AI The bite of London’s November air sharpens as Aurora pushes through a curtain of ivy. The path behind her—familiar from three days of maps and half-digested folklore—vanishes as the leaves grow thick, as if the trees themselves are exhaling. She pauses, palm flat against a gnarled trunk, and fumbles for the pendant. The silver chain digs into her wrist, the crescent scar stinging where the metal presses. The Heartstone pulses, a hot throbb like a thumb stitch-wound under her shirt. *Here *, it says. *You’re close *.
The grove hits her like a wave.
She steps into it.
Richmond Park shouldn’t have a clearing this size. The map had shown a blotch of green, a “potential interest point,” but no contour lines, no compass rose strong enough to split the smog. Now, trees part in a perfect circle, their branches high enough to brush the stars. The air smells of wild thyme and something coppery, like old blood. The standing stones are older than the city—their edges are smooth, rounded by time, but the carvings haven’t eroded. Loops and lines, maybe runes, chiseled deep enough to hold moisture.
“Can’t be,” she mutters, throat tight . Eva’s voice echoes in her skull: *The grove doesn’t let you find it twice. It takes what it wants *. Aurora had laughed then, packing her bag with a flashlight and a trowel, but now her hand trembles. The pendant’s pulse quickens. *Too fast *, she thinks. *Too eager *.
A leaf falls. Doesn’t rustle. Doesn’t flutter. It drops straight down, landing with a *plink * on the moss.
Aurora spins. The stones are the same. The clearing is the same. But where there should be the distant hoot of an owl, a dog bark, a car engine, there’s nothing. Not even the hum of the city.
“Hello?” Her voice cracks . She clears her throat. “Is someone there?”
Silence.
She takes a step toward the center, the grass soft under her sneakers. The pendant burns. *Close *. Closer than the park map had suggested. Closer than logic allows. The trees seem to lean, their shadows stretching like fingers. She squints at the runes. A loop, a line—*Hel *, maybe? The Fae realm’s border. Aurora had dived into old texts after Evan vanished, after the calls from the number that wasn’t his, the texts that started with *You shouldn’t have the stone *. Eva had warned her about the grove, about Fae tricks. *They twist your memories. Your desires. They make you want what you can’t have *.
Aurora’s hand strays to the scar. *Don’t be stupid *. She’s here for answers. For closure. For whatever’s taking her friend.
A twig snaps.
Not behind her. To her left .
Her breath hitches. She didn’t hear anyone walking. The park’s paths are graveled , leaf-littered—*sounds carry *. This was a soft, deliberate break. Like a finger brushing a branch, not a foot.
She reaches for the flashlight in her jacket. It’s warm, too, the plastic softening in her hand. The pendant pulses again, a sharp *throb * that makes her teeth ache. *Too close *.
“Eva,” she says, louder . “If this is a joke—”
Something moves at the edge of her vision. A flash of white, a flutter of fabric. She spins. Nothing. Just the stones, the moss, the silence .
“Christ,” she mutters, but her heart’s already racing . She checks her phone. No signal. Of course not. The grove cuts off all tech. Her watch , too—she unclips it, sets it on a stone. The hands freeze. 8:17 PM. Three minutes after she stepped in.
*Time moves differently *. Eva had written that in the margin of her notes: *An hour in, a day out. Don’t stay past dark *.
Dark is now.
Aurora’s back hits a stone. Cold seeps through her jacket. She fumbles for the pendant again, pressing it to her palm. The burn spreads, a hot line up her arm. *Hel portal*, the codex had said. *Pulses with warmth when near *. She’d laughed at the crown jewel of Fae lore, but now her vision blurs.
“Hello?” The word comes out thinner this time. “Who’s there?”
The stones whisper . Not with sound, but with the press of air against her eardrums . It’s a tongue she doesn’t know, old and gnarled, like roots curling in her skull. The runes glow, faint at first, then bright, red as the pendant’s stone.
Aurora staggers back. The stone beneath her foot shifts—*slides *. She catches herself on a trunk, her free hand slamming into something soft. A flower. But the park’s flowers have died weeks ago. This one is blue, petals velvety, center glinting like a gem. She plucks it, and the stem is *warm *, as if it’s been sitting in sunlight.
“Stop,” she whispers. Her voice is a plea, not a demand. “I don’t want—”
A shadow detaches itself from the trees.
It’s tall, thin, shoulders hunched. Its face is a blur, features melting like wax, but the eyes —*the eyes * are blue.
Aurora freezes. Her own eyes are blue. Bright, bright blue.
The shadow takes a step. The pendant explodes in heat, searing through her shirt, through her skin. She drops it, clawing at her chest, but there’s nothing there—just a red mark, a heartbeat’s shape, glowing.
“Rory ,” the shadow says.
Her name. Not “Aurora,” not “Carter.” *Rory *. The nickname Evans used to mock, the one Eva still calls her when she’s drunk.
“Evan?” She takes a step forward. The shadow doesn’t move. “Is that you? Where have you—”
“*I * am not he,” the shadow says. Its voice is a chorus, a woman and a man and a child, all speaking at once. “He *left *.”
Aurora’s throat tightens. “Left? What do you mean—”
“*You * left *him *,” the shadow corrects. It takes another step. The ground trembles. “When the stone burned. When the voices started. You ran. *He * stayed.”
“I didn’t—”
“*You did*.” The shadow leans in. Now she can see its face clearly: not Evan, but a mirror . A version of her, with her blue eyes and black hair, but her skin is as gray as ash, her lips split in a grin that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You ran to get *help *. To fix it. But the grove *remembers *. It *hungers * for what you’ve buried.”
Aurora stumbles back, tripping over a root. The grass cuts her palm. “I didn’t bury anything—”
“*He did*.” The shadow’s hand reaches out. Its skin is cold, clammy, like a dead fish. “*You * gave him the stone. To calm the voices. To make the pain stop. But the stone doesn’t *calm *. It *feeds *. And he… he couldn’t stop feeding.”
“Evan’s dead,” she says, but it comes out hoarse. She remembers the texts, the way his messages got shorter, more frantic. *“It’s not real. It’s never real.”* *“They want it back. The stone.”*
“*No *.” The shadow laughs. It’s a sound like a door creaking, like nails on a chalkboard. “He *became * it. A vessel. A *pet *.”
Aurora’s vision whites out. She tastes blood. The pendant pulses again, a *scream * in her veins. The runes on the stones flare, casting blue light over the shadow. For a second, she sees it—Evan, his eyes black, his skin stretched tight over bones, his mouth splitting into a grin that goes too far.
“Help me,” she says, but it’s not to the shadow. It’s to the memory of her father, of Jennifer’s voice, of Eva’s text: *Come back. I’ll protect you *.
The shadow lunges.
Aurora runs.
She dives behind a stone, rolling to her feet. The shadow is on her, cold breath on her neck, but she swings the trowel she’s been clutching. It connects with something —soft, wet—and the shadow screeches. It staggers back, its arm gone, a mass of rotting flesh where it used to be.
“*You * can’t kill it,” the shadow hisses. It regenerates, the arm knitting itself back together, blood oozing from the wound. “The stone will *consume * you. It will make you hungry , Rory . Hungry for what’s *lost *.”
Aurora backs away, tripping over a root. The shadow advances, slow, deliberate. The pendant burns through her shirt, her chest, her ribs. She can see it: a red core, pulsing, *hungry *.
“Flashlight,” she gasps. Her hand finds it. She flicks it on.
The beam cuts through the dark, hitting the shadow square in the face. It howls, rearing back. For a second, its face is human—Evan’s face, tears streaking his cheeks, his mouth moving in a silent *help *.
Then it’s gone. Just a pile of rags, a single blue flower, and the smell of rot.
Aurora collapses. The flashlight slips from her hand, rolling into the moss. The pendant is hot, scalding, as if it’s burning through her skin, through her organs, through her *soul *.
The ground shakes.
Not the tremors from the shadow. A deeper, slower shake, like the world is breathing.
Aurora looks up.
The stone circle has split open.
Cracks run through the ancient rocks, glowing red as the pendant. From the gap seeps a cold, thick mist, smelling of brine and regret. The trees bend, their roots clawing at the ground, as if the grove itself is waking.
“*You came*,” a voice says, inside her head, not the shadow’s, but her own . It’s Evan’s voice, soft, sad. “I ’m glad you came.”
Aurora fumbles for the pendant, pressing it to her chest. The mist rolls toward her, wrapping around her legs, her waist, her neck. It’s cold, but not unpleasant—like a hug from someone who’s been waiting for years.
“*The stone is yours now *,” Evan says. “You can have it all. The voices, the hunger, the *truth *. But you have to stay. To *keep * it.”
Pain erupts in her skull. Images flash: Evan, his eyes black, his hand around her throat, the stone in her palm. *“It’s not real,”* he’d said, but it was . It *had * been.
“No ,” she says, but it’s a whisper . The mist wraps tighter, pulling her toward the crack in the stones.
“*Yes *,” Evan says. “You *have * to. Or we’ll all be lost .”
Aurora reaches for the flashlight. It’s beside her, the beam pointing at the crack. She flicks it on. The light hits the pendant.
The Heartstone glows.
Not with warmth , but with *fire *. Red, bright, searing . It burns through her shirt, her skin, her muscle. She screams, but no sound comes out. The mist hisses, retreating.
The ground shakes again. The stones crack wider. Beyond the gap, Aurora sees something —*something *—a world of shadows and laughter, of voices calling her name. Evan’s name.
“*No *,” she gasps, and this time her voice is loud, clear. She grabs the pendant, yanks it free. The burn stops. The stone is still red, still warm , but it doesn’t hurt.
The shadows recoil. The trees still. The mist fades.
Aurora stands. Her watch —she’d forgotten—clicks to life. 8:22 PM. Five minutes in.
She turns. The circle is whole again. The standing stones are silent. The blue flower is gone.
Behind her, the ivy thickens, sealing the grove.
Aurora runs. She doesn’t look back. She runs until her lungs burn, until her legs give out, until she collapses in the park, gasping, the pendant still clutched in her hand.
Somewhere, a dog barks. A car passes. The world is normal again.
But Aurora knows.
She’s not.
Her chest hurts. The scar on her wrist itches.
And in the dark, she swears she can hear the voices again. Whispering. Calling.
For her.
To stay.
To *come back *.
The pendant glows.
And Aurora knows she will.
She just doesn’t know when.
And that, more than anything, terrifies her.