Run: 2026-05-10-01KR8WAQJHV3C0HT5PQJXCF42D

The air in Richmond Park had been crisp with a late-winter chill, but the moment Aurora crossed the invisible threshold between the ancient oak standing stones, the cold vanished. It was replaced by a humid, floral warmth that tasted of nectar and heavy, overripe fruit. Rory blinked, her bright blue eyes adjusting to a light that didn't seem to have a singular source. She reached up to touch the crescent scar on her left wrist, then let her hand fall to the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant nestled against her throat. The crimson gem was warm, pulsing against her skin like a second, rhythmic heart, though they were far from any Hel portal she currently understood. Beside her, Nyx shifted from the translucent silhouette of a long shadow into a solid, towering figure clad in darkness. Their violet eyes traced the canopy of trees above, which seemed to weave together like living fingers. The Grove was not merely a clearing. It was a pocket tucked into the lining of the world, where the wildflowers never withered and the ground turned into a soft, mossy velvet that yielded silently underfoot. Following the trail of silver dust that marked Isolde’s path, Rory felt the weight of the Fae-forged blade at her hip. The moonsilver dagger remained unnervingly cold against her thigh, a stark contrast to the burgeoning heat of the grove. Do you hear that, Nyx? Rory whispered. The Shade tilted their head. The voice that came out was like the dry rattle of wind through dead leaves. It is not silence. It is a hesitation. The world here is waiting for us to commit a transgression. They pushed deeper, passing through a cluster of luminescent ferns that curled away from their touch. With every step, the sense of unreality grew. Rory looked back, wanting to see the entrance—the oak stones—but there was only a shimmering distortion, the Veil rippling like water under a breeze. It looked like a bruise on the fabric of the air, a reminder of the fragility of the boundary they had just stepped through. As they reached the center of the grove, the vegetation shifted. The wild, tangled forest gave way to a perfectly circular glade where Isolde Varga stood waiting. The Seer’s silver hair pooled around her like spilled moonlight, and her pale lavender eyes were fixed on the horizon, though there was nothing there but more glowing, impossible trees. She did not turn as they approached; she didn't need to. Her footsteps had left no track, no crushed blade of grass, no disturbed dew. You bring the flavor of Dymas with you, Isolde said, her voice melodic and strangely hollow. It clings to your pulse, little human. Rory approached, her boots making the first real sound the grove had heard in a long time. I was told you might know why, she said, keeping her tone level. My life in London is loud enough without the pieces of hell following me home. Isolde turned slowly, her expression unreadable. She gestured toward the center of the glade, where the earth seemed to thin, revealing a view that brought a sharp, metallic gasp to Rory’s throat. Through a rent in the ground, they saw the amber sky of Dymas. Below that strange, warm horizon, the sprawling vineyards of the realm of Gluttony stretched out in nauseating, beautiful excess. The scent of roasted meats and fermented spice wafted up, clashing with the sweet rot of the Fae flowers at their feet. It was a culinary abyss, a kingdom of indulgence that made Rory’s stomach churn. The barrier is weeping, Isolde murmured, looking down at the amber glow. The solstice approaches, and the Veil grows thin. Someone is stirring the fermentation, and you, Aurora Carter, are the cork in the bottle. Rory felt the Heartstone Pendant burn hotter. She reached into her jacket, fingers brushing the hilt of the Fae blade. I’m just a delivery person, Isolde. I bring food to people who are too lazy to cook for themselves. I’m not a guardian. Isolde stepped closer, her movements fluid and bird-like. She reached out a slim, pale finger, hovering over the crescent scar on Rory's wrist. You were not born to carry this, yet it chose you. When the hungry reach through from Dymas, they do not want the food. They want the heat. They want the life contained in that stone. Nyx stepped forward, their form flickering at the shoulders like smoke caught in a draft. They possess a hunger that consumes the essence of the wielder, not the flesh. If it fully ignites, the gate will stay open. Not just a crack, but a tear. The wonder of the grove began to curdle into dread. Rory looked at the shifting, violent beauty of the Dymasian landscape below, then back at the soft, unnatural perfection of the grove. She felt caught between two prisons—one of fire and appetite, and one of stillness and riddles. Isolde, tell me how to stop it, Rory demanded. Tell me how to sew the gap shut. The Seer smiled, a sad, ancient expression. The blade you carry can sever the connection, but it demands a tether. A sacrifice of intent. You must choose which realm you belong to, for the middle ground is vanishing. Rory looked at Nyx, whose violet eyes seemed to hold the echoes of their own long-lost humanity, and then at the Heartstone, which was now vibrating with a low, thrumming hum. The air grew thicker, the smell of Dymas’s exotic feasts becoming overwhelming, intoxicating. She could feel the pull—a craving for something she couldn't name, a desire for the abundance, the excess, the warmth. She gripped the hilt of the Fae-forged blade, its biting cold grounding her against the seductive heat rolling up from the pit. I’m not a sacrifice, Rory said, her voice sharpening with the quick, cold clarity that had kept her alive in the worst parts of London. And I’m not a cork. If the Veil is failing, then I’ll be the one to patch it. Not for you, and not for the Prince of Gluttony. She turned to Nyx, her blue eyes intense. Are you still with me? Nyx shadowed the ground, their voice a whisper of shifting darkness. I am the shadow that remains when the lights fail, Aurora. Where you walk, I am the silence behind your step. Isolde watched them, her lavender eyes distant, as if she were already reading the end of the story. The path is narrow, she whispered, and the fog is closing in. Step carefully, for the shadows in this wood have teeth, and the hunger from below is never sated. As they moved to leave, the amber sky of Dymas glimmered once, violently, before the gap began to constrict. The ground beneath them shuddered, the ancient oaks groaning in protest. Rory pulled her jacket tight, the Heartstone cooling slightly as she turned her back on the glimpse of the abyss. She didn't look back at the Seer, nor at the shimmering wall of the grove as they marched toward the exit. She focused on the cold weight of the blade, the only thing real in a place designed to make her forget who she was.