AI Rory pushed aside the damp bracken, her boots sinking into the loamy earth of Richmond Park. She brushed a wet strand of straight, shoulder-length black hair from her cheek, her bright blue eyes scanning the oppressive darkness. The night air was biting , a typical London chill that cut effortlessly through the thin nylon of her Golden Empress delivery jacket. She should have been back at the flat above Silas’ bar by now, tallying her meager tip money and washing off the smell of fried garlic and exhaust fumes. Instead, she was out here in the dead of night, chasing a myth because Eva had sworn this clearing held the answers she needed.
The ancient oak standing stones loomed ahead. They did not look natural. Thick, gnarled trunks stripped of bark stood in a rough, deliberate circle, acting as a boundary marker for a place that only vaguely belonged to Earth. Isolde’s grove.
Rory stopped at the edge. Her right thumb found her left wrist, rubbing the small, crescent-shaped scar left over from a childhood accident. It was an old nervous habit. Keep cool, she told herself. Her father, an uncompromising Irish barrister, had spent her entire youth drilling logic and composure into her head, a mindset that had nearly carried her through Pre-Law at Cardiff University before her life unravelled. Apply the facts, Rory. Walk in, find the center of the pocket dimension, leave the offering, and get out.
She crossed the threshold.
The shift was instantaneous. The distant, continuous hum of the A3 road vanished, replaced by an absolute and suffocating silence . The biting wind died in an instant. Underfoot, the dead autumn leaves were gone , replaced by a carpet of soft, living moss and wildflowers. Pale blue and delicate white petals bloomed in thick clusters, completely defiant of the freezing season outside the oaks. They emitted a faint, cloying sweetness that coated the back of her throat like syrup.
Rory took a deep breath, scanning the clearing. The pocket dimension was supposed to be a sanctuary , a neutral space wedged between Earth and the Fae realm. But the air rested heavy on her skin, thick with the charged , metallic static that usually preceded a violent thunderstorm.
Against her collarbone, the Heartstone pendant began to stir.
She reached her fingers beneath her collar and withdrew the silver chain. The thumbnail-sized gemstone, usually cool and inert against her skin, was radiating a distinct warmth . In the gloom of the unnatural grove, a deep crimson light pulsed from deep within the crystal .
Rory frowned, her analytical mind immediately cataloguing the problem. The unknown benefactor who had given her the artifact had been exceedingly clear about its solitary function. The stone possessed a faint inner glow that flared to life for one reason alone. It pulsed when it was near a Hel portal.
There were not supposed to be any gateways to the underworld inside a Fae sanctuary .
She let the stone drop back against her chest. It rested there like a warning beacon , the heat steadily climbing from warm to feverish. She needed to leave. Whatever magical protection Eva thought the grove offered, it was entirely negated by the creeping influence of Hel.
Rory turned back toward the oak standing stones.
They were much farther away than they had been a moment ago.
She stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She had only taken five steps into the clearing. The standing stones were now at least a hundred yards back, half-swallowed by an unnatural, creeping dark mist that hugged the forest floor.
Time moved differently in the grove. She knew that much . An hour inside could equate to minutes or even days in the outside world. But had space warped along with it? She pulled her phone from her pocket. The screen flared to life, casting a harsh white glare into the shadows. The clock in the corner read 23:14. As she watched, the digital numbers shuddered and began flipping wildly. 04:22. 12:00. 88:88. The screen blanked to a dead, unreflective black.
Logic, she reminded herself, though her heart had begun a heavy, rhythmic thud against her ribs. Think outside the box. If spatial dimensions were dilated , breaking into a panicked run would only disorient her further. Keep a steady pace. Keep an eye on the oaks.
She took a single step toward the boundary.
Behind her, a heavy branch snapped.
The sound was sharp as a gunshot in the muffled quiet of the Fae clearing. Rory froze entirely. She did not turn around. At five foot six, she was not built for a physical brawl with whatever lurked in the dark, but she had a sharp mind. She listened, straining her ears against the oppressive silence .
Nothing. No rustling of wind, no scurrying of scavengers. Just the heavy beating of her own heart.
She took another step forward.
Behind her came the soft, deliberate crunch of a boot on the moss.
A mimic. Or a stalker. The pendant was growing uncomfortably hot against her skin, the crimson light now bright enough to bleed through the thin fabric of her uniform jacket, casting bloody shadows on the damp earth in front of her.
Rory tested the rhythm. She took three quick, decisive strides toward the distant oaks, then stopped abruptly.
One. Two. Three.
The following footsteps matched hers exactly, but they lacked the clean weight of a human stride. They sounded wet and heavy, peeling off the ground with a sickening suction.
Running triggers the prey drive, she thought, her barrister father’s voice echoing with cold pragmatism. Do not run.
A sudden movement flickered in the extreme upper left corner of her vision. She snapped her head toward the tree line. There was nothing there but the pale wildflowers. Yet the flowers themselves looked fundamentally wrong now. The ambient crimson light from her chest illuminated them, stripping away their ethereal glow. The petals were long and sharply curved, curling inward like skeletal fingers grasping at the empty air.
The cloying, sweet smell had mutated. It now carried the metallic stench of oxidized copper and old, stagnant blood.
Something brushed the crown of her straight black hair.
It was the lightest touch, barely more than a displaced current of freezing air, but it sent a violent, involuntary shudder down her spine . The entity was not behind her anymore. It was directly above her.
Rory forced herself to look up.
The ancient canopy of the grove was lost in total darkness, a black void that seemed to swallow the dim light of her pendant . But in that void, something was actively shifting. Long, impossible angles folded and unfolded in the gloom silently. It did not have a defined shape, but it had a distinct presence, a chilling , absolute focus directed entirely at her.
The thumbnail-sized gemstone was scalding now. It burned against her sternum, a searing point of agony that made her gasp aloud. She grabbed the silver chain, pulling the gem away from her skin. The red light flared aggressively, reflecting fiercely in her wide blue eyes.
A voice whispered from the dark.
Rory.
It was not Eva. It was not Silas. It was Evan. Smooth, coercive, dripping with the false affection that used to make her stomach tie in knots before she finally gathered the courage to flee Cardiff.
Come back inside, Rory. You cannot make it out there alone.
Pre-law logic fought a desperate battle against raw, paralyzing trauma. It was not Evan. Evan was a human man, hundreds of miles away in another country. This was something else entirely, something scraping through her deepest memories, sifting through the fears she kept buried under her cool exterior. It was using the time dilation, the isolation, to systematically break her nerve.
Rory did not answer the voice. Speaking would validate it. Acknowledging it would give it power. She lowered her gaze from the shifting midnight above her and locked her eyes firmly on the oak standing stones. They remained impossibly far, shrouded in the thick, suffocating mist.
The temperature in the clearing plummeted sharply . Her breath plumed in the red light, frosting in the stagnant air. The entity was descending . She could not see it directly, but the edge of her vision caught limbs that were far too long and disjointed, moving with a jerky, stop-motion wrongness.
It slid into the periphery on her right. A towering silhouette, blotting out the pale mist.
Look straight ahead, Rory commanded herself, rubbing her thumb frantically over the crescent scar on her wrist. Just walk.
She took a step. The entity matched it instantly, but this time it was right beside her, hovering at the absolute boundary of her vision. As she moved, the wet, peeling sound of its footsteps was accompanied by a low, rhythmic clicking, like large teeth snapping together in anticipation .
Rory picked up her pace, dropping into a fast, purposeful walk. The crimson light of the Heartstone swung wildly with her movements. Every time the red glow washed over the empty space to her right, the towering entity vanished, only to reappear instantly the moment the shadows returned.
The standing stones were finally getting closer. The warped space was correcting itself, or her sheer force of will was pushing through the illusion. Fifty yards. Thirty yards.
You always walk away, the voice whispered. This time it sounded right in her ear, wet and impossibly cold, carrying the undeniable scent of turned earth and graves. You will never be fast enough.
Rory clenched her jaw . She refused to look at the shape looming over her shoulder. She gripped the burning gemstone tightly in her fist, letting the searing physical pain anchor her strictly to reality. The heat was immense, blistering her palm, but she held on. The artifact was of ancient Dymas origin, a beacon of warning, but its inner fire was the only thing holding back the absolute freezing dark.
She raised her clenched fist , holding the glowing crimson stone out like a lantern. The red light spilled across the damp moss and illuminated the rough, barkless trunks of the ancient boundary oaks. Ten yards.
The clicking grew frantic. A deafening roar of snapping jaws filled the air around her, vibrating deeply in her chest. The shadows writhed, lunging aggressively from the corners of her eyes, a sensory assault designed to force her to turn, to look, to finally submit.
Rory broke into a dead sprint.
She threw herself forward, her boots slipping precariously on the slick, fleshy petals of the corrupted wildflowers. The entity emitted a violent shriek, a sound composed of television static and grinding metal that tore painfully at her eardrums. Icy, elongated fingers grazed the back of her Golden Empress jacket, catching the nylon fabric and pulling with immense, unnatural strength.
She pitched forward, ignoring the pull, throwing all her momentum into a violent lunge toward the narrow gap between the two largest standing stones.
The precise moment she crossed the threshold, the agonizing screech was severed like a cut wire.
Rory collapsed heavily onto hard, wet pavement, scraping her knees through her jeans. Her lungs burned as she sucked in huge, desperate gasps of freezing air. The suffocating sweetness of the rotting flowers vanished instantly, replaced by the sharp, familiar scent of London rain and wet asphalt.
She lay there stunned for a long moment, her straight black hair plastered to her cheeks with cold sweat. Slowly, with shaking arms, she pushed herself up and looked back.
Richmond Park was completely quiet. The ancient oaks stood peacefully in their unassuming circle, looking like nothing more than weathering wood illuminated by the dull orange glow of distant streetlamps. Inside the boundary circle, there were no glowing wildflowers, only damp, dead autumn leaves and overgrown brown bracken.
Rory opened her right hand. The gemstone had cooled the second she crossed the boundary, returning to a lifeless, dark ruby color within its silver chain. Her palm was perfectly unblemished. There was no burn mark, only the phantom memory of incredible heat.
She pulled her phone from her pocket. The screen lit up cleanly on the first try. The glowing white time read 22:15. She had only been gone a few minutes.
Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Cool-headed Rory Carter, who prided herself on out-thinking any disastrous delivery route and outmaneuvering the worst panic rushes at the restaurant, sat alone on the freezing path of Richmond Park and stared deeply into the dark woods. The Fae grove was supposed to be a refuge. Whatever had been waiting in there was not of the Fae, and it had known exactly exactly how to get inside her head.
She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, zipped her jacket tightly up to her chin, and started the long walk back to the city lights. She did not look back again.