AI The oak stones stood in a broken ring at the edge of Richmond Park, their bark scored by old hands and older weather. Aurora pressed her thumb against the crescent scar on her left wrist. The pendant in her pocket gave a hot tick, then another, and the heat climbed the silver chain against her collarbone.
"Three stones."
Nyx's shadow thickened at the shoulders, edges pressing against the last grey light. "The story told nine."
Isolde walked ahead. Silver hair brushed her waist. The grass beneath her feet did not bend. Wildflowers opened in her path, petals wet with a dew that had no place at dusk.
"Stories lie to be useful."
Isolde paused, tilted her head, and let a flower drift toward her mouth. She closed her lips around it, crushed it between her teeth, and swallowed.
"Stones keep."
Aurora looked over the ring. Inside, the park ended. A path of pale root-wood led into a thicket where the oaks leaned so close their branches made a roof of green. The air smelled of crushed mint, wet soil, and apples left too long in a warm kitchen.
Aurora stepped through the boundary.
"Come on."
The park behind the ring lost its sound. One moment, a jogger passed with headphones. The next, the grove answered in long green notes. A leaf drifted down, touched the ground, turned into a flower, split into soil, and rose again as leaf. Time forgot the rule here.
Nyx followed. Their shadow form thinned until they were a cut in the air.
"I feel watched."
Isolde lifted a petal.
"By roots."
Nyx's shadow stretched along the roots.
"By flowers."
Isolde's lavender eyes moved along the path.
"By the hour that is not an hour."
Aurora felt the pendant hum. The heat moved through her chest. The thicket widened into a clearing, and the clearing refused to hold its shape. Each step changed the angle of the trunks. A bird with too many notes in its voice landed on a branch, opened its mouth, and released a single chord that made Aurora's teeth ache. The wildflowers around them bloomed in rings, yellow, white, blue, red, each ring opening after the last, a ripple of colour moving through the green.
Aurora touched the pendant. It had stopped pulsing. Now it gave a low hum, a warmth that moved through her chest.
"There."
Ahead, between two oaks thicker than cars, the air shimmered . It was not heat. It was a line of light with edges that did not agree, a pale tear in the darkening green.
Nyx's violet eyes flared.
"A Veil seam."
Isolde tilted her head.
"Old. Young. Hungry."
Aurora met Nyx's eyes.
"It's Hel."
"Or a doorway dressed as Hel."
Isolde's lavender eyes did not move.
"What is the difference?"
"The one that eats you."
Nyx's shadow curled inward.
"The one that feeds you first."
Aurora looked at the seam. The shimmer leaned toward her, as if waiting for a name . The pendant grew hot, not painful, but insistent, like a coal wrapped in cloth . She thought of the restaurant, the late deliveries, the flat above the bar, the way Evan's hands had closed around her throat until her own voice felt borrowed. She thought of the unknown hand that had put the silver chain in her palms and left the words burning in her ears: when the red stone asks, follow it.
She did not think of running. Running had a smell, and she had left that scent behind.
Aurora stepped toward the seam.
"Don't."
Nyx's shadow cracked like a branch under snow.
Isolde did not move.
"The tongue is wet."
"Then it's not a door."
"It is a mouth shaped as a door."
Aurora reached the shimmer. Her hand passed through. The air on the other side hit her skin, warm and syrupy, carrying the smell of roasted sugar, garlic, and wine aged in oak barrels. The heat did not burn. It invited. The pendant in her pocket flared, bright enough to see through the fabric of her jacket.
Aurora pulled her hand back. Red light bloomed in her palm, then faded to a warm smear.
"It knows me."
Nyx's shadow curled inward.
"It knows everyone. That is the trouble with mouths."
Isolde crushed a petal between her fingers.
"Then we ask it for a path."
Aurora looked at them. Nyx stood at the edge of the clearing, solid enough to cast a shade on the roots. Isolde remained still among the flowers, as if the grove had grown around her.
Aurora lifted her chin.
"A path."
"To the kitchen."
Isolde's silver hair moved without wind.
"The feast is not full."
Aurora felt the pendant throb against her hip. The Fae blade in her satchel leapt, cold as river ice, and the silver leaf shape pressed against her thigh. She thought of the crimson stone, the faint inner glow, the way it had pulsed when the restaurant's back door opened onto the alley behind Silas' bar. She thought of the customer who had ordered a meal for three and eaten only salt.
She went through.
The seam swallowed her in warm light. There was no fall, no sound, no change except the ground under her feet. It was stone, but not grey. It was the colour of burnt peach, and it held heat like a hearth.
Aurora opened her eyes.
An amber sky stretched over rolling hills. The light had no name in Aurora's mouth. Vineyards climbed the slopes in tight rows, their leaves dark green and glossy. Between them, orchards stood heavy with fruit she could not name. Some looked like pomegranates split open to show seeds the size of coins. Some looked like coconuts with translucent skin. Others hung in clusters, red and blue, pulsing in red and blue. Gardens ran down the hillsides in neat terraces, and in those gardens, hands worked without rest.
The smell reached Aurora before the sight did. Roast meat, cinnamon, charred onions, honey, and a sharp green note, like crushed herbs after rain. A laugh rose from the treeline, then another, then a chorus of laughter, all close, all loud, all sweet.
"Gluttony."
Nyx stood beside her. Their shadow smoldered under the amber light.
"Dymas."
Isolde walked ahead. The stone path did not show her footprints, though the dust around it lay thick as flour.
"The mouth that wears a crown."
Aurora looked down the hill. A broad avenue led between the gardens to a palace built of pale stone and dark wood. Its walls bore marks too old for chisels. Banners hung from its towers, crimson and gold, shaped like open mouths. Smoke rose from a dozen chimneys, each plume a different colour: grey, rose, gold, black. The air carried the sound of pans clanging, knives tapping against marble , and a crowd chanting in a language that curled around Aurora's thoughts.
A hand caught her sleeve.
The woman wore a white apron stained with grease and blood. Her hair was tied back. Her eyes were black, and in the centre of each blackness, a yellow point burned.
"New plates."
Aurora met the woman's eyes.
"We are not here to eat."
The woman laughed. The sound cut the air like a knife on a board.
"No one is here to eat. Everyone is here to be eaten."
Behind her, the kitchen door opened. A man stepped out carrying a copper tray stacked with bowls. He stopped when he saw them. The bowls slid. A splash of broth hit the stone, and the steam that rose from it smelled of old bread, black pepper, and something metallic.
He dropped the tray.
Copper rang through the garden. The faces along the path lifted. From the palace, from the vineyards, from the orchards, from the terraces, eyes turned toward Aurora, Nyx, and Isolde. The laughter stopped. The chanting stopped. The amber sky went still.
Aurora pulled her sleeve free. The woman's grip left red marks on the fabric. Nyx's shadow stretched along the path, a thin line of black cutting through the dust. Isolde walked forward, and the dust parted for her.
Aurora followed.
The palace drew them closer. The avenue widened into a courtyard paved with tiles the colour of ripe apricots. Steam rose from grates in the floor, carrying scents of butter, anise, and salt. Along the walls, shelves held jars of pickled things: limes with silver skins, mushrooms that glowed pale blue, cherries preserved in honey so thick it moved like syrup. Cooks moved between the shelves, arms full of trays, and each tray held food that gave off its own light. The cooks had no shadows.
Beyond the steam, a contest line ran along the palace wall. Three chefs worked separate stations, each with a copper pan, and each pan gave off a different scent: smoke, sugar, blood. The crowd pointed at the dishes as if the dishes were horses in a race . A judge watched the flames, and the flames curved toward him like hands.
Nyx's shadow thinned.
"Too much."
Their voice came on a breath of wind.
"Too little."
Isolde touched a jar of glowing mushrooms. The glass stayed cold.
"The mouth does not want fullness."
"It wants more."
Aurora met the woman's eyes. She looked at the fruit in the orchard beyond the courtyard wall. The clusters pulsed . A vine had climbed the wall, and its leaves were shaped like tongues. She stepped back. The pendant burned.
A bell rang.
The sound came from the palace. It had a deep body, a warm rim, and a note that settled in her teeth. The cooks stopped. The trays lowered. The crowd along the avenue bowed their heads, but their eyes stayed open, and the yellow points in their eyes glowed.
A door in the palace wall swung open.
Two servants carried a table between them. The table was small, round, white as bone. On it sat a single plate. The plate held a dish of sliced meat, red in the centre, grey at the edges, arranged in a circle around a spoon. Steam rose from the meat and formed shapes, thin lines that twisted and dissolved.
Aurora's stomach turned. The Fae blade in her satchel cooled, and the cold spread into her fingers.
"The judges."
Nyx's shadow pressed flat against the stone.
"Let them taste us."
Isolde's lavender eyes fixed on the plate.
"The tongue tastes the watcher."
The servants placed the table in the centre of the courtyard. The crowd stepped back. A woman in a black apron stepped forward. Her face was smooth, ageless, and her mouth was too wide. When she smiled, she showed two rows of teeth, upper and lower, both sharp.
"The feast has a gap."
Her voice carried the weight of hot iron. The servants pulled out a chair. The chair was black wood, and the back was carved with vines that seemed to move . The woman sat. The crowd watched.
Aurora felt the pendant pulse . The heat spread through her wrist, across the crescent scar, and into her shoulder.
Aurora moved toward the table.
Nyx's shadow flared.
"Stop."
Isolde's hand closed around Aurora's arm. The fingers were cold, but the half-fae warmth under her skin was not.
"The gap is not a place."
Aurora looked at the plate. The meat moved in thin shifts. The slices shifted, one by one, to make room for a hand that was not there. The steam rose and shaped a face, then another, then a mouth, and the mouth opened.
Aurora's satchel strap cut into her shoulder. She pulled the Fae blade free. The leaf-shaped dagger was cold, and its faint glow did not match the amber sky. The blade's edge drank the light around it.
The woman in the black apron did not look at the blade.
She looked at the pendant in Aurora's hand.
"Red."
The word came with a low edge. The crowd leaned in.
"Mine."
Aurora's grip tightened on the dagger. The pendant burned against her palm. The meat on the plate slid toward the edge.
A hand reached over the table.
The fingers were long, pale, and warm. They closed around Aurora's wrist. The pendant flared. The black woman's mouth opened, and two rows of teeth caught the amber light.