AI My palm scraped raw as I shoved the last gnarled oak stone aside, splinters sticking into the crescent scar on my left wrist. I’d hiked three miles off the marked tourist paths in Richmond Park, outrun two student dog walkers who’d stared at my bulging rucksack like I smuggling stolen deer antlers, ignored the chain link fence strung with red warning tape that marked the restricted area no park ranger would patrol after dark. Eva had been gone seven days. The unknown number that sent me the Heartstone, that texted me the Grove’s exact location three days prior, had promised she was alive if I got here before midnight.
I hauled myself over the low stone boundary, my scuffed black boots landing soft on ground that did not crunch with frost, as it should have in mid-November London. The cold silver chain around my neck, strung with a thumbnail sized deep crimson gem, warmed instantly. It had sat cold against my sternum since I pulled it from a crumpled jiffy bag that landed on my doormat, the flat above Silas’ bar in Camden, two weeks prior. The sender’s only note had read Keep this close. It will lead you where you need to go.
I fumbled my phone from my jeans pocket. The screen lit up to 11:17 PM. I’d checked the time thirty seconds earlier, before I crossed the stones, and it had read 11:17 PM. I tapped the screen, refreshed the network status, saw no bars, no GPS signal, nothing. The wildflowers under my boots swayed, though no wind stirred. Bluebells, poppies, clover, all blooms that died or lay dormant months earlier, carpeted the clearing that stretched half a mile ahead, ringed with ancient oaks that loomed twice the size of any tree I’d seen in the main park. The air carried the sharp tang of clover honey, layered under a faint, coppery stench I could not place. Not a single distant car horn, fox cry, or rustle of wind through dead leaves reached me. The entire Grove held its breath.
I called Eva’s name, soft at first, then louder. My voice bounced off the oaks, but did not echo . It vanished, swallowed by the silence before it could travel ten feet. I shifted my rucksack off one shoulder, the side pocket crinkling with unused takeaway menus I’d forgotten to remove, leftovers from my shift at Golden Empress the previous day. I’d grabbed the bag on my way out of the flat, too panicked to pack properly, too desperate to leave anything that might slow me down.
A small, tinkling sound rang out from the far treeline, like a child’s bell on a winter coat. I spun, my heart hammering. The treeline held nothing but shadow, gnarled branches that twisted into the dark sky. I rubbed the scar on my wrist, the old ache flaring, the same ache that always hit when I was scared . I’d got that scar when I was ten, climbing an oak in the backyard of my childhood home in Cardiff, Eva right behind me, I slipped and caught my wrist on a broken branch. She’d climbed down first, run to get my mum, never let me forget that she’d saved me that day. She’d saved me again two years prior, called me from London, told me to leave Evan, that I could stay on her couch, that he’d never find me there. I’d listened. Now I was here, trying to return the favour.
A flash of dark leather moved at the edge of my vision, right of the treeline. Evan’s leather jacket, the scuffed black one he’d worn when he slammed me into the fridge in my Cardiff flat, the one I’d burned in a bin outside the train station before I boarded the train to London. I blinked hard. The shadow resolved into an oak root, twisted into an odd shape. I told myself I was tired, that I’d not slept more than three hours a night since Eva vanished, that my mind was playing tricks. I took a step forward, called Eva’s name again.
A soft voice answered, perfect mimicry of Eva’s lilt , the same Welsh lilt that matched my mum’s. “Rory? Over here. I hurt my ankle. I can’t move.”
I lunged toward the sound, my boots slipping on something damp that had not been there seconds earlier. “I’m coming. Hold on.”
Another voice, identical, rang out from the left side of the clearing. “Rory, don’t. That’s not me. Don’t follow it.”
I skidded to a halt. My hands shook as I fumbled the water bottle from my rucksack, unscrewed the cap to pour a sip down my throat. Dark, thick liquid spilled over the rim, hit my hand. I licked a drop off my palm. Copper stung my nostrils. Blood. Recent. I dropped the bottle. It hit the wildflowers and made no sound, swallowed whole by the same silence that ate everything else.
The Heartstone burned against my chest, hot enough to seep through my thin cotton jumper. I glanced down. The crimson gem glowed, casting a faint red light over the flowers at my feet, which were wilting , turning black at the edges, the rot spreading outward in a growing circle. The tinkling bell sound rang out again, closer this time, and then another, and another, a chorus of bells closing in from all sides. I spun, scanning the treeline, and saw the first of them, shadowy figures that stood just out of the red glow of the Heartstone, their faces hidden by hoods.
I ran for the boundary stones, the only way out. I skidded to a halt ten feet from the line of oak stones I’d shoved aside to enter. They were back in place, perfectly fitted, no gaps, no sign I’d ever moved them. The stones were sealed. I pounded on the nearest one, my fists splitting on the rough wood, screaming Eva’s name, screaming for help, anything to break the silence . The Heartstone burned hotter, and I heard a low, clear voice from behind me, soft and sure.
“Malphora. You took your time.”
I spun. A tall man in a dark wool coat stood at the centre of the clearing, his face half hidden by shadow. He held a length of rope in one hand, and tied to the oak behind him was Eva, her arms bound behind her back, a cloth gag tied around her mouth, her bright brown eyes wide with terror. She screamed, muffled, as I stepped back. The ground under my boots shifted, a low rumble vibrating up through my legs. The Heartstone’s glow flared so bright it lit the entire clearing, and the man smiled, his teeth white and sharp.
“I knew the Heartstone would lead you right to the portal. Dymas always does his work well.”
The ground split open under my feet. Cold, rot laced air poured up, and I fell, my hands scrambling for purchase on the blackening earth, as the first of the shadowy figures stepped out of the treeline to close the gap above me.