AI The air in Richmond Park held the damp, green smell of late autumn, but the chill seemed to hesitate at the tree line where Rory stood. Nyx coalesced beside her, a humanoid silhouette of living shadow that drank the afternoon light. Their faintly glowing violet eyes regarded the cluster of ancient oaks ahead.
“The standing stones,” Rory said, her voice low . She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, feeling the familiar weight of her delivery gear and the new, unsettling warmth of the Heartstone Pendant against her chest. The deep crimson gem pulsed softly , a slow, steady rhythm like a second heartbeat. It had led them here, to this forgotten corner of the park.
The oaks were arranged in a rough circle, their trunks gnarled and massive, wider than any she’d seen in England. They didn’t look planted; they looked like they had shouldered their way up from the earth in this specific formation millennia ago. The space within the circle shimmered with a faint distortion, like heat haze off asphalt, but the air was cold.
“The Veil is thin here,” Nyx whispered, the sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. “It is not a tear, but a… folding . A place where the realms press close.”
Rory took a steadying breath, her cool-headed logic wrestling with the sheer impossibility of the sight. “Right. In we go, then.”
She stepped between two towering trunks. The moment she crossed the threshold, the world changed.
Sound came first. The distant traffic hum of London vanished, replaced by a profound , living silence that was itself a kind of sound. Then it was broken by the delicate chime of what might have been wind through crystal leaves, and the burble of water she couldn’t see. The light shifted, softening from the grey English afternoon to a diffuse, golden glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere . The air lost its autumn bite, becoming cool and fragrant with the scent of blooming jasmine and rich, loamy earth.
“Oh,” Rory breathed, her bright blue eyes wide.
They stood in a clearing that stretched far larger than the circle of oaks should have allowed. The sky above was a perpetual twilight, streaked with hues of violet and peach where no sun was visible. Wildflowers carpeted the ground in a riot of color—sapphire bluebells, crimson poppies, golden buttercups—all blooming in chaotic , perfect profusion. It was spring, summer, and autumn all at once.
Nyx flowed forward, their shadow-form seeming more substantial here. “The flow of time is… altered. Can you feel it?”
Rory glanced at her wristwatch. The second hand was motionless. She tapped it; nothing. When she looked up, a shimmering dragonfly with wings like opal glass darted past her face, leaving a trail of faint silver motes. “I feel it.” A thread of unease wound through the wonder. This was beautiful, but it was not her world. The rules were different.
They moved deeper into the grove. The grass beneath her boots was springy and released a sweet, herbal scent with each step. She noticed Isolde’s footprints, or rather, the lack of them. Where Rory’s boots left faint impressions in the soft turf, there was no sign of anyone else having passed. *She leaves no footprints when she walks.*
Ahead, a stream cut across their path, the water clear as air and moving silently over smooth, white stones. Rory knelt beside it, drawn by an impulse to touch. The water was neither cold nor warm; it felt like nothing at all against her skin. When she looked down, her reflection was wrong. It showed her, but younger, her hair in pigtails, a scab on her knee—a memory of a childhood summer in Cardiff. She jerked her hand back, and the image vanished, showing only the streambed below.
“The waters show what was, or what might be,” a voice said, melodic and ethereal. “Rarely what is.”
Rory stood quickly , her hand going to the warm pendant at her throat. A woman stood on the far side of the stream. She was ageless, with silver hair that cascaded like a waterfall to her waist and pale lavender eyes that held a depth of centuries. She wore a simple dress of woven grey-green moss and linen. Isolde.
“You sought the grove,” Isolde said. It wasn’t a question. “The stone you carry called, and the shadows followed.” Her gaze flicked to Nyx, who had gone very still, a statue of darkness.
“We need your help,” Rory said, forcing her voice to stay even. “The pendant… it’s a key, or a beacon . Something is coming through the rifts. We’ve seen signs in the city.”
Isolde smiled, a faint, sorrowful curve of her lips. “The Veil thins with the turning of the year. The hungry ones always press closer when the barrier sleeps.” She stepped onto the stream, her bare feet seeming to glide just above the surface of the water, and joined them on their side. She left no ripples. “You have walked in a place of Gluttony. You carry its taste on your spirit, little mortal. Amber skies and the smell of feasts that never end.”
Rory’s mind flashed to Dymas—the warm amber glow, the overwhelming sensory overload of its markets. She hadn’t spoken of it to anyone but Nyx. “How do you know that?”
“I see more than what is before me.” Isolde’s lavender eyes seemed to look through her. “A barrister’s daughter who runs with shadows and carries a prince’s favor. An interesting thread in the tapestry .”
Nyx’s whisper cut the air. “Can you see the pattern of what comes?”
“I see threads, shadow-being. Possibilities. A blade of moonsilver will be needed before the solstice snow falls.” Isolde turned and walked toward the heart of the grove, gesturing for them to follow. “Come. A gift, for the one who walks between.”
The grove’s center held a single, enormous tree, its bark the color of tarnished silver. Its leaves were a deep, shimmering blue, and they clattered together with a sound like distant bells. At its base, nestled among roots that gleamed like polished bone, was a small, clear pool.
Isolde knelt and reached into the water, not disturbing the surface. When her hand withdrew, she held a dagger. It was slender and leaf-shaped, forged from a metal that looked like liquid moonlight made solid . A faint, cold radiance emanated from it. She offered it hilt-first to Rory.
“Fae-forged,” Isolde said. “It remembers the cold of the void between stars. It will cut what steel cannot. Wards. Bindings. The essence of demons from the pit you have visited.”
Rory took it. The hilt was freezing , a deep, penetrating cold that made the bones of her hand ache instantly. Yet it was perfectly balanced, lighter than it looked. The blade’s glow intensified for a moment in her grip, then settled into a soft, steady luminescence. She saw her own reflection in the metal—her straight black hair, her determined eyes, the small crescent scar on her left wrist stark in the strange light.
“Thank you,” she said, the words inadequate.
“A gift is a thread, a connection,” Isolde said, her tone turning cryptic . “Do not thank me. Use it. The winter solstice is a door, and doors swing both ways. The gluttonous prince seeks a new delicacy: a mortal soul seasoned with otherworldly travel. Your scent is… unique to him now.”
The unease in Rory’s stomach tightened into a knot of cold fear. Prince Belphegor. She remembered the oppressive , indulgent atmosphere of Dymas, the sense of being a potential item on a menu.
Nyx shifted, their form rippling. “We must prepare.”
Isolde nodded. “Your time here ends. Remember, an hour in the grove is not an hour in your London. You have been missed.”
Rory carefully slid the Fae-forged blade into her bag, the cold of it seeping through the leather. She turned to leave, the wonder of the place now tempered by the weight of the prophecy and the weapon.
The walk back to the standing stones felt shorter. As they passed between the great oaks again, the golden twilight vanished, replaced by the damp grey of a London afternoon. The sound of a distant airplane buzzed in her ears. She checked her watch . The second hand ticked forward once, then resumed its normal sweep. Forty minutes had passed. It had felt like maybe twenty .
She looked back. The oaks were just trees again, impressive but ordinary. No shimmer. No strange light.
Nyx solidified beside her, their violet eyes thoughtful. “The Seer cannot lie, but her truths are shaped like labyrinths.”
Rory touched the Heartstone Pendant, which had cooled to a mere stone once more. The weight of the blade in her bag was a new constant. “I know,” she said, staring at the ordinary park. “But she gave us a map. And a weapon. Now we just have to find the monster before it finds us.”