AI The silver chain burned against Rory's collarbone as the air turned thick enough to chew. She stumbled forward, boots skidding on moss that felt unnervingly like warm flesh, and grabbed Nyx's shadowy arm to steady herself. The solid part of the Shade held firm, cool and unyielding despite their ephemeral nature.
"Careful," Nyx whispered, the sound rustling through Rory's mind like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "The Grove tolerates clumsiness, but it dislikes haste."
Rory yanked her hand back, wiping sweat from her palm onto her jeans. The Heartstone Pendant pulsed a frantic, crimson rhythm against her skin, a tiny heart beating in time with her own panic. They had stepped through a tear in the Veil behind a nondescript delivery van in Camden, chasing a lead on a missing girl, and now the grey London drizzle was gone . In its place stood a clearing bathed in perpetual, impossible twilight.
Ancient oaks towered above them, their bark etched with glowing runes that shifted when looked at directly. These were the standing stones Isolde had mentioned, living borders between worlds. Wildflowers bloomed in chaotic bursts of colour around their feet—violets that hummed low notes, roses that opened and closed like breathing lungs, and ferns that curled away from approaching footsteps . The air smelled of ozone, crushed mint, and something older, like rain on hot stone from a thousand years ago.
"Time moves strange here," Rory said, her voice sounding flat and dead against the vibrant hum of the grove. "An hour inside could be days outside."
"Or minutes," Nyx corrected, their violet eyes scanning the treeline. Their form flickered, edges blurring into smoke before snapping back to a tall, lean silhouette. "Isolde plays games with clocks. We must find her before the solstice weakens the barrier further. If the Veil tears while we stand in this pocket realm..."
"We get stuck. Or worse, something gets out."
Rory adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, though it held no food tonight. Inside rested a wrapped package meant for the Seer, a bribe wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. She needed answers about the girl, about the shadows stalking Cardiff, and about why her own wrist scar itch whenever she neared a rift.
A path of smooth, white pebbles wound through the undergrowth, leading deeper into the woods. No footprints marred the soft earth beside it. Isolde left no trace, not even on soil that should have yielded to her weight .
They followed the stones.
The deeper they ventured, the more the geometry of the place refused to make sense. Trees leaned at angles that defied gravity yet never fell. Branches intertwined to form archways that seemed miles high from one side and barely tall enough to duck under from the other. Light filtered through the canopy in shafts of pale lavender, matching the colour of Isolde's eyes, illuminating dust motes that hung suspended in mid-air, refusing to settle.
"Do you hear that?" Nyx stopped, head tilting.
Rory held her breath. Beneath the humming of the flowers and the creaking of the ancient wood came a sound like distant chimes, or perhaps glass breaking in slow motion. It came from everywhere and nowhere.
"The Grove speaks," Nyx murmured. "It knows we are not of the Fae."
"I'm human enough," Rory muttered, pushing aside a curtain of hanging vines that felt like cold silk . "And you're stuck here with me, so stop acting like royalty."
"I was a sorcerer once. Aldric. Before the ritual failed." Nyx's voice carried a rare edge of bitterness. "Before I became this."
"Save the tragic backstory for the campfire. We need the Seer."
They emerged into a wider clearing where the air shimmered with visible heat haze, though the temperature remained crisp. In the centre stood a pool of water so still it looked like a sheet of polished obsidian . Around it, mushrooms the size of dinner plates glowed with a soft, bioluminescent pulse .
Isolde Varga sat on a root that curved over the pool, her silver hair cascading down to the forest floor like a waterfall of moonlight. She wore robes woven from spider silk and autumn leaves, shifting in colour as she breathed. Her pale lavender eyes were closed, but she spoke before they took a step onto the mossy bank.
"The delivery arrives late, child of Cardiff. The rain in your world tastes of iron today."
Rory stepped forward, the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip growing colder with every yard she covered. The moonsilver dagger radiated a chill that seeped through her jacket, a warning or a greeting, she couldn't tell.
"We didn't come for a weather report," Rory said, pulling the package from her bag. "We came for answers. A girl went missing near the old docks. Evan's people were involved, but the tracks ended at a wall that shouldn't exist."
Isolde opened her eyes. They held no pupil, only swirling mist. "Evan walks a path paved with borrowed time and stolen breaths. He thinks himself a king of shadows, yet he is but a moth dancing near the flame."
"Cut the riddles," Rory snapped, her patience fraying . "Where is she?"
"The question is not where, but when." Isolde tilted her head, a bird-like motion. "The girl stands between ticks of the clock. Suspended. Gluttony demands a price, and Dymas hungers."
Rory froze. The name of the Hel realm sent a jolt of electricity down her spine . The Heartstone pendant flared hot, nearly burning her skin.
"Dymas?" Nyx stepped closer, their shadow form expanding, casting long, distorted shapes against the glowing mushrooms. "That is a realm of excess. Why would a mortal girl be taken there?"
"Not taken," Isolde corrected, rising to her feet. She moved without sound, her bare feet hovering an inch above the moss. "Offered. A trade. One life for a thousand feasts. Prince Belphegor grows bored with souls who glut themselves on earthly pleasures. He desires something... fresher."
Rory gripped the hilt of the Fae blade. The cold metal grounded her, sharp and real in this dreamlike hellscape. "How do we get her back?"
"The Veil thins," Isolde said, walking toward the obsidian pool. "The winter solstice approaches. The barrier between your London and their banquet hall grows paper-thin. Tonight, a door opens in the heart of your city. A restaurant, perhaps? A place of steam and spice?"
Rory's stomach dropped. "The Golden Empress."
Yu-Fei's kitchen. The steam, the exotic ingredients, the late-night orders that sometimes went to addresses that didn't exist on any map. She had delivered to a flat in Shoreditch last week that vanished when she turned around, leaving only the smell of roasted duck and sulfur.
"The chef cooks for masters he does not see," Isolde continued, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of a prophecy. "He feeds the gap. Tonight, the gap widens. If you do not close it before the moon reaches its zenith, the girl becomes the main course, and the feast spills into your streets."
Nyx's form darkened, the violet glow of their eyes intensifying. "A breach of that magnitude in central London would cause panic. Mass hysteria. The Wardens would descend."
"And kill everyone in the radius to seal the wound," Rory finished. She looked at the Seer, her blue eyes hard. "Give us the way in."
Isolde reached out a hand, her fingers long and translucent. She touched the surface of the black pool. Ripples spread outward, defying the lack of wind. The water's surface changed, showing not the reflection of the trees, but a bustling kitchen . Flames roared. A young woman with terrified eyes stood bound in chains of light, suspended over a massive wok filled with boiling, crimson broth.
"The blade you carry can cut the wards binding the portal," Isolde said, her gaze locking onto Rory . "But blood must spill to open the gate. Not yours. Not hers."
"Whose?" Rory demanded.
Isolde smiled, a sad, brittle expression. "The one who invited them in."
The ground beneath them shuddered. The humming of the flowers stopped abruptly, replaced by a low, guttural growl that seemed to rise from the roots of the ancient oaks . The lavender light flickered and died, plunging the grove into sudden, oppressive darkness. Only the violet glow of Nyx's eyes and the crimson pulse of Rory's pendant remained.
"The Grove rejects the news," Nyx hissed, their voice rising in urgency . "Something follows the scent of the opening."
Branches cracked overhead, heavy and deliberate. Not the wind. Something large moved through the canopy, snapping thick limbs like twigs. The smell of ozone vanished, replaced by the stench of rotting meat and spoiled wine—the signature scent of Dymas.
"Run," Isolde commanded, her riddle-gone voice sharp with fear. "The hounds of Gluttony smell the blood of the living."
Rory drew the Fae-Forged Blade. The moonsilver sang as it left the sheath, a high-pitched keen that cut through the growls. Shadows detached themselves from the tree trunks, coalescing into massive, bloated forms with jaws distended far beyond natural limits. Drool sizzled where it hit the glowing mushrooms, eating through the light.
"Back to the tear!" Rory shouted, backing toward the path of white pebbles.
Nyx stepped in front of her, solidifying into a wall of living darkness. "Go. I will hold the line."
"No heroics," Rory snapped, though she didn't stop moving. "We leave together."
The first beast lunged, a grotesque mass of furs and teeth, its maw wide enough to swallow a car. Rory sidestepped, the cold blade flashing in the dim light. She slashed at the creature's leg, and the moonsilver bit deep, severing sinew that smoked and blackened. The beast howled, a sound that shook the leaves from the trees.
More shapes emerged from the gloom . Dozens of them.
The path ahead shimmered , the exit destabilizing as the Veil reacted to the incursion. The standing stones groaned, their runes flaring angry red.
"Move!" Nyx roared, unleashing a wave of pure shadow that knocked the nearest hounds back, buying them seconds.
Rory sprinted, her boots pounding against the flesh-soft moss. The Heartstone burned so hot it felt like a brand . She could see the tear now, a jagged rip in reality revealing the grey brick wall of the Camden alleyway. Rain lashed through the opening, a welcome, normal sight.
But between her and freedom stood a figure blocking the path. It wasn't a hound. It wore a familiar jacket. A delivery jacket.
Evan stood in the mouth of the portal, smiling, his eyes black voids filled with starving light. He held a key made of bone.
"Going somewhere, Rory?" His voice echoed with a dozen other voices, layered and hungry. "The chef is waiting. And he's reserved the best seat for you."
Rory tightened her grip on the Fae blade, the cold metal biting into her palm. Behind her, the snarls of the hounds grew louder, closing the distance. Ahead, Evan raised the bone key, and the rain in the alleyway turned to steam.