AI The night air bit at Aurora’s exposed skin as she pushed through the overgrown brambles. Her jacket offered little protection from the chill that had settled deep in her bones, a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Richmond Park was a sprawling expanse, and she’d chosen to enter it through a less-travelled path, one that quickly dissolved from a faint deer trail into a chaotic tangle of thorny branches and decaying leaves. Moonlight, diffused through the thick canopy of ancient oaks, painted the undergrowth in shifting shades of grey and shadow. The city sounds, the distant hum of London, felt miles away, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the park.
She stopped, listening. Nothing. Only the whisper of the wind through the leaves and the thumping of her own heart against her ribs. According to the faded map Eva had pressed into her hand, the Fae Grove lay somewhere deeper within. Eva, with her wild assertions and even wilder eyes, had insisted Rory needed to go, that the answers she sought were waiting there. Rory had dismissed it as another of Eva’s fanciful notions, born from too many late nights filled with hushed stories and potent drink. But then Evan’s threats had escalated, the veiled promises of what he’d do if she didn’t return to him turning into late-night calls and the unsettling certainty that her flat above Silas’ bar was no longer a sanctuary . Eva’s urgent plea, “Go to Isolde’s Grove, Rory. It’s the only safe place.”
Rory adjusted the strap of her worn messenger bag, the faint weight of the Heartstone Pendant against her chest a constant reminder of its presence. It had arrived in a plain brown package a week ago, no return address, just her name scrawled in an elegant, unfamiliar hand. A deep crimson gem, cool to the touch, nestled on a fine silver chain. It offered no explanation, sparked no recognition, yet it pulsed with a faint warmth now, a subtle thrum against her sternum that she’d never felt before. The pendant, Eva had said, would guide her.
She pushed onward, her boots crunching on fallen twigs. The trees grew closer together here, their gnarled branches forming interlocking arches overhead. A peculiar scent, sweet and cloying, like overripe fruit and damp earth, perfumed the air. It was a smell that clung to the back of her throat, unfamiliar and vaguely unsettling. The moonlight struggled to penetrate this dense foliage, plunging the path into deeper darkness broken only by the occasional silver shaft that fell like a spotlight.
A rustle.
Rory froze, her breath catching. Her eyes scanned the dense undergrowth. A small creature, a fox perhaps, darted across her peripheral vision, a fleeting streak of russet disappearing into the gloom . Her pulse quickened . She told herself it was just the park’s wildlife, disturbed by her intrusion. But the stillness that followed was heavy, expectant. It felt as though the very air held its breath, waiting.
She reached a more open area. Towering oaks, ancient and immense, stood like sentinels . Their bark was a tapestry of moss and lichen, their branches reaching skyward as if in supplication. In the centre of this clearing, bathed in the pale lunar glow, stood a ring of rough-hewn stones, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. Standing stones. This was it, then. The Fae Grove.
The air hung still, unnaturally so. No birdsong. No distant owl hoots. The wind seemed to have abandoned this place, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Rory walked towards the centre of the stone circle, her footsteps unnervingly loud on the soft earth. The scent here was stronger, almost overwhelming, the cloying sweetness now tinged with something else, something metallic, like old blood. A shiver traced its way down her spine .
The Heartstone Pendant gave a distinct, almost insistent pulse against her skin. She touched it, her fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface of the crimson gem. It felt warmer now, a comforting heat against the surrounding unnatural cold.
A faint sound drew her attention. A soft, rhythmic tapping. It seemed to emanate from the very ground beneath her feet, a gentle percussion, like tiny hammers striking stone. Tap… tap… tap…
Rory strained to hear, to pinpoint the source. It grew subtly louder, more insistent, though it remained maddeningly indistinct. She took a step back, her eyes darting around the clearing. The trees at the edge seemed to press closer, their shadows deepening, coalescing into shapes that flickered at the edge of her vision. Was that a face? A hand reaching out? She blinked, and the forms dissolved, leaving only the familiar bark and shadow.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded weak, swallowed by the vastness of the grove. “Is anyone there?”
Silence answered her, a silence that hummed with unspoken things. The tapping continued, undeterred, a persistent, unnerving rhythm. It wasn’t coming from any discernible direction, but from everywhere at once, a phantom drummer playing a dispassionate, an unending beat.
Her gaze drifted to the standing stones. The moonlight glinted off something at the base of one of them. She moved closer, her boot nudging a fallen oak leaf aside. A cluster of wildflowers, impossibly vibrant in the gloom , bloomed at the stone’s foot. Deep violets, fiery reds, and startling blues, their petals untouched by the chill of the night. They looked fresh, as if they had just unfurled, despite the season. And they pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible light, a bioluminescent glimmer that seemed to mirror the glow of the pendant against her chest .
A snap of a twig behind her.
Rory whirled around, her heart leaping into her throat. Nothing. Just the dark, silent trees. But the feeling of being watched intensified, a palpable pressure on her skin. The air grew colder, the sweet, metallic scent thickening until it was difficult to breathe. The tapping grew faster, more frantic, an erratic percussion that scraped at her nerves.
She felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, the distinct impression of breath against her skin. She didn't dare turn. She couldn’t. Her body felt frozen, rooted to the spot. The edges of her vision began to blur, as if the world itself were warping and shifting. The standing stones seemed taller now, their rough surfaces rippling like water . The wildflowers at their base flared with an intense, unnerving light.
Then, a whisper . So soft, it was almost lost in the frantic tapping, but clear enough to send a jolt of pure terror through her.
“You’re not home.”
The whisper was dry, like parchment tearing, and it seemed to originate from directly beside her ear. Rory squeezed her eyes shut, her hands clenching into fists. She could feel the pounding of her own blood in her ears, a wild drumbeat against Eva’s frantic, phantom rhythm. This place was wrong. Terribly, fundamentally wrong. She had come here seeking a refuge, but had instead stumbled into a trap. The pendant against her chest flared, its warmth no longer a comfort, but a beacon in the encroaching darkness. Below it, the crimson gem pulsed , a silent observer to the unfolding horror. The tapping continued, a relentless, maddening cadence, like a heartbeat measured by a dead clock.