Run: 2026-05-10-01KR8X3CK4FN6KWVAQGF4QBH16

Rory traced the crescent scar on her wrist with her thumb, the skin tingling as the heartbeat of the Heartstone Pendant against her chest synchronized with the frantic rhythm of her pulse. The air here tasted like copper and old ozone. Beside her, the ink-black silhouette of Nyx rippled, their violet eyes scanning the horizon of the amber sky that stretched out over the rolling, impossibly lush vineyards of Dymas. Every vine groaned under the weight of oversized, translucent fruit that wept nectar onto the dark, obsidian soil. Step past the threshold. The transition from the rainy back alley of London to this place of gluttonous heat happened in a single, gut-wrenching lurch. Nyx gestured toward a grove of skeletal trees where fruit ripened into gold before their very eyes, only to rot instantly and cycle anew. The whisper of their voice brushed against Rory’s skin like cold silk. Tread carefully. The soil beneath your feet remembers every sin committed in your realm. Rory nodded, pulling the Fae-Forged Blade from her belt. The moonsilver metal bit into the heavy, stagnant air, casting a faint, pale luminescence that cut through the perpetual golden twilight. She watched the ground, looking for the telltale shimmering distortion of the Veil, but the atmosphere here felt suffocatingly solid, as if the realm of Gluttony held its breath to keep intruders trapped in its cycle of endless, hollow consumption. The stench of fermented sugar and charred spice hung thick. A distant sound echoed off invisible canyon walls—a rhythmic, guttural chanting that lacked any human cadence. It sounded like grinding stones, or the teeth of something massive chewing through bone. Isolde said the portal would be guarded by the harvest-masters. If I miscalculated, we will be part of the next vintage. Rory scanned a nearby trellis. The leaves were shaped like human hands, twitching as she passed. She reached out, stopping inches before the vine coiled around her fingers. The fruit it bore pulsed with a sickly, rhythmic light that mimicked the Heartstone. The pendant is heating up. We are close to the rift. Nyx leaned close, their shadowy form blurring into a cloud of soot that drifted ahead, scouting the thick, violet-tinged fog rolling off the hills. They solidified near a cluster of jagged standing stones that looked carved from petrified honey. The barrier thins here, but something waits in the reflection of the stone. Look at the surface, Rory. Do not look at the light. Rory approached the centerpiece—a massive, singular monolith slick with a viscous, glowing liquid. She squinted, forcing her blue eyes to adjust to the shifting amber light. Deep within the polished face of the stone, she saw a distorted image. It wasn't the vineyards or the orchards reflecting back at her. She saw the familiar brickwork of the flat above Silas’s bar, the peeling wallpaper near her bed, and cold, gray London rain streaking the glass. It looked like a tomb. It is a trap, a lure for the hungry. If you stare too long, the hunger takes root in your own belly. The chanting grew louder, shifting into a wet, slapping sound. Rory gripped the dagger tight, the freezing cold of the blade a stark relief against the oppressive, humid heat of Dymas. She saw movement in the peripheral, shadows detaching themselves from the base of the standing stones. They were not human, nor were they Shades like Nyx. They were clumps of animated rot, draped in the remnants of silk tunics, dragging heavy rusted hooks across the obsidian floor. Move, now. Through the gap in the stones before the harvest-masters solidify their reach. Rory lunged. She sprinted through the center of the monolith, the space between the stones rippling like disturbed water. The transition felt like being dragged through a sieve, cold needles of force stripping away the lingering scent of Dymas. The ground beneath her boots shifted from obsidian to soft, damp moss. She tumbled out into a clearing, gasping for breath. The air shifted—sharp, floral, and impossibly quiet. She stood, scanning the perimeter. Ancient oak standing stones loomed over her, their bark scarred with deep, archaic runes that glowed with a faint, pulsing verdant light. Wildflowers bloomed in the cracks, vibrant and spectral even in the dim light of the Richmond grove. She spun around, blade leveled, but the clearing sat empty. The ambient hum of the Fae Grove replaced the guttural grinding of Gluttony. Did we lose them? Nyx stepped out of the shadow of an oak, their violet eyes flickering with a dim, weary light. They looked at the heart of the grove, where the air shimmered with the presence of something ancient. They cannot cross the boundary of the stones. Not yet. But the Heartstone pulled us through a weakened seam. The Wardens will have felt the tear. Rory looked down at the pendant. It stopped pulsing, the crimson stone dull and cold. She walked to the edge of the grove, peering past the standing stones. Beyond the circle, the world remained dark, dominated by the dense, tangled silhouettes of the park trees. She couldn't see the city anymore. She couldn't hear the hum of the traffic or the distant wail of a siren. Only the soft, rhythmic rustle of leaves that didn't move in the dead, still air. The path forward is not back the way we came. Look at the runes on the threshold. Rory peered at the oak stone Nyx pointed toward. A fresh mark, carved into the stone, glowed with the same deep red hue as the pendant. It wasn't a warning, it was an invitation. She pressed her palm against the cold, weathered wood. The grove surged with life, the wildflowers opening in unison, their petals turning toward her as if waiting for a command. She turned back to Nyx, the weight of the Fae-Forged blade suddenly feeling heavy, not with iron, but with purpose. We aren't in London anymore, are we? This is the space between, where the Veil doesn't hold. Nyx drifted toward the heart of the clearing, their shadow merging with the shifting patterns on the forest floor. We are where the stories are written before they happen. Keep your eyes on the ground, Rory. The paths here change with the intent of the walker. If you fear the destination, the path will never reveal itself. Rory took a breath, the floral scent grounding her. She walked deeper into the grove, the light shifting from amber to a crisp, starlit silver. The silence felt heavy, expectant. Ahead, the trees parted to reveal a pond with water as still as glass, reflecting a sky filled with constellations that didn't belong to any map she had ever studied. She stepped toward the water, the grass beneath her feet feeling like velvet. Isolde’s gift gave us the passage, but I suspect the price is yet to be paid. Look into the water. Rory knelt at the edge. The surface didn't show her face. It showed a figure standing in the center of the grove, veiled in silver hair, watching her with pale, lavender eyes. Isolde didn't speak, but her image pointed toward the center of the pond, where a single, white lily bloomed atop the black water. That is the key we were told to find. Do not touch the water. Only the flower. Rory reached out, the Fae blade hovering near her skin. She didn't trust the reflection, but her hand moved on its own accord, drawn by a pull as strong as the one that led her from the alley. She reached for the stem, the air vibrating with a low, melodic chime. Nyx went rigid, their eyes wide as the shadows around them began to dance in frantic, jagged lines. Wait. The ripples in the water—they are moving against the wind. Something is reaching up from beneath.