AI The Heartstone Pendant grew warm against Aurora’s skin. Not the gentle warmth of a body’s heat, but a slow, insistent thrum, like a second heartbeat trying to sync with her own. She stopped at the edge of the ancient oak ring, her fingers brushing the silver chain through her shirt.
“Something’s wrong.” Her voice was a hush . The air here was thick, smelling of crushed herbs and something else, something metallic and sweet like old blood. The wildflowers that carpeted the clearing between the stones shouldn’t have been blooming in November. They were too vivid, their colours almost aggressive: a crimson that clotted the eye, a violet that pulsed .
Nyx flowed to her side, their form a solid slash of darkness against the twilight. They didn’t walk so much as coalesce from one patch of shadow to another. “The air tastes of sugar and rot,” they whispered, the soundless voice forming directly in Rory’s mind. “A gilded cage. We are at the threshold of Dymas.”
Isolde moved ahead of them, her bare feet leaving no impression on the mossy earth. The pale lavender of her eyes caught the last of the daylight filtering through the canopy, making her gaze luminous. She paused beside the largest oak, its bark whorled into patterns that looked unnervingly like sleeping faces.
“The hunger of Gluttony,” Isolde said, her voice a melodic riddle, “feeds not the belly, but the hollow space between ribs . It offers a feast that leaves the soul gaunt.” She turned, her silver hair a stark banner in the gloaming. “The Prince of this realm is a patient gardener. He plants seeds of desire and harvests despair.”
Rory took a step forward, and the world tilted. The amber light of a distant, unseen sky bled into the edges of her vision. The pendant flared with heat. She wasn’t looking at Richmond Park anymore. The oaks were still there, but their branches now dripped with luminous, golden sap that pattered onto the ground with thick, wet sounds. Vines heavy with grape-like clusters, each one the size of her fist, coiled around the trunks. The air thickened, the scent of wine and overripe fruit becoming cloying, coating her tongue.
“Time moves strangely here,” Nyx cautioned, their shadowy form seeming to drink in the new, amber light. “What feels like an hour could be a day outside. Or a minute.”
“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Rory muttered, her fingers tracing the hard edge of the Fae-forged blade concealed in her jacket. Its constant cold was a grounding counterpoint to the pendant’s feverish pulse . She looked to Isolde. “How do we find the source? The rift?”
Isolde smiled, a faint, knowing curve of her lips that held no humour. “You follow the thread of your own longing. It will lead you to the loom.” She began to walk, not towards the centre of the Grove, but towards one of the oaks where the golden sap pooled the thickest.
As Rory followed, the ground beneath her boots softened. The moss gave way to spongy, fungal growth that glowed with a faint bioluminescence, illuminating a path of swirling blues and greens. She could hear music, a low, seductive thrumming like a great cello played in another chamber. The melody promised warmth , satiation, an end to all striving. For a dizzying moment, she thought of her flat above Silas’s bar, of the safety in its small, familiar dimensions, and the longing was a physical ache.
Then she saw the trees ahead were not bearing fruit.
From the low-hanging boughs of a particularly gnarled oak, something hung. Not grapes. They were plump, perfectly shaped pears, each a flawless gold. And they were weeping . A thin, syrupy trickle of amber liquid oozed from their stems, dripping steadily onto the ground where it pooled and swarmed with fat, jewel-bright beetles. The beetles weren’t eating the liquid. They were drinking it, their carapaces shimmering as they swelled.
“Don’t look too long,” Nyx advised, their voice a cold draft against her ear . “The sights here are designed to hook. The first bite is always sweet.”
Isolde stood before the weeping pear tree, her hand raised but not touching the fruit. “This is the Orchard of First Regret. Each fruit holds the memory of a pleasure indulged in at too great a cost. A taste, and you’ll feel the echo of your own hollow bargains.”
Rory tore her gaze away. Her eyes scanned the Grove, and the wonder curdled into unease. What had seemed like a wild, magical glade was revealing its architecture. Between the oaks, thin filaments of silvery web stretched, glistening with dew. They weren’t spider silk; they were too rigid, catching the amber light and refracting it into fractured rainbows that danced across the forest floor. The music was louder here, the thrumming deepening until she felt it in her sternum.
Ahead, the oaks parted into a wider clearing. In its centre, a fountain bubbled. Not with water, but with a thick, viscous liquid the colour of dark honey . The air above it shimmered with heat. Around its stone rim, set into niches, were goblets of bone and crystal , overflowing with the same liquid. The scent was intoxicating , a complex bouquet of roasted chestnuts, spiced wine, and something warmer, more intimate.
“The Well of Want,” Isolde announced, stopping at a respectful distance. “Drink from it, and you will know true satisfaction. For a moment. The price is that you will then know the true depth of your dissatisfaction with everything else.”
Rory’s throat felt dry. The pendant was almost burning now, a steady, insistent heat over her heart. She looked into the dark, swirling liquid of the Well and saw, for a heartbeat, not her own reflection, but her father’s study . Leather-bound books, the scent of old paper and whiskey. Safety. Permanence. The life she’d fled.
“Rory.” Nyx’s whisper was sharp, cutting through the hypnotic thrum. They were pointing a long, shadowy finger towards the far side of the Well.
Past the fountain, the Grove’s opulence decayed. The golden light dimmed to a bruised purple. The vibrant wildflowers here were wilted , their petals slimy and collapsing. The ground was littered with the detritus of a feast: cracked plates, gnawed bones, wine goblets smashed and trampled. The music here was discordant, a strained, discordant wailing beneath the seductive thrum.
And there, in the mulch and the ruin, was the rift.
It wasn’t a tear or a shimmering membrane. It was a door. A grand, arching portal made of dark, polished wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl in patterns that seemed to writhe when viewed directly . It stood impossibly in the middle of the clearing, attached to nothing, its frame carved with images of blooming vines that gave way to screaming, emaciated faces. The air around it was frigid, a pocket of winter in the humid Grove, and it hummed with a power that made Rory’s teeth ache.
The Heartstone Pendant gave one final, searing pulse against her skin, as if trying to jump from her body and fly to the door .
“The entrance to the Prince’s table,” Isolde said, her voice suddenly devoid of its riddling cadence . It was flat, factual. “The path you seek lies beyond it. But be warned, Rory Carter. To cross that threshold is to enter a realm where your deepest desire is the currency, and the cost is always more than you can afford.”
Nyx solidified beside Rory, their shadowy form coalescing until a suggestion of a hand rested on her shoulder. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so. “The shadows are thin there,” they murmured. “I can move. But you… you are solid. You are meat. You are exactly what his chefs are always looking for.”
The great wooden door stood silent, waiting. The humming from its frame deepened, a promise and a threat. Rory reached up and pulled the pendant from beneath her shirt. The crimson gem glowed with a dark, inner light, its pulse now perfectly synced with the thrumming of the door. It wasn’t just warm anymore. It was hot. And it was pulling , ever so gently , towards the portal.
She took a breath, the cloying sweetness of the Orchard and the heavy perfume of the Well filling her lungs. Then she looked at the carved door, at the faces caught in the wood’s eternal, silent scream. The blade in her jacket was a line of ice against her ribs. The decision was not a choice, but an inevitability .
She took the first step towards the door. The handle was cold iron, shaped like a coiled serpent. As her fingers closed around it, the entire Grove seemed to hold its breath. The music stopped. The weeping of the pears ceased. The only sound was the frantic, hot pulse of the Heartstone against her palm and the distant, hungry hum of the door.
She turned the handle. It gave way with a soft, oiled click that echoed with the finality of a lock turning on a tomb. The door swung inward, not into darkness, but into a light of overwhelming, golden brilliance , and a wave of heat washed over them, carrying the rich, impossible aromas of a thousand feasts.