AI Aurora Carter stepped through the ancient oaks that bordered Richmond Park, the city's distant hum fading behind her like a forgotten radio signal. She clutched the silver chain around her neck, the Heartstone Pendant a cool weight against her skin. It had started pulsing that afternoon during her delivery shift, a faint warmth that grew insistent as evening fell. The map scribbled on the back of a napkin from Golden Empress pointed her here—the Grove, Eva had called it once, in one of those half-drunk conversations about old legends. Rory needed answers. The pendant's donor remained a ghost, but this pull felt like a summons . She adjusted her jacket against the chill , boots crunching on frost-kissed leaves. Night cloaked the park in shadows, the moon a sliver that barely pierced the canopy.
The boundary stones loomed ahead, twisted oaks shaped by hands long turned to dust. She traced the crescent scar on her left wrist, a reminder of childhood scrapes, and squeezed between two of them. The air shifted, thicker, scented with wildflowers that had no business blooming in November. Her phone's screen flickered once before dying—dead battery, she told herself, though she'd charged it that morning. The clearing opened before her, a pocket of impossible green ringed by those eternal blooms. No wind stirred, yet petals drifted in lazy spirals, brushing her cheeks like whispers.
She paused at the center, where a flat stone served as an altar of sorts, moss veiling its edges. The pendant warmed now, a steady throb matching her heartbeat. Rory knelt, pulling a small notebook from her pocket to jot notes. Whatever this was—Fae nonsense or some elaborate prank—she'd document it. Her father's voice echoed in her mind, sharp as a barrister's gavel: "Evidence, Rory. Always evidence." She scanned the treeline, the oaks silent sentinels . Nothing moved. Just the park, she thought. Isolated, yes, but hers to explore.
A rustle came from the underbrush to her left, soft as fabric tearing. Rory froze, pencil hovering. Squirrels, maybe, or a fox. Richmond teemed with wildlife after dark. She waited, breath steady, eyes fixed on the spot. Leaves settled. Silence returned, heavier now, pressing on her eardrums. She resumed writing, the pendant's glow faint against her collarbone—a crimson spark in the gloom .
Minutes stretched. The wildflowers nodded, though the air hung still. Rory stood, stretching her legs, and paced the clearing's edge. The stones felt closer, their bark etched with patterns that twisted under moonlight—runes? Vines? She leaned in, fingers grazing one. Rough, alive, pulsing like the pendant. A chill spidered up her arm. She yanked back, heart quickening. Imagination. That's all. But the warmth in the stone lingered on her skin.
Another sound. This one from behind, a low scrape, like branches dragging over stone. Rory whipped around. Empty clearing. The flowers swayed, petals unfurling wider, their centers black voids that swallowed light. She blinked, and they looked normal again. Her pulse thrummed. The pendant burned hotter, a warning or invitation—she couldn't tell. Why here? The napkin had mentioned "the heart's gate," but Eva's tales blurred myth with mischief. Rory touched the gemstone, its crimson depth swirling like trapped smoke.
She walked deeper into the treeline, following the pendant's tug. The oaks thickened, roots snaking across the ground like veins. Footfalls muffled here, as if the earth swallowed sound. A flicker at the corner of her eye—shadow lengthening, then snapping back. She turned. Nothing. Just branches interlacing overhead, blotting the stars. The air grew sweeter, cloying, wildflowers carpeting the path now, brushing her ankles. One bloom caught her boot, petal curling around the lace as if to hold.
Rory shook it free, a laugh bubbling up—nerves, that's all. But it died in her throat. A whisper followed, faint, words lost in the rustle of leaves. Wind? No breeze stirred. She strained to listen. There—a syllable, elongated, like a sigh from the roots. "Come." Or was it "gone"? Her skin prickled. The pendant flared, warmth spreading through her chest, urging her on.
The path narrowed, oaks leaning inward, their trunks scarred with deep gouges. Fresh, oozing sap that gleamed wet. Rory's boot sank into softer earth, mud yielding with a suck. She pulled free, glancing down. Footprints, her own, but doubled—parallel tracks where one should be. She knelt, heart slamming. Identical treads, spaced just behind. Impossible. She'd walked alone. A twig snapped to her right, sharp as bone breaking. She spun, the underbrush dense, leaves quivering.
No shape emerged, but the quiver spread, a ripple through the foliage. Something paced parallel, just beyond sight. Rory backed away, stones scraping her palms as she steadied against an oak. The bark yielded under her touch, warm, almost fleshlike. She jerked her hand away. The whisper returned, closer now, a chorus of murmurs weaving through the branches. "Rory... Laila..." Aliases she hadn't heard in years, ghosts from her Cardiff days. The pendant pulsed in rhythm, crimson light bleeding through her fingers.
She ran. Branches whipped her face, wildflowers tangling at her feet. The clearing should be ahead—there, the altar stone. But the oaks circled, endless, the boundary stones multiplying. How? Time warped here, Eva had warned once, but Rory dismissed it as pub talk. Now, minutes felt like hours, her breath ragged . A shadow darted left, tall and elongated, melting into the trunk. She halted, chest heaving. "Who's there?" Her voice cracked, swallowed by the grove.
Silence answered, then a laugh—soft, like wind chimes in a storm. Not human. Rory's scar itched, the old wound alive. The pendant scorched, yanking her gaze downward. Its glow illuminated the ground: petals forming a spiral, centering on her shadow. But her shadow stretched wrong, arms too long, head tilted at an angle. It moved independently, fingers—claws?—curling toward the earth.
She stepped back. The shadow followed, then paused, waiting. Another rustle encircled her, footsteps light, circling. Not one set—many, padding in unison. The air thickened, scents of earth and decay rising. Wildflowers bloomed at her heels, crimson as the pendant, their centers pulsing. A form brushed past, cold air trailing, gone before she turned. Her mind raced : the abusive echoes of Evan, the flight to London, but this felt older, primal.
The whispers coalesced. "Stay. Heart's gate opens." The pendant thrummed, warmth flooding her veins, rooting her in place . Rory fought it, wrenching the chain free. The gemstone blazed, illuminating faces in the bark—eyes, mouths, watching. Blinking. One oak extended a branch, leaves parting like fingers to stroke her hair. She swatted it away, the limb recoiling with a hiss.
She bolted again, toward the boundary. The stones blurred, shifting positions. A figure stood there now, silhouette against the sliver moon—her height, her build, black hair swaying. Rory skidded to a halt. The figure turned, face obscured, but blue eyes gleamed, mirroring hers. It raised a hand, wrist scarred with a crescent. The pendant cooled in her palm, warmth fleeing.
The double stepped forward, mouth opening in a smile too wide. Whispers swelled to a roar, the grove alive, flowers writhing, oaks groaning. Rory's scream tore free, but the figure lunged—
She twisted away, pendant clutched like a talisman. The boundary stones parted, night air rushing in. Richmond Park sprawled empty, the oaks ordinary barriers. Her double vanished, whispers fading to wind. Rory stumbled through, collapsing on the path, heart pounding . The pendant dimmed, cold once more. But in the distance, from the grove's edge, a rustle lingered. Footsteps, soft, following.