Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQMBSZ5KWNHMRBJN2N106E

A shimmering distortion, thin as a breath of smoke against the already dimming sky, pulsed at the edge of the ancient oak standing stones. Rory felt a prickle of unease, a sensation like static electricity before a storm. Her shoulder-length black hair stirred slightly, though there was no wind. Nyx, a silhouette of living shadow beside her, seemed to absorb the twilight, their form subtly deepening. Isolde, a wisp of silver hair against the twilight, moved as though she weighed nothing at all, her bare feet silent on the damp Earth. “The Veil thins here,” Isolde’s voice was a whisper, a sound that seemed to blend with the rustling of unseen leaves. “Between realms, a space, where time itself becomes a tangled thread.” Rory clutched the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip, its moonsilver hilt a chill anchor against her palm. She’d brought the Heartstone, too, the crimson gemstone nestled in a silver chain around her neck. It had pulsed with an almost urgent warmth since they’d entered Richmond Park. “A space between realms,” Rory repeated, her voice steady. “You mean like a crossroads?” Isolde turned, her pale lavender eyes fixed on Rory. “Crossroads imply choice. This… this is merely a thin. A boundary worn for a specific reason.” Her gaze seemed to hold an ancient knowledge, a silent warning. Nyx’s form shifted, a ripple through the living shadow. “A gateway to Dymas, you said, Isolde.” Their voice, a whisper carried on the wind, seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Is the passage stable?” “Stable enough for those who know the song,” Isolde replied, already moving towards the shimmering distortion. She raised her hands, palms outward, and began to hum. It was a melody without words, ancient and haunting, a song that seemed to call to something deep within the very ground beneath their feet. The air around the shimmering barrier began to vibrate, a low thrumming that resonated in Rory’s bones. The distortion thickened, coalescing into something akin to a swirling mist, but not quite. It was as if the air itself had been turned inside out. With a final, sustained note, Isolde stepped forward, and the mist parted like water. She beckoned. Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx. The Shadow gave a subtle nod, and Rory took a deep breath, following Isolde into the shifting gateway. The transition was less a step and more a dissolution. For an instant, Rory felt nothing, saw nothing but a kaleidoscope of colours that churned and twisted. Then, just as quickly, the chaotic sensory input ceased. She found herself standing on firm ground, though the texture beneath her boots was utterly alien—a spongy, moss-like substance that yielded slightly with each step but offered surprisingly firm support. Her first impression was of an overwhelming, decadent aroma: sweet, earthy, and undeniably intoxicating. It was the scent of ripe fruit, of blooming flowers, of spices she couldn't name, all mingled into a rich, heady perfume that made her mouth water. The sky above was a languid, warm amber, suffusing everything with a perpetual golden hour glow. There was no sun, no discernible source of light, but the amber suffused the atmosphere, making the air feel thick and sweet against her skin. Before them, the landscape unfolded in a dizzying array of impossible beauty. Sprawling vineyards stretched into the hazy distance, their grapevines heavy with clusters of fruit in shades of deep purple, ruby red, and an astonishing, luminous gold. Beyond the vineyards, orchards bloomed with trees that bore not a single type of fruit, but a kaleidoscope of variations, each branch laden with plump, glistening produce. Some fruits were familiar in shape but startling in colour—sapphire-blue apples, emerald oranges. Others were entirely alien, spiral-shaped pods dripping with what looked like liquid honey, or segmented berries that pulsed with an inner light. “Dymas,” Isolde said, her voice softer here, almost reverent. “The realm of Gluttony.” Nyx, reforming beside Rory, seemed to take on a more solid, yet still shadowy, aspect in this strange light. Their faintly glowing violet eyes swept over the landscape, missing nothing. “Excess, indeed.” Rory felt a strange mix of wonder and unease. Everything was too much, too vibrant, too perfect. It was a place designed to overwhelm the senses, to lure one into an endless dream of indulgence. “It’s… beautiful,” Rory managed, the word feeling inadequate. She looked back at the shimmering portal they’d emerged from; it was still there, but now it looked less like a tear in the fabric of reality and more like a curtain drawn aside, subtly inviting. They moved deeper, the spongy ground muffling their footsteps. The air grew thicker with the scent of a thousand different delicacies. They passed through a grove of trees whose leaves were not green, but a spectrum of reds and oranges, like an eternal autumn. From their branches hung fruits that looked like glistening jewels, each one broadcasting its own unique, tantalizing aroma. Rory reached out and tentatively touched a fruit shaped like a plump teardrop, its skin a deep, iridescent blue. It was cool and firm beneath her fingers. A faint, sweet steam rose from its surface. Everything here felt alive, vibrant, almost hyper-real. “Do not partake,” Isolde’s voice was sharp, cutting through the sensory haze. “Not without knowing the price.” Rory quickly withdrew her hand. “The price?” “All things in Dymas come with an unseen cost,” Isolde said, her lavender eyes scanning the trees around them. “Pleasure here is rarely free.” As they continued, they began to see signs of intelligent cultivation. Not wild growth, but carefully tended gardens, each a testament to meticulous effort. Rows of exotic herbs in shades of silver and gold grew in perfect geometric patterns. Fountains streamed not water, but what appeared to be nectar, bubbling and fragrant, drawing iridescent butterflies with wings like stained glass. Suddenly, a sound. A low, musical chime, followed by a rush of voices. Laughter, not boisterous or crude, but rich, melodic, and joyful. They rounded a bend in the path and came upon a vista that made Rory catch her breath. Before them, nestled in a valley, was a sprawling estate. It wasn't a single building, but a collection of structures carved from what looked like petrified sugar, gleaming and intricate, connected by delicate bridges woven from living vines that pulsed with soft light. Gardens of unimaginable beauty surrounded it, populated by figures in flowing, vibrant robes. Rory instinctively drew the Fae-Forged Blade a few inches from its scabbard, her fingers tightening around the cold hilt. She focused on the voices. They were human, or close enough to be indistinguishable. “Helbound souls,” Isolde murmured, reading Rory’s thoughts. “Often contracted from Earth, lured by the promise of eternal satisfaction for their culinary arts. They become master chefs here, serving Prince Belphegor.” Nyx stepped forward, their shadowy form blurring slightly at the edges. “A feast in progress, from the scent.” Indeed, as they drew closer, the sound of revelry intensified. The air filled with a symphony of clinking glasses, the murmur of conversation, and the rich, complex aromas of a banquet. Great, long tables, carved from a glistening, dark wood, were laden with dishes that defied description. Pyramids of fruits glowed with inner light. Meats roasted on spits, turning slowly over fires that burned with clean, colourless flames, releasing scents of herbs and spices that made Rory’s stomach rumble despite her apprehension. Rivers of wine, sparkling and deep purple, flowed from ornate fountains into delicate crystal goblets. The people at the feast were elegant, beautiful. Some appeared entirely human, others had subtle differences – eyes that glowed, skin that shimmered, or hair that seemed to be spun from moonlight. All were engaged in a leisurely, almost trance-like enjoyment of the endless food and drink. No one seemed to notice the three newcomers standing at the edge of the gardens. “They are… content,” Rory observed, a flicker of dark understanding stirring within her. This wasn’t a place of torment or suffering, but a gilded cage. Absolute satisfaction masking a deeper, more insidious form of captivity. Isolde’s face was unreadable. “Content, for now. Until the contracts are called, or the pleasures become… stale.” A chef, a stout man with a kindly face and a tall, gleaming white hat, passed nearby, carrying a platter of small, golden pastries that smelled of honey and rosewater. His eyes were wide and unseeing, his movements precise, almost robotic. He seemed lost in the act of creation, utterly absorbed. Rory watched him go, a hollow feeling growing in her chest. She had fled Cardiff to escape her own kind of gilded cage, a life she hated, a relationship that suffocated her. This place was different, more insidious. It offered everything, but took away something far more valuable: agency, true choice. “We need to be cautious,” Rory said, her hand still resting on the Fae blade. “If Belphegor’s court is here, he’ll have guards, wards.” “Wards against intrusion, yes,” Nyx confirmed, their voice a low rustle. “But the wards here are… unique. Less about brute force, more about distraction, allure.” Isolde nodded. “The greatest defense of Dymas is its own abundance. Why fight when you can simply indulge? Why choose, when all choices are offered to you?” Rory’s blue eyes scanned the opulent scene. This was gluttony, but not just of food. It was gluttony of sensations, of beauty, of ease. It was a tempting, dangerous kind of evil. The Heartstone at her neck pulsed again, a faint warmth spreading across her collarbone. A portal to Hel, Isolde had said. And this, Dymas, was undoubtedly Hel. They needed to find what they came for, and quickly, before the intoxicating spell of Dymas began to take root. Before the siren song of endless pleasure dulled their senses, and blurred the lines between their purpose and the lavish, inescapable indulgence that surrounded them.