AI The shadow of the last standing stone swallowed Rory’s boot as she crossed the threshold. The air thickened, pressing against her skin like warm syrup. A scent—sweet and earthy, like crushed petals and damp moss—filled her lungs. She exhaled, watching her breath curl in the air despite the absence of cold.
Nyx materialised beside her, their form rippling like ink in water. "Careful, little moth. The Grove doesn’t suffer fools."
Rory shot them a glare. "I’m not here to be suffered."
Isolde’s laughter chimed, silver and distant, as if carried on a breeze that didn’t exist. The Half-Fae stood ahead, her silver hair catching the dappled light filtering through a canopy that hadn’t been there a heartbeat ago. The trees here were ancient, their trunks wide as houses, their bark etched with symbols that pulsed faintly, like embers in the dark. "Foolishness is relative in a place where time bends like reeds in the wind."
Rory’s fingers twitched towards the Fae-Forged blade at her hip. The moonsilver was cold, even through the leather of its sheath. She didn’t draw it. Not yet. But the weight of it was a comfort.
The ground beneath her feet was soft, a carpet of wildflowers that shouldn’t have been in bloom—vibrant blues, purples, and golds that seemed to shift hues as she watched . She crouched, brushing her fingers against a petal. It was velvety, warm. The stem coiled around her finger, gentle as a lover’s touch. She jerked back.
Nyx’s whisper slithered through the air. "They’re curious. The Grove senses new blood."
Isolde turned, her pale lavender eyes gleaming . "New to *you *, perhaps. The Grove remembers all who enter." She gestured to the path ahead, where the trees parted to reveal a clearing bathed in golden light. "But come. There’s more to see than flowers that flirt."
Rory stood, shaking off the odd sensation of the plant’s touch. The clearing was a revelation. A pool of water, still as glass, sat at its centre, its surface reflecting not the sky above but a swirling cosmos of stars and nebulae. Around it, stones stood in a perfect circle, each one carved with more of those glowing symbols. The air hummed here, a low vibration that resonated in Rory’s bones.
She stepped forward, drawn by the pool. The water was dark, almost black, yet the stars within it burned bright. As she neared, the reflection shifted, the cosmos giving way to a face—her own, but older, her eyes harder, her scar more pronounced. Then it was gone, replaced by a forest fire, flames licking at a night sky. She blinked, and the pool was just water again.
"Visions aren’t free, Aurora Carter," Isolde said, her voice suddenly serious . "The Grove offers, but it also takes."
Rory tore her gaze away. "What does it take?"
Isolde smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Memories. Time. Names. The things you don’t realise you ’ve lost until they’re gone."
Nyx shifted, their silhouette flickering. "Or it takes your shadow. I’d advise against that."
Rory ignored them, her attention caught by something else—a sound. A melody, faint but growing louder, weaving through the air like a ribbon. It was beautiful, haunting, and it pulled at something deep in her chest. She followed it, her boots silent on the flower-strewn earth.
The trees here grew closer together, their branches intertwining overhead to form a natural tunnel. The melody grew stronger, richer, and then she saw it: a figure seated on a moss-covered stone, playing a lute made of what looked like polished bone . The figure was androgynous, their skin the colour of bark, their hair a cascade of leaves that shifted with the breeze. Their fingers danced over the strings, coaxing the music from them.
Rory stopped, transfixed . The music wasn’t just sound—it was colour, taste, texture. It wrapped around her, seeping into her skin, filling her with a warmth that was almost painful in its intensity .
Nyx’s voice was a hiss in her ear. "Don’t listen too long. Fae music has a way of sinking into your bones."
But Rory couldn’t look away. The figure’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, she saw something ancient and knowing in their depths . Then the figure smiled, and the music changed, the melody twisting into something darker, sharper. The warmth in her chest turned to ice.
She stumbled back, her hand flying to her chest as if she could claw the music out of her. The figure’s laughter followed her, echoing through the trees. "Clever little mortal. Most don’t pull away in time."
Isolde was at her side, her expression unreadable . "You’ve been marked now. The Grove won’t forget you ."
Rory swallowed, her heart pounding . "What the hell was that?"
"A test." Isolde’s gaze flicked to the trees. "And a warning."
Nyx materialised fully, their violet eyes glowing. "You’re bleeding."
Rory looked down. A thin line of red traced her palm where her nails had dug into her skin. She hadn’t even felt it. "Great. Just what I needed."
Isolde’s laughter returned, lighter this time. "Oh, Aurora. This is only the beginning."
The path ahead split in two. One way led deeper into the Grove, where the trees grew so tall their tops were lost in a mist that wasn’t there before. The other curved towards a thicket of thorns, their barbs glinting like teeth. The air from the left path smelled of rain and green things. The right carried the scent of iron and something older, something that made the hairs on Rory’s arms stand on end.
She hesitated. The Grove was a maze, and every choice felt like a gamble .
Nyx stretched, their form elongating before snapping back. "Left. The right path is... hungry."
Isolde tilted her head. "Hungry paths often lead to the most interesting places."
Rory shot them both a look. "And by interesting, you mean deadly?"
Isolde’s smile was serene. "Is there a difference?"
Rory exhaled sharply . She adjusted the strap of her bag, ensuring the Heartstone Pendant was still tucked safely inside. Its faint warmth pulsed against her side, a reminder of the world beyond this one. She took the left path.
The trees here were different—older, their bark blackened as if scorched by some long-ago fire. The symbols carved into them were deeper, their glow more insistent. The air hummed louder, the vibration thrumming through Rory’s skull. She pressed her palm to the nearest trunk, and the symbols flared, their light seeping into her skin.
Images flashed behind her eyes: a battle, fire and shadow, a figure with violet eyes standing amidst the chaos. Nyx. But not as they were now—solid, almost human, a sword of black fire in their hand. Then a woman, her silver hair braided with gold, her lavender eyes cold as she raised a hand and—
Rory gasped, yanking her hand back. The vision dissolved, leaving her breathless. "What the hell was that?"
Nyx’s form rippled. "Memories. The Grove stores them like a hoarder’s attic."
Isolde’s expression was unreadable . "Or perhaps it’s showing you what *could * be."
Rory rubbed her palm against her thigh, the symbols’ glow fading from her skin. "I don’t like riddles."
Isolde’s laughter echoed . "Fortunately for you , the Grove adores them."
The path opened into another clearing, this one dominated by a tree so vast its roots could have cradled a cathedral. Its trunk was split down the middle, the wood within black and hollow, like a wound that had never healed. At its base, a figure knelt, their back to the group, their silver hair spilling over their shoulders like a waterfall.
Rory’s breath caught. The figure was Isolde—or a version of her. Younger, perhaps. The Half-Fae beside her went still, her face unreadable .
The kneeling figure turned, and Rory’s stomach dropped. Her eyes were solid black, no whites, no pupils, just an endless void. She smiled, and it was Isolde’s smile, but wrong, twisted. "Ah. The seer returns."
Isolde’s voice was tight. "That’s not me."
The figure stood, her movements fluid, unnatural. "Aren’t I? Or am I simply what you ’ve tried so hard to forget?" She spread her arms, and the Grove seemed to hold its breath. The symbols on the trees flared, the pool behind them rippling violently. "The Grove remembers, Isolde. It remembers *everything *."
Rory’s hand flew to her blade. Nyx’s form solidified, their voice a growl. "We’re not here for your games, echo ."
The figure’s laughter was a chorus of whispers. "Aren’t you ?"
The ground trembled . The tree’s roots slithered like snakes, coiling around the figure’s legs, lifting her into the air. The symbols on the stones blazed, and the pool’s water surged, spilling over its edges in a wave of black liquid that didn’t touch the ground but hung, suspended.
Isolde’s hand shot out, gripping Rory’s wrist. "Run."