AI "Don't step on the blue flowers," Isolde warned, her voice drifting like woodsmoke through the shimmering haze of the Veil.
Rory froze, one muddy boot hovering inches above a cluster of cerulean petals that pulsed with a rhythmic , heartbeat-like luminescence. She exhaled a breath she hadn't realised she was holding . Behind her, Nyx shifted, a tall humanoid silhouette of ink and violet light that seemed to swallow the very air around them . The Shade didn't make a sound, but the temperature dropped five degrees as they glided closer to Rory’s shoulder.
"The nectar acts as a paralytic," the Seer continued . Isolde moved through the high, silver-tipped grass without leaving a single footprint, her waist-length hair trailing behind her like a silk banner. "You would remain awake, quite aware, while the roots began to drink from your marrow. A slow feast for a hungry garden."
Rory carefully retracted her foot and pivoted on her heel, her heart hammering against her ribs. She reached up to touch the Heartstone Pendant hanging beneath her shirt. The deep crimson gem felt fever-hot against her skin, a frantic throb that matched the pulsing of the flora. They were no longer in Richmond Park. The damp, grey smell of London and the distant hum of the A3 had vanished, replaced by an aroma so cloyingly sweet it tasted like copper and honey on the back of her throat.
"Is this the Grove?" Rory asked.
"The Grove is a door, child. We have walked through the frame." Isolde gestured to the horizon .
The sky above wasn't blue or black, but a bruised, swirling violet, draped with heavy clouds that looked like curdled cream . Great floating islands of jagged obsidian drifted lazily through the firmament, tethered to the ground by thick, pulsing vines that dripped a glowing, bioluminescent sap. It was a landscape of impossible geometry, where hills curved upward into gravity-defying arches and the trees grew in Spirals, their leaves translucent as dragonfly wings.
"The air feels heavy," Rory muttered. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. "Like walking through water."
"The Veil is thin here," Nyx whispered. The sound wasn't a voice so much as the rustle of dead leaves against a windowpane. "Reality is... unfinished. A sketch before the painting is dry."
They moved deeper into the clearing. Every step revealed a new shattered law of physics. Rory watched a stream of water flow uphill, the liquid crystalline and silvered, humming a low, melodic B-flat as it tumbled over smooth, pearlescent stones. When she looked too closely at the water, she saw faces—flickering, ephemeral things that vanished the moment she blinked.
The deeper they ventured, the more the environment changed from ethereal beauty to something more predatory. The trees became gnarled, their bark resembling stretched, grey skin. Huge, pitcher-like plants hung from the branches, exhaling puffs of golden spores that shimmered in the dim light like ground diamonds.
"Keep your mouth shut," Isolde said, not looking back . "The spores induce dreams. You would wander into the thicket chasing a memory of your mother’s kitchen and never return."
Rory pressed her sleeve over her nose and mouth. Her eyes darted toward the shadows beneath the weeping trees. Something was moving there—multi-legged and spindly, with eyes that caught the violet light of the sky.
"We're being watched," Rory said, her voice muffled by the fabric.
"Always," Nyx replied. The Shade’s form flickered , their silhouette stretching and snapping back like elastic. "The denizens of the Fold are curious. Most have never seen a mortal who didn't arrive as a corpse or a slave."
A sudden, sharp chime echoed through the clearing, like a hammer striking a crystal bell. Rory’s hand flew to her hip, her fingers brushing the hilt of the Fae-forged blade Isolde had gifted her. The moonsilver felt pathologically cold, a biting frost that seeped through her leather gloves.
"Look," Isolde said.
They had reached the centre of the grove. Standing in a perfect circle were twelve massive oak trees, but they weren't wood. They were petrified bone, bleached white and reaching upward like the ribs of a gargantuan beast. Between the pillars, the air shimmered with a violent, oily distortion. It looked like a tear in a tapestry , revealing a glimpse of a different world altogether—a place of warm amber skies and the scent of roasting meat and overripe fruit.
The Heartstone Pendant began to burn.
"Dymas," Rory whispered. "The Realm of Gluttony."
"The Prince of Excess beckons," Isolde said, her lilac eyes reflecting the amber glow of the rift . "The pendant is a key, Aurora. But keys work both ways. They lock as often as they open."
The ground beneath their feet began to vibrate. From the amber rift, a sound emerged—a low, wet thudding, like a massive drum covered in fat. The sweetness in the air turned rancid, the smell of a banquet left to rot in the sun.
"Something is coming through," Nyx hissed, their violet eyes glowing brighter . They shifted into a solid state, a dark guardian standing between Rory and the tear.
"Isolde, you said this was a reconnaissance mission," Rory shouted, drawing the Fae blade. The silver metal caught the amber light, humming with a lethal, icy energy. "You didn't say the door was already unlatched!"
"The Fae do not lie, child, but we often neglect to mention the timing of the tides." Isolde stepped back, her feet still silent on the humming grass . "The winter solstice approaches. The Veil is a tattered rag. Do you feel that?"
Rory felt it. A pressure in her ears, then a sudden, violent suction. The amber rift widened, the oily distortion spreading like a stain on silk . A hand—pale, six-fingered, and the size of a man’s torso—pressed against the edge of the air. The skin was translucent, showing thick, golden veins pumping through the muscle.
"It smells... incredible," Rory said, her voice turning flat and dreamy .
The scent of the rift was no longer rotting. It was everything she had ever craved. Fresh bread. Sea salt. The specific, smoky aroma of the Cardiff pubs her father used to frequent. Her stomach cramped with a sudden, agonizing hunger that made her knees weak.
"Aurora, don't breathe it in!" Nyx lunged toward her, but his shadow-hand passed through her shoulder as she stumbled forward.
"I just... I need to see," Rory murmured. She took a step toward the bone-white pillars. The Fae blade dropped from her hand, hissing as it hit the blue flowers.
The giant, six-fingered hand gripped the air harder, and a face began to push through the shimmering curtain. It was beautiful and horrific in equal measure—a man’s face, but stretched too wide, with three rows of needle-thin teeth and eyes that were nothing but swirling pools of molten gold.
"Eat," the thing whispered. The sound didn't come from its mouth; it vibrated inside Rory’s skull. "Feast. There is plenty for the small, hungry spark."
"Rory!"
The shout was distant. Rory reached out, her hand trembling, toward the golden eyes. The Heartstone Pendant was no longer just hot; it was searing a circular brand into her chest. She could see the vineyards of Dymas now, the sprawling gardens where the fruit was the size of boulders and the wine ran in rivers.
A heavy, cold weight suddenly slammed into her midsection.
Nyx had solidified, tackling her to the ground just as the entity’s other hand swept through the space where her head had been a second before. The Shade’s touch was like being submerged in an ice bath, the shock of it snapping the golden haze from Rory’s mind.
She gasped, the cloying honey-scent replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of the Shade’s essence.
"Pick up the blade!" Nyx roared, their voice no longer a whisper, but a gale .
Rory scrambled through the silver grass, her fingers closing around the frozen hilt of the moonsilver dagger. The blue flowers beneath her hissed and curled, their paralysing nectar splashing against her boots. She rolled to her feet just as the entity from Dymas forced its shoulders through the rift.
It was a Dymasian Warden—a creature of pure, gluttonous consumption. Its skin shone with a fine coating of oil, and its belly was a distended, translucent drum.
"It wants the stone," Isolde called out from the safety of a gnarled oak. "It won't kill you until it has tasted the crimson light!"
The Warden lunged. It moved with a terrifying, fluid speed, its massive body rippling like jelly. Rory dived between the creature’s legs, the Fae blade trailing a line of frost across the entity’s thigh. A golden liquid, thick as syrup, sprayed from the wound, but the Warden didn't scream. It laughed—a wet, bubbling sound.
"Sweetness," the Warden gurgled. "So much sweetness in such a small vessel."
It spun around, its six-fingered hand reaching for Rory’s throat. Nyx intercepted, their shadow-arms elongating into blades of pure darkness, clashing against the Warden’s oily skin with the sound of a meat cleaver hitting a butcher’s block.
"The pillars!" Nyx shouted, struggling to hold the creature back . "Rory, the bone pillars! Break the circle!"
Rory looked at the white, petrified ribs of the grove. They were the anchors. She looked at the Warden, then at the pulsating rift, then at the silver blade in her hand. The Heartstone was screaming now, its light bleeding through the fabric of her shirt, a beacon for every hungry thing in the dark.
She didn't run for the pillars. She ran straight at the Warden.
"Aurora, no!" Isolde’s voice finally lost its cryptic calm.
Rory leapt onto the creature’s back, her boots slipping on the oily skin. She drove the moonsilver blade deep into the Warden’s neck. The cold of the knife met the heat of the demon’s blood, and the reaction was violent. A plume of white steam erupted, and the Warden shrieked—a sound that shattered the translucent leaves of the surrounding trees.
The creature thrashed, throwing Rory toward the shimmering rift.
She hit the ground hard, sliding across the humming grass until the heels of her boots projected over the edge of the amber void. She looked down and saw the golden clouds of Dymas miles below her.
The Warden recovered, its wound knitting together with sickening speed. It crouched, preparing to spring, its golden eyes fixed on the glowing pendant at Rory’s neck.
Then, the sky above the grove turned a sudden, bruised black.
The floating obsidian islands stopped drifting. They plummeted.
A second rift, jagged and cold, tore open directly above the bone-white circle. It wasn't amber. it was the colour of a dead star. From the blackness, something far larger than the Warden began to descend.
"The balance," Isolde whispered, her silver hair whipping around her face as a gale-force wind began to tear through the clearing. "The gate is wide, and the Great Void has noticed."
The Warden stopped its advance. It looked up, and for the first time, the expression on its beautiful, horrific face was one of pure, unadulterated terror.
Rory gripped her blade, her back to the golden abyss, as the shadows of the Grove began to scream.