AI
The air changed first. It grew thick and sweet, heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp, rich earth. Aurora Carter pushed past the last of the ancient, moss-covered standing stones, the rough bark snagging at her sleeve, and stepped into a world that should not exist.
A soft, violet twilight bathed a circular clearing, though the sun had been setting in fiery orange hues only moments before in Richmond Park. Here, there was no sun, only a gentle, luminescent light that seemed to emanate from the very air . Wildflowers, impossible and vibrant, carpeted the ground in swirls of sapphire blue and emerald green, their petals tipped with silver that glittered like frost. In the centre of the grove, a magnificent, weeping willow stood, its long, silver-green leaves trailing in a non-existent breeze, making no sound at all.
"Welcome," a voice whispered, seeming to come from every direction at once. It was like the rustle of leaves and the murmur of a distant stream woven together.
Isolde Varga stood beneath the willow, her silver hair a river of moonlight down her back. She wore a simple, dark grey dress, and her pale lavender eyes held the wisdom of centuries. She left no impression on the grass, no indent from her bare feet. She simply was.
Rory’s companion, Nyx, shifted at her side. Their form wavered, a humanoid silhouette of living shadow that drank the ambient light. Their violet eyes, faint points of illumination in the darkness of their being, fixed on the Half-Fae. The air around them grew colder, a pocket of winter in the perpetual spring of the grove.
"You brought a Shade," Isolde stated. Her voice held no accusation, only a flat, curious observation. "They are not fond of this place. The life here… it disagrees with them."
Nyx’s voice was a dry whisper , like dead leaves skittering across pavement. "The feeling is mutual. This place is too loud with living."
Rory placed a hand on the solidified arm of Nyx’s shadow-form. The touch was cool, like polished stone. "They're with me. We need your help, Isolde."
Isolde glided closer, her movements fluid and unnaturally graceful. She did not walk so much as flow across the ground. "Help is a coin with two faces. The side you seek may not be the one you receive." Her gaze dropped to Rory’s chest, to the thin silver chain peeking from her collar. "The Heartstone grows warm. It knows where you are. And it knows what you are running from."
Rory’s fingers instinctively went to the pendant, the deep crimson gemstone pulsing with a faint, reassuring heat against her skin. "It's been acting up more. Pulling me."
"It pulls you toward a tear," Isolde said, circling them slowly . "A weakness in the Veil. The winter solstice approaches. The Boundary thins. The scent of Dymas is on the wind."
The name hung in the air , heavy and cloying. Rory could almost taste it; overripe fruit, spiced meat, and the cloying sweetness of decay. The pleasant scent of the grove soured for a moment. "The Gluttony realm. What does it want with London?"
"What does any hunger want?" Isolde countered, stopping before Rory. She reached out a slender hand, her fingers hovering just above the Fae-forged dagger tucked into Rory’s belt. The moonsilver blade shimmered , its own cold light a stark contrast to the grove’s gentle glow. "You carry a sliver of the Fae Courts and a shard of Hel. You walk the line, Aurora Carter. A perilous path."
"I didn't ask for any of this," Rory said, her voice tighter than she intended . The cool-headed logic she prided herself on felt strained here, in this place where the rules of the world were merely suggestions.
"No," Isolde agreed, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. "You were chosen. Gifted. Now, you must learn to wield those gifts, or they will become your shackles." She turned and gestured toward the silver willow. "Come. There is something you must see."
Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx, whose shadowy form seemed to contract, becoming denser, more solid. A silent warning. But what choice did they have? The pendant was a lodestone, and the pull was growing stronger every day. She followed Isolde, Nyx a dark, silent presence at her heels.
As they approached the willow, Rory noticed something strange about the tree. The bark wasn't bark at all, but a smooth, pearlescent substance, like the inside of an oyster shell. The leaves, when she got close enough, were not leaves but thin, crystalline structures that chimed with a sound like tiny bells when they moved, though they never seemed to move on their own.
Isolde placed her palm against the trunk. The tree responded, the silvery bark glowing with a soft, white light. A section of the trunk dissolved, not falling away, but simply ceasing to be, revealing a dark opening that led down into the earth. A set of stone steps, slick with glowing moss, spiralled into the gloom .
"The heart of the grove," Isolde said, her voice echoing slightly in the new space . "Time flows differently here. What feels like an hour below could be a minute, or a day, when you surface. Be mindful."
Rory peered into the opening. A cool, earthy air rose from below, carrying the scent of petrichor and something else, something ancient and mineral. The glowing moss cast a shifting, green light on the stones. "What's down there?"
"A reflection," Isolde said cryptically. "A truth the world above has forgotten."
Without another word, she stepped into the opening and began to descend. Rory hesitated for only a second before following, her hand resting on the hilt of the Fae blade. The metal was cold, a familiar anchor in the swirling strangeness. Nyx flowed after her, their shadowy form seeming to absorb the faint light from the moss, leaving a patch of deeper darkness in their wake.
The stairs were narrow and wound endlessly downward. The air grew cooler, the scent of earth stronger. The only sound was the soft tread of Isolde’s silent feet and the faint scuff of Rory’s boots on the damp stone. The walls were no longer simple earth, but a complex tapestry of interwoven roots, some as thick as Rory’s arm, glowing with their own soft, internal light in shades of blue and gold. They pulsed gently, like a slow, sleeping heartbeat.
Deeper they went, into the quiet core of the world. The pressure changed, a subtle weight settling in Rory’s ears. The silence became a presence, so profound it felt like a physical thing . This was a place untouched by the noise of the city, a place that had existed long before the first brick of London was ever laid.
Finally, the stairs opened into a vast, circular cavern. The ceiling was lost in darkness, but the floor was a pool of still, black water, so perfect it mirrored the glowing roots above like a starry sky. In the exact centre of the pool, a single, pure white lotus flower floated, its petals unfolding with impossible slowness.
Isolde stood at the edge of the water, her reflection not her own, but that of a tall, regal woman with eyes like burning embers.
"The Veil is not a wall, Aurora," Isolde said, her voice hushed and reverent. "It is a reflection. A delicate balance. What happens on one side… echoes on the other."
Rory stared into the water. She saw her own reflection, clear as day. But then, it shimmered . The image changed. She saw a street she recognised, near her flat in London. But the sky was a sick, amber colour, the colour of a bruise. The buildings were warped , their windows like hungry mouths. And from a shadowed alleyway, something was watching . Something with too many limbs and an appetite that gnawed at the edges of reality itself.
The Heartstone pendant against her chest flared with sudden, intense heat. The lotus flower in the centre of the pool trembled , its petals suddenly snapping shut. A single drop of water, black as ink, fell from a root high above and struck the pool's surface.
The reflection shattered . The water churned , no longer a perfect mirror but a churning vortex of blackness. From its depths , a low growl rumbled, a sound of immense hunger and ancient malice. The air grew thick, the scent of Dymas overwhelming the clean smell of the earth. The cavern walls began to shake, dust and glowing moss raining down.