AI The cat in Aurora’s arms squirms. Not the lazy, contented squirm of a tabby used to laps of warm milk, but a sharp, frayed twist —claws pricking her wrist through the fabric of her delivery jacket. She pauses, the high stone wall of Richmond Park rising to her left, its iron gates swinging closed behind her. The park’s usual night noises are muted: the distant hoot of an owl, the crinkle of a fox’s paws through leaf litter. Here, it’s *quiet *. Too quiet .
Her boots crunch over gravel, not grass. She’d followed the Heartstone’s pull—faint, then a pulse , then a hot thrum against her collarbone—for three blocks, toward the east edge of Putney, where Eva’s old postcard had said *“Beware the thorned path beyond the ruined aviary.”* Eva, who’d left Cardiff with a suitcase and a warning in her voice: *“They’re coming for you, Rory. The stone. The pendant. You need to see—”* Then the signal died, and the postcard arrived three days later, postmarked with no town. Just a sketch of standing stones, a circle of oaks with branches like clawed hands.
The cat meows, a sound that splits the silence . Not a regular meow. Too high, too thin. Aurora sets it down. It scurries two steps, then freezes. Its eyes—usual gold, now black—lock on the trees ahead. Between them, a sliver of light.
She unzips her jacket, the pendant clinking against her skin. Deep crimson, warm as a coal, pressing hard against the chain. It hasn’t pulsed this strongly since Evan had grabbed her, his fingers crushing her wrist—the scar, thin as a crescent moon, burning. *The scar *, she thinks, and the pendant flairs, a brief fire that makes her blink.
No wind, but the leaves rustle. Not the dry rattle of autumnal debris, but a slow, deliberate shifting, like a crowd murmuring . Aurora takes a step forward. The gravel gives way to grass, soft and damp. The flowers—wildflowers, bright as stained glass—burst around her: lavender, poppies, ivy. It’s midsummer, and the calendar on her phone says November.
The stone circle appears.
Ten oaks, their trunks thick as telegraph poles, their bark cracked and black. Carvings twist up them—snakes, not fire-breathing, but coiled, with eyes like pinholes. The Heartstone *roars *. She stumbles, catches herself on the nearest tree. The carvings glow, faint at first, then a sickly silver.
A twig snaps.
She spins. Nothing. Just the park, dark and vast. The cat is gone.
*Stupid *, she thinks. *You’re not here for a cat. You’re here for answers.*
Evan had found the pendant in her old room, the one she’d fled to after he’d broken her hand. “Some trinket from your *mystical * friends, Carter?” He’d laughed, then smashed it on the floor. It hadn’t broken. The shard had embedded in his thumb, and he’d screamed, blood seeping through his fingers like ink. *“It’s cursed,”* he’d said, voice high . *“You’re cursed.”* Then the police had come, and she’d run.
The pendant had lit up then, too—brighter than it is now. And a voice, not in her head, not spoken, but felt: *“Find the Grove . It will show you the way.”*
Now, the circle hums. The air tastes of iron, like rain before a storm. Aurora approaches the stones, one hand on the Heartstone. The carvings on the oak nearest her resolve into words: *To pass, you must bleed what binds you.*
Bleed? She looks at her wrist. The scar , white and smooth, pulses. *Fool *, she thinks. *You came here without a plan.*
A shadow moves.
Not a tree’s shadow, or a bush’s. A long, lanky thing, stretching across the grass. She turns. It’s gone.
The pendant slips from her fingers. It clatters to the ground, and she dives for it. The grass where it lay is black, charred.
A sound—low, wet, like fabric dragging through mud—echoes from the trees.
Aurora stands. The stones are closer now, the circle narrowing. Her breath comes faster, but she doesn’t run. She’s seen panic in Evan’s eyes when he thought he’d lost control. This is *calm *. The kind that comes before a landslide.
The pendant rests in her palm, warm enough to burn. She presses it to her temple. Images flash: a woman’s face, pale, hair like black silk , staring at her from across a room. *“It’s a door, Rory,”* the woman says. *“To Dymas. To the things that remember.”* Then the woman is surrounded by fire, and the Heartstone cracks, revealing a shard of something red, like glass.
The door?
The trees groan.
Aurora looks down. The pendant’s glow has intensified, a crimson flood. Her wrist burns—the scar, splitting open, oozing clear, not red. The flowers around her start to wither, petals turning to ash, but the stone circle glows brighter, the carvings screaming now, not in sound, but in *need *.
*Bleed what binds you *, the stone carvings had said.
Her blood drips onto the pendant. It drinks it in, a hungry gurgle. The air cracks, a thousand tiny sounds like static.
The shadow returns. This time, it’s in the open.
It’s not human. Not quite. Too tall, with limbs that bend the wrong way. Its skin is a patchwork of gray and purple, like rotted cloth. Its face is a void, two pinpricks of light where eyes should be. It smiles, and she sees teeth—rows upon rows, sharp as fishhooks.
The pendant ignites.
Aurora drops it. It rolls across the grass, carving a trail of fire. The void-monster hisses, taking a step back.
The stone circle splits.
Not with a bang, but a sigh . A black hole opens in the center, pulsing with a light that’s not light—cold, ancient, *hungry *. The air thickens, sweet as rotting fruit.
The woman from the vision stands at the edge of the circle. She’s real now, her eyes wide, her mouth moving. *“Run,”* she says. *“It’s not a door. It’s a *hunger*.”*
The void-monster roars , a sound that shakes her bones. It lunges, and Aurora runs.
She doesn’t look back. The grass burns beneath her feet. The pendant races ahead, a red comet, pointing the way to whatever is coming through the hole.
The woman shouts again, but the words are lost. The hole swallows them, and Aurora screams, not for herself, but for the woman who’d warned her, the friends she’d left behind, the cat that was gone and the life she could never go back to.
The void-monster is closer now, its breath hot on her neck. She reaches into her jacket, pulls out the delivery knife she keeps for cutting boxes. It feels flimsy, useless.
The pendant slams into her back. A shockwave, like an electric current, sends her flying into the circle. The hole is inches from her face, and she sees it now—the truth: the Heartstone isn’t a guide. It’s a *call *.
The woman is in front of her, now, her hand outstretched. *“Take my hand,”* she says. *“Jump.”*
Aurora takes it.
The world explodes.
Darkness.
Silence.
Then, a whisper .
*Hello, Aurora.*
It’s the woman’s voice, but older, deeper, like two voices speaking as one. *“You’re late.”*
Aurora opens her eyes.
She’s on the ground, the pendant still in her palm, now cool, now warm, as if it’s unsure. The stone circle is gone, the park quiet again. The cat lies beside her, asleep, tail twitching.
Her wrist is whole. No scar, no crevice, just smooth skin.
She stands, stumbles. The knife is gone.
The postcard flutters from her pocket, the sketch of the stones smudged, as if water has been spilled on it.
A car horn blares in the distance. A dog barks.
Normal, she thinks. *This is normal.*
But her heart pounds. Her hands shake. She looks over her shoulder, into the trees, into the dark.
*“You’re late,”* the voice says again.
And she knows.
She’ll be back.
And this time, the void-monster will be waiting.
The chapter ends with Aurora hesitating, her hand on the park gate, as a single wildflower—crimson, perfect —blooms from the asphalt behind her.