AI Aurora pushed through the ring of ancient oak standing stones, the Heartstone Pendant already warm against her collarbone. She paused, fingers brushing the gem's deep crimson surface. It pulsed once, steady as a heartbeat, then twice more in quick succession. Not the erratic throb it had given near that alleyway in Camden last week, but insistent all the same .
She had come to Richmond Park after the pendant's glow woke her from a dead sleep, pulling her from the flat above Silas' bar like a lodestone. Eva's old stories about Fae-touched spots in London had mentioned this grove, hidden in the park's depths , a place where time slipped gears. Rory needed answers, not more questions, but the pendant had led her here. If it signalled a portal, she would face it. Better than waiting for whatever hunted her to catch up.
The clearing unfolded around her, wildflowers brushing her ankles in unnatural profusion. She knelt beside a cluster of blooming foxgloves, their purple bells nodding despite the season. No wind stirred them. She reached out, and one stem quivered as if drawing breath .
A faint rustle came from the underbrush to her left. Rory froze, head tilting. Leaves, perhaps. Or a fox scavenging. She waited, but the sound dissolved into silence . The pendant pulsed again, warmer now.
She stood and moved deeper into the grove, boots sinking into moss that felt too yielding, like flesh under pressure. The standing stones loomed at the periphery, their bark-rough surfaces etched with patterns that might have been runes or mere weathering. Eva had called this Isolde's Grove, a pocket realm where Fae influence bled through. Rory had laughed it off once, but the pendant's heat suggested otherwise.
Another rustle, this time from behind. She spun, eyes scanning the shadows between stones. Nothing. Her scar on the left wrist itched, a phantom reminder of that childhood fall from the oak tree back in Cardiff. She rubbed it absently, pressing forward.
The air thickened as she reached the grove's heart, where a shallow depression formed a natural basin. Water pooled there, still as glass, reflecting nothing but darkness. Rory crouched, dipping a finger into the liquid. It clung, viscous, and when she pulled back, ripples spread outward in perfect rings. Too perfect . The pendant thrummed against her skin, insistent.
She straightened, wiping her hand on her jeans. That was when the first whisper reached her. Low, indistinct, like wind through dry branches. Rory held her breath, straining to listen. It came again, from the right this time, a sibilant murmur that almost formed words. Not English. Not Welsh, either, though her mother's lessons echoed in her mind. Something older.
"Show yourself," she muttered, voice steady despite the chill tracing her spine. No answer, but the whispers multiplied, overlapping now from different directions. She turned in a slow circle, the wildflowers brushing her legs with more force, as if grasping .
Movement flickered at the edge of her vision—a shadow darting between two standing stones. Rory whipped her head around, but the space stood empty. Just branches swaying, she told herself. Except no branches hung that low. The pendant burned hotter, its glow seeping through her shirt, casting a faint crimson light on the moss.
She backed toward the basin, eyes darting. The whispers grew, weaving into a chorus that tugged at memories: Evan's cruel laugh during their last fight, the way he'd gripped her wrist until it bruised. But these voices carried no malice she could name, only an alien hunger. One whisper detached, clearer now, repeating a phrase that sounded like "Malphora." Her alias? No, something else. The pendant had come with a note using that name , but she'd ignored it.
A twig snapped nearby, deliberate. Rory's heart quickened . Not alone. She scanned the underbrush, spotting a shape that resolved into nothing more than twisted roots. But as she looked away, it shifted again—subtle, like a figure melting into the gloom .
She needed to leave, but the pendant's pull anchored her. If this was a portal to Hel or whatever realm Dymas hailed from, abandoning it meant letting the unknown close in elsewhere. In London, in her flat, in the restaurant where Yu-Fei trusted her with deliveries. No. She would confront it.
The whispers swelled, and now shapes moved openly at the periphery—slender forms that vanished when she focused. One brushed past a foxglove, sending petals scattering without sound. Rory's breath came shallow. The air pressed heavier, time stretching as if the grove toyed with her perception. How long had she been here? Minutes? Hours?
She reached for the pendant, intending to yank it off, but her fingers hesitated. It pulsed in rhythm with the whispers, syncing to some unseen pulse . A shadow detached from a standing stone, elongated and fluid, sliding across the moss toward her. Not a trick of light. Real.
Rory stepped back, boot splashing into the basin's edge. The water stirred, rings expanding with unnatural speed. From the depths , something gazed up—not her reflection, but eyes that gleamed with inner light. The whispers crescendoed, forming words she almost understood: "Come closer, Malphora. Bind the heart."
No. She wrenched her gaze away, but the shadows closed in, multiple now, circling the basin. One extended a tendril, brushing her ankle. Cold seeped through her boot, numbing her toes. She kicked free, stumbling onto drier ground. The wildflowers writhed, stems twisting like seeking fingers.
Panic edged in, but Rory forced it down. Cool-headed, that's what Eva always said. Think. The standing stones marked the boundary. If she reached them, she could escape the grove's grip. She bolted toward the nearest one, whispers pursuing like a swarm.
Halfway there, a shadow solidified ahead, blocking her path. Tall, humanoid, but with limbs that bent wrong, joints cracking audibly. It didn't attack, just stood, head tilting as if curious. The whispers emanated from it, a voice without mouth.
"Stay back," Rory warned, voice low . It ignored her, stepping closer. She dodged left, toward another stone, but the ground softened beneath her, moss sucking at her boots like quicksand. She pulled free with effort, heart pounding .
More shapes emerged from the underbrush, their forms shimmering as if woven from mist and shadow. They didn't rush; they herded, driving her back toward the basin. The pendant scorched now, its glow illuminating their indistinct faces—eyes like polished obsidian, mouths stretched in silent calls.
Rory's mind raced . The pendant connected her to this. Remove it? Destroy it? But it had saved her once, pulsing a warning before Evan's mates cornered her in that pub. No time for doubt. She sprinted for a gap between stones, whispers turning to a howl in her ears.
Something grazed her shoulder, insubstantial yet freezing. She shrugged it off, but another tendril wrapped her wrist—the scarred one—pulling with gentle insistence. Strength drained from her arm, numbness spreading. The basin loomed behind her, water churning now, eyes multiplying in its depths .
She twisted free, scar burning as if reopened. The shadows pressed closer, their forms gaining definition: elongated fingers, skin like bark and mist. One reached for the pendant, whispers coalescing into a demand: "Yield the heart. Enter the grove eternal."
Rory grabbed a loose stone from the ground, hurling it at the nearest shape. It passed through, dispersing mist momentarily, but the figure reformed, closer now. She backed away, the basin's edge crumbling under her heel. Water lapped hungrily .
Time distorted further; her movements slowed, as if wading through treacle . The whispers infiltrated her thoughts, promising secrets, power, an end to running. Malphora, they called her. Not her name. Not her fate.
A final shadow lunged, tendrils wrapping her torso, cold invading her chest. The pendant flared brilliant crimson, and the basin erupted, water rising in a column toward her. Eyes fixed on her, unblinking, as the grove's true inhabitants revealed themselves.