AI The air shifted the moment they crossed the threshold. A hush fell over the group as if the world itself had taken a breath. Rory’s boots sank slightly into the moss, thick and velvety beneath her feet. The scent of damp earth and something sweeter—like crushed petals and honey—filled her lungs. She glanced back. The standing stones of the Grove’s entrance loomed behind them, their ancient oak surfaces carved with spirals that seemed to writhe in the dim light .
Nyx materialised beside her, their form rippling like smoke caught in a breeze. “This place remembers,” they murmured, voice a whisper that curled around the edges of hearing. “The trees listen.”
Rory flexed her fingers, the crescent scar on her wrist catching the faint glow of the Heartstone pendant tucked beneath her collar. It pulsed once, warm against her skin. She didn’t mention it. Some things were better left unspoken , at least for now.
Ahead, the grove unfolded in impossible hues. Wildflowers bloomed in clusters of deep violet and gold, their petals shimmering as if dusted with starlight. The trees stood sentinel, their trunks wide and gnarled, bark etched with symbols that made Rory’s eyes ache if she stared too long. The canopy above was a lattice of silver and emerald, leaves shifting without wind, their edges gilded in light that wasn’t quite sunlight .
Isolde moved with eerie grace, her silver hair trailing behind her like a river of liquid metal. She didn’t walk so much as glide, her bare feet never disturbing the moss. “Mind your step,” she said, though her lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile . “The Grove has a sense of humour.”
Rory arched a brow. “What kind of humour?”
Isolde’s lavender eyes gleamed. “The kind that leaves you lost in your own memories.”
A rustle in the undergrowth. Rory’s hand went to the Fae-forged blade at her hip. The moonsilver was cold, always cold, but it hummed against her palm like a living thing. The bushes parted. Not a beast, not a threat—just the grove itself, shifting, breathing. A path revealed itself, winding between the trees, lined with stones that looked like they’d been placed by careful hands centuries ago.
Nyx drifted forward, their shadow stretching long and thin before snapping back into their shape. “No footprints,” they observed.
Isolde chuckled, the sound like wind chimes. “Of course not. The Grove doesn’t like to be tracked.”
Rory exhaled through her nose. She’d dealt with enough strange in the past year to know when to keep her questions to herself. Instead, she followed the path, her gaze flicking between the towering trees and the flowers that seemed to lean toward her as she passed . The air hummed, a low vibration in her bones, like the moment before a storm broke.
Then the trees thinned.
The clearing opened before them, vast and impossible. In its centre stood a pool, its surface so still it might have been glass. The water wasn’t blue, nor green, nor any colour Rory had a name for. It shimmered, shifting between hues like oil on water, reflecting nothing above it. Around the pool, stones were arranged in a perfect circle, each one carved with the same spiralling patterns as the entrance.
Nyx’s form flickered . “That’s not just water.”
Isolde tilted her head. “No. It’s a mirror. Or a door. Depending on who’s looking.”
Rory crouched at the pool’s edge, hesitant. The water—if it was water—didn’t ripple at her approach. She extended a hand, palm down, not quite touching . A faint warmth radiated from it, like the breath of something alive. “What’s it for?”
Isolde’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “For seeing what was. What is. What could be.”
Nyx’s whisper sharpened. “Or what shouldn’t be.”
Rory’s fingers twitched. She’d had enough of riddles and half-truths to last a lifetime. But the Grove pulled at her, a quiet insistence in the air, in the way the light danced , in the way her pendant pulsed again, stronger this time. She swallowed. “And if someone looks?”
Isolde’s gaze was distant. “Then they see.”
Rory straightened. The Grove was beautiful, yes, but beauty had a way of hiding teeth. She turned her back on the pool, scanning the clearing. The trees here were older, their trunks wider, their bark darker. Some of them bore scars—deep gouges that looked like claw marks, or perhaps the work of a blade. Old wounds. The grove had seen battles.
A sound. A melody, faint and haunting, woven through the air. It came from nowhere and everywhere, a song without a singer. Rory’s skin prickled. “What is that?”
Nyx’s silhouette shivered. “The Grove singing to itself.”
Isolde closed her eyes, as if savouring the notes . “The music of the in-between. It’s been a long time since I heard it so clearly.”
Rory’s jaw tightened. She didn’t like not understanding. Didn’t like the way the hair on her arms stood on end, the way her pulse thrummed in her throat. But the Grove wasn’t a place for liking or disliking. It simply was.
She took a step forward. The moss gave way to something softer, like walking on a carpet of fallen petals. The song grew louder, or perhaps it was just that she was listening harder now. The trees seemed to lean in, their branches intertwining above like fingers laced together.
Then she saw it.
A figure, half-hidden behind a tree. Tall, slender, with hair the colour of moonlight. It moved—no, it *danced*, barefoot and fluid, as if the very air guided its steps. Rory froze. The figure didn’t seem to notice them. Or perhaps it did, and simply didn’t care.
Nyx’s voice was a thread of smoke. “Fae.”
Isolde’s eyes snapped open. “Not just any Fae.”
The dancer spun, and for a heartbeat, Rory saw its face. Sharp features, eyes like polished obsidian, a smile that was all teeth. Then it was gone, dissolving into the trees as if it had never been there at all.
Rory’s breath came faster. “What the hell was that?”
Isolde’s expression was unreadable . “A warning. Or an invitation.”
Nyx materialised beside Rory, their form solidifying. “Or a test.”
Rory’s grip on the Fae blade tightened. She’d had enough tests to last a lifetime. But the Grove wasn’t done with them yet. The path ahead split, one way leading deeper into the trees, the other curving back toward the pool. The air smelled different here—sweeter, heavier, like the moment before a summer storm.
She glanced at Isolde. “Which way?”
Isolde’s lips curled. “The Grove chooses the path, not the walker.”
Rory clenched her teeth. She hated riddles. Hated not knowing. But the Heartstone pulsed again, warm and insistent against her skin. She looked down at the pendant, then at the paths. The left one seemed darker, the trees thicker. The right one was bathed in that strange, shifting light.
She chose left.
The moment she stepped onto the path, the song changed. The melody twisted, became something sharper, more urgent. The trees here were closer together, their branches forming a tunnel overhead. The light dimmed, the air growing cooler. Rory’s fingers traced the bark of one tree as she passed. It was smooth, almost warm, like living flesh.
Nyx’s form flickered . “This part of the Grove doesn’t like visitors.”
Isolde’s voice was quiet. “Few do.”
The path sloped downward, the moss giving way to smooth stone. The song faded, replaced by a new sound—a low, rhythmic thrum, like a heartbeat. Rory’s own pulse synced with it, her breath coming in time with the unseen rhythm. The stone beneath her feet was worn, as if by centuries of footsteps .
Then the path opened into another clearing.
This one was smaller, more intimate. In its centre stood a single tree, ancient and gnarled, its trunk split down the middle as if struck by lightning. But the split wasn’t empty. Inside the trunk, nestled in the heartwood, was a glow—a soft, golden light, pulsing like a second heart.
Rory’s breath caught. The Heartstone pendant burned against her skin.
Isolde’s voice was barely a whisper . “The Heart of the Grove.”
Nyx’s form rippled. “Or its wound.”
Rory took a step forward. The light in the tree pulsed brighter, as if in response. She reached out, then hesitated. The air here was thick, charged , like the moment before a spark ignited. She could feel it in her bones, in the way her skin tingled.
She touched the tree.
The bark was warm, almost feverish. The light flared, and for a heartbeat, Rory saw—
A forest. A battle. A woman with silver hair, standing against a tide of shadow. A blade, flashing in the dark. A scream, torn from a throat that wasn’t hers.
Then it was gone .
Rory jerked her hand back. The vision—if that’s what it was—lingered behind her eyes, sharp and vivid. She stumbled, her boot catching on a root. Nyx’s shadow solidified beneath her, steadying her. “Careful,” they murmured. “Some doors shouldn’t be opened.”
Isolde’s gaze was fixed on the tree, her expression unreadable . “Some doors *must * be opened.”
Rory’s heart pounded. She flexed her fingers, the memory of the vision still fresh. The woman—Isolde?—the blade, the shadows. It felt like a warning. Or a premonition.
She looked down at the Heartstone pendant. It glowed faintly, its crimson light pulsing in time with the light in the tree. She didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know what the Grove wanted from her.
But she knew one thing.
They weren’t alone.