AI The standing stones loomed like ancient sentinels , their gnarled oak surfaces etched with symbols that seemed to writhe under Rory’s fingertips . She traced one cautiously, the bark rough against her skin, and the air hummed in response.
"Don’t linger on the threshold," Isolde’s voice floated from ahead, light as a breeze but sharp as a warning. "The Grove doesn’t suffer hesitation."
Rory exhaled and stepped forward. The world folded around her.
One moment, she stood in Richmond Park, the scent of damp earth and distant traffic clinging to the air. The next, the ground beneath her boots softened into moss so thick it might have been a carpet woven by time itself. The trees here were impossibly tall, their trunks wide as cathedrals, their bark a deep, almost black green that shimmered with veins of silver. Leaves, broad as shields, filtered the light into a dappled emerald glow. The air smelled of honey and something older—ozone, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of magic.
Nyx materialised beside her, their form shifting from a wisp of shadow into something more solid, though their edges still flickered like a candle in a draft. "Breathe," they murmured, their voice a whisper that seemed to come from inside her skull. "It’s disorienting the first time."
Rory didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the wildflowers. They bloomed in impossible colours—petals of deep violet that seemed to drink in the light, gold that shimmered like molten metal, and blues so vivid they made her eyes ache . They swayed without wind, as if breathing in time with some unseen pulse . The Heartstone pendant at her throat warmed, its faint crimson glow seeping through the fabric of her shirt.
Isolde moved ahead, her silver hair catching the light like a river of liquid mercury. She didn’t walk so much as glide, her bare feet making no sound on the moss. "The Grove remembers," she said, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. "It knows why you ’ve come."
Rory swallowed. She *hadn’t* come for a reason, not really . Not beyond curiosity and the gnawing sense that the answers she needed—the ones about the pendant, about the shadows that had begun to follow her—might be here. But Isolde had a way of making everything sound like destiny.
A rustle in the undergrowth made her tense. She reached for the Fae-forged blade at her belt, its moonsilver surface cold even through the leather. The rustling came again, closer this time. Then a shape emerged from the ferns—a fox, but not like any she’d seen. Its fur was the colour of twilight, a shifting mix of purples and blues, and its eyes glowed like embers. It tilted its head, studying her with unsettling intelligence.
"Easy," Nyx said, their voice a low chuckle . "That’s just a messenger. They’re harmless."
The fox sniffed the air, then trotted forward and nuzzled Rory’s boot. She froze. The creature’s fur was warm, almost feverish, and it smelled of wild berries and something wild, untamed. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it darted past her, its tail brushing her calf before it vanished into the undergrowth.
Isolde turned, her pale lavender eyes gleaming . "It likes you . That’s… unusual."
Rory exhaled slowly . "What does that mean?"
"Means the Grove’s already decided you ’re worth its time." Isolde’s lips curled, not quite a smile . "Or that you ’re in more danger than you know."
Nyx let out a sound that might have been a laugh. "Always with the riddles, Seer."
Isolde ignored them. "Follow."
The deeper they went, the more the Grove seemed to shift around them. Paths appeared where there had been none, winding between trees that grew closer together, their branches intertwining overhead like the bars of a cage. The air thickened, pressing against Rory’s skin like a living thing. She could *feel* the magic here, a low thrum in her bones, the same way she felt the bass of a loudspeaker in her chest at a concert.
Then the trees parted.
A clearing stretched before them, circular and vast, its edges marked by standing stones not unlike the ones at the entrance. But these were taller, their surfaces carved with runes that pulsed with a soft, eerie light. In the centre stood a pool, its water so still it might have been glass. The surface reflected nothing—not the trees, not the sky, not even Rory as she stepped closer. Just an endless, inky black.
Isolde stopped at the pool’s edge. "The Mirror of Echoes," she said. "It shows what was. What is. What *could * be."
Rory crouched, her fingers hovering over the water. The pendant at her throat burned now, its warmth seeping into her skin. She hesitated, then dipped her hand into the pool.
The water was neither warm nor cold. It was *alive*, a current of energy that surged up her arm and into her chest. Her vision blurred.
Images flashed behind her eyes—her flat above Silas’ bar, the Golden Empress’ kitchen, Yu-Fei’s sharp eyes as he handed her a delivery. Then darker things: Evan’s face, twisted in anger, his hand raised. A shadow, vast and formless, looming over her as she slept. And then—
A city of spires, wreathed in flame. A throne of blackened bone. A figure seated upon it, their face obscured by shadow, but their voice—*his * voice—echoing in her skull: *"You will kneel, little moth."*
She gasped and yanked her hand back. The water dripped from her fingers, but the images lingered, seared into her mind. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Isolde’s gaze was unreadable . "See something interesting?"
Rory’s throat was dry. "What the hell was that?"
"A possible future." Isolde’s voice was light, but her fingers twitched at her sides. "Or a memory. Or a lie. The Mirror shows what it *wants * to show."
Nyx shifted beside her, their form flickering. "Or what *you * want to see."
Rory stood, her legs unsteady. "That wasn’t me. That wasn’t—" She cut herself off . The figure on the throne. The voice. It had felt *familiar*, like a half-remembered dream. And the shadow—she’d seen it before. In the corners of her flat, in the alleys behind the restaurant. Watching. Waiting.
Isolde’s expression darkened. "The Veil weakens. You know this."
Rory did. The solstice was approaching . The barriers between worlds were thinning . And if the shadows were slipping through…
A sound cut through her thoughts—a low, resonant *gong *, like a bell tolling from the depths of the earth. The ground trembled beneath her feet. The trees groaned, their branches creaking as if in pain.
Isolde’s head snapped up. "We’re not alone."
The air turned electric , the hairs on Rory’s arms standing on end. The shadows between the trees deepened, pooling like ink. Then, from the darkness, eyes appeared—dozens of them, glowing faintly violet, the same colour as Nyx’s.
Nyx stiffened. "Wardens."
Rory’s grip tightened on the Fae blade. "Friends of yours?"
"Acquaintances." Nyx’s voice was tight. "And they’re not here for a social call."
The shadows *moved *. They coalesced, forming shapes—tall, gaunt figures with limbs too long, their bodies woven from the darkness itself. They stepped forward, silent as death, their violet eyes fixed on Rory.
Isolde’s hand shot out, gripping Rory’s wrist. "Don’t draw the blade. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because they’re not here for *us *."
The lead Warden raised a hand, and the shadows between them *ripped *. A portal tore open, a jagged gash in the air that pulsed with a sickly, greenish light. The stench of rotting meat and burning sulphur rolled out of it, thick and choking.
Rory’s stomach lurched . She knew that smell . *Hel.*
And from the portal, something emerged.
It was humanoid, but barely. Its skin was stretched too tight over its bones, its limbs ending in too many joints, its fingers too long, too *many *. Its mouth was a lipless slit, and when it opened, the sound that came out was a wet, clicking noise that made Rory’s teeth ache.
Isolde’s grip on her wrist turned painful. "A Dymasian scout. Belphegor’s."
The creature’s head swivelled, its black eyes locking onto Rory. It *smiled *, if the baring of too many needle-like teeth could be called a smile. Then it lunged.
The Wardens moved as one, a wall of shadow and violet light slamming into the creature. There was a shriek, high and keening, and the scout was *gone *, swallowed by the darkness. The portal snapped shut with a sound like a whip crack.
Silence.
The Wardens didn’t lower their guard. Their eyes remained fixed on Rory, unblinking.
Isolde’s voice was a whisper . "They’re waiting for an explanation."
Rory’s mind raced . *Belphegor.* Prince of Gluttony. Ruler of Dymas. And he wanted her. Or at least, his scouts did.
Nyx’s form solidified beside her, their voice a low growl. "Tell them she’s with us ."
Isolde’s fingers dug into Rory’s skin. "That’s not enough."
The lead Warden took a step forward, its violet eyes burning. The air hummed with tension , thick enough to taste.
Rory’s hand drifted towards the Fae blade. If they wanted a fight, she’d give them one.
Then the ground *shuddered * again. The trees groaned, their branches swaying as if caught in a gale. The Mirror of Echoes rippled, its surface distorting, and from its depths , a new sound emerged—a deep, resonant *roar *, like a thousand voices screaming in unison.
The Wardens’ heads snapped towards the pool. For the first time, something like fear flickered in their eyes .
Isolde’s breath hitched. "Oh. *Hell.*"
The water of the Mirror *exploded * upwards, a geyser of black liquid that twisted into the shape of a monstrous, gaping maw . Teeth—rows and rows of them, jagged and yellowed—materialised in the darkness. The roar came again, louder this time, and the ground *split * beneath them, a chasm of pure, writhing shadow opening at their feet.
Rory had a second to realise what was happening .
Then the world fell away.