AI The ancient oak standing stones loomed like skeletal fingers against the bruised twilight sky. Aurora Carter, Rory to those who knew her well, clutched the strap of her worn messenger bag, the rough canvas a familiar anchor against the gnawing unease crawling up her spine. The air here, thick with the scent of damp earth and something too sweet, too cloying, like overripe fruit on the verge of rot, pressed in on her. Richmond Park. Isolde’s grove. The Fae Grove. Names whispered, or sometimes yelled, in hushed tones by those who’d stumbled upon it, or perhaps been drawn to it. Rory hadn't stumbled. She'd walked, purposefully, the Heartstone Pendant nestled against her skin, a faint warmth seeping through her thin jumper. Dymas hadn't given her the pendant with a clear explanation, only a cryptic warning about "thin places" and "thin times." This place, tonight, felt impossibly thin.
She pushed through a curtain of ferns, their fronds wet with dew that clung stubbornly despite the absence of recent rain. Her boots sank slightly into the mossy ground, each step a soft squelch swallowed by the deepening silence . Where were the usual nighttime sounds? No rustling of small creatures, no distant hoot of an owl, not even the drone of insects. Just the thrum of her own pulse in her ears, a frantic drumbeat against the suffocating stillness. She’d driven, parked miles away, then walked, following GPS coordinates that had led her to the edge of the woods, then a winding, forgotten track. The standing stones had been the marker, just as the fragmented legends foretold.
A shiver traced its way down her spine , entirely unrelated to the chill in the air. She told herself it was the anticipation of what she might find, the reason she’d undertaken this solitary pilgrimage. Eva had been gone a week. A week of unanswered calls, unread messages, and a gnawing dread that coiled tighter with each passing hour. Eva, her oldest friend, the one who’d pulled her from a suffocating life in Cardiff, who’d shared late-night kebabs and even later-night anxieties in their cramped London flat. Eva, who’d spoken of this place, of finding… refuge.
Rory stopped, straining her ears. A sound, faint but distinct. A low hum, like a distant, mournful cello. It seemed to emanate from the heart of the clearing, a sound that vibrated in her teeth. She took a hesitant step forward, then another, the ferns parting to reveal a space bathed in an ethereal, moonlight glow, though the moon herself was a sliver, veiled by a blanket of cloud. Wildflowers, impossibly vibrant, carpeted the ground, their colours muted in the gloom but still possessing an unnatural luminescence.
She swept her gaze across the clearing, her heart hammering against her ribs. Nothing. Yet, the feeling of being watched prickled the hairs on her arms. She saw a flicker of movement at the periphery of her vision, by the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. A shadow, detaching itself from the bark. She snapped her head around. Empty. Just the rough, textured wood. Her breath hitched. "Hello?" she called out, her voice sounding small and fragile in the vast quiet. The hum intensified for a beat, then faded, leaving behind only the echo of her own fear.
The pendant on her chest grew warmer, a subtle, insistent heat that spread across her skin. She touched it, her fingers brushing the cool silver of the chain. It pulsed, a faint, rhythmic throb against her touch. Hel portal. Dymas had said it would warm near a Hel portal. Was one here? And why? Her mind, usually so quick to dissect and analyze, felt sluggish, muddled by the oppressive atmosphere. It was like trying to think through thick fog.
She took a few more steps, venturing deeper into the grove. The wildflowers brushed against her legs, their petals surprisingly cool. She noticed that the air no longer smelled of rot; instead, it carried a delicate, floral scent, intoxicating and sweet, yet with an undercurrent of something metallic, like old blood. A trick of the mind, she told herself. The tension was making her imagine things.
Another flicker . This time, by the edge of her left eye. A swift, dark shape, too low to be a bird, too quick to be an animal. It darted through the dense undergrowth surrounding the clearing. She spun, her hand instinctively going to the small pocket in her bag where she kept a sturdy wrench, her usual tool for… well, for anything that needed a firm tap. It offered little comfort now. She saw nothing but a wall of ancient trees, their branches reaching like grasping claws towards the dim sky.
"Eva?" she whispered, the name a prayer on her lips . "Are you here?"
No answer. Only the silence, now punctuated by a new sound. A soft, wet thudding, as if someone were carefully , deliberately , dropping heavy fruit onto soft earth. It was coming from everywhere and nowhere, a disorienting cacophony of a single sound. Rory froze, her muscles tensed. Her eyes darted around, trying to pinpoint the source, but it eluded her, a phantom symphony of dread. Her own breathing grew ragged, each inhale a struggle against the invisible pressure in the air. She felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to flee, to turn and run back through the ferns, back to the safety of the car and the familiar , mundane lights of London. But Eva…
A low branch, heavy with dew-laden leaves, brushed against her face. She flinched, swiping at it with her hand. As her fingers met the leaf, a jolt, sharp and cold, shot up her arm. It wasn't just dew. It was sticky, like sap, but colder. And it smelled faintly of iron. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked at her hand. Nothing clung to her skin. But the sensation… it had been undeniably real.
She backed away slowly , her boots making no sound on the thick moss. The thudding had stopped. The silence returned, heavier, more menacing than before. Her gaze fixed on a point between two of the standing stones. The air there seemed to shimmer, to warp, as if looking through heat haze . But the air was cold. And the shimmering was accompanied by a subtle, almost imperceptible whispering, a chorus of sibilant sounds that brushed against her hearing like a spider's silk . She couldn't make out words, only the suggestion of voices, ancient and hungry.
She took a step back, her heel catching on something buried in the moss. She stumbled, catching herself on a nearby stone. It was cold, unnaturally so, and damp. As her hand steadied herself, she felt a subtle vibration beneath her palm. The stone seemed to hum, a low, resonant frequency that travelled up her arm and settled in her bones. The pendant on her chest flared with warmth , a sudden, intense heat that made her gasp. Something was very wrong. Not just wrong. This was the kind of wrong that burrowed deep, that tasted of old evils and forgotten sins. She was not alone. And whatever was here, it was aware of her. It had been watching her since she'd stepped through the stones.