Run: 2026-05-10-01KR92P5ZPX9MGHRQ4RCZNWEKS

The air in Richmond Park was heavy with the damp, earthy scent of London in late autumn, but as Rory stepped between the two gnarled, moss-thickened oak stones, the climate shifted with a sudden, localized pressure that made her ears pop. The transition felt less like walking across a threshold and more like falling through a curtain of cold silk. Rory steadied herself, her hand instinctively flying to the silver chain at her throat. The Heartstone pendant, usually a dormant weight against her skin, was radiating a low-frequency hum, its crimson surface pulsing with an interior light that felt oddly synced to her own heartbeat. Beside her, Nyx drifted into view. The Shade did not walk so much as ripple forward, its silhouette flickering against the sudden, vibrant lushness of the grove. The creature’s violet eyes scanned the canopy, catching the light like crushed amethysts. This was the Fae Grove, a tear in the seams of the world that defied every law of the London geography Rory knew. Above them, the sky was not a grey London expanse, but a swirling, iridescent dome of violet and gold, as if the sun were permanently caught in the throes of an eternal twilight. Isolde moved ahead of them, her silver hair trailing behind her like a comet’s tail. She made no sound. Her feet did not disturb the carpet of wildflowers—bluebells that sounded like glass wind chimes when the breeze brushed them, and strange, pale lilies that seemed to turn their heads to track their passage. Keep your eyes on the pattern of the roots, Isolde whispered, her voice melodic and strangely detached. The earth here remembers the steps of those who came before. Do not tread where the shadow leans too long. Rory looked down. The ground beneath the canopy was a mosaic of emerald moss and slick, obsidian-colored soil. Nyx drifted further to the left, their form stretching as they passed beneath a cluster of weeping trees whose leaves were the texture of hammered copper. Something feels wrong, Nyx murmured, their voice a whisper carried on a draft that smelled of ozone and ancient dust. The Veil is frayed here. It is thin enough to breathe through. I can feel the pull of other places—places of gluttony and burning ash. Rory shifted her grip on the small satchel at her side. Inside, the Fae-forged blade lay wrapped in heavy velvet, its characteristic chill seeping through the fabric. Since Isolde had pressed it into her hand, the dagger had felt like a magnet pointing toward trouble. Now, the coldness of the moonsilver seemed to sharpen, vibrating in resonance with the pendant. They reached the center of the grove, where a fountain fed by a stream of liquid silver bubbled up from a basin fashioned from bone-white stone. Isolde stopped, her luminous lavender eyes reflecting the shifting colors of the sky. You seek the path to Dymas, Isolde said, neither asking nor confirming, but merely stating a fact as old as the stones themselves. Rory stepped forward, her boots crunching softly on the unnaturally vibrant soil. She had no choice. The cryptic warnings and the sudden, violent incursions back in London had rendered her flat above Silas’ bar a prison rather than a home. Every time she looked at the crescent scar on her left wrist, she felt the phantom itch of a life she hadn't quite left behind, and a future that felt increasingly like a trap. I have to know why I was given this, she said, her voice sounding small in the vast, quiet expanse of the grove. I have to know what is out there. Isolde turned, her expression unreadable. You carry the mark of a realm that treats desire as a currency, Aurora Carter. To enter the garden of Gluttony is to offer your own hunger as a seat at the table. If you go, you will not return the same traveler who entered the threshold. Rory looked at Nyx. The shade was peering into the silver water of the fountain, their violet eyes narrowing. Beneath the surface, images were roiling—not of trees or sky, but of sprawling, amber-lit vineyards and tables groaning under the weight of impossible feasts. The sight was intoxicating, even from this distance, promising a satiety that bordered on madness. Is it a trick? Rory asked. Nyx turned, their face a featureless void of swirling grey, save for the glint of their eyes. It is a siren song meant for the hollowed-out soul. But if we are to cross the Veil, we must use the distortion. The rift is locked behind the excess. Isolde swept a hand toward the fountain. The silver water began to surge, rising in a spiraling column that defied gravity. The air thickened with the scent of fermented fruit and burnt spices—the signature aroma of Dymas. The standing stones at the boundary of the grove began to groan, the ancient, lichen-covered bark of the oaks twisting until the entrance they had arrived through vanished entirely. They were sealed in. You have the steel, Isolde said, nodding toward Rory’s satchel. It is the only thing that can carve a door where none exists. If you are to face the Prince of Gluttony, you must remember that in his realm, the gift given is the debt owed. Rory stepped toward the column of light. The closer she moved, the hotter the Heartstone became against her chest, the crimson gem glowing with such intensity that it illuminated the skin of her throat. She gripped the pommel of the dagger through the velvet, the cold of the moonsilver a bitter, grounding anchor against the overwhelming sweetness of the air. She realized then that the wonder of this place was merely a cover for its lethality. It wasn't just beautiful; it was hungry. Nyx glided in front of her, the shadow of their form elongated and jagged against the pulsating light. Stick close to the void, Rory. If you feel the hunger take hold, do not swallow. Breathe out. Anchor yourself to the cold of the blade. Rory nodded, feeling the sudden, sharp clarity that had always seen her through the mess of her life in Cardiff and the flight to London. She wasn't just a delivery girl from a Chinese takeout place anymore. She was a trespasser in the geography of gods and shadows. She reached into the spiraling silver light. The sensation was immediate—a violent, icy pull that threatened to unspool her very atoms. She didn't flinch. She shoved the Fae blade forward, feeling the resistance of the barrier like a thick membrane, and then, with a sound like tearing parchment, the world gave way. They tumbled forward into a sky of warm, stifling amber, the smell of sweet rot and ripening harvest swallowing them whole. Beneath her feet, the soft soil of the grove was replaced by the smooth, polished marble of a grand staircase, and far below, stretching into an horizon of golden haze, lay the sprawling, indulgent orchards of Dymas. The journey had begun, and the hunger had already started to track their scent.