AI Rory’s boots sank into the damp grass at the edge of Richmond Park, where the city’s noise thinned to a hiss behind the trees. The evening air carried cold and leaf-mould, the sort that clung to her tongue. A line of oaks hunched against the sky, their branches knitted together like dark ribs.
Nyx waited where the last streetlamp failed. Not standing, not quite—more like the shadow under a trunk had learned a humanoid outline and held it. Violet light breathed in their eyes, faint as foxfire.
“Your heart’s rattling,” their whisper slid across her ear. “You walked in circles.”
Rory rubbed the inside of her left wrist, thumb catching the crescent scar. Her other hand stayed in her coat pocket, fingers closed around the Heartstone pendant. Warmth pulsed against her palm, a slow beat that didn’t match her own.
“Park gates back there,” she muttered. “Hard to miss. Unless London started shifting on me.”
Nyx’s head tilted. Their outline sharpened, shoulders forming as if the night grew structure .
“Not London.”
Rory stepped closer to the oak line. Beyond it, the grass looked darker, as if someone had poured ink into the soil. A smell drifted out—wildflowers, crushed mint, and something like rain on hot stone, wrong for February.
She pulled the pendant out. The deep crimson gem glowed from within, faint but stubborn. The silver chain lay cold across her fingers, yet the stone warmed like it had sat in sunlight.
Nyx’s gaze fixed on it.
“It pulled you here,” their whisper pressed .
“It turned on in my flat.” Rory closed her fist around it again. “And it’s been doing that whole… heartbeat thing ever since.”
She pushed between two oaks. A thorn snagged her sleeve and snapped off with a soft crack. The air thickened at once, as if she’d walked into a room where incense burned for hours. Sound changed. The distant traffic didn’t fade; it cut off. No slow dimming. One step and silence dropped like a curtain.
Rory stopped. Her breath came out white, then didn’t. No mist. The cold left her lungs and the air tasted of green stems.
Nyx drifted past her shoulder. Their edges blurred, then sharpened again, as though the place couldn’t decide what to do with them.
“The boundary,” their voice thinned . “The Veil pinched here.”
Rory extended a foot. Grass spread under it in a fan, each blade lifting as if it watched her. She pressed down. The ground held.
She took the second step.
The world changed its colours. Not brighter—deeper. Greens turned into layers, like velvet laid over velvet . The shadows under the oaks held hints of blue and purple, as if moonlight pooled there despite the sky above still carrying the last smear of daylight. Wildflowers grew in clusters that didn’t belong together—foxgloves beside buttercups, tiny white stars she couldn’t name threaded through them. Petals glistened with dew that didn’t fall.
Rory crouched and touched a flower. It folded toward her finger, then sprung back.
“Great,” she breathed. “Everything’s touchy.”
Nyx’s outline stretched, then snapped back. They turned their head as if listening to a sound Rory couldn’t hear.
“Keep your eyes on the stones.”
“What stones?”
Nyx lifted a hand. Between trunks, half-buried in moss, stood an upright slab of oak-dark rock, veined with pale lines that looked like roots trapped under its surface. Another sat beyond it. Another beyond that, forming a loose curve.
Rory straightened. The pendant warmed again, firmer. The gem’s glow thickened, like blood held up to a lamp.
“It likes this place,” she said. “Or it hates it.”
Nyx’s eyes narrowed .
“It recognised a tear.”
Rory’s shoulders tightened. “In the Veil.”
Nyx’s silhouette dipped in a nod.
“Hel pressed against Earth in places like this. The grove sat between. Old. Soft.”
Rory rolled the word around in her mouth. Soft sounded worse than broken.
She moved forward, keeping the standing stones in view. Every few steps the air shifted, as though she walked through thin curtains she couldn’t see. Her skin prickled at her forearms. The hairs there lifted.
A sound rippled through the flowers—small chimes, irregular, like someone dropped a handful of glass beads into a bowl of water.
Rory froze.
Nyx’s form flattened, shadow sliding along the ground, then rose again beside her. Their whisper brushed her cheek.
“Not danger. Not yet.”
“Comforting.” Rory forced her feet to move. “You always talk like that?”
Nyx’s violet eyes held on her for a moment, and she caught something that didn’t fit the whisper —patience with sharp edges, old as smoke.
“I always survived,” they murmured.
The path didn’t look like a path. The grass stayed thick. Still, the trees arranged themselves in a way that guided her, trunks leaning and opening, as if they’d learned manners. Between roots, pale mushrooms formed rings, their caps translucent. When Rory stepped close, they shivered and released a scent like pepper and honey.
She swallowed.
From deeper in, a woman’s voice drifted, soft and clear, carrying without echo .
“Boots bruise the moss. Hearts bruise the world. You brought both.”
Rory turned toward it.
A figure moved through the flowers without bending them. Silver hair flowed down her back in a sheet, catching what little light existed and turning it into something like moonshine . Her eyes shone pale lavender, fixed on Rory with the calm of someone who never blinked unless they chose.
Isolde Varga walked as if the ground held no weight for her. Rory watched for footprints. The grass remained smooth behind her, not even a crushed blade.
Nyx’s shape tightened, a shadow drawing itself into armour.
Isolde stopped at the nearest standing stone and laid her palm against it. Veins of pale light brightened within the rock.
“Shadow that once wore skin.” Her gaze slid to Nyx . “And a girl who kept running until the running became a road.”
Rory’s jaw set. “I’m not a girl.”
Isolde’s mouth curved, not quite a smile .
“Age counted in years makes mortals prickly.”
Rory pulled the moonsilver dagger from inside her coat. The Fae-forged blade caught the grove’s strange light and held it, leaf-shaped and cold enough to numb her grip. The air around it felt cleaner, as if it cut scent as well as space.
Isolde’s eyes dipped to it.
“You kept my gift close.”
“People keep knives close when they expect to need them.” Rory shifted her stance. “This place… you’re Isolde.”
Isolde’s hair stirred, though no wind moved the trees.
“Names stick where truth slips.”
Nyx moved, stepping between Rory and Isolde without blocking her view. Their whisper sharpened.
“You called. Why.”
Isolde slid her hand from the stone. Light faded within it, like a breath released.
“A crack opened where no crack belonged.” She looked at Rory’s fist, still closed around the pendant chain. “And something hungry pressed its mouth to it.”
Rory’s fingers tightened until the chain bit into her skin.
“This pendant came from Dymas.” The word tasted like grease and ash, though she’d never been there. “I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t even know what it was until it started… reacting.”
Isolde stepped closer. The wildflowers leaned away from her ankles, parting without being touched.
“Deep crimson,” Isolde murmured. “A heart made into a stone. A lure.”
Nyx’s eyes flared.
“Who gave it.”
Isolde’s gaze held steady.
“A benefactor with clean hands and dirty wants.”
Rory barked a short laugh. “That narrows it down to half the city.”
Isolde turned, silver hair swaying, and began walking between the stones.
“Follow if you wish to keep the skin you wear.”
Rory hesitated. The grove’s silence pressed against her ears. The chime-sound returned, closer now, like something moving in the flowers.
Nyx’s shadow-hand brushed Rory’s sleeve, light as dust.
“Stay near me.”
Rory lifted her chin and followed Isolde.
The deeper they went, the more the grove felt like a place that remembered being elsewhere. Trees changed shape—oaks gave way to trunks with pale bark that twisted in spirals, branches braided into arches overhead. Vines hung down with leaves like thin glass. When Rory brushed one aside, it rang, a clear note that made her teeth ache.
She glanced up. The sky above the grove didn’t match the sky she’d left. It held a dim, pearly wash, like the inside of a shell. No sun. No clouds. Light existed without a source.
Rory’s pendant throbbed , warmth building. The gem’s glow thickened until it cast a faint red stain over her knuckles.
Nyx stopped, their form flickering.
“The tear,” they whispered. “Near.”
Isolde’s bare feet never slowed.
“The Veil thins at old boundaries,” she offered, voice calm . “Standing stones remember what they once guarded.”
Rory’s throat dried. “And what did they guard?”
Isolde looked back over her shoulder.
“Appetites.”
Rory followed the line of Isolde’s gaze. Between two pale-barked trees, the ground dipped into a shallow basin lined with smooth stones. Water filled it, still as oil. Yet it didn’t reflect the pearly sky.
It reflected amber.
Rory’s breath caught. The surface held a warm, honey-coloured glow, as if a sunset lived under the water. Shapes moved within it—shadows of towers, long tables, hanging vines heavy with fruit. The air above the pool smelled of roasted figs and wine, sweet enough to make her stomach twist.
Her pendant burned.
Rory yanked it out and held it away from her body. The Heartstone’s deep crimson pulsed like a living thing, its glow answering the amber beneath the water.
Nyx hovered near the basin, their outline stretched thin as smoke.
“Hel,” their whisper frayed. “Dymas.”
Isolde crouched by the pool, knees never touching the grass. She skimmed her fingers over the surface without breaking it. The amber shimmered , rippling under her touch like skin.
“A mouth at the edge of a feast,” she murmured. “Not open enough to swallow you whole. Open enough to bite.”
Rory kept the dagger up, its cold edge grounding her. “I don’t fancy getting bitten by a realm.”
Isolde’s lavender eyes lifted to Rory’s face.
“Then don’t lean close.”
Rory didn’t move. The scent from the pool crawled into her nose, thick with sugar and smoke. Her tongue remembered flavours she hadn’t tasted—rich sauces, fat dripping off meat, fruit split open and steaming. Her stomach clenched, empty and aching, though she’d eaten an hour ago.
Nyx’s hand—shadow made into fingers—closed around Rory’s wrist. Cold travelled up her skin, cutting through the false hunger.
“Don’t listen,” they whispered. “It talked through appetite.”
Rory swallowed. The hunger loosened, like a knot easing.
“I didn’t even know a place could do that,” she managed.
Isolde rose, smooth as water lifting.
“Places do what people do,” she answered. “They want.”
Rory’s eyes stayed on the amber pool. Something moved under the surface—too long to be a shadow of a tree, too deliberate to be a trick of light. A ripple formed without wind, travelling from the centre to the edge, as if something beneath the veil-water had shifted and pressed close.
Rory took a step back.
The chime-sound returned, louder. It came from the vines overhead. They trembled , leaves ringing like thin bells. A few petals dropped, drifting slow, then vanishing before they touched the ground.
Nyx’s body flickered , their violet eyes sharpening.
“Something noticed.”
Isolde tilted her head, listening.
“Not from below.”
Rory turned, scanning the trees. The grove’s light stayed steady, but shadows gathered between trunks, thicker than they had been. Not Nyx. These shadows held edges that didn’t belong to bark and leaf.
She tightened her grip on the Fae-forged blade. Cold bit into her palm and steadied her.
“Isolde.” Rory kept her voice low. “If you brought us here to watch a portal have a tantrum, I’m going to start asking for refunds.”
Isolde’s gaze slid to the standing stones ahead, where the curve of them tightened into a rough circle. In the centre stood a single tree, enormous, its roots rising above the ground like the backs of buried beasts. Its bark looked burnt in places, yet green shoots pushed through the black like stubborn fingers.
“The grove held more than one door,” Isolde murmured. “Come.”
Rory didn’t like the way the stones seemed to lean inward as they approached, like an audience crowding close. The air turned cooler. Her breath returned, faint mist blooming again in front of her lips.
Nyx moved beside her, their shadow touching hers for a moment, and the contact felt like someone placed a hand on her shoulder.
At the base of the huge tree, a hollow opened between roots. Not a natural hollow—its edges ran too smooth, like something had carved it with care. Pale symbols traced the inner rim, faint as scratches on bone.
Rory’s pendant pulsed hard, heat spiking against her skin through her coat pocket.
She pulled it free again. The gem’s glow spilled onto the roots, painting them red.
Nyx leaned forward, their outline narrowing as they peered into the hollow. The violet of their eyes lit the symbols, and the scratches answered with a faint shimmer, like heat haze.
Isolde stepped to the edge without hesitation, silver hair falling forward as she looked down into the dark.
“Below this tree,” her voice carried, “the grove remembered its older shape.”
Rory lifted the dagger, moonsilver catching the shimmer.
“What lived down there?” Her words came out rough.
Isolde’s gaze stayed fixed on the hollow.
“Questions taste better than answers.” She extended her hand toward Rory’s pendant, stopping short of touching it. “Your heartstone wanted this depth. It pulled like a hook.”
Rory tucked the chain around her fingers and held the gem closer to the opening. Heat rolled off it in waves now, strong enough to flush her skin. The symbols around the hollow brightened in response, lines forming a circle of pale light.
From inside, something exhaled—a cold breath that smelled of damp stone and burnt sugar.
Nyx’s whisper scraped close to Rory’s ear.
“Don’t step in until you know what you’re stepping on.”
Rory stared into the hollow. Darkness filled it, yet the darkness looked layered, like curtains of ink hung one behind another. Somewhere beneath that, a faint amber flicker blinked once, then held steady, as if an eye opened and stayed open.
Rory shifted her weight forward, boots braced at the root’s edge, blade raised and pendant burning in her fist.