AI The air thickened, growing cloying and sweet like overripe fruit left too long on a summer day. Aurora Carter shivered, despite the unnatural warmth that pressed in around them. One moment, they were among the twisting oak trees of Richmond Park, the next, the familiar scent of damp earth and decaying leaves vanished, replaced by something far more intoxicating.
Nyx, a humanoid silhouette of living shadow, stood beside her, utterly still. Even its faintly glowing violet eyes seemed to drink in the sudden transformation of their surroundings. Over Isolde’s shoulder, Aurora caught a glimpse of what lay behind them: not the continuation of the Fae Grove, but a shimmering distortion, like heat rising off asphalt, yet vibrant with unseen energy. The Veil, she thought. It hummed in her bones, a low, resonant thrum that spoke of ancient power and impossible distances. The Heartstone Pendant, nested beneath her shirt, pulsed with a warmth that spread through her chest.
“Dymas,” Isolde Varga stated, her voice a melodic whisper that somehow cut through the heavy air. The Half-Fae seer stood tall, her silver hair like a waterfall down her back. She left no footprints on the damp, reddish soil they now stood upon. Isolde tilted her head, pale lavender eyes sweeping across the verdant landscape before them. “The Glutton’s Realm.”
Aurora looked, truly looked, and her breath caught. Gone were the familiar greens and browns of Earth. Before them stretched an endless expanse of cultivated land, but unlike any farm or orchard she had ever seen. The sky above was a permanent, soft amber, casting every thing in a perpetual, golden twilight. Overhead, massive, luminous insects, like elongated fireflies the size of small birds, drifted lazily , their inner light pulsing with hypnotic rhythm.
“Look at the trees,” Aurora breathed, stepping forward, drawn despite a prickle of unease.
They were unlike any she knew. Their bark was a smooth, deep purple, almost black, and the leaves that fanned out from their branches were a vibrant turquoise, shifting to jade at the edges. But it wasn’t just their color that was strange. The trees were heavy with fruit, far more abundant than any Earthly tree could bear. Great, swollen gourds the size of watermelons, striped in greens and golds, hung from low branches. Clustered higher were fruits that resembled gigantic, ruby-red berries, each segment glistening with what looked like condensed syrup. The air was thick with their perfume, blending with the scent of something baking, something savory and complex, and a metallic tang that made her nose tingle.
“The fruit,” Nyx whispered, its voice like the rustle of dry leaves. “It calls.”
Aurora felt it too. A subtle, insistent urge to reach out, to pluck one of those glittering berries and taste its impossible sweetness. The sensation was unsettling , a hunger that wasn't her own. She gripped the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip, the moonsilver hilt cold against her palm, grounding her.
They began to walk, their footsteps silent on the unusually soft, reddish soil. It felt springy, like walking on a thick moss, though no moss was visible. They moved deeper into the orchards. The ground sloped gently downward, leading them towards what appeared to be a vast, sprawling city in the distance, a hazy silhouette against the amber sky. Columns of steam, thick and fragrant, rose from countless chimneys, carrying the promise of unimaginable feasts.
“This way,” Isolde said, her voice betraying no surprise or wonder, as if this was merely another path in her familiar grove. She led them off the main path, into a denser part of the orchards. Here, the trees grew closer, their turquoise leaves nearly touching overhead, forming a living canopy that dappled the amber light into shifting patterns on the ground.
Aurora noticed the sounds first. A low hum vibrated beneath her feet, accompanied by a distant, rhythmic thud. As they ventured deeper, the hum intensified, and the thud resolved into a distinct *chop, chop, chop*. They passed a grove of trees laden with enormous, iridescent mushrooms, their caps shimmering with all the colors of a rainbow. The air here was even heavier, laden with the scent of rich, dark spices and something akin to roasting meat.
Suddenly, a clearing opened up, revealing a truly bizarre sight. A colossal beast, easily the size of a small elephant, lay on its side, its hide a deep, mottled green, like aged bronze. It had multiple limbs, some resembling hooves, others closer to a crab’s pincers, but all were still. Its eyes, the size of dinner plates, were closed , its breathing slow and shallow. Hovering around it were small, bulbous creatures, like overgrown wasps, but with delicate, crystalline wings. They moved with a strange grace, their long, needle-like proboscises dipping into patches of soft, glowing fungi that pulsed on the creature’s hide.
“What is that?” Rory whispered, her voice tight.
Isolde merely smiled, a knowing, cryptic twist of her lips. “A harvest, of a sort. This realm thrives on… symbiosis.”
The chopping sound grew louder, and they realized it was not far off. Following Isolde, they came upon another, smaller clearing. Here, a figure stood, tall and slender, with skin the color of polished mahogany. It moved with frantic energy, wielding a gleaming , curved cleaver that shimmered with an inner light. It was hacking away at a giant root, thick as a human torso, that grew out of the ground. The root was a vibrant magenta, oozing a thick, clear sap that smelled faintly of cinnamon and something impossibly sweet.
The figure wore a simple apron, stained with various brightly colored liquids. It had no hair, and its eyes, when it looked up at their approach, were solid gold, unblinking. It wasn’t human. Not quite. Its face was gaunt, almost skeletal, yet its movements were fluid and powerful.
“Greetings, travelers,” the creature intoned, its voice surprisingly deep and resonant, like a bass cello. It bowed, a swift, practiced movement, before returning to its work. “You are far from the feasting halls.”
“We seek another path,” Isolde replied. “One that avoids the attention of the Prince.”
The golden-eyed being paused , its cleaver resting on the magenta root. It studied them, its eyes lingering on Aurora’s Heartstone and Nyx’s shimmering form. “Prince Belphegor’s hunger is vast. He welcomes all who contribute to the culinary arts. Or are consumed by them.” It chuckled, a dry, unsettling sound. “But if you wish to remain… unseen… you must learn the rhythm of Dymas. Observe. Adapt. And do not, under any circumstances, taste the nectar of the Bloom-Weepers.” It gestured with its cleaver towards a cluster of vine-like plants whose flowers wept thick, translucent drops of liquid.
Aurora felt a fresh wave of unease. “What happens if you do?”
The creature looked at her, its golden eyes unreadable . “You become part of the feast in a way you did not intend.” It resumed its chopping, a deliberate, rhythmic sound that echoed through the strange orchard.
Isolde motioned for them to continue. As they moved, Rory kept a wary eye on the Bloom-Weepers, a strange fascination warring with her apprehension . The air here felt thicker than ever, pressing against her skin. The scents were overwhelming , a dizzying blend of sweet, savory, pungent, and tart. It was a realm of pure sensory overload, a constant assault on the senses designed to incite insatiable hunger.
She glanced at Nyx. The Shade was an anchor, its silent presence a strange comfort. Rory still didn’t fully understand what Nyx was, or where it truly stood in this impossible world, but its unwavering focus offered a measure of stability in the chaos.
They continued deeper, the ground growing softer with each step. They passed groves of iridescent, crystal-like trees that chimed with a faint, musical sound when a breeze rustled their leaves. Giant, luminescent fungi pulsed with soft light, illuminating patches of ground where small, furry creatures, like chameleons crossed with rabbits, scuttled through the undergrowth, their fur shifting colors to match the glowing mushrooms.
The constant hum in the air intensified, taking on a deeper, more resonant tone. It was like living within a vast, organic instrument. The ground grew undeniably marshy now, squelching under their feet. The air hung thick with moisture and the intense, sugary scent of fermented fruit.
Then, they saw it.
A river, not of water, but of thick, golden syrup, flowed sluggishly through a wide channel. Its surface shimmered , reflecting the amber sky and the pulsating lights of the fungi-trees. Strange, bloated fish, their scales gleaming like polished jewels, swam lazily in its depths, occasionally breaching the surface with a heavy plop, sending ripples of liquid gold sprawling. The banks of the river were lined with massive, iridescent bubbles, each the size of a small dwelling. They glowed from within, casting a soft, multi-colored light.
“River of Ambrosia,” Isolde murmured. “A tributary of the Great Current.”
Aurora stared, mesmerized. The sheer, overwhelming excess of it all was breathtaking. It was a place where indulgence was not just permitted, but built into the very fabric of existence. Every sight, every smell, every sound seemed to reinforce the theme of gluttony.
The rhythmic *thud* they had heard earlier now sounded much closer. As they skirted the syrupy river, following Isolde’s lead, they came upon a bizarre sight. A series of colossal, rotating gears, formed from a dark, obsidian-like rock, jutted from the riverbank, half-submerged in the golden liquid. They turned with immense power, grinding against each other with a deafening roar, their surfaces slick with the glistening syrup. And on the gears, moving like automatons, were more of the gaunt, golden-eyed beings. They were pushing and pulling, adding strange, dark fruits to the gears, which in turn pulverized them into the river, further enriching the Ambrosia.
The beings worked in silence, their movements precise and tireless. They did not seem to notice Aurora, Nyx, or Isolde, lost in their endless, arduous task. These were the helbound souls, Aurora realized, enslaved by Prince Belphegor’s hunger. The thought chilled her, an undercurrent of horror beneath the wonder. This realm was beautiful in its excess, but it was also a prison, a forge for endless desires.
Isolde signaled them to cross a narrow bridge made of woven vines, stretched taut over a calmer section of the Ambrosia river. The bridge swayed gently under their weight , the heady scent of the syrup rising up to meet them. The Heartstone pulsed steadily, a constant reminder of their true purpose. They were in Dymas, yes, but this was only a means to an end. A monstrous, beautiful, terrifying means.