AI My boot sinks into moss that glows pale, milky green, and I freeze mid-step because I haven’t walked on ground like this since a scout trip in the Brecon Beacons, and even then it didn’t light up when I shifted my weight . The Heartstone around my neck flares bright crimson, painting the shadow at my shoulder red. Nyx’s form shifts, their wispy silhouette curling tighter, edges fraying like they’re struggling to hold solid form out here.
We’d slipped past Richmond Park’s last security guard an hour ago, following the faint tingle of the stone that started last night, growing sharper as we drove south from my flat above Silas’ bar. The paved path vanished ten minutes back, replaced by ferns that tower over my head, their fronds edged with blue light that flickers when the wind blows.
The air smells like jasmine and crushed blackberries, and something sharp, like caramelized sugar left on a hot pan too long. I fumble for my phone, pulling it out of my coat pocket, but the screen is black, no signal, no time. A strand of my shoulder-length black hair falls in front of my face, and I brush it away, my fingers brushing the small crescent scar on my left wrist, the one from the childhood farm fence accident.
Rift. Hel-bound.
Nyx’s voice is a whisper carried on the wind, not quite in my ears but seeming to come from every shadow at once . I reach into my inner coat pocket, fingers closing around the cold, slender hilt of the Fae blade Isolde gave me. It’s moonsilver, leaf-shaped, and it hums softly when my knuckles brush the wards woven into its sheath.
I step carefully over a patch of bluebells that shouldn’t bloom in mid-December, their petals glowing pale blue, and follow the thrumming of the Heartstone. Up ahead, three massive oak trunks ring the clearing, their bark black and gnarled, but they’re not natural trees—their bases are carved with swirling patterns I don’t recognize, and their tops are capped with flat altars, each holding a small bowl filled with liquid that glows like melted sunlight.
The air here is warmer than the crisp London December outside, almost stifling, like stepping into a greenhouse in July. My forehead glistens, and I pull my coat collar loose, but the heat doesn’t fade. I look down, and my stomach twists—neither my boots nor Nyx’s shifting shadow leave any prints on the glowing moss.
A figure steps out from between two of the oak stones, silver hair falling to her waist, catching the light from the golden bowls. Her lavender eyes are wide, and she doesn’t leave any footprints either, just glides across the moss. She tilts her head, and her voice is soft, laced with riddles: "The stone’s song led you here, little fox."
I start to speak, but the Heartstone throbs so hard it makes my wrist ache. I turn toward the sound, and see the rift: a jagged crack in the air between the third and fourth oak stones, shimmering silver, like the Veil Wardens monitor, but torn, edges curling inward like a fresh wound.
Nyx steps in front of me, their shadow form blocking the rift from view. "It’s active. Pulling magic from the grove."
The scent of burnt caramel sharpens into something metallic, like blood, and a low, gurgling sound echoes from the other side. It’s the same scent I smelled helping my mum bake Welsh cakes when I was seven, but that can’t be right—we haven’t baked them since before I left Cardiff. I crane my neck to look through the tear, and my breath catches: rows and rows of thick green vines, climbing trellises that stretch toward a sky the color of burnt honey, with tables set with heaping platters of glistening food.
Isolde puts a gentle hand on my arm, her skin cold like the Fae blade. "Winter solstice. The Veil wears thin across all realms. This crack grew overnight. A month ago, this grove was safe." Her gaze flickers to my phone, and she nods. "Time moves differently here. An hour outside could be a day inside, or a minute."
"Those are helbound souls, contracted to Prince Belphegor’s realm," she says, and I know she means the figures through the rift. "They feed on mortal magic, and they will tear this grove apart if they get through."
I glance at the Heartstone, which pulses faster now, the crimson glow brighter. "How do we close it?"
Isolde’s lips curve into a faint smile, her lavender eyes crinkling at the corners. "The stone is from Dymas. It will attract them, but it will also weaken their wards. Hold it in your palm, press the Fae blade to the rift’s center. Moonsilver cuts through the Veil’s tears."
I unclasp the silver chain, pulling the Heartstone off and holding it in my left palm. The stone warms immediately, seeping heat into my skin, and the hum of the rift grows louder. I grip the Fae blade in my right hand, the cold metal seeping into my fingers, and step forward.
Nyx stays at my side, their shadow form wrapping around my arm, their faintly glowing violet eyes fixed on the rift. "We’ll cover you," their whisper carries on the wind.
I reach the rift, and the gurgling sound grows louder, like something is choking on too much food. A pale, slimy hand reaches through the tear, grabbing at my wrist—right over the small crescent scar from the farm fence accident. I gasp, and the scar flares bright silver, the same color as the Fae blade. The hand recoils, hissing, and pulls back through the rift.
I don’t hesitate. I raise the Fae blade, and bring it down hard against the center of the rift. The blade cuts through the shimmering silver air, and a sharp, hissing sound fills the clearing, like boiling water. The rift shrinks, but then pulls back, stronger this time, and another slimy hand reaches through.
This time, Nyx’s shadow form stretches forward, wrapping around the hand and pulling it back. The hissing grows louder, and the rift shrinks further, until it’s just a thin, silver crack. I press the Fae blade to the crack, and the silver glow spreads outward, smoothing over the tear until there’s no sign of the rift at all.
The hum stops. The moss stops glowing. The golden bowls on the altars stop rattling. The air smells like jasmine again, no trace of burnt caramel or blood.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding , leaning forward on my knees. My left wrist throbs, where the slimy hand grabbed me, and I look down at the scar, which is still faintly glowing silver.
Nyx’s form solidifies a little more, their silhouette clearing up until I can see the faint outline of human shoulders. "You did it. Not bad for a part-time delivery driver."
Isolde walks over, her silver hair falling over her shoulders, and she nods at me. "Well done, Rory Carter. You closed the rift before it could spread."
I start to thank her, but then I hear it: a soft, cracking sound, like an oak branch breaking. I turn, and my blood runs cold. The third oak stone, the one with the swirling carvings, has split down the middle, and through the crack, I can see the amber sky of that same vineyard realm, the heaping platters of food, and rows of shadowy figures moving toward the rift. A single, black feather drifts out from the crack, landing on my palm.
The Heartstone in my other palm starts to burn, so hot it makes me drop it, and the moss under my feet starts to turn black, wilting away instantly. Isolde’s lavender eyes widen, and she gasps. "You didn’t just close a rift. You woke something that was sleeping beneath the stone."
The black feather in my palm burns, and I feel a cold, slimy shadow wrap around my ankle, just as the oak stone splits further, and the first helbound soul steps through.