AI The frost crunched under Rory’s scuffed delivery boots, the December wind sneaking through the gaps in her thrifted coat to bite at her cheeks as she and Nyx picked their way through Richmond Park’s bare, shadow-strung oaks. Her left wrist itched, the crescent scar she’d carried since she’d fallen off her childhood bike burning faint, and she rubbed at it through her sleeve, her other hand closing around the small crimson stone strung on a silver chain around her neck. The Heartstone, the thing that had showed up on her London flat windowsill three weeks prior, still warm after all that time, had grown hotter with every step they’d taken that afternoon , thrumming in time with her pulse like a second heartbeat. Beside her, Nyx loomed a full eight inches taller, their solid shadow-form bleeding soft at the edges as the sun dipped low, the faint violet glow of their eyes cutting through the gathering dusk. Their voice, always like wind rustling through dead grass, brushed her ear. “The stones. She waits.”
When they broke through the line of birches, three ancient oaks stood in a perfect circle, their trunks twisted so tight they looked woven from the same dark wood, moss climbing their bases to form a natural arch. Rory hesitated, her thumb brushing the Heartstone’s smooth surface, before she stepped through. The cold vanished. The frost under her boots turned to soft, damp moss thick enough to sink an inch into, and the air bloomed warm, thick with the scent of jasmine and wild garlic and rain that had never touched London’s polluted streets. She spun, her straight black hair flying, and gaped: wildflowers bloomed everywhere, bluebells and poppies and daisies tangled together, their colors so bright they looked painted, impossible for midwinter. A stream babbled fifty yards away, its water so clear she could see pebbles the size of her fist glinting on the bottom, and the sun hung low and golden in the sky, not the gunmetal grey she’d left outside Richmond’s boundary. She fumbled for her phone, the screen lighting up to read 4:17 PM—she’d checked the time ten minutes before, when they’d parked her beat-up Fiesta at the park gate, and it had been 3:42. Those thirty-five minutes had felt like three hours of walking, and now, stepping through the stones, an hour of phone time had stretched into less than a minute. Time moved wrong here, exactly as Eva had warned her it would.
The woman standing by the stream didn’t turn until Rory’s boot crunched on a twig. Her silver hair fell all the way to her waist, catching the sun like strands of fine wire, and her pale lavender eyes locked on Rory’s, ageless in a way that made her breath catch. Isolde was barefoot, and as she stepped forward to meet them, Rory noticed she left no mark on the soft moss at her feet, no indentation of heel or toe, as if she weighed less than the air. “You came chasing the scar that bleeds memory,” Isolde said, her voice like chimes, “the stone that hums for hell’s gate, the shadow that outran its own grave . I knew you would. The Veil thins enough this solstice for even mortals to taste what lies beyond.” She couldn’t lie, Eva had reminded her that half-Fae compulsion bound her, but she wrapped the truth in riddles tight enough to keep you guessing until the end. The Veil, the barrier that split Earth from the realms beyond, the thing Nyx had spent centuries slipping through, was weakest on the winter solstice, that much they’d explained on the drive over. That was the only reason they’d been able to find the grove at all, a pocket realm tucked between Earth and the Fae courts, hidden from anyone who didn’t know exactly what to look for.
Isolde held out a small leather wrap, and when Rory unfolded it, the dagger inside made her gasp. It was slender, leaf-shaped, forged from a metal that glowed faint silver even in the grove’s golden light, and when she closed her hand around the hilt, it was ice-cold, seeping into her palms to chase away the last of the chill she’d carried from the park. “The Fae-forged blade,” Isolde said, “it cuts through any ward, burns any demon that dares touch it. I exiled myself from the courts for sharing such gifts with mortals, but you will need it. What waits for you on the other side does not care how fast you run, Rory Carter.” Rory’s throat went tight. She’d run from Evan, her abusive ex, from Cardiff, from the pre-law degree her parents had pushed her into, run all the way to London where she delivered dumplings and fried rice from Yu-Fei’s Golden Empress six days a week and slept in a tiny flat above Silas’ bar, and Isolde had called her out on it before she’d even said a word. She tucked the dagger into her coat’s inner pocket, the cold seeping through the fabric to rest against her ribs, and the Heartstone around her neck suddenly blazed hot, so hot it burned, and she gasped, clutching at it. “The portal,” Nyx said, their shadow-form rippling with unease, “it’s close. The stone reacts to rifts into Hel.”
Isolde led them deeper into the grove, past trees that bore fruit that glowed like tiny lanterns, past a herd of deer with antlers woven from wildflowers that stared at them with unblinking black eyes, until they stopped at a wall of shimmering air, a distortion that bent the light of the grove around it, like a heat haze off tarmac in summer. That was the Veil, the rift that led somewhere else, and Isolde stopped at its edge, her bare feet not crossing the invisible line. “I cannot follow,” she said, and the sadness in her voice was raw, no riddles this time, the unvarnished truth slipping through. “The courts would track me to Hel, and I have spent three hundred years outrunning their punishment. Go. What you seek is in Dymas, the realm of excess, the prince’s seat. The stone will lead you. Beware the feasts that feed on more than hunger.” She stepped back, and Nyx nodded, their violet eyes bright, and gestured for Rory to go first. She took a deep breath, stepped through the shimmering rift, and the world exploded around her.
The first thing that hit her was the sky. It was warm amber, deep and rich like melted honey, stretching from horizon to horizon, no sun, no moon, just that constant, glowing amber light that painted everything it touched gold. The air was thick with scent: aged wine, ripe peaches roasted with cinnamon, slow-cooked pork, jasmine, vanilla, so many smells layered on top of each other that her head spun, the cooking teacher’s daughter in her (her mum had run an after-school club for years, teaching local kids to bake bread and stews) reeling at the profusion of it. When she spun to look behind her, the grove was gone , only the same shimmering rift hanging in the air, and Nyx stepped through a second later, their 6’2” frame solidifying, the violet glow of their eyes brighter here, as if the realm’s magic fed them. Stretching out before them, as far as the eye could see, were vineyards, the grapes hanging in heavy clusters of deep purple, sunlit gold, even faint glowing blue, fat and ripe, and orchards where trees bore fruit the size of melons, their leaves silver as the dagger in her coat. In the distance, she heard music: lutes, flutes, the loud peal of laughter, the clink of glass, but under it, faint enough that she almost missed it, a whimper, cut off sharp, as if someone had been silenced mid-scream.
Her hand flew to the dagger in her coat, closing around the hilt, and the Heartstone around her neck pulsed once, soft, as if agreeing with her unease . Nyx’s voice was quiet, awed and wary all at once. “I read about Dymas, when I was a sorcerer, back in 1643, before the ritual that trapped me. Belphegor’s realm, the glutton’s playground. They say he contracts souls from Earth, mortals who owed debts, or were trapped by bad deals, to work in his kitchens, to feed the endless feasts that never end. I never thought I’d see it.” They started walking, Rory falling into step beside her, her boots crunching on gravel mixed with crushed rose petals, and as they walked, the feasts came into view: a long marble table that stretched for miles, loaded with more food than Rory had ever seen in her life. A swan stuffed with a peacock stuffed with quails, their skins glazed with honey, platters of fruit that dripped golden juice that sank into the marble before it could hit the ground, goblets carved from ruby that refilled themselves the second they were emptied, dozens of servants moving up and down the table, their eyes blank, their movements mechanical , stirring giant cauldrons that simmered over open fires, their clothes thin and ragged even in the realm’s warm air. Rory’s crescent scar burned, sudden and sharp, and she thought of Evan, of the way he’d controlled every part of her life for two years, the way he’d made her feel like a thing to be used, and she knew exactly what those souls were feeling. Trapped.
A wisp of light, a tiny glowing thing no bigger than her thumbnail, drifted in front of her face, bobbing as if urging her forward, and the Fae-blade in her coat glowed faintly, as if greeting it . Isolde’s words echoed in her head, the stone will lead you, and she tightened her grip on the Heartstone through her coat, feeling it pulse in time with the little wisp, as they headed deeper into Dymas. The roar of a great beast echoed in the distance, growing closer with every step, the wonder of the alien realm warping into the sharp, cold edge of danger, and Rory knew she couldn’t run this time. She’d stopped running when she’d stepped through the oak stones, and she’d keep walking, no matter what waited for her at the end of the endless feast hall.