Magic hummed around them now, the pulse as thick as usual. But it was also…different.
I walked forward, stepping in and out of the puddles of moonlight. The two largest stones with their horizontal lintel loomed above me. Thick beams of light streamed over the swirling runes that climbed their moss-covered surfaces.
My pulse quickened. The hum intensified, drawing me.
No,tuggingme.
I stopped, a gasp catching in my throat. My heart galloped in my chest. Suddenly, the goosebumps on my skin had nothing to do with the cold.
Father’s warning echoed in my head.“…those stones possess old magic. You dabble in things you don’t understand, Portia.”
He was right. And I couldn’t afford to risk his displeasure again. I’d been stupid to leave the castle.
Turning, I started toward the stump. Two steps in, something yanked me around. My gasp escaped as I flailed, expecting one of my fathers’ guards. But no one restrained me. The circle was empty.
Something shoved me forward. Crying out, I stumbled toward the stones. The hum intensified. Whispers rose, layering over each other as I fought the invisible pull.
“Stop!” I gasped, digging in my heels. But my feet moved without permission, carrying me forward. The whispers climbed higher, the flow of unintelligible words more urgent. A blue light flickered in the center of the stone archway, then expanded until it filled the space between the pillars.
Blood rushed in my ears. I threw my weight backward, panic clawing at me as I tried to stop. But it was as if an invisible rope cinched my waist, thetug, tug, tugrelentless.
“No!” I screamed. The light blazed brighter. The whispers became a roar.
The runes loomed. Light flared, and I squinted as heat caressed my skin. The rope jerked hard, wrenching another scream from my throat as I flew over the grass and slammed into the light.
The world exploded.
Heat. Cold. A black void studded with twinkling stars. Pressure crushing my ribs. I screamed, but howling wind snatched it away. My stomach lurched as my feet left the ground and the world spun, flipping me into the void. Light seared my vision. Sound roared in my ears, the high-pitched noise like the howl of a terrifying beast.
I slammed into the ground. Pain shot up my arms. I crouched on my hands and knees, my chest heaving. My vision swam, and I blinked hard as I struggled to get my bearings.
Light seared my eyes, but it wasn’t the light from the stones. Sunshine spilled around me, the sun’s heat beating down on my shoulders. The bite of winter was gone. Grass spread around me. Shadows dappled the ground.
Lifting my head, I stared at a thick forest that hadn’t been there a moment before. My heart thumped so hard I thought I might pass out. For a minute, I couldn’t wrap my head around what I was seeing, and not just because the weather had changed. The stones rose around me, but the parking lot was gone. So was the picnic pavilion. The grassy hills beyond it were covered with trees.
Not just a few trees. Aforest. Thick and lush, they marched right up to the edge of the stones, their branches forming a canopy that cast large shadows on the ground.
A man’s bellow split the air. More followed, along with screams and the clash of metal on metal.
I scrambled to my feet as a dozen or so men with swords poured from the forest. Others pursued them, and the first group swung around and began to fight.
They hacked at each other, faces twisted with rage and pain. Blood sprayed. Bodies fell. The scent of blood and sweat hit my nostrils, and I stumbled backward, disbelief throbbing in my mind.
This isn’t happening.
This isn’t real.
The men wore kilts, and not the sort of pleated tartan I was used to seeing. These were actual kilts. Historical kilts. The kind made of rough wool that wrapped around their waists and draped over their shoulders.
I’d stumbled onto a movie set. Or maybe some kind of historical reenactment or cosplay taken to an extreme. Humans did shit like that all the time, dressing up and pretending to be knights or Vikings or?—
A man collapsed twenty feet away with a sword buried in his gut. He writhed, bloody fingers clutching at the blade. His attacker stalked forward, drew back his sword, and plunged the tip into the first man’s neck.
Blood spurted. My stomach pitched.
Not a reenactment.
Not real.
