AI The standing stones loomed like sentinels , their gnarled oak surfaces etched with spirals that seemed to writhe under Rory’s fingertips . She pressed her palm against one, and the bark pulsed faintly, warm as living flesh.
“This is it,” Nyx murmured, their shadowy form rippling like disturbed water. “The Grove doesn’t invite. It tolerates.”
Isolde stepped forward, her silver hair catching the dappled light that filtered through the canopy above. The air smelled of crushed mint and something older—ozone, maybe, or the memory of lightning. “Tolerates is generous,” she said. “It endures.”
Rory exhaled, watching her breath mist in the unnaturally still air. The Heartstone pendant at her throat thrummed, its crimson glow seeping through the fabric of her jacket. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, where the Fae blade nestled against her ribs, cold even through the leather. “So we just… walk in?”
Isolde’s lavender eyes gleamed. “If you value your time, yes.”
Nyx chuckled, the sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. “Or your sanity.”
Rory didn’t wait for more warnings. She ducked between two of the standing stones and the world folded around her.
The transition was seamless, yet disorienting. One moment, she stood in Richmond Park, the next, the ground beneath her boots was spongy with moss so vibrant it seemed to breathe. The trees here were impossibly tall, their trunks wide as houses, their bark shimmering with veins of gold and silver. The leaves weren’t green but a shifting spectrum—deep violet, burnished copper, a blue so pale it was nearly white. They rustled without wind, whispering in a language that made Rory’s teeth ache.
Nyx materialised beside her, their form more solid here, the edges of their silhouette less like smoke and more like polished obsidian. “The Grove remembers every visitor,” they said. “It’s tasting your memories now.”
Rory’s fingers twitched towards the Fae blade. “That’s… comforting .”
Isolde glided past them, her bare feet not disturbing the moss. “It’s deciding if you’re worth the effort of lying to.”
A path unfolded before them, not of dirt or stone, but of petals —thousands of them, overlapping like fish scales, each one a different hue. Rory crouched, brushing her fingers over a petal the colour of twilight. It dissolved at her touch, scattering into motes of light that hung in the air before vanishing. “What the hell is this place?”
“A pocket,” Isolde said. “Or a wound. Depending on who you ask.”
Nyx bent—if bending was the right word for the way their form seemed to fold in on itself—and plucked a petal from the path. It didn’t dissolve. Instead, it darkened in their grip, twisting into something that looked suspiciously like a thorned vine. “Careful where you step. The Grove has a sense of humour.”
Rory stood, eyeing the path with new suspicion. “So we’re walking on a sentient carpet that might turn into a Venus flytrap at any moment?”
“Essentially.”
She exhaled through her nose. “Right. Let’s get this over with.”
The deeper they ventured, the more the Grove revealed itself. The trees here bore fruit that glowed like lanterns, their skins translucent enough to see the swirling seeds within. Rory reached for one, but Isolde’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist with surprising strength. “Don’t. Unless you fancy living out someone else’s life for a few hours.”
Rory yanked her hand back. “What?”
“Time’s… fluid here,” Isolde said. “Eat the wrong thing, and you might find yourself reliving the Grove’s favourite memories. Or its nightmares.”
Nyx plucked a fruit from a low-hanging branch and tossed it into the air. It burst like a soap bubble, releasing a scent like jasmine and burnt sugar. “Or you might just hallucinate for a bit. The Grove’s mood swings are legendary.”
Rory rubbed her temples. “Remind me why we’re here again?”
Isolde’s smile was serene. “Because you asked to see the truth.”
“I asked for help with the pendant.”
“Same thing.”
A sound cut through the air—a melody, but not like any Rory had heard before. It wasn’t played on instruments but seemed to rise from the earth itself, a harmonic resonance that vibrated in her bones. The trees around them began to sway, their branches weaving together like dancers in a slow, deliberate waltz.
Nyx’s form flickered . “Ah. It’s starting.”
“Starting what?” Rory’s voice came out sharper than she intended.
Isolde’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the trees parted to reveal a clearing. In its centre stood a pool of water so still it might have been glass. The surface reflected not the sky above, but a swirling void of stars and colours Rory had no name for. “The Grove’s test.”
Rory’s pulse quickened . “Test?”
“It doesn’t give its secrets freely.” Isolde began walking towards the pool. “But it does love a bargain.”
Nyx materialised beside Rory, their voice a whisper against her ear. “She’s not telling you everything.”
Rory shot them a glance. “Shocking.”
“This place… it doesn’t just show you truths. It shows you *a * truth. The one it thinks you need to see.” Nyx’s violet eyes glowed faintly. “And sometimes, that’s the one that breaks you.”
Rory swallowed. The Heartstone pulsed against her sternum, its warmth spreading through her chest like a fever. She followed Isolde to the edge of the pool. The water was clear, yet when she peered into it, her reflection wasn’t her own.
A woman with her face, but older, stared back. Her eyes were hollow, her skin sallow, and her wrists—both of them—were wrapped in chains of blackened iron. Behind her, a city burned.
Rory recoiled. “What the hell is that?”
Isolde’s reflection was no more reassuring. She stood in a court of towering figures with eyes like polished gemstones, their expressions cold, their judgement absolute. “The Fae Courts,” Isolde said softly . “As they were. As they will be again, if I return.”
Nyx didn’t look into the pool. Their shadow stretched long and thin across the water’s surface, as if they were afraid to see what might stare back. “Some of us already know our truths,” they muttered.
Rory tore her gaze away from the pool, her mind reeling. “This is what you brought me here for? To show me some… some dystopian future?”
Isolde crouched, dipping her fingers into the water. The surface rippled, and for a moment, Rory saw another image—a man with Evan’s face, but older, his expression twisted in rage as he lunged at her with a knife. Then it was gone . “The Grove shows what it must. Not what you want.”
Rory’s hands clenched into fists . “And what am I supposed to do with that?”
Isolde stood, her silver hair catching the light. “Survive it.”
A gust of wind tore through the clearing, though the trees didn’t stir. The pool’s surface darkened, the reflections within it twisting, warping, until the water itself began to rise, forming tendrils that reached towards them like grasping hands.
Nyx’s form solidified, their edges sharpening into something more defined. “We’ve overstayed our welcome.”
Isolde didn’t move. “Or we’ve just been invited to stay forever.”
The tendrils lashed out. Rory barely had time to draw the Fae blade before one wrapped around her ankle, cold as a corpse’s grip. She slashed at it, and the blade bit deep, severing the water cleanly. The tendril hissed as it retreated, dissolving into mist.
Nyx lunged, their form stretching unnaturally as they intercepted another tendril aimed for Isolde. Their shadow wrapped around it, and for a moment, the two struggled—darkness against liquid night—before Nyx prevailed, the tendril dissolving into nothing.
Isolde finally moved, her hands weaving through the air in a pattern too quick for Rory to follow. The ground beneath them trembled , and the Grove itself seemed to respond. The trees groaned, their branches twisting as if in pain, and the petal path behind them began to unravel , the flowers withering into dust.
“Run,” Isolde said, her voice calm but urgent .
Rory didn’t need to be told twice. She turned and bolted, the Fae blade still clutched in her hand. The Grove’s exit was no longer where they’d entered. The standing stones had vanished, replaced by a wall of thorns that pulsed with a sickly, bioluminescent light.
Nyx was suddenly beside her, their form flickering between solid and shadow. “Left. Now.”
Rory veered left, her boots pounding against the spongy moss. The air grew thicker, pressing against her skin like a physical weight . The melody that had been so beautiful moments ago now grated against her ears, a dissonant screech that made her head pound.
Behind her, Isolde’s voice cut through the cacophony . “The stones! Find the stones!”
Rory’s vision swam. The Grove was shifting around them, the trees bending, the path twisting. She caught glimpses of things in the periphery—figures that weren’t there before, their forms half-hidden in the mist. Some looked human. Others… didn’t.
A tendril shot out from the undergrowth, wrapping around her wrist. She slashed at it with the Fae blade, but another took its place, coiling around her arm like a serpent. The cold seeped into her skin, numbing her fingers. The blade slipped from her grip.
Nyx’s hand—solid, for once—closed around hers. “Not like this, Aurora Carter.”
A surge of heat shot up Rory’s arm, and the tendril recoiled with a shriek. Nyx’s eyes burned violet, their form expanding, stretching, until they were a wall of darkness between her and the Grove’s wrath.
“Go!” Nyx’s voice was no longer a whisper but a roar, a storm given form.
Rory didn’t hesitate. She snatched the Fae blade from the moss and ran, her lungs burning, her legs screaming. The Grove’s exit materialised before her—the standing stones, their surfaces now slick with something that looked like blood . She didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.
She crashed through the boundary, and the world snapped back into focus.
Richmond Park. The air was crisp, the sounds of London distant but familiar . She spun around, her chest heaving.
The standing stones were just trees again, their bark ordinary, their surfaces unmarked. No sign of Isolde. No sign of Nyx.
Then, a shadow detached itself from the trunk of an oak, reforming into the familiar silhouette of her companion. Nyx’s form was ragged, their edges flickering like a dying flame. “That… was ill-advised.”
Rory’s hands shook. “Where’s Isolde?”
Nyx didn’t answer immediately. Their gaze was fixed on the trees, as if expecting the Grove to reappear at any moment . “She’ll find her own way out. Or she won’t.”
Rory’s grip tightened around the Fae blade. The Heartstone at her throat was cold now, its glow dimmed. “What the hell was that?”
Nyx’s voice was barely a whisper again, the wind carrying it away almost as soon as it was spoken . “A warning.”
A twig snapped behind them. Rory spun, the Fae blade raised.
Isolde stood there, her silver hair dishevelled, her pale lavender eyes wide with something Rory had never seen in them before—fear. “We need to leave,” Isolde said. “Now.”
The ground beneath them trembled . Not from the Grove, but from something else . Something deeper.
The Veil was weakening .