AI The crackle of brambles behind me cuts off as my boot hits moss that doesn’t crunch. I freeze, hand flying first to the frayed strap of my Golden Empress delivery bag, then to the silver chain at my throat where the Heartstone pendant thrums warm, almost hot, against my skin. I swipe at a bramble scratch on my left forearm, and my thumb brushes the faint crescent scar there, the one I got when I fell off my bike as a kid, chasing a stray cat in Cardiff.
The faint violet glint of Nyx’s form bobs half a step behind me, their shadowy shoulders hunching like they’re pushing through an invisible net. Their voice brushes my ear, soft as dandelion fluff, not the sharp London gusts I’m used to. You did not bring offerings. Fae groves demand first taste of a guest’s intent, even if you do not carry a wicker basket of honey cakes.
I snort, twisting to look back over my shoulder. The overgrown hedge of blackberry brambles I just clambered through is gone . In its place rise three ancient oak standing stones, their bark scored with thin, silver lines that glow faintly even in the dim, golden light filtering through the canopy above. The air behind the stones smells like damp asphalt and diesel, the same as the bike path I abandoned ten minutes ago, but when I step forward, that scent vanishes, replaced by something sweeter.
I follow the pull of the pendant, my feet carrying me deeper into the clearing, past a cluster of tiny bluebells that Nyx drifts through without so much as rustling a petal. The moss under my boots feels like crushed silk rather than damp earth, no twigs snapping underfoot, no pebbles scraping the soles of my scuffed trainers. The air tastes like honeyed jasmine and something sharp, wild, like the blackcurrant jam my mum used to stir into her morning porridge, but brighter, like it’s been picked at dawn. In the distance, a ribbon of light winds through the trees, its surface shifting like liquid starlight, and it hums a soft, high note that settles in my bones like warm earl grey tea.
Nyx pauses, their violet eyes glowing brighter, and they tilt their head. You are carrying a rift’s echo . The pendant’s pulse quickens, and I press a finger to the deep crimson gem, feeling its warmth spread down my chest, through my ribs, until it tingles at the base of my spine.
A faint sound makes me freeze again: bare feet on moss, but no indentation, no crunch of soil or shift of fronds. I turn, and there she is, stepping out from behind a stand of ash trees. Her silver hair falls to her waist, braided with wild ivy and blue cornflowers, and her lavender eyes glint like crushed amethyst. She is barefoot, and when she steps closer to me, the moss beneath her feet does not flatten, does not leave a single print. I blink, staring at her feet, and she smiles, a slow, quiet thing that crinkles the corners of her eyes. You noticed. Few travelers do, before the first vision takes them.
The Seer herself, Nyx’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry, their shadowy form solidifying for a fraction of a second, towering over me by nearly a foot. I thought you’d have better sense than lurk in a grove that feeds on curiosity.
Isolde’s laugh sounds like wind through glass chimes, light and clear. We do not lurk. We wait. For those who carry pieces of Hel in their pockets. She nods at the pendant at my throat, and my hand flies back to it, suddenly heavy, like someone has tied a stone to the chain.
You know where this came from, I say, my voice steady, even though my pulse is throbbing in my ears. Isolde sits down on a mossy stone bench that suddenly appears beneath her, though I saw no wood or mortar moments ago. It was forged in Dymas, for a warder who failed to seal the rift that now gnaws at your London margins. The warder lost their life trying to contain the spillover, and the pendant slipped through the cracks of bureaucratic paperwork and faded memories, never to be found again.
Dymas. The word tastes like ash on my tongue. I’ve heard the stories from the few old-timer bartenders who’ll talk about the stuff that slips through the cracks. Prince Belphegor’s realm, where feasts never end and the chefs hunt for mortal ingredients to add to their menus.
Isolde’s smile fades, just a little, and her lavender eyes grow sharp, focused. The rift has widened in the past three moons. The helbound chefs have been slipping through, stealing mortal produce, even mortal creatures, to add to their gluttonous feasts. Last week, a group of dog walkers found a cat torn apart near the park’s west gate. It was not a fox that did that.
My blood runs cold. I’d seen the news posts about it, the local Facebook groups filled with panicked questions, but I’d written it off as a coyote or a stray dog. I reach up again, touching the pendant, and it pulses again, brighter this time, as if echoing my fear .
I look around the clearing again, and I notice things I missed at first. The oak standing stones at the threshold shimmer with a faint silver light, the same as the runes carved into their bark, and the air between the trees shimmers too, a faint, wavy distortion I can only see when I squint, like heat haze but cool to the touch. That’s the Veil, Nyx whispers, drifting over to stand beside the starlight stream. It frays here, more than most places. You would see it now, since you carry a piece of Hel.
I step closer to the stream, my boots barely brushing the moss at its edge. The water shifts, its surface glinting with tiny flecks of amber, the same warm color as the sky I read about in Dymas’s description. Beneath the surface, tiny fish dart through the starlight, their scales shifting from silver to gold to deep crimson, matching the Heartstone’s gem. I reach out, my fingers hovering over the water, and one of the fish swims right up to my hand, its scales brushing my skin, warm as sunlight through glass.
Then a sharp, stinging pain pricks my wrist, and I yank my hand back, staring at a cluster of tiny, star-shaped blooms growing at the edge of the stream. One of their petals has pricked my skin, leaving a tiny red dot, and the air around the flowers smells suddenly sharp, like spoiled fruit.
Curiosity is a gift, not a trespass, unless you steal what is not offered, a soft voice says beside me. Isolde has stepped up beside me, and she brushes her hand over the star-shaped blooms, and they unfurl, releasing a sweet, vanilla scent that makes my head feel light. They only prick those who come with fear in their hearts, not curiosity.
I nod, still staring at the flowers, and my gaze falls on the amber flecks in the stream. They’ve multiplied, until the entire ribbon of water glows with the same warm amber light as Dymas’s sky. The hum of the stream grows louder, deeper, and I hear a low, gurgling sound, like a stomach growling too loud, echoing from behind the ash trees.
Nyx’s form flickers, their violet eyes glowing brighter than they have all day, and they step in front of me, their shadowy body stretching to block my view. The rift has spit one out. Their voice is quieter now, urgent, a whisper carried on a wind that didn’t exist a moment ago.
Isolde stands up straight, her lavender eyes narrowing, and she pulls a slender, leaf-shaped dagger from her belt. The blade is made of a silvery metal that glows faintly in the golden light, and it feels cold to the touch, even through the thick leather of my delivery gloves. This is the Fae-Forged Blade, she says, holding it out to me. It will cut through their wards, and it will burn their kind. They do not like Fae steel.
I take the dagger, my fingers wrapping around the cold hilt, and I feel a surge of confidence, even as my hands start to shake. The gurgling sound grows louder, and a figure slithers out from behind the cluster of ash trees, tall and gaunt, its skin like roasted meat, its eyes black, empty pits, and it holds a rusted cleaver in one hand. It snarls, a wet, gurgling sound, and lurches forward.