AI The forest ended abruptly. One moment, the three of them were pushing through tangled undergrowth at the edge of Richmond Park, the damp chill of London clinging to their coats. The next, they stood at the threshold of a clearing that should not exist—air humming with something thick and electric , like the silence after thunder.
Rory paused, breath catching. The Heartstone Pendant beneath her shirt warmed suddenly , a small pulse against her collarbone. She glanced down, the deep crimson gem pulsing faintly beneath the fabric, its rhythm slow but insistent.
“This is it,” Nyx murmured, their voice a breath carried on still air. They shifted form slightly, from near-solid to a wisp of shadow clinging to the ground, their violet eyes flickering like candlelight in the dark. “The Veil is thinner here. Almost threadbare.”
Rory exhaled slowly, her bright blue eyes scanning the edge of the grove. Ancient oaks stood in a rough circle, their trunks wide and gnarled, bark split with silver veins that caught the faint light like old scars. Standing stones—weathered, moss-covered, impossibly tall—rose between them, carved with symbols Rory didn’t recognize. They pulsed faintly with a soft, gray-blue glow.
“It’s warm,” she said, surprised . The autumn night outside had been biting, but here, the air carried a mildness out of season. A breeze, sweet and floral, drifted past, carrying the scent of wild thyme and something else—something faintly metallic, like ozone after rain.
Nyx stepped forward, shadow-coil resolving into their usual humanoid form, towering over Rory at six feet two. Their silhouette remained blurred at the edges, as though never fully committed to solidity. “Time moves oddly in Fae-touched places. A step forward may be a day behind. Be careful.”
Rory tightened her grip on the Fae-Forged blade at her belt. The moonsilver hilt felt colder than ever, a shard of winter against her hip. She hadn’t drawn it yet, but just touching it made her nerves settle. She’d carried knives before—kitchen blades during her time at Golden Empress, even a switchblade one delivery gone wrong—but this one *sang * low in her bones. It was alive in a way steel shouldn’t be.
They moved inward.
The ground beneath their feet was springy, carpeted in clover and star-shaped white blossoms that glowed faintly at their centers. Rory knelt, brushing her fingers over one. The petals shimmered , releasing a tiny spark of light that spiraled upward like a firefly before vanishing.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
Nyx didn’t respond. Their head tilted, ears twitching like a cat’s. “You hear that?”
Rory listened. At first, only silence —a deep, total quiet. Then, beneath it, a low hum, like distant chanting. Not in any language she knew, but it *felt * like words, each syllable dripping with meaning too vast to comprehend.
“It’s the grove,” a voice said.
Rory spun.
A woman stood ten paces ahead, barefoot on the moss. Silver hair cascaded past her waist, untouched by wind, moving as though submerged. Her skin was pale as birch bark, her lips faintly purple. When she turned her face, Rory saw her eyes—wide, unblinking, pale lavender, depthless.
Isolde.
Nyx bowed low in shadow-form, a ripple of darkness across the grass. Rory, heart hammering, followed suit, one hand instinctively on the pendant.
“You’ve brought the Seer a visitor,” Isolde said, tilting her head. Her voice was layered, like three women speaking at once. “And the Shade. Interesting.”
Rory swallowed. “You... know us?”
Isolde stepped forward, bare feet making no impression in the moss. “I know what is coming before it arrives. I know who knocks before the door opens. You carry the Heartstone—gifted, not earned. But it chose you. That is worth noting.”
Rory touched the pendant again. “Who gave it to me?”
Isolde smiled, faint and sad. “Not a mortal. Not entirely. The answer walks closer than you think.”
Nyx shifted, shadows coiling tighter around them.
“This place,” Rory began, trying to steady her voice. “It’s not on any map. You live here?”
“I *am * here,” Isolde corrected. “The grove is a place between places. Mortals rarely find it. Fewer still leave it unchanged.”
She turned and began walking deeper into the clearing, her bare feet soundless. Rory and Nyx followed.
The trees here grew closer, their branches intertwined overhead, forming a canopy dappled with silver light. Fireflies—or something like them—drifted in lazy patterns , glowing pale gold and violet. But as Rory watched, one landed on a leaf. It wasn’t a bug. It was a tiny winged creature no larger than a thumb, with eyes like polished onyx and a mouth full of needle teeth. It bit into the leaf, sipping a dark, syrupy nectar, then fluttered away.
Rory’s stomach twisted. “Did that just—?”
Nyx chuckled, low and wind-like. “Welcome to the in-between. Not everything here is what it seems.”
They passed a pool, smooth as glass, reflecting not the sky but a swirling nebula of stars and smoke. Rory leaned over it, mesmerized. The reflection showed her face—her black hair, blue eyes, the small crescent scar on her wrist—but for a moment, the image *changed *. Her eyes turned violet. Her hair became shadow. Nyx stood beside her, but taller, crowned with horns wreathed in flame.
She jerked back. The image snapped back to normal.
“Visions linger here,” Isolde said, not turning . “They roll off the surface of things. Truths. Possibilities. Warnings.”
Rory exhaled. Her heart was pounding . She felt too aware , every nerve raw. The air hummed, almost painful now, pressing against her skin like a second layer.
Then, music.
Faint at first—flute-like, liquid, haunting. It came from nowhere and everywhere. Rory turned, searching, but saw nothing. Then she felt it: a *presence *. Not hostile. Not kind. But *aware *. The grove was watching them.
Isolde stopped at a stone dais in the center of the clearing. On it sat a small, shallow bowl carved from a single piece of obsidian. Inside, water shimmered , silver-black.
“You seek knowledge,” Isolde said, her back still turned . “But you do not know what you ask.”
Rory stepped forward. “I need to understand what’s happening. The Heartstone—it reacts near Hellgates. I’ve seen shadows move on their own. I’ve had dreams of feasts where the guests never stop eating, never stop *screaming *. And—” She hesitated. “My ex. Evan. He’s involved in something. I don’t know what. But I think he’s connected to—”
“Dymas,” Isolde finished, her voice flat .
Rory froze. “How do you know that name?”
Isolde turned slowly . “Belphegor’s domain. The gluttony. It calls to those who hunger too much. And Evan... he is not the man you left. He is *less *, and *more *.”
Nyx stepped forward. “He’s contracted. Sold his soul for power.”
Isolde inclined her head. “He feeds on forbidden things now. Blood-wine. Soul-fruit. He walks between worlds, but not by right. Only by theft.”
Rory felt sick. “Can he be stopped?”
“Everything can be stopped,” Isolde said. “But not always with a blade.” She lifted a hand, gestured to the bowl. “See.”
Rory approached. The surface of the water rippled, then changed . Images formed—Evan, younger, smiling, holding her hand in a Cardiff park. Then, a dark kitchen, a contract written in blood, a figure in shadow with a crown of grapes offering a goblet. Then, Rory herself, standing in a vineyard beneath an amber sky, the Heartstone glowing crimson, the Fae blade in her hand. Behind her, Nyx stepped from the shadows. Ahead, a great banquet hall burned.
The image faded.
Rory staggered back. “That’s... Dymas? I’m there?”
Isolde didn’t answer.
Nyx touched Rory’s shoulder. “The Veil thins at winter’s end. Rifts open. If Evan is opening gates... he’ll need bodies to cross. Souls to feed the gate.”
“And the Heartstone?” Rory asked.
“It is a key,” Isolde said. “And a lock. Given to you because you are the *balance *—mortal, but touched. Hunted, but untamed. You do not crave. You protect. That is rare.”
Rory looked down at her hands. The scar on her wrist seemed darker, more pronounced. She thought of Yu-Fei, waiting for her at the restaurant tomorrow. Of the quiet flat above Silas’ bar. Of Eva, who had saved her once.
Could she be the one to stop this?
The grove seemed to lean in, listening.
Then, a single blooming flower at her feet unfurled, its petals deep red, its center pulsing like a tiny heart.
The pendant growled against her skin.
Warm. Alive. Waiting.