AI The mud of Richmond Park sucked at Rory’s scuffed work boots, caking the soles in thick, cold slop that weighed down every step. She’d left her flat above Silas’ bar an hour earlier, the Golden Empress’s uniform still reeking of garlic and soy sauce, and trudge out into the December dark to meet Nyx at the park’s gate. The crescent scar on her left wrist itched, a familiar thrum that always warned her when something wasn’t right, and the Heartstone pendant stuffed in her jacket pocket burned warm enough to seep through the fabric. She’d fished it out of a takeout bag three weeks prior, left on the restaurant’s counter by a stranger who’d vanished before she could ask his name, and it had pulsed steadily ever since, growing hotter as they’d pushed deeper into the unmarked wilderness of the park.
Nyx moved ahead of her, their 6’2” shadowy form cutting through the drizzle like a smudge of smoke against the bare oak branches. Their faint violet eyes glowed, cutting through the dark better than any flashlight, and their voice wound back to her, soft as wind through a crack in a window. The threshold is close. Three oaks, twisted together. No mortal stumbles on them by accident.
Rory’s lungs burned from the cold. She’d run from Cardiff, from Evan, six months prior, and she’d never grown used to London’s damp chill that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. The scar on her wrist itched harder, and she fumbled the Heartstone out of her pocket, the thumbnail-sized crimson gem glowing bright enough to paint her palms red. It hummed in time with her heartbeat, the warmth spreading up her arm until it reached her chest.
They broke through a wall of brambles that shouldn’t have existed, thick and thorny and green even in mid-winter, and stopped. Three ancient oaks stood before them, their trunks twisted so tightly together they looked like they’d grown to hold each other up, their branches woven into a arch that blocked out the London skyline’s faint glow. The bark was warm under Rory’s palm when she reached out to touch it, not mossy and waterlogged like every other tree she’d passed that night .
The Heartstone burst into heat, sharp enough to make her gasp, and Nyx’s shadowy form tensed beside her. Step through. Once you cross, you don’t leave until the grove lets you. It exists between your world and the Fae realms, bends all rules that apply to either.
Rory stepped first, too stubborn to hesitate, and the world shifted. The rain stopped mid-drop on her cheek, the mud under her boots dissolving into soft, clover-thick grass that smelled like jasmine and summer sun. She spun, the brambles and bare oaks of Richmond Park gone, replaced by a wall of glowing green foliage that stretched as far as the eye could see. Wildflowers bloomed at her feet, blue and gold and silver, their petals glowing faint enough to light the path ahead, and the sky above was a deep indigo streaked with starlight, no city glow, no clouds, just endless dark laced with light. She’d never seen anything so beautiful, so alien, and for a second she forgot to breathe.
Nyx stumbled behind her, their shadowy form wavering for the first time since she’d met them. They caught themselves on an oak sapling, their voice tighter than she’d ever heard it. Can’t phase. Can’t slip into the shadows. The grove locks powers away, even ones that aren’t really yours. I haven’t been this solid, this heavy, since I became this in 1643.
Rory’s chest tightened. She’d known Nyx was trapped between realms, a shade that could slip through any shadow to outrun any threat, and the thought of them stripped of that safety, stuck as solid and vulnerable as any human, sent a spike of fear through her. She slipped the Heartstone back into her pocket and started walking, the grass soft under her boots, the air warm enough that she unzipped her jacket. She pulled her phone out to check the time, the lock screen glowing to life: 8:22 PM, 1% battery. She’d left the bar at seven, walked for an hour and a half to get to the threshold, that checked out. She shoved it back, her eyes scanning the trees that lined the path, their leaves glossy and bright, nothing like the bare, skeletal trees of the park outside.
Ten minutes later, she stopped to catch her breath, and pulled her phone out again. The screen glowed 4:17 AM. The battery still sat at 1%. She held it up to Nyx, her voice sharp with disbelief. That’s impossible. I walked less than a mile. That can’t be almost eight hours.
Time bends here, Nyx said, their violet eyes scanning the tree line. An hour inside can be a minute outside, or a week. Isolde chose this place for that reason, to keep strangers from stumbling on her, from using her visions for their own gain.
They walked on, the path winding deeper into the grove, and the silence pressed in. No London sirens, no wind rustling bare branches, just a faint, distant hum that sounded like a harp string plucked over and over, pure enough to make Rory’s teeth ache. They passed a stand of apple trees, their fruit glossy and black, glowing faint enough to cast small circles of light on the grass. Rory reached up and plucked one, it warm and smooth in her palm, and it hummed under her fingers. She took a bite, and the flood of taste hit her so hard she stumbled: her mum’s roast lamb from childhood Christmases, her dad’s burnt eggnog, the first lemon cake she’d baked for Eva’s 18th birthday, the taste of the first pint she’d snuck in Silas’ bar after moving to London. It was every good memory she had, wrapped into one bite, and she swallowed, staring at the apple in her hand. The bite mark she’d left had vanished, the fruit whole again, as if she’d never taken a bite out of it. She dropped it like it burned, the apple landing in the grass and rolling away, the glow never fading.
A hundred yards further, they crossed a narrow stream, its water clear and cold as it rushed over smooth stones. Rory knelt to splash water on her face, leaning over to look at her reflection, and for a split second it wasn’t her bright blue eyes staring back. It was Evan’s, cold and brown, his sneer twisted into the same look he’d worn the night she’d fled Cardiff, the night she’d split her wrist on a broken glass trying to get away from him. You thought you could run, his voice whispered, soft as the stream’s current, and she flinched back, falling hard on her ass, the Heartstone flying out of her pocket and clattering on the grass.
Nyx was at her side in a second, their shadowy hands solid enough to help her stand, their voice low. The grove shows you what you hide from. What you run from. It doesn’t let you carry secrets inside its walls.
Rory picked up the Heartstone, her hands shaking, and wiped the grass off it. She’d never told anyone what Evan had done, not even Eva, had buried it so deep she thought she’d never have to face it again, and the grove had ripped it open in ten seconds flat. She wiped her wet cheeks on her sleeve, and nodded, and they kept walking.
The path opened into a clearing a minute later, a stone pool in its center, its water glowing like liquid moonlight. A woman sat on the pool’s edge, her silver hair falling all the way to her waist, spilling into the water and spreading out like starlight. She didn’t turn when they stepped into the clearing, her pale lavender eyes fixed on the water, and when she spoke, her voice was soft but sharp, riddled with edges they’d have to unpack later.
The crescent scar brings the girl who runs from fire. The shadow trapped between worlds chases the secret of his own cage. You came for the rift that will open when the Veil bleeds thin at solstice.
Isolde, Nyx said, their head dipping in a small, respectful nod. Rory stared, the woman’s feet bare on the stone, no footprints left behind where she’d shifted her weight , a detail that sent a chill up Rory’s spine even in the grove’s warm air. Isolde was half-fae, bound to never lie, exiled from the Fae courts for sharing visions with mortals, and she stood, her 5’5” frame straight as she turned to face them, her lavender eyes locking on the Heartstone in Rory’s hand.
The stone from Dymas calls to the rift. Belphegor’s gluttons will crawl through, eat more than bread and meat, devour the souls of every mortal in London if the rift isn’t sealed. It breathes the same air as this grove, the Veil thin enough to stitch closed, if you have the right tool.
She stepped around the pool, and pulled a slender, leaf-shaped dagger from behind a stone, its moonsilver blade glowing faint blue, the cold from it rolling across the clearing and nipping at Rory’s cheeks even from ten feet away. She held it out, the blade steady, the light from it painting Rory’s face. This blade cuts through wards, cuts through demon flesh. It is yours. There is no cost for this gift.
Rory stepped forward, her hand outstretched to take it, and caught the small twitch of Isolde’s fingers as she handed the dagger over. The blade was cold in her palm, fitting perfectly , like it had been forged for her hand, and it hummed in time with the Heartstone, the two artifacts singing the same note. Isolde’s lips twitched into a small, sad smile, and Rory knew the half-fae hadn’t lied, not exactly, but she’d hidden the cost deep, waiting to reveal it when it was too late to run. The grove didn’t keep secrets, after all. And Rory wasn’t going to leave this place with any left unturned.