Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQKVBE02Q2VT58RNMZ6QFF

The air in the grove had gone thin and sharp, as if someone had drawn all the warmth out of it and left only the memory of winter. Aurora stood between the ancient oaks, the rough bark at her back, the Heartstone burning a small, insistent circle of heat against her breastbone. The pendant’s crimson gem pulsed dimly beneath her shirt, in time with a rhythm that was not her heartbeat. “This is a terrible idea,” she said. Beside her, Nyx unfolded from a patch of shadow like smoke reforming itself. One moment there was nothing but a darker patch between two stones; the next there was a tall, humanoid silhouette, all living dusk, their faintly violet eyes opening like twin embers in a banked fire. “The best ones usually are,” they whispered. The words sounded as though the wind itself had decided to speak. “Step when I tell you. Not before.” The Veil hung before them: a faint shimmering in the air between two of the oak-trunks, like heat above asphalt, only this was cold, the sort of cold that prickled along her skin and made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. Rory swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. The grove around them—Isolde’s grove—was quiet in a deep, listening way. Wildflowers glowed faintly at the edges of her vision, colors too bright to be natural. The world smelled of damp earth and crushed green things, and underneath it all, the metallic tang of something old and vast pressing against the barrier. “How long will we be gone?” she asked. Nyx tilted their head, the contours of their face a suggestion rather than a certainty. “Time is a drunk thing here. Do you wish the truth?” “That’s unnervingly ominous. No, actually.” “Then we shall be back before anyone misses you,” they said, and she heard the lie-by-omission in it. Or perhaps it was only evasion. With fae ties and shades and hell-realms, everyone seemed contractually obligated to be infuriatingly vague. She curled her fingers around the hilt of the dagger at her hip. Isolde’s gift, the Fae-forged blade, lay against her palm like a slice of moonlight made solid. It was always cold; tonight that chill bit all the way to her bones. The Heartstone flared hot as Nyx stepped closer to the shimmering distortion. “Now,” they breathed. Rory stepped. There was no sense of moving her feet, just the sudden twist of everything: up becoming down, in becoming out, her stomach lurching as though she’d just plunged over the crest of a rollercoaster. The world bent sideways. For a heartbeat she saw nothing but crimson light pulsing in the dark, the gem at her breast a blazing star in a cold void. Then she was spat out into warmth. She stumbled, boots scuffing on soil that wasn’t soil at all but a glassy black surface, textured like cooled lava. Nyx’s shadow-hand closed around her forearm, steadying her before she could fall. “Careful,” they murmured. “It is bad manners to arrive face-first.” Rory exhaled slowly, forcing the nausea down. It was like stepping off a boat that had been pitching for hours; the ground still felt as if it were swaying. She blinked hard. The sky was wrong. That was her first thought. Overhead stretched a vast dome of warm amber, like honey held up to the sun, suffusing everything in a golden glow. It wasn’t a sunset; there was no visible sun, only a diffuse radiance, as if the world itself were lit from within. Thin streaks of a darker, burnt-orange hue veined the sky, slow-moving like ink dispersing in water. The air was thick with scent. Grapes and citrus and spices she couldn’t name, a sweetness that clung to the back of her throat, chased by the comforting, homely smells of baking bread, roasting meat, herbs crushed underfoot. It was the olfactory equivalent of being hugged too tightly by a stranger. She looked down. They stood at the edge of a slope that rolled away into vineyards. Vines stretched in precise rows as far as she could see, the leaves a deep, glossy green touched with iridescent purple at the edges, as if brushed with oil. The grapes hanging in heavy clusters glowed faintly from within, each like a tiny lantern: some the familiar amethyst of red wine grapes, others a pale, translucent blue, others yet a molten gold that made her think of Isolde’s eyes when the seer had been amused. The ground between the rows was dark and crumbly, but when Rory knelt and brushed her fingers through it, it left no dirt beneath her nails. It wasn’t soil. More like ground-up obsidian, cool and oddly weightless, sliding over her skin like powdered glass. “It’s beautiful,” she said, almost against her will. “Dymas prides itself on first impressions,” Nyx replied. “Prince Belphegor is nothing if not a gracious host.” She straightened, wiping her hand on her jeans more out of habit than necessity. In the distance, somewhere beyond the vineyards, she heard laughter. Not the sharp, sudden kind, but a rolling tide of chuckles and delighted cries, punctuated by the clatter of dishes and the dull thud of something heavy being set down on wood. The sound of a feast in full swing, carried on the warm breeze. Rory shifted her weight, heart stuttering. “That’s… people. There are people here.” “There are always people in Dymas,” Nyx said. Their violet gaze tracked the contours of the landscape. “Some leave. Some never do.” She didn’t care for the way they said that. The Heartstone against her chest had stopped its urgent pulsing, settling into a steady warmth, as if content now that it had reached whatever it had been dragging her toward. She touched it through the fabric of her shirt, feeling the faint hum. “Where to?” she asked. Nyx pointed, the gesture languid. Their arm elongated as they did, the shadow of it stretching farther than it should, fingertip coming to rest not too far away, where the vineyards gave way to an orchard. “Deeper,” they said. “The thing you seek is never near the door.” “Story of my life,” she muttered, but she followed. As they descended between the rows, the sense of wrongness grew, quietly, like a headache building behind the eyes. At first she thought it was simply the surreal quality of it all—the humming sky, the glow of the grapes—but then she noticed the vines. They were moving. Not much. Not enough to be obvious. A slow, almost imperceptible undulation, the tendrils coiling and uncoiling, leaves turning minutely as if to follow her. Several times she had the distinct sensation of being watched, and when she glanced back, she could swear some of the leaves had angled themselves toward her face. “You’re seeing it, aren’t you.” Nyx didn’t turn, but there was a smile in their voice. “Plants don’t look at people,” Rory said. “Plants don’t usually drink souls, either. Dymas is full of novelties.” She was about to ask if that had been a joke when they stepped out from the last row and into the orchard proper. Trees rose around them, trunks smooth and pale as bone, branches twisting in graceful spirals. Their leaves shimmered silver-green, and their fruit—if fruit was the right word—hung at eye level: luminous globes that shifted colors as she looked at them, cycling through the entire spectrum and then some shades in between she didn’t have names for. A low sound thrummed through the grove, a vibration more than a noise, settling into her chest. The Fae blade at her hip grew colder, the chill of it bleeding through denim and into her skin. “Do not eat,” Nyx said mildly. “Do not drink. Do not accept gifts, bargains, kisses, or invitations to dance. Do not answer any question with your true name.” They tilted their head. “I trust Isolde told you this.” “She said, and I quote, ‘In the place of endless hunger, never be the first to taste.’” Nyx’s chuckle whispered at the edges of hearing. “Poetic as always.” They moved onward, weaving between the trees. The fruits swayed slightly as she passed, turning to follow her progress. One detached itself with a soft pop and dropped neatly into her waiting palm—except she hadn’t been holding her hand out. She hadn’t meant to. A moment ago her hand was at her side, and now it was open, fingers cradling the weight of something warm and strangely soft. The skin of the thing under her fingertips felt almost like human flesh. It pulsed faintly, matching the beat of her heart. Rory froze. “Nyx,” she said conversationally, not looking away from the thing in her hand. “Why is it doing that?” Nyx was at her side in an instant, shadows rippling as they closed their fingers delicately over her wrist. “Because it likes you,” they breathed. “Drop it.” Her hand didn’t want to obey. For a brief, horrifying second, the idea of biting into it, of feeling whatever lay beneath that skin give way between her teeth, filled her with a need so sharp it was nearly pain. The Fae blade flared like ice in her pocket. The shock of its cold lanced up her side, clear and cruel, slicing through the haze. Rory gasped and let the fruit go. It hit the ground without a sound and sank into the dark soil, vanishing as if the earth had swallowed it whole. Her heart hammered. Her mouth ached with phantom desire, like a craving she’d never remembered forming, now abruptly denied. “That,” Nyx said softly, “is Dymas saying hello.” She flexed her fingers, pleased to find they still listened to her. “Does it always come on that strong?” “This is restraint.” Their eyes glowed a fraction brighter. “Come. The longer we linger, the more it learns you.” They pressed on. The orchard thinned to low, terraced gardens carved into the black rock, each level overflowing with plants that defied any category she knew. Vines bearing clusters of tiny glass baubles that chimed when the wind touched them. Bushes heavy with flowers that exhaled steam, smelling of cinnamon and meat. A long bed of something that looked like wheat, except the heads rustled with whispers in a language she nearly understood, like words from a dream half-remembered. Far below, the laughter grew louder. They reached the edge of a cliff, if it could be called that. The terraces ended abruptly, and the land dropped away, revealing the heart of Dymas. Rory stepped close to the edge, knees locked to keep from trembling. Spread out below lay a vast valley, lit by a thousand unnatural lights. Rivers of wine flowed where water should have been, their surfaces reflecting the amber sky in fractured, ruby streaks. On the banks rose pavilions and palaces: domes of spun sugar that did not melt, towers of bone-white stone wrapped in ivy that glowed a gentle blue, great tents sewn from rich fabrics that shimmered with embroidered scenes of feasts and hunts. Long tables stretched like roads between the structures, laden with food. She could see them even from this height: glistening roasts, heaps of fruit, wheels of cheese, pastries whose delicate layers flaked apart at the slightest disturbance. Servants moved between them with practiced grace, refilling goblets, carving, pouring, their movements a dance of endless, efficient indulgence. The people seated at the tables were… not all human. Some were. She could tell by their hair, their clothes, their hunched shoulders that spoke of lives spent at desks and on buses, transplant shock not yet faded from their faces. Others were more obviously not: members of the Hel Courts, she guessed, though she had no real frame of reference. They were taller, limbs too long, eyes too bright. Some had goat-like horns curling from their temples, or flickering embers in place of pupils, or mouths that were just a little too wide when they laughed. And they were always laughing. Eating and laughing, drinking and laughing, the sound rising up in a shimmering wall. A breeze swept up from the valley, thick with hot sugar and fat and spice. It hit her like a physical thing. Her stomach, traitorous, growled. “We should not be here,” she said. The words came out more reverent than afraid. “And yet.” Nyx’s gaze roamed the scene below, unreadable. “Belphegor’s kitchens have something of yours. Or one of his guests does. The Heartstone would not have led you otherwise.” “How do you know it’s not just dragging me to the nearest tapas bar?” “Because this is Hel, Aurora,” they whispered. “You have very particular tastes.” She snorted despite herself. The familiar cadence of banter steadied her. She touched the Heartstone again. It was warmer now, thrumming with anticipation, as if the world below were a lover it longed to meet. A bell sounded somewhere in the valley, deep and resonant. At once, the laughter cut off. Forks hovered halfway to mouths. Conversations died mid-word. Silence fell in a heavy, expectant wave. Rory’s skin crawled. Then, as neatly as if someone had flipped a switch, everyone at the tables turned their faces upward. Thousands of eyes, human and otherwise, lifted in unison. For a heartbeat, Rory met the gaze of the valley itself. Something vast and distant and amused looked back. The warmth in her chest spiked, almost painful. Nyx stepped slightly in front of her, a tall blur of darkness. “Do not bow,” they murmured, voice barely a thread of sound. “Do not smile. Do not show your teeth.” “I’m strongly considering not breathing,” she whispered. “Wise.” The moment stretched. A ripple passed across the valley, a subtle shiver of acknowledgment. The laughter started up again, softer this time, threaded with something sharp. “Prince Belphegor is aware of us,” Nyx said. “We are expected.” “Perfect,” Rory said. “Being expected by a Hel Prince. Just what I always wanted.” But she couldn’t stop staring. Because for all the wrongness, all the gnawing unease, something about Dymas called to her. Not to any hunger of the body—though that tug was there, low and insistent—but to something else. The part of her that had sat in lecture halls and stared out windows, dreaming of anything but statutes and case law. The part that had run to London without a plan simply because staying had become unbearable. Here, everything was more. More color, more scent, more sensation. Excess sculpted into landscape. Nyx watched her from the corner of their luminous eyes. “You understand it,” they said softly. “I understand wanting too much,” she replied, before she could swallow the words back. “Then remember that,” Nyx said. “Wanting and taking are not the same. And in Dymas, the bill always comes due.” They turned, their silhouette bleeding into the lengthening shadows. A narrow path switchbacked down the cliffside, cut straight into the obsidian. It glimmered faintly, as if dusted with ground sugar. Rory squared her shoulders. She adjusted her grip on the Fae blade, its cold comfort a clear, anchoring pain at her hip, and began to follow Nyx down toward the valley of endless feasts, the Heartstone beating hot and eager against her ribs.