AI The iron gate groaned as Rory pushed it open, the sound too loud in the hush of Richmond Park at midnight. She hesitated, her breath curling in the cold air. The path ahead was a tunnel of darkness, the trees leaning in like silent sentinels . She shouldn’t be here. That thought had gnawed at her since she’d left the flat, but the pendant around her neck had burned hotter with every step closer to the Grove.
She adjusted the strap of her backpack, fingers brushing the small crescent scar on her left wrist—old habit when she was uneasy . The Heartstone pulsed faintly against her sternum, its crimson glow seeping through the fabric of her jacket. It had been doing that all evening, a steady, insistent thrum that had driven her out into the night. *Find the standing stones *, the note had said. *Before the moon sets.*
The note had been slipped under her door, the paper thick and yellowed at the edges, the ink smudged as if written in haste. No signature. No explanation. Just the words, and the unmistakable sketch of the pendant she now wore.
Rory stepped forward, her trainers crunching on the frost-kissed gravel. The path twisted, and the trees seemed to close in behind her, as if the park itself was herding her toward the Grove. She’d heard the stories, of course—whispers in Silas’ bar about the hidden clearing where time didn’t behave, where the air smelled of honey and rot. But she’d never believed them . Not until the pendant.
A twig snapped to her left.
She froze, her pulse hammering in her throat. The sound was too deliberate, too *loud *. The park should have been empty at this hour. She turned her head slowly , scanning the shadows between the oaks. Nothing. Just the skeletal branches swaying in a breeze she couldn’t feel.
Rory exhaled, her breath a white ghost between her lips. *Get a grip, Carter.* She was jumpy because she was tired, because the pendant’s warmth had kept her awake for nights, because the Grove was supposed to be... *other *. That was all.
The path sloped downward, and the trees thinned. Then, suddenly, the world opened up. The Fae Grove sprawled before her, a perfect circle of ancient oaks, their gnarled roots twisting above the earth like the fingers of something buried alive. The standing stones—massive, petrified trunks—marked the boundary, their bark blackened with age. Wildflowers bloomed at their feet, impossible in the December chill , their petals a riot of violets and golds.
And the air—God, the air. It was thick, cloying, like breathing through syrup. The scent of crushed roses and damp earth filled her lungs, and for a moment, she swayed, lightheaded. The pendant flared hotter, its glow seeping through her jacket like a beacon .
She stepped over the first root, her boots sinking slightly into the loam. The moment she crossed the threshold, the world *shifted *. The noise of the city—distant traffic, the hum of electricity—vanished. In its place was a silence so absolute it pressed against her eardrums. Even her own footsteps seemed muffled, as if the Grove was swallowing the sound.
Rory swallowed. The note had said *before the moon sets *. She craned her neck. The sky above the Grove was wrong. The moon hung low and bloated, its light a sickly silver, and the stars—there were too many. They pulsed , slow and rhythmic , like a living thing breathing.
Her skin prickled. She wasn’t alone.
The certainty settled in her gut, cold and heavy. She spun in a slow circle, her gaze raking the shadows between the trees. Nothing moved. Nothing *should * be there. But the hair on her arms stood on end, and the pendant burned like a brand.
A whisper slithered through the silence .
It was so faint she almost missed it—a sigh, a rustle, the barest shift of air. Rory’s breath hitched. The sound had come from the stones. She took a step toward them , her fingers curling into fists. The whisper came again, louder this time, a voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement.
*“Laila.”*
Her blood turned to ice. No one called her that. Not here. Not ever. That name had died with her childhood, buried under the weight of her father’s disappointment and her mother’s quiet sighs. She hadn’t heard it since she was ten.
“Who’s there?” Her voice sounded thin, brittle .
The whisper came again, closer. *“Laila, little thief.”*
She flinched. The words were a memory, a taunt from a childhood game. *Little thief *, Evan had called her once, when she’d stolen his last biscuit. But Evan was a thousand miles away. And this voice—it wasn’t his. It was older. Colder.
The pendant seared her skin. Rory clutched it through her jacket, as if it could anchor her to the real world. The stones loomed ahead, their surfaces carved with symbols she didn’t recognize—twisting lines, spirals, things that made her eyes ache if she stared too long.
Something moved at the edge of her vision.
She whipped her head around. A shadow, deeper than the rest, darted between the trees. Her pulse spiked. She was being watched.
“Show yourself,” she demanded, her voice steadier now . Fear was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not here.
The shadow didn’t answer. But the whispering grew louder, a chorus now, voices overlapping, murmuring words she almost understood. *Malphora *. The name slithered into her ear, and she recoiled. *Malphora * wasn’t a name she’d ever heard. But it *fit *, like a key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was there.
Her fingers tightened around the pendant. The metal was scalding now, the crimson glow bleeding through her skin. She yanked it free, holding it up like a talisman. The light cut through the darkness, and for a heartbeat, the Grove *stilled *. The whispers died. The shadows froze.
Then the stones *screamed *.
It was a sound like splintering wood, like a thousand voices wailing at once. Rory clapped her hands over her ears, her knees buckling. The ground trembled beneath her, the roots of the oaks writhing like serpents. The pendant’s glow flared, a pulse of crimson that lit up the clearing in a strobe of red.
And in that flickering light, she saw *them *.
Figures emerged from the stones—tall, too tall, their limbs elongated, their skin the color of bark and moss. Their eyes were hollow, their mouths stretched into smiles that didn’t reach their dead, black pits. They moved in jerks, like marionettes on frayed strings, their fingers twitching at their sides.
One stepped forward, its head tilting at an impossible angle. *“Malphora ,”* it hissed, its voice the rasp of dead leaves . *“We have waited.”*
Rory’s throat closed. She stumbled back, her boot catching on a root. She hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. The pendant flew from her grip, the chain snapping, and it skittered across the dirt, its glow dimming.
The figures advanced, their movements syncopated, unnatural. The first one reached for her, its fingers brushing her ankle, and she *screamed *, kicking out wildly. Her boot connected with something solid, and the creature recoiled, its smile twisting into a snarl.
She scrambled backward, her hands clawing at the earth. The pendant lay just out of reach, its light guttering like a dying ember. She lunged for it, her fingers closing around the silver chain—and the world *exploded *.
A wind howled through the Grove, a tempest that bent the trees and sent petals swirling like a snowstorm. The figures shrieked, their forms dissolving into smoke, into shadow. The stones groaned, their carvings flaring with a sudden, searing light.
And then—silence .
Rory lay on her back, her chest heaving, the pendant clutched in her fist. The Grove was still. The moon hung low, its light pale and normal. The shadows were just shadows. The stones were just stones.
But the air still tasted of roses and rot.
She sat up slowly , her body trembling. The pendant was cool now, its glow faded to a dull pulse . She slipped it back under her jacket, her fingers lingering on the scar on her wrist. The note had said *before the moon sets *. She checked her watch . It was 12:03 AM.
She’d been in the Grove for three minutes.
Outside, the world would have moved on. But here, in this pocket between realms, time had stretched, had *warped *. And something had been waiting for her.
Rory stood, her legs unsteady. She didn’t look back as she stepped over the boundary, as she left the Grove behind. But she knew, with a certainty that settled in her bones, that it wasn’t over.
The pendant burned against her skin, a slow, steady heat.
And the whispers started again, so faint she almost missed them .
*“Malphora .”*