magic. A soft rustle of wind behind her made her start, and she turned to find Nyx lingering in the shadow of an oak trunk, their humanoid silhouette of living shadow shifting faintly at the edges. “The pull here is stronger than any I’ve felt in centuries,” their voice was, as always, a whisper carried on a breath of wind, barely carrying over the chirp of distant songbirds. “This is not the boundary between earth and fae. This is something else.” Isolde stepped out from behind a standing stone, her silver waist-length hair catching the dappled sunlight, her pale lavender eyes almost glowing in the shade. She wore a gown of moss green that seemed to blend with the surrounding ferns, and her bare feet didn’t leave so much as a dust print on the packed earth— a quirk of her half-fae blood, Aurora had learned, that left no footprints when she walked. “You have followed the stone’s call,” Isolde said, her voice soft, each word measured, riddled like the surface of a still pond. “It leads to the realm of excess, where the gluttonous feast for eternity. The Veil here has frayed, and the rift yawns wide.” Before Aurora could ask what that meant, Isolde reached out and placed a hand on the shimmering veil. The air shivered, and the distortion rippled outward, swallowing the edge of the oak grove. Isolde stepped through without hesitation, her gown swishing through the invisible barrier, and Aurora glanced at Nyx, who nodded, their shadowy form solidifying into a tall, lean six-foot-two figure, their faintly glowing violet eyes now fully visible in the natural light. Aurora, who stood five foot six with a half-inch lift from her scuffed delivery boots, tilted her head back to meet their gaze, slung her delivery bag tighter over her shoulder, grabbed the frayed edge of her apron, and stepped through after them. The first thing that hit her was the smell: a heady mix of roasted figs and honeyed mead, overlaid with a sharp, metallic tang like burnt lard and smoking ash. The warm amber breeze tousled her straight shoulder-length black hair, and the ground beneath her boots wasn’t packed earth or grass, but crushed amber-colored stone that crunched softly with every step. The sky above wasn’t the soft blue of Earth’s daytime, but a glowing, honeyed amber, like the light trapped inside a kiln, and distant peaks glinted with the sheen of crushed gemstones. Nyx’s hand settled lightly on her shoulder, their fingers a wisp of shadow that didn’t leave a mark, but sent a shiver of warmth down her arm. “Look,” they whispered, nodding toward a row of sprawling vineyards that stretched as far as the eye could see, their vines laden with grapes so dark purple they looked almost black, each one larger than a plum, glistening with a dewy substance that glowed faintly in the amber light. A pair of figures wandered between the rows, their skin pale as parchment, their eyes milky and unfocused, plucking the grapes and popping them into their mouths without a single word. “Helbound souls,” Isolde said, falling into step beside her, and Aurora glanced down to confirm that Isolde’s bare feet left no trace of her passage on the fine gravel, a quiet quirk that never failed to fascinate her. “Bound here to tend the feasts and the harvests, in payment for their gluttonies in life.” Aurora’s brow furrowed, and she reached up to adjust the Heartstone, which was now thrumming so loud she could feel it through her bones. The further they walked from the Veil rift, the brighter the stone glowed, a faint crimson light spilling out from beneath her sweater. “Why are they here?” she asked, her voice quiet, trying not to draw the attention of the two helbound figures, who had stopped staring blankly ahead and were now glancing in their direction. Isolde’s lips curved into a faint smile, her lavender eyes flicking to the helbound souls before returning to Aurora. “They sought more than the earth could offer, and so they found a feast that never ends. Their gluttony binds them here, until their hunger is sated— but the feast here never ends, so their hunger never ends either.” She gestured with a slender hand, and the helbound souls turned back to their grape picking, their milky eyes fixing on the vines once more. Ahead of them, a crowd of figures in velvet coats and silk cuffs gathered around a long, wooden buffet table heaped with food that Aurora could not name. There were towers of pastries dusted with silver leaf, bowls of fruit that glowed with a faint golden light, roasted peacock with a honeyed glaze, and platters of what looked like sliced meat that pulsed faintly, as if still alive. The air was thick with the sound of laughter— loud, hollow laughter, like the sound of a drumbeat coming from a distant cave— and the clatter of plates and goblets being slammed down onto the table. A man at the head of the table shoveled fistfuls of pastries into his mouth, crumbs sticking to his powdered wig and his chin, and he didn’t seem to notice when a goblet slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. “Is that… alive?” Aurora murmured, pointing at a platter of sliced pink meat that twitched slightly, even as a nearby servant— another helbound soul, Aurora realized, this one carrying a tray of mead goblets— reached over and cut a slice with a sharp knife, popping it into the mouth of a lordling who whooped with delight. Isolde nodded, her silver hair shifting in the warm amber breeze. “Meat from the orchards of Hel, grown from the souls of those who overindulged. It sustains the hunger of those who feast here, but it never truly nourishes them.” She gestured to a side archway made of black, polished stone, which rose high above the buffet table, and the Heartstone in Aurora’s chest burned so hot she gasped, yanking the pendant out from under her sweater to stare at it. The thumbnail-sized crimson gem glowed bright, its silver chain glinting in the amber light, and a steady, thrumming warmth spread through her chest. “That is the main rift to Hel,” Isolde said. “The portal through which the helbound souls are brought here, and through which Prince Belphegor rules his realm.” Aurora’s breath caught. She’d heard tales of the seven princes of Hel, and Belphegor, the lord of gluttony, had been a name she’d tried to forget after finding a tattered grimoire in a secondhand shop in Camden. She took a step back, her boot catching on a loose piece of amber stone, and she stumbled, catching herself on the edge of the buffet table. A small, carved wooden box fell from the table, clattering onto the ground, and the lid popped open, spilling a scattering of silver cutlery across the amber stone. As she knelt to pick up the box, the cuff of her sweater rode up, exposing the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist— the one from the childhood accident with a kitchen knife, the one she’d tried so hard to forget since fleeing Cardiff. She brushed a strand of hair away from her face, staring at the scar for a split second before focusing back on the box. It was carved with intricate patterns of vines and grapes, and a small silver lock clinked as she lifted it. She glanced up at Isolde, who nodded, and a faint glow of green light spilled from her fingertips, melting the silver lock open without a sound. The lid swung open, and Aurora’s eyes widened. Resting on a bed of dried grapevines was a slender, leaf-shaped dagger, its blade made of a silvery metal that glowed faintly in the amber light, and it was cold to the touch when she reached in and picked it up, her fingers wrapping around the smooth wooden hilt. Even through her gloves, she could feel the chill seeping into her palms, and when she tilted the blade toward the amber sky, a faint silver luminescence spilled from its edge, brighter than moonlight on water. “This is…?” she asked, turning the dagger over in her hand, marveling at how light it was, how the silver glow seemed to cast a soft shadow over the surrounding feast. Isolde stepped closer, her lavender eyes fixed on the dagger. “A Fae-Forged Blade,” she said, her voice soft, each word a puzzle piece that didn’t quite click into place. “Moonsilver, forged in the Fae Courts. It can cut through magical wards, and it is particularly effective against demons and helbound creatures. I forged it for you, Aurora Carter, when I learned the Veil was fraying. You will need it.” A group of lordlings at the buffet table turned toward them, their eyes glazing over with the same hungry glaze that coated the helbound grape pickers, and the man in the powdered wig let out a low, guttural growl, pointing a sticky finger at Aurora. “Food,” he snarled, shoving his chair back and stumbling toward them, his hands outstretched. Nyx stepped forward immediately, their solid form blocking Aurora’s view of the approaching lordlings, and their shadowy hand wrapped around the man’s throat. He let out a gasp, his eyes bulging, but before Nyx could squeeze any harder, Isolde placed a hand on their arm, her green glow seeping into their shadowy skin. “Easy, shadow,” Isolde said, her voice calm, though her lavender eyes widened slightly. “They are bound to this realm, but they are not enemies. You do not need to devour their hunger.” Nyx’s hand dissipated, and the man collapsed onto the amber stone, coughing and gasping, staring at them with a mixture of fear and hunger. Aurora grabbed the Fae-Forged Blade from her bag, slipping it into the waistband of her jeans, and glanced back at the Veil rift, which shimmered faintly in the distance, a thin line of silver light between the amber sky and the green of Richmond Park. The Heartstone in her chest had finally stopped burning, settling back into a soft, steady thrum against her sternum. “Let us return before the feast grows too hungry,” Isolde said, her voice soft, and she turned to walk back toward the rift, her bare feet leaving no trace on the gravel. Aurora followed, slinging her delivery bag tighter over her shoulder, and Nyx fell in step beside her, their shadowy form shifting as they walked, their violet eyes fixed on the horizon. As they passed the vineyards, the helbound souls paused, their milky eyes watching them go, but they did not move to stop them. Aurora glanced back once, at the sprawling feasts and glowing fruit, at the black stone archway that glowed with faint green light, and she tightened her grip on the Fae-Forged Blade hidden at her waist. The Veil was fraying, and the rifts were opening wider, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t know what was waiting for her around the next corner. But for now, she had the stone, and the blade, and the shadow at her shoulder, and that was enough. She stepped through the Veil rift one last time, and the warm amber breeze was replaced by the soft chirp of songbirds, and the ground beneath her boots was once again soft, damp earth. The Hanging Oaks loomed above her, and the faint shimmering distortion of the Veil had vanished, leaving only the quiet of Richmond Park behind. She glanced down at her wrist, at the crescent scar, and then at the faint silver glow of the Fae-Forged Blade peeking out from her waistband, and she took a deep breath, ready to face whatever came next.