Run: 2026-05-10-01KR91TKNZC78M5KJDSVPWDAGB

The air in Richmond Park was heavy with the damp, familiar scent of London rain, but as Rory stepped past the boundary of the ancient oak standing stones, the temperature shifted instantly. The biting chill of a premature November evening evaporated, replaced by a humid, golden warmth that settled against her skin like a weighted blanket. She paused, her boots sinking not into sodden grass, but into a carpet of vibrant, impossible moss that felt like velvet under her soles. Beside her, Nyx flickered. The Shade’s humanoid silhouette blurred at the edges, trailing wisps of smoke that vanished before they hit the ground. Nyx’s violet eyes, usually dim and recessed, pulsed with a rhythmic, luminous intensity. This is the Grove, Rory whispered, her voice sounding muffled, as if the very air were thicker, honey-soaked and sweet. Nyx didn’t answer. They drifted forward, their feet finding no purchase on the ground because they never truly touched it. They existed in the negative space between the vibrant wildflowers and the twisted, silver-barked trees that seemed to be watching them. The Heartstone Pendant hidden beneath Rory’s jacket pulsed against her collarbone—a frantic, rhythmic heat. She reached up, her thumb brushing the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a habit born of nerves she couldn't quite shake. She didn’t know what pulled her deeper into the Fae-touched pocket, only that the pendant acted like a compass needle finding north. They moved toward the center of the clearing, where the light seemed to fracture into prisms. Isolde was waiting. The Seer stood perfectly still beneath a sprawling willow whose leaves shimmered like spun glass. Her waist-length silver hair caught the amber glow of a sun that didn't exist, and she didn't turn as they approached, though her presence was as unavoidable as a mounting storm. The hunger of the earth is rarely satisfied, Isolde said, her voice a melodic, haunting chime. She turned, her pale lavender eyes tracking Rory with a precision that made the younger woman feel as though she were being read like a legal brief. You carry the heat of the feast, daughter of the barrister. But the blade you bear is cold enough to freeze the breath of a king. Rory reached instinctively for the Fae-forged blade at her hip. The moonsilver hilt remained impossibly, biting cold against her palm, a sharp contrast to the stifling humidity of the Grove. I was told you were the one to speak to, Rory said, forcing her voice to remain steady. The cool-headedness that had gotten her through law school lectures and late-night deliveries in London flickered, but held. About the tears. About the Veil. Isolde drifted forward, her feet missing the earth by a breath. To ask of the Veil is to ask the water why it flows to the sea, she replied, tilting her head. The cracks grow wider when the hearts of men grow heavy with greed. Look up. Rory looked, squinting against the golden sky. Where the canopy of the oak trees merged, she saw it—not a hole, but a shimmering, jagged distortion in the fabric of the air, like oil on water. It looked like a ripple in a mirror that refused to settle. Through the distortion, for a fleeting second, the lush, colorful flora of the Grove faded into the deep, bruising amber of Dymas, the realm of Gluttony. She caught a glimpse of hanging vineyards and a sprawl of orchards that stretched into a horizon burning with excess. The scent hit a second later: overripe fruit, roasting spices, and the copper tang of blood masked by expensive perfume. The contrast was dizzying. That is Dymas, Nyx murmured, their voice a whisper of dry leaves. The words carried a weight of centuries, a mourning for a life they had long since surrendered to the shadow. Prince Belphegor’s table is always set. And he is always looking for a new guest to serve the main course. Rory stepped back, her heart hammering against the Heartstone. The pendant felt as if it were vibrating, a sympathetic resonance with the rift above. Is it open? Rory asked. Can people get through? Isolde traced the air with an elegant finger, leaving a trail of sparkling dust that hung suspended. Those who seek the banquet find the gate. Those who flee the gate find the banquet. You possess the Key, yet you fear the lock. Tell me, girl—does the lawyer prefer the truth, or the victory? Rory ignored the riddle, though it stung. She looked at the blade, then at the pulsating pendant, then back at the jagged rift. Deep in the Grove, the silence was absolute, save for the hum of the magic that kept this place anchored between worlds. She felt a strange, terrifying shift in her own perspective, a widening of her senses that allowed her to see the fine, shimmering threads of the Veil stitching the seams of her reality to this one. If I take this blade into that place, will the Veil hold? Rory asked, her voice dropping to a low, determined register. Isolde smiled, and for the first time, her expression looked almost sad. The blade cuts magical wards as a scythe cuts wheat. It does not mend the harvest. Once you cross into the garden of Gluttony, you are no longer a guest. You are an ingredient. Rory took a breath, the air tasting of static and jasmine. She looked at Nyx, who stood as a silhouette of pure, ink-black void against the vibrant Fae foliage. The Shade tilted their head, a silent encouragement to proceed. Rory adjusted the straps of her bag, her knuckles white. She had fled Cardiff to escape a man who defined her life by his own cruelty, and she had spent months in London running from the shadows of her past. She wouldn't spend this life waiting for the ceiling to collapse. If the gate is open, we close it with what we have, Rory said. She turned to the Seer. You told me where to find the source. Now, step aside. Isolde bowed, a graceful, fluid motion that lacked any false humility. The path is narrow, and the feast is eternal. Do not swallow the sweetness, Aurora Carter, or you shall never taste the bitterness of home again. With a final, cool glance at the shimmering rip in the sky, Rory moved forward, the moon-chilled steel of her dagger ready in her hand. As she left the shadow of the silver trees and stepped into the golden, sickly light emanating from the rift, the sensation of gravity inverted. She felt the heavy, suffocating pull of the Dymasian realm calling to her, whispering promises of indulgence and power. She gripped the Heartstone, focused on the cold weight of the blade, and walked into the space between, not looking back at the Grove, nor the home she had left behind. In the transition, the world went white, then violet, then a deep, aching crimson, and Rory stepped into the garden of the Prince.