Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQJVERRRG809SV1X295KKY

The air tasted wrong. It was thick and heavy, coating the back of Aurora's throat with the scent of spiced honey and rotting fruit. One moment she had been standing in the damp chill of a London alleyway, the next she was here, beneath a sky the color of bruised amber. There was no sun, only a diffuse, warm glow that seemed to emanate from the clouds themselves. Rory adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, though she hadn't brought it through. Old habits died hard. Her hand drifted to her collarbone, fingers brushing the deep crimson gemstone resting against her skin. The Heartstone pendant was hot, pulsing with a rhythm that matched the sudden hammering of her own heart. It was a warning, or perhaps a beacon. Do not linger, Isolde had said. But the Seer was already walking ahead, her silver hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Isolde moved with an eerie grace, her feet sinking into the soft, loamy earth without leaving a single impression. Where Rory's boots dug into the mud, leaving deep treads, the ground beneath the Half-Fae remained undisturbed, as if she weighed nothing at all. It is a place of consumption, Isolde said, her voice carrying over the low hum of the wind. To stay is to be consumed. Rory glanced to her left. Nyx drifted beside her, a humanoid silhouette of living shadow that flickered at the edges. The Shade's form was less solid here, the boundaries between their body and the ambient darkness blurring. Two faintly glowing violet eyes hovered in the gloom of their face, fixed on the horizon. The Veil is thin here, Nyx whispered, the sound like dry leaves skittering over pavement. It breathes. Rory shivered, despite the oppressive warmth. She reached for the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade tucked into her belt. The moonsilver was always cold, a stark contrast to the humid air, and the chill grounded her. She drew it slightly, just enough to let the faint luminescence catch the amber light. The leaf-shaped dagger hummed, a low vibration that traveled up her arm. They walked through rows of vines that twisted like serpents around wooden trellises. The grapes hanging from them were the size of plums, translucent and glowing with an internal light. They smelled intoxicating, sweet enough to make Rory's teeth ache, but she remembered the stories about Dymas. Nothing here was given freely. Everything demanded a price. She kept her bright blue eyes scanning the perimeter. Her black hair stuck to her neck with sweat. At five-six, she felt small beneath the towering orchards, the trees heavy with fruits that looked too perfect, too symmetrical. Some of the apples bore markings that looked suspiciously like human faces frozen in silent screams. Where are we going? Rory asked, keeping her voice low. To the heart of the feast, Isolde replied without turning. The Seer stopped beside a stream that flowed with a viscous, golden liquid. Wine, or something close to it. The liquid moved slowly, defying gravity as it climbed slightly up the banks before sliding back down. Rory stepped around the stream, careful not to let the mist touch her boots. The pendant against her chest grew hotter, burning now. She could feel the magic of the place pressing against her skin, a physical weight. This was Hel, or a corner of it. The realm of Gluttony. Ahead, the trees parted to reveal a vast valley. Sprawling vineyards gave way to terraced gardens filled with exotic ingredients Rory couldn't name. Massive tables were set out in the open, laden with roasted meats that steamed in the cool air, breads the size of boulders, and goblets overflowing with the same golden liquid from the stream. But there were no people. No diners. It is prepared for those who never arrive, Nyx whispered, their form shifting, elongating toward the tables before snapping back. Or those who never leave. Rory tightened her grip on the blade. The silence was wrong. A place this large, filled with this much food, should be noisy. There should be clattering plates, laughter, the sounds of indulgence. Instead, there was only the hum of the amber sky and the distant, rhythmic thumping that seemed to come from the ground itself. She looked down at her left wrist, rubbing the small crescent-shaped scar there. It was itching. A childhood accident, her mother had called it. But since coming to London, since meeting Eva and falling into this life, the scar sometimes tingled when magic was near. Now it burned. We are being watched, Rory said. Isolde turned, her pale lavender eyes meeting Rory's. The Seer's expression was ageless, unreadable. Truth is a blade, Aurora Carter. It cuts both ways. To see is to be seen. A shadow detached itself from the trunk of a nearby oak tree. It was not Nyx. This shadow was heavier, denser. It pooled on the ground before rising into a shape that resembled a man, though its features were smoothed over like wax left too long in the sun. Rory raised the Fae-Forged Blade. The moonsilver glowed brighter, casting a cold white light against the amber gloom. The shadow-man halted. It did not speak, but a sensation of overwhelming hunger washed over them, a psychic wave that made Rory's stomach cramp with emptiness. Nyx stepped forward, their violet eyes flaring. They are bound to this place, the Shade whispered. Souls contracted from Earth. Chefs who sought perfection and found only eternity. The shadow-man bowed, a jerky, unnatural movement, and gestured toward the valley below. Beyond the tables, a massive structure rose from the earth, a palace constructed of bone and polished obsidian. Warm light spilled from its windows. Prince Belphegor expects guests, Isolde said, stepping past the shadow-man as if he were smoke. She left no footprints in the soft grass. Rory hesitated. The pendant was nearly searing her skin now. She looked at Nyx, who nodded once, their form flickering like a dying candle. She looked at Isolde, who was already walking toward the palace, her silver hair flowing in a wind Rory couldn't feel. Rory sheathed the blade, though she kept her hand on the hilt. She took a breath, tasting the honey and rot one last time, and followed them into the valley. The ground felt spongy, alive beneath her boots. As they descended, the smell of the feast grew stronger, masking the scent of danger until it was too late to tell the difference. The amber sky seemed to lower, pressing down on them, and Rory knew that in Dymas, the only way out was through.