Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08TPZW5GW7QVSKGE5B1GVW

The standing stones loomed ahead, their grey surfaces etched with spirals and sigils that seemed to shift when stared at too long. Rory slowed her pace, fingers brushing the Heartstone pendant beneath her jacket. The gem vibrated once, faint but insistent. Nyx materialised beside her in a rush of shadows, their vague form coalescing into something more solid for a moment before dissipating again like ink in water. The air smelled of crushed green leaves and something metallic underneath—not quite blood, but close. Isolde wasn’t with them yet. The Seer had insisted they enter separately, her voice trailing behind them like swirling mist. Rory stepped between the stones. The world tilted. Not a fall, not a shift of balance—more like the ground itself had become part of a pendulum swinging through the wrong axis. She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached, breath coming shallow. The pendant burned against her sternum. Beside her, Nyx made a sound like dry leaves skittering. “Time doesn’t skip, Rory. It folds.” Isolde’s silver hair caught morning light as she stepped through moments later, as if she’d always been there. “Punctuality is a human construct,” she murmured. “This place breathes in its own rhythm.” The standing stones marked the boundary, but what lay beyond wasn’t Richmond Park anymore. The trees stretched too tall, their canopies forming a vaulted ceiling of interlaced branches that swallowed the sky. Leaves never fell—they simply weren’t shed, growing ever larger, waxy, their edges tinged with gold even in seasons that shouldn’t have gold. Rory exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to catalogue rather than gawk. “This is the Fae Grove?” Isolde’s laughter chimed like wind chimes. “This is a shadow of it. The Fae Grove proper hides deeper, where the standing stones grow roots into the Other.” Nyx drifted forward, their form rippling along the forest floor like smoke. “Can you feel that?” Rory could. A hum, low and resonant, vibrating through her bones. Not sound exactly—more like the feeling of standing too close to a power line, the air thick with static. Isolde plucked a wildflower from a stalk that arched over her head without bending. The bloom pulsed with its own inner light—soft lavender shifting to lilac and back again. “Time chamber here. An hour outside might be a decade in Dymas. Or vice versa.” Rory’s pulse spiked. “We need to be careful.” “Or live recklessly,” Isolde countered, tucking the flower behind her ear. It glowed brighter for a moment, then dimmed as if conserving energy. Nyx’s voice slithered through the undergrowth. “Rory’s right. If we’re going to Hel, we can’t be months late because this grove decided to take a nap.” Isolde’s smile sharpened. “Spoken like someone who’s never been hungry.” The trail ahead split—one path winding downhill through ferns taller than Rory, their fronds tickling her arms as she passed. The other climbed slopes carpeted in moss so green it looked painted. Each breath tasted of ozone and something sweet, like ripe fruit left too long in the sun. Rory chose the uphill route. “If time moves weird here, we should—” A sound cut her off. Not animal, not wind through leaves. A chime, distant but growing closer. Isolde’s eyes widened. “Bells.” Nyx’s form elongated, stretching toward the sound. “Not our bells.” The chime resolved into a melody—too intricate to be human, too precise to be natural. The notes hung in the air like threads of liquid silver. Then the ground trembled. Small at first, a vibration underfoot. Rory dropped into a crouch, palm against the moss. The tremor strengthened, became a heartbeat. The pendant flamed against her chest, crimson pulse matching the rhythm of the world. Isolde’s hands clenched. “The Grove is waking.” Between one breath and the next, the path ahead of them heaved upward. The moss undulated like water, forming waves that crested into shapes—arms, legs, faces Rory recognised even as the ground reshaped them. The belltower chimed louder, now accompanied by a chorus of voices singing in a language Rory’s brain refused to translate. Nyx flowed forward, their shadow stretching into something substantial. “Hold still. It tests you.” The face in the moss opened its mouth and spoke—a voice made of rustling leaves and flowing water. “Carter. Blood-touched. Seer’s shadow. Come to dance?” Rory’s throat went dry. “We didn’t come to dance.” The moss-face chuckled, a sound like roots pulling from soil. “Everything dances. Even stones. Especially stones.” Isolde stepped between Rory and the shifting path. “We seek the Heart of Dymas. Prince Belphegor’s bounty.” The moss-face went still. The singing stopped. The belltower’s chiming fractured into dissonant shards. Nyx’s voice cut the silence like a knife. “Wrong answer.” The forest exhaled around them. Leaves trembled, then stilled. The moss-face dissolved into dew that sizzled against the warmed earth. Rory’s pendant burned white-hot now, searing through fabric. She grabbed the chain, yanked it over her head. The gemstone cast crimson light across her hands—presence of raw Hel energy. Isolde’s silver brows pulled tight. “He found us.” A figure emerged from the trees ahead—tall, broad-shouldered in a leather coat that might once have been black. His eyes burned with the same amber glow as Dymas’ sky. Prince Belphegor’s smile was all teeth. “You shouldn’t have brought the Shade here,” he said to Isolde. “Shadows corrupt the purity of these grounds.” Nyx’s form darkened, spreading unnaturally across the forest floor. “And mortals shouldn’t lie to Princes.” Belphegor’s gaze flicked to Rory, then to the pendant in her hand. His smile widened. “Ah. The courier with the hungry stone.” Rory didn’t blink. “Stay back.” The Prince laughed, rich and warm as mulled wine. “Or what? You’ll throw your little trinket at me? That gem couldn’t keep a gnat from your throat.” The Heartstone pulsed once, hard enough to bruise Rory’s sternum. Belphegor’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.” Nyx surged forward, their voice a gust of wind. “You’re in our way.” The Prince’s coat rippled as something behind him stirred—souls, bound and screaming, forming into a grotesque crown around his brow. The air thickened with the scent of roasting meat and wine gone sour. Isolde moved faster than Rory could track, her silver hair trailing like comet tails. One moment she was there, the next she melted into the standing stones themselves. The ground split between them. Not earth opening—time splitting. A ravine of frozen seconds yawned wide, showing flickers of other places: a feast hall drowning in cream and honey, a battlefield where shadows screamed, Rory herself as a child in Cardiff. Belphegor snarled. “You push too far, seer.” Rory’s hand closed around the Fae blade’s hilt where it rested against her thigh. The cold bit into her palm like winter metal. “You want the pendant?” she asked, voice steady. “Try taking it.” The Prince lunged.