AI Aurora’s boots crunched over frozen leaves—though it was late August, the ground had turned hard, brittle. A branch snapped behind her, sharp and precise. She spun, heart lurching . The dark swallowed whatever had made the noise, leaving only the faint rustle of her own breath. *Eva’s stories *, she thought. *Stupid to listen to Eva.* But the Heartstone had pulsed , insistent, when she’d left the bar that night, its crimson glow seeping through the leather of her bag like a warning. *“The Grove’s open,”* Eva had mumbled, eyes distant, before passing out on Aurora’s couch. *“Don’t go alone.”*
Aurora gripped the strap of her backpack tighter. The pendant inside burned, a slow heat against her spine. She’d come here for answers—about the Heartstone, about the dreams that had started three months ago, about the man who’d smiled at her from a taxi window, saying, *“You’re not meant for this.”* But now, standing at the edge of Richmond Park, her fingers brushing the iron gate’s cold bars, she realized she’d forgotten to ask *if * this place was even real.
The park beyond was a void. No streetlights, no moon—only the flicker of her phone, which buzzed to life as she stepped through, then died, its screen going black. *Of course *, she thought, shoving it into her pocket. *Fae likes to play with signals.* She turned left, toward the thicket where Eva said the standing stones hid. The trees grew taller here, their branches weaving a canopy that blocked what little starlight remained. The air smelled of iron, coppery and thick, like rain on rust.
Aurora’s wrist itched. She pulled up her sleeve, the crescent scar on her left forearm throbbing. As a child, she’d fallen on a kitchen knife, she’d told the doctors. But sometimes, in the quiet, she swore it had *moved *—a thin line, shifting, stretching. Eva said it was the pendant, pressed to her skin when she’d first found it, its heat searing through her shirt. *“Protection,”* her friend had whispered . *“It chose you.”*
The throb stopped. Aurora stared at her wrist, confused. When had the pendant started glowing? She unzipped her backpack, the leather creaking. The Heartstone sat on top of her delivery bag, its surface blazing red, the light so bright it cast shadows on the ground. *“What the hell,”* she breathed, but the word got stuck in her throat. The pendant’s glow intensified, the warmth spreading up her arm, into her chest. For a moment, she was blind—not from the light, but from the memory: a man in a black coat, his face blurred, saying, *“It opens when you’re ready. But you’ll need help.”* Help . Eva. But Eva was in London, safe above Silas’ bar, while Aurora stumbled through the dark, chasing a stone that hummed like a heartbeat.
She kept walking. The trees thinned. A clearing appeared, and with it, the standing stones.
They were older than she’d imagined—gnarled, moss-covered, their surfaces carved with symbols too small to see in the dark. But the Heartstone blazed brighter, pointing toward the center. Aurora stepped forward, the grass soft beneath her boots, and froze. The stones had *moved *. Not just shifted—*moved *. They stood closer together now, their gaps narrowing, as if trying to form a circle . *Fae time *, she remembered. *An hour here is minutes outside, or days.* She checked her watch . Ten minutes had passed. Ten minutes in a circle of stones that had grown tighter.
“Hello?” Her voice cracked, too loud . The woods swallowed the sound. She looked down, and her breath hitched.
A doll lay in the dirt, a few feet from her. Porcelain skin, chipped at the cheek, its dress a faded blue. Its eyes were black stones, polished until they glowed. But its mouth—*oh god *—its mouth wasn’t painted or stitched. It was *ripped*, raw, the edges of the fabric fraying into rags. What looked like dried mud caked the split, and for a second, Aurora thought she saw something glint beneath it—gold, maybe, or a tooth.
She stepped back, tripping over a root. The doll’s head turned.
Not slowly . Not jerkily. It *twisted*, its neck rotating 180 degrees, until its face was pressed to the ground, eyes fixed on her ankle. Aurora scrambled away, her backpack catching on a stone. It fell open, papers spilling. She fumbled to close it, but the doll was moving again, inching toward her, its arms and legs flopping in a jerky, lifeless rhythm.
“Stop,” she whispered, though her voice was a squeak. The doll didn’t stop. It crawled faster, its stone eyes locking on hers, and when it was within reach, it reached out . Its hand was cold, colder than the night air, its fingers joints popping as it gripped her ankle.
Aurora screamed . She tried to kick it away, but the doll held on, its grip like a vice. She glanced down, and saw the symbols on the stones glowing now, faint green light spilling from their cracks. The pendant in her bag blazed white, burning. The Iron Gate man’s voice echoed in her mind: *“You’ll need help.”* *Help *. Eva had said *protection *, but help?
The doll pulled. Aurora fell, her elbow hitting a stone. The pain registered a second later, when the world went red. The doll was on top of her now, its face inches from hers, the raw wound on its mouth oozing something thick and black. Its breath—*its breath *—was hot, sickly sweet, like overripe peaches. Aurora gagged, trying to roll away, but the doll’s knees pinned her. Its hands—*its hands *—were claws, sharp and curved, digging into her shoulders.
Then the ground shook.
Not a rumble. A *thrum *, like a drumbeat in her bones. The doll froze, its head turning upward. Aurora followed its gaze, and her blood turned to ice.
Behind the stones, a door had opened.
Not a door. A portal.
Its edges were blurred , like water, but the light within was familiar —green, sickly and bright, the same green that glowed in the Heartstone’s core. It pulsed , in time with her heartbeat, and the symbols on the stones flared, blinding her. The pendant in her bag *screamed *, a high-pitched whine that made her ears bleed. The doll released her, scrambling back to its knees, as if in fear. Aurora pushed herself up, her shoulders raw, and stared.
The portal expanded, swallowing the trees, eating the night. A sound came through it—a howl, not of wind, but of something *alive*, something hungry . Aurora fumbled for her backpack, yanking the Heartstone free. Its surface was on fire now, the red light so intense she had to shield her eyes. The doll stood, its head tilted, watching the portal.
“Come on,” she whispered, her voice breaking . She ran, but her legs felt like lead . The portal loomed closer, and when she was ten feet away, it *reached out *, a tendril of green light snaking toward her. Aurora hurled the Heartstone. It hit the ground inside the portal, and the light flared, a white hot burst that seared her retinas. The howl turned to a scream.
The doll lunged. Aurora tried to dive, but the portal’s tendril wrapped around her ankle, pulling her forward. She grabbed a stone, her fingers scraping, but it crumbled in her hand, turning to dust. The doll’s claws found her arm, slashing deep, but Aurora didn’t feel it. She stared at the portal, at the figure stepping through—tall, cloaked, its face hidden by a hood—and saw, then, the red scar on its wrist.
Evan.
No. *Not Evan.* A second, taller figure. A woman. Her hair was black, her eyes blue, and when she smiled, Aurora saw the crescent scar on her left wrist, stretching, *smiling *, as the portal closed behind her.
The last thing Aurora knew was the taste of blood, the sound of her own scream, and the feeling of the Heartstone’s warmth spreading through her, into her bones, into her *soul *.
The stones stilled. The portal vanished.
The only sound was the rustle of leaves.
And, somewhere, a child laughed.