Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQJ5JKK8EQQ08NEF8DKVXP

The transition didn’t feel like stepping through a door; it felt like the air itself had been thinned, a tension snapped in the fabric of the world. For a heartbeat, there was only the sharp, metallic scent of ozone and the sudden, disorienting vertigo of the Rift. Rory stumbled, her boots catching on nothing but shifting, mists that smelled of burnt sugar and ancient stone. She caught herself on a jagged root of iron and oak, the bark scraping her palm. When the world resolved, the first thing that hit her wasn’t the sight, but the heat. It wasn’t the oppressive, wet warmth of a London summer. It was dry, ardent heat that licked at the back of her neck, smelling of cedar smoke, roasting meat, and wine that had fermented for a century too long. Rory pushed herself upright, brushing lint from her jacket. "We’re here," she said. Her voice sounded thin, swallowed by the vastness around them. Above, the sky was a molten amber, bleeding into the horizon where it met a sea of rolling vineyards that stretched to the edge of reality. The vines weren’t made of green wood; they were twisted cables of dark bronze and copper, bearing fruit the size of cantaloupes—fruit that glowed with a deep, liquid crimson. "Intoxicating, isn’t it?" Isolde Varga drifted into view from behind a twisted oak. The Half-Fae seer moved without sound, her silver hair spilling over her waist like spilled moonlight. She stood amidst the alien flora, wildflowers blooming instantly behind her feet, crowding each other for space in the fertile, sickly-soil expanse. Rory ignored the commentary, her hand drifting to her chest where the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant rested against her blouse. It was warm, a dull, throbbing rhythm that matched her own heartbeat—a signal that the Veil was active here, and that the dead were close. "Less enchanting for me," a whisper replied. Rory looked down. A puddle of ink-black darkness on the ground shimmered, then rose. Nyx reformed at nearly six feet tall, their silhouette sharp and angular. Their faintly glowing violet eyes, usually dim, now pierced the amber light like emeralds. "Where's the gravity?" Nyx asked, their voice sounding like a draft moving through an empty room. "It feels... lopsided." "Prince Belphegor," Rory supplied, pulling her backpack tighter around her shoulders. "He’s the Lord of Gluttony. This place is built on excess. Everything is larger than it needs to be. Look at that vine." She pointed to a tendril thick enough to be a man’s torso, curling lazily around a massive, stone obelisk. Nyx drifted closer, their form flickering like a faulty television static. They reached out a hand, ghosting it through a hanging bunch of crimson fruit. "It pulses," Nyx murmured. "It knows we're watching." "Everything here knows," Rory said, stepping forward. She rested her hand on the hilt of the dagger strapped to her thigh. It was the Fae-Forged Blade, moonsilver leaf-shaped and heartbreakingly cold against her leg. Even in this infernal heat, the metal remained ice against her skin—a comforting constant. Isolde smiled, a expression that didn't quite reach her pale lavender eyes. "The fruit requires the screaming of a thousand souls to ripen properly, Rory. It tastes of injustice. Or perhaps, only of long-suffering." "Don't eat it," Rory warned. She pulled the pendant out from under her shirt, letting the crimson gemstone catch the amber sun. It pulsed rhythmically, brighter, thumping against her sternum like a captive bird. This was the anchor. This was the reason they had crossed the Veil, against the protests of every instinct that told her to stay in the safety of her flat above Silas's bar. The pendant led them to a ridge overlooking a sprawling ruin—a banquet hall carved directly into the side of a dormant volcano. It was Gothic in structure but eldritch in decoration. Columns were made of thigh-bones; statues of rotund angels watched over tables laden with foods that shouldn't exist. "There is no hunger here," Isolde whispered, stepping onto the ridge. She looked at the scene below with a mixture of pity and disdain. "Only the desire to consume until the vessel breaks." "Are there souls?" Nyx asked, shifting from solid to mist to dodge a floating swarm of gnat-like flies that buzzed with the sound of laughter. "If the Veil holds, there are," Rory said. She scanned the perimeter. The Heartstone pulsed again, harder this time, drawing her toward the northwest corner of the ruin. She could feel the wards humming under her skin, a low vibration that rattled her teeth. "Stay close," she ordered, moving toward the breach in the stone wall. As they descended into the shadow of the ruin, the temperature spiked. Steam hissed from vents in the stone, carrying the scent of roasting boar and rich sauces. Rory felt a headache bloom behind her eyes, a pressure that came from the sheer volume of magic packed into this one square mile. She found a slit in the wall—ancient, sealed by a ward of red wax that had long since melted and stained the stone. The Heartstone in her hand flared, heating her palm until she had to grip it with both hands. "Step through," Rory commanded. She didn't wait for Isolde or Nyx; she slid through the gap, squeezing past thick roots that had forced their way through the stonework. On the other side, the air was thick enough to chew. The room was a kitchen, vast as a cathedral. Counters of black marble stretched as far as the eye could see, lined with cauldrons the size of tubs. A shadowy figure stood at a counter, stirring a pot with a ladle the size of a shield. It didn't turn when they entered. "Guests," the figure rumbled, the sound echoing in a chest like a cavern. "Cooking for the Prince? Trifling. But welcome. Taste?" It gestured with the ladle, and a wave of thick, purple vapor rolled toward them. "Pass out," Rory hissed. "Now." Isolde raised a hand, her expression calm. A shimmer of starlight waved the cloud back, dispersing it instantly. "Fae hospitality is... notoriously lethal," she murmured, stepping fully into the room. "Yet, I sense no host. Only a kitchen." Nyx coalesced into their humanoid form, folding their arms over their chest. Their violet eyes scanned the darkness above. "The host is coming. Can you feel that? The floor... it’s shifting. It wants to eat us." "Does it have the pendant?" Nyx asked. "Positive identification in progress," Rory said. She closed her eyes, listening to the hum of the Heartstone. It was a tone distinct from the hum of the ruin, a higher frequency, clearer. To the north. "Away from the stove," Rory said, turning away from the stationary cook. "Nyx, cover the rear. Isolde, stay alert for traps. I don't know how the wards work here, but I don't want to end up as an ingredient." "We are merely explorers," Isolde said, her voice drifting softly. "Navigating the currents of a feast that has not ended since the first snow." Rory moved with practiced efficiency. Her hands were empty of weapons now, the Fae blade holstered, trusting Nyx to watch her back as she held the glowing artifact aloft. The stone pulsed, guiding her around a massive table leg that looked suspiciously like a femur. The room opened up into a dining hall. A long, banquet table stretched into the darkness, draped with a cloth that looked suspiciously like spider silk. At the far end, the shadow of a throne loomed. Rory stopped at the foot of the table, panting slightly. The Heartstone was screaming now, vibrating against her hand so hard it nearly slipped. "They're here," Nyx whispered, their voice dropping to a terrified hiss. "They are *here*." Rory looked up. Sitting on the throne wasn't Prince Belphegor. It was empty. But the shadows on the throne weren't empty. They writhed, thick and black, pulsing with a heartbeat that matched the Heartstone. A massive, distorted face formed in the smoke above the throne, comprised of thousands of twisting shadows. It smiled, revealing teeth that looked like stalactites. "My," a voice boomed, resonating in Rory's marrow. "A palate for the exotic." Rory felt the world tilt. She dropped to one knee, the Heartstone flaring blindingly bright, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to move independent of the light source. "Wait," Isolde said. Her voice rang out, cutting through the booming laughter. "We seek only a path. Not a meal." The face in the smoke paused, studying them. "The Seer. And the Shadow. And the little bird with the gem." Rory stood up slowly, forcing her knees to hold her weight. She looked into the abyss of the smoke-face. "I have a delivery to make," Rory said, her voice steady despite the rising terror in her gut. "And I'm not late."