AI The air in the grove tasted different. It wasn't just the damp, loamy scent of Richmond Park anymore, now seasoned with something sweet and alien, like crushed herbs Rory couldn't name. She stood just past the ring of ancient oak stones, the Heartstone pendant a warm, insistent weight against her sternum. It hadn’t pulsed with the warning heat of a Hel portal, but it hummed, a low thrum she felt more than heard, tuned to the strange frequency of this place.
Beside her, Eva let out a soft, choked gasp. "The flowers..."
Rory followed her gaze. The clearing was carpeted in wildflowers of impossible colors—blooms that shimmered with sapphire luminescence, petals edged in silver that seemed to drink the muted light. It was the height of a London summer outside, but here, the air was cool and carried the crispness of an eternal, perfect autumn evening. The sky above wasn't the grimy grey of the city, but a deep, velvety twilight, pricked with stars that were too large, too bright.
"It's like stepping into a dream," Eva whispered, her voice hushed with reverence. She took a tentative step forward, her boot sinking into the soft moss. "And the air... it's so clean."
"Too clean," Rory murmured, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade secured at her hip. The moonsilver was ice-cold against her palm, a stark contrast to the ambient warmth of the pendant. The dagger had been Isolde’s gift, a tool for cutting through things that shouldn’t be. She wondered what, exactly, it might need to cut through here.
A shadow detached itself from the base of the nearest oak stone, coalescing into the tall, humanoid form of Nyx. Their violet eyes glowed faintly in the twilight, surveying the grove with an ageless curiosity. "Time pulls thin here," they whispered, the sound like dry leaves rustling just out of sight. "It loops and eddies. An hour could be a minute. Or a day."
"That's not unnerving at all," Rory said flatly, her gaze scanning the perimeter. The standing stones didn't look the same from this side. Their surfaces, which had been rough and gnarled on the outside, were now smooth as polished river stone, swirling with intricate , glowing patterns that pulsed with a slow, steady light.
"It is a place of power, not of menace," Nyx said, their shadowy form seeming to absorb the grove's faint light . "But power is never without its... residents."
As if summoned by the words, a soft chime echoed through the clearing. It was followed by another, and another, until the air itself seemed to vibrate with a crystalline melody. From the canopy of a tree whose leaves were spun gold, tiny lights drifted down. They weren't fireflies. They were miniature beings with gossamer wings, leaving shimmering trails of iridescent dust in their wake.
"Sprites," Eva breathed, her face alight with wonder . She held out a hand, and one of the creatures alighted on her fingertip, its light blinking slowly . It had the delicate features of a child carved from light and looked up at her with eyes like tiny black pearls.
Rory watched, her pragmatic mind warring with the sheer wonder of it. She saw the beauty, but she also saw the potential for distraction, for陷阱. Her fingers tightened on the cold dagger. "Don't make any promises," she warned Eva softly, recalling Isolde's caution about Fae compulsion.
Eva nodded, mesmerized, as the sprite took flight again, joining its kin in a swirling dance around the golden tree.
Nyx flowed forward, a patch of deeper darkness moving through the twilight. They paused before a pool of water so still and clear it looked like a sheet of obsidian, reflecting the impossible stars above. "The water shows not what is," they murmured, leaning over it . "But what could be."
Rory approached cautiously , Eva following. She peered into the pool. For a moment, she saw only their three reflections: Eva, wide-eyed and hopeful; Nyx, a void of shifting shadow; and herself, her own face pale, her blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. Then the water shimmered . The images dissolved, replaced by a flash of memory—the crimson sky of Dymas, the scent of roasting meats and exotic spices, the terrifying, opulent presence of Prince Belphegor. The pendant on her chest gave a sudden, sharper thrum of warmth at the memory of that Hellish place, a stark reminder of why they were here, seeking answers in a Fae-touched grove.
She blinked, and the vision was gone , the water once again a perfect mirror. A cold dread trickled down her spine . This place didn't just warp space and time; it rifled through your mind.
"Let's keep moving," Rory said, her voice firm, pulling her gaze away from the unsettling pool. "Isolde said the heart of the grove would hold answers."
They moved deeper, the path winding between trees that hummed with a low, resonant energy. The flora grew more bizarre. They passed a bush laden with fruit that glowed with a soft internal light, pulsing like a heartbeat. A little further on, they found a patch of mushrooms that released tiny puffs of glowing spores when Eva accidentally brushed against them, filling the air with a constellation of drifting green lights.
The unease Rory felt was a quiet, constant companion, a counterpoint to Eva's growing exhilaration. It was the silence that bothered her most. Beyond the chimes of the sprites and the hum of the trees, there was no birdsong, no rustle of small animals. It was a beautiful, curated silence , and it felt unnatural.
The path ended at a small, natural amphitheater. In the center grew the largest tree Rory had ever seen. Its trunk was wide enough that all three of them linking hands couldn't have encircled it, and its branches spread like a canopy, blocking out the starry sky. Its bark was silver-white, and its leaves were a deep, shifting violet. Nestled within the great roots was a simple stone bench, and seated upon it was Isolde.
The Half-Fae seer was just as Rory remembered: ageless, ethereal, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall. Her lavender eyes were closed, but as they approached, they opened, regarding the trio with knowing stillness.
"You have passed through the outer wonders," Isolde said, her voice melodic and calm . "And you have felt the inner disquiet. This is the nature of the grove. It reflects truth, not comfort."
Eva bowed her head slightly . "We seek guidance."
"And you have it," Isolde replied, her gaze drifting to Rory . "The blade you carry is a key as much as a weapon. The Veil weakens with the turning season. The gluttonous prince you encountered stirs, his hunger reaching across the divide."
Rory’s crescent-shaped scar itched, a nervous habit. "How do we stop him?"
Isolde’s lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. "You ask the wrong question, child of Cardiff. The question is not how to stop a force of nature, but how to redirect it . The feast must happen, but the guest list... that can be changed." She gestured to the great tree. "This is an echo of the World Tree, whose roots touch all realms. Here, the boundaries are suggestions. You have walked in Hel. You walk now in Faerie. Remember the path."
Nyx, who had been observing silently, solidified fully beside Rory. "The paths are not fixed," they whispered, their violet eyes fixed on Isolde . "They are woven. We are threads."
"Precisely, shadow-walker," Isolde said. "You, who are caught between, understand the weave." She stood, her feet making no impression on the soft moss . "Your time here grows short. The grove gives clarity, but prolonged exposure... changes mortals. You begin to forget the weight of your own world."
As she spoke, Rory realized with a start that the memory of London's constant hum of traffic, the smell of rain on pavement, was becoming hazy, softened at the edges by the grove's enchanting stillness. It was a seductive forgetting.
"Come on," Rory said, grabbing Eva's arm with more force than she intended. "We have what we came for."
Eva looked reluctant, her eyes still full of the grove's magic, but she nodded. Nyx simply dissolved back into shadow, a silent agreement.
As they retraced their steps, the grove seemed to watch them go. The glowing flowers dimmed slightly ; the chimes of the sprites faded. By the time they reached the ring of standing stones, the alien sweetness was already fading from the air, replaced by the familiar , gritty scent of the city. Rory stepped back through the stones first, the transition hitting her like a physical blow. The noise of the park rushed back—a distant shout, the whine of a plane overhead. The sky was its usual dull傍晚 grey.
She turned back. The stones were just stones again, ancient and gnarled. There was no shimmering portal, no glimpse of twilight stars. But the Heartstone pendant was still warm against her skin, and the Fae-Forged Blade was still cold in its sheath. They had brought pieces of that other world back with them. And as the clarity of the grove receded, the weight of Isolde's cryptic warning settled on her shoulders, heavy and real. The feast was coming . And they had to decide who would be on the menu.