AI
The ancient oak standing stones loomed , their bark like wrinkled leather in the faint moonlight. Aurora pushed through the last of the clinging bracken, the familiar crunch of dry leaves under her boots sounding too loud in the stillness. The Fae Grove. She had come here seeking answers, following the faint, insistent warmth of the Heartstone pendant against her skin. But the air, usually thick with the scent of year-round wildflowers and damp earth, was thin and sterile, like a room that had been sealed for a long time.
The pendant’s heat was a steady thrum, a beacon guiding her deeper into the clearing. She clutched it, its smooth, crimson surface a small comfort. Isolde, the grove’s keeper, had promised her answers about the pendant, about the strange, shadowy figures that had been dogging her steps since she’d left Evan. *Tomorrow at dusk *, Isolde had said, her voice like the rustle of leaves. But the pendant had begun to burn against her skin an hour ago, a silent, urgent summons she couldn’t ignore.
Something was wrong. The usual symphony of the night was absent. No owls called, no foxes barked their sharp, urban cries. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, refusing to stir the branches of the ancient trees that formed a dense wall around the grove. The only sound was her own breathing, ragged and too loud in her ears.
A twig snapped behind her.
Rory froze, her hand instinctively going to the small canister of pepper spray in her jacket pocket. She turned slowly, her eyes scanning the dark line of the woods she had just emerged from. Nothing. Just the impenetrable shadows between the massive trunks. An animal, she told herself. A deer. A badger. Richmond Park was full of them.
But the silence that followed the snap was heavier than before. It was an attentive silence , a listening silence . She turned back towards the centre of the grove, her pace quickening. The wildflowers, usually a vibrant carpet of impossible colours, seemed muted, their heads bowed as if in mourning. Their scent was gone .
A soft whisper slithered past her ear, a word she couldn't quite catch, sibilant and cold . It wasn't the wind. There was no wind. She spun around, her heart starting a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. Again, nothing. The standing stones watched her, their weathered faces impassive and ancient. They had always felt protective, like silent guardians. Tonight they felt like jury members, waiting for a verdict.
The Heartstone pendant flared with sudden, intense heat, making her gasp. Its inner crimson glow pulsed brightly, casting long, dancing shadows that writhed around her feet. The light wasn't comforting ; it felt like an alarm, a beacon broadcasting her location to whatever was watching from the darkness.
She started moving again, faster this time, her boots scuffing the dirt. She needed to find Isolde. Or get out. Getting out was starting to feel like the better option. She reached the centre of the clearing, a small, moss-covered altar stone where she usually met the Fae. It was empty.
"Isolde?" Her voice was a bare whisper , swallowed by the oppressive quiet.
The whisper came again, closer this time, clearer. *Malphora.*
Rory’s blood ran cold . That name. She hadn't heard it since she was a child, a nonsense word her Irish grandmother used to murmur when she thought Rory was misbehaving . A name for a child who didn't belong, a changeling. It was a joke, a family story. It wasn't real.
"Who's there?" she called out, her voice stronger now, laced with a fear she couldn't hide. "Show yourself."
Movement at the edge of her vision. A flicker . She snapped her head to the left, towards the line of hawthorn that marked the eastern boundary of the grove. For a fraction of a second, she saw it. A figure, tall and unnaturally thin, its limbs too long for its body. It was the colour of rotting bark and shadow, and it moved with a liquid, disjointed grace that made her stomach clench. Then it was gone, melting back into the gloom as if it had never been there.
She backed away, her breath catching in her throat. This wasn't some Fae trick. This was something else. Something old and hungry. The pendant was burning now, so hot she was surprised it didn't scorch her skin. It wasn't just a beacon ; it was a ward, and it was failing .
Another sound. A wet, tearing sound, like cloth being slowly ripped apart, but with a fleshy undertone that set her teeth on edge. It came from all around her now, a chorus of quiet, deliberate wrongness. The shadows at the periphery of her vision seemed to deepen, to coalesce. They weren't just absences of light anymore; they were solid, tangible things, and they were inching closer.
She broke into a run, not towards the path she came from, but towards the opposite side of the grove , where the boundary was marked by a cluster of ancient yew trees. She had to get out. The rules of the grove, the strange time dilation, felt like a trap now . Minutes could be passing outside, or days. She didn't want to find out which.
As she ran, the ground beneath her feet seemed to soften, to cling to her boots. The air grew thick, difficult to breathe, tasting of dust and decay. The whispering grew louder, a cacophony of sibilant hisses all repeating that one, hated name.
*Malphora. Malphora. Malphora.*
She risked a glance back. The figures were there now, no longer hiding. Three of them, standing just beyond the altar stone. They were taller than any man, their bodies composed of shifting shadow and twisted wood. They had no faces, only smooth, oval planes of darkness that seemed to absorb the moonlight . They didn't run, they simply glided, their long, spindly legs eating up the ground between them.
Rory screamed, a raw, desperate sound that was torn from her lungs. She put on a final burst of speed, her lungs burning, the yew trees growing closer. The boundary. She just had to cross the boundary.
A long, shadowy arm, thin as a branch and ending in wicked-looking talons, shot out from her right, faster than she could react. It didn't grab her, but it raked across her side, tearing through her jacket and the flesh beneath. A sharp, cold pain bloomed in her ribs. She stumbled, crying out, but didn't fall. She could see the gap in the trees now, the familiar , mundane darkness of the rest of the park just beyond.
Another arm whipped out, this time from the left, wrapping around her ankle. It felt like a band of cold iron . She fell hard, the impact knocking the wind from her. The pendant flew from her grasp, skittering across the mossy ground and landing near the altar stone. Its crimson light flickered and died.
The whispers stopped.
The silence that fell was absolute, more terrifying than the noise had been. Cold seeped into her from the shadowy limb holding her ankle, a numbing, creeping cold that felt like death itself . She twisted, trying to kick free, but it was useless. The three figures glided towards her, their featureless heads tilted down in what she could only interpret as curiosity. The one that held her raised its other hand, its talons glinting in the faint light.