AI Richmond Park swallowed the city’s hum the moment Aurora’s battered scooter tires crunched onto the gravel path. Even here, on the edge of the sprawling green, the air felt different—thinner, dryer, charged with a static she couldn’t explain. The twilight bled into a bruised purple sky, and the last of the day’s warmth leached away, leaving behind a chill that had nothing to do with the December air. *Moon-highest,* the cryptic message had read. *Grove.* The Heartstone Pendant, a cool weight beneath her thin sweater, had given a faint, almost imperceptible thrum yesterday, the first time the benefactor’s coded comms had pinged her directly. Something was out there, and it was drawing her to this place.
She killed the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the distant caw of a crow. The Grand Gates of the Grove were not gates at all, but three ancient oaks, their gnarled branches forming a natural archway. The rough bark felt unnaturally smooth under her palm as she traced its ancient patterns. Beyond them, the clearing opened. Wildflowers, impossibly vibrant and out of season, carpeted the ground in a riot of colour that seemed at odds with the encroaching darkness. Crimson poppies, stark white lilies, and pale blue forget-me-nots bloomed with a feverish intensity , their sweet, cloying perfume thick enough to taste. This wasn't just a patch of woods; it was a wound stitched between worlds.
Her boot sank slightly into the yielding earth. She’d told Yu-Fei she was taking a late delivery run, a white lie that felt heavier than any package she’d ever carried. This felt more important, or at least, more dangerous. The pendant’s origin—Dymas—was a name whispered in hushed tones by the few who knew its true nature. It was a key, maybe, or a map. She was looking for a sign. Anything that explained the warmth that had bloomed against her skin yesterday, the faint inner glow the pendant sometimes possessed. The message had been clear: *The heart seeks what was lost.* What heart? What was lost? Her mind, usually so sharp and analytical, felt dulled, fogged by the strange atmosphere.
She cast a glance back towards the oak threshold. The world outside the Grove seemed familiar , solid. Here, reality felt like a poorly draped sheet . A rustle in the undergrowth to her left. She froze, straining her ears. It wasn't the scuttling of a fox, or the quick dash of a rabbit. This sound was heavier, slower, a distinct drag, as if something with a broken limb were being pulled across the leaf litter. Her breath hitched. *Just the wind,* she told herself, though the air was strangely still, the flower heads unmoving. She scanned the dense shadows pooling between the impossibly large ferns and the ancient, twisting trees. Nothing. Yet, the feeling persisted: a prickle on the back of her neck, the instinct of a prey animal realizing it had blundered into a predator 's territory.
Her hand instinctively went to her chest, fingers brushing the pendant’s smooth, cool surface. As her skin made contact, a subtle warmth spread from the crimson stone. Not the strong, insistent pulse she'd felt yesterday, but a low, steady ember . It was reacting . But to what? There were no Hel portals here, no known rifts. She knew the legend, the whisper of the Fae realm pressing close. Was that where the ‘wrongness’ originated? The thought sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. The pendant’s warmth felt less like guidance and more like a warning bell.
She took a tentative step forward, then another, her eyes darting from one shadow to another. The wildflowers seemed to pulse with an inner light now, their colours too saturated, their perfume too intoxicating. Was she imagining it, or did the branches of the trees overhead twist and writhe like skeletal fingers? A faint scent, overriding the floral sweetness, began to manifest—a tang of damp earth, yes, but also something sharp, coppery, like old blood. She fought the urge to break into a run, to scramble back through the oak portal to the safety of the mundane world. Her intelligence screamed caution. Her gut screamed *danger *.
She stopped by a particularly ancient-looking oak, its trunk wider than her outstretched arms. Its bark was a tapestry of moss and lichen, but as she ran her hand over it, a section seemed to ripple, like water disturbed by a stone. She snatched her hand back, heart hammering against her ribs. It was a trick of the light, surely. The moonlight, filtering through the dense canopy, played strange games with perception. But a moment later, from the corner of her eye, she saw it again: a shadow detaching itself from the base of a nearby hawthorn. It wasn't merely a lack of light; it was a solid, fluid darkness that seemed to absorb the faint luminescence around it . As she turned her head to look directly, it snapped back, melting into the trunk, leaving only the normal, dappled shadows.
Aurora fumbled for her phone. No signal. Not unexpected. She checked her watch . 9:17 PM. She’d been in the Grove for what felt like at least twenty minutes, maybe more. The time distortion was a known fae trick. Minutes outside could mean hours inside, or the reverse. If she stayed too long, she might miss her entire shift at the restaurant, or worse, emerge days later. Her childhood scar, a faint crescent on her left wrist, suddenly felt itchy, a phantom pain from a fall that had happened when she was seven. It pulsed with a faint warmth , mirroring the pendant. Was her body reacting, or was something else influencing her?
Then came the sounds, softer now, more insidious. Not the drag, not the rustle. Whispers. Tiny, sibilant fragments of sound, like dry leaves skittering across stone, but with an intimation of voices, just beyond comprehension. They seemed to coil around her, slithering into her ears when she least expected it. *Hiss... shhh... listen...* She pressed her hands over her ears, but the sounds seemed to originate not from the outside, but from within her own skull . The oppressive sweetness of the flowers now felt suffocating, heavy with unseen spores. The air grew colder, carrying with it the distinct, metallic tang of fresh iron. She was no longer just uneasy. She was terrified . The certainty settled upon her like a shroud: she was not alone.
She edged backwards, away from the center of the clearing, her eyes scanning the dense foliage, the ancient oaks, the very ground beneath her feet. The wildflowers seemed to be leaning in now, their velvet petals unfurling further, revealing centres that glowed with a pale phosphorescence. The grass blades, impossibly tall, swayed rhythmically, though no breeze stirred them. Aurora felt a primal fear clawing at her throat, the instinct to flee warring with a morbid fascination. She thought of Evan, of the suffocating fear of his presence, but this was different. This was ancient, indifferent, and utterly alien.
A distinct snap echoed from the edge of the clearing, closer this time. A twig? No. It sounded too deliberate, too… resonant. A slow, heavy *thump… thump… thump…* began to vibrate through the earth, low and guttural. It wasn't a heartbeat; it was something far larger, slower, moving with a purpose that rippled through the very soil. Aurora’s eyes darted to the source of the sound, her breath catching in her throat. A patch of darkness, deeper than the night itself, was coalescing near the hawthorn where she’d seen the shadow earlier. It wasn't moving *across * the ground; it seemed to be *unfolding * from it, a tear in the fabric of the clearing.
The Heartstone Pendant flared against her skin, a sudden, searing heat that made her gasp. It pulsed with a brilliant, internal ruby light, so intense that she could barely look at it. The faint glow she’d sometimes seen was replaced by a fierce, almost desperate beacon . It wasn't just a warning now; it was a scream. The warmth spread up her arm, and she felt a strange connection, as if the pendant were trying to communicate, or perhaps, trying to defend her. The *thump… thump… thump…* paused. The whispers ceased. All that remained was the heightened awareness, the suffocating presence, and the incandescent pendant.
Her gaze snapped back to the coalescing darkness. It had assumed a shape, of sorts. Not solid, not liquid, but an impossible geometry of shadow and void. It was tall, impossibly so, and it seemed to drink the meager light. She couldn’t see features, not eyes, not a face, but she felt its attention descend upon her, a weight that crushed the air from her lungs. It was observing her, the warmth of the pendant a beacon in its silent, predatory scrutiny. She saw a ripple, a distortion in the air around it, like heat haze, but cold. Something shifted within the shadow, a suggestion of limbs too many, too thin, moving with a slow, deliberate grace that belied its immense, terrifying presence.
The sweet, cloying scent of the flowers turned overwhelmingly fetid, like rotting meat and decay. The ground beneath her feet seemed to shift, the roots of the ancient oaks twisting like serpents. Aurora stumbled back, pressing herself against the rough bark of the very tree that had seemed to ripple earlier. She was trapped. The oak stones marked the boundary, but the Grove itself felt like a cage, its floral beauty a grotesque mask. The pendant continued its fierce, silent cry against her skin, the only constant in the unraveling of her reality. She was alone, deep within a place that did not belong to the world she knew, and something ancient and hungry had just taken notice. The shadows shifted again, and she knew, with a certainty that froze her blood, that it was moving towards her.