Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQSK17F9E7Q837TD076BQE

The air did not smell of sulfur or brimstone, as the old Catholic guilt lingering in the back of Aurora Carter’s mind had predicted. Instead, the atmosphere was thick, cloying, and heavy with the scent of caramelized sugar and roasting meat. It hit the back of her throat like a physical weight, a sweetness so dense it threatened to trigger a gag reflex. Aurora stumbled, her boots sinking inches deep into soil that felt less like dirt and more like moist, velvet cake crumbs. She caught her balance, her hand flying instinctively to her chest. Beneath her jacket, the Heartstone pendant was pulsing against her sternum, a rhythmic thrum of heat that matched the frantic beat of her own heart. She took a breath, tasted cinnamon and iron, and looked up. "Well," she said, her voice sounding thin in the humid air. "We're definitely not in London anymore." Above them, the sky was a bruised, impossible amber. There was no sun, only a diffuse, golden luminescence that seemed to radiate from the clouds themselves, bathing the landscape in the perpetual, romantic glow of a late autumn sunset. But there was no romance here. Just an overwhelming sense of ripeness teetering on the edge of rot. "Keep moving," a whisper drifted past her ear. It sounded like dry leaves skittering over payment. Aurora looked to her left. Nyx was a smudge against the vibrant landscape, a silhouette of living darkness that seemed to wince under the amber light. The Shade was usually six feet of imposing, void-like composure, but here, the edges of their form were fraying, leaking gentle ribbons of smoke into the sky. Their violet eyes, two pinpricks of cold fire, scanned the horizon with evident distress. "The light," Nyx hissed, their voice hollow. "It is... digestively bright." "It's the realm of Dymas," Isolde Varga said. The Half-Fae moved ahead of them, her silver hair catching the amber glow and transmuting it into something cooler, like moonlight on snow. She walked with an infuriating grace; while Aurora slogged through the muck, Isolde’s feet left no impression on the ground. The grass didn't even bend under her weight. "The seat of Prince Belphegor. The Garden of Gluttony." Aurora adjusted the strap of her bag, her fingers brushing the hilt of the moonsilver dagger at her belt. The Fae-forged blade was cold—so cold it burned her fingertips through the leather sheath. It was the only thing in this sweltering, sticky world that felt clean. "I thought Hell was supposed to be fire and torture," Aurora muttered, wiping sweat from her forehead. A strand of straight black hair plastered itself to her cheek. "This looks like a vineyard in the south of France on steroids." "Torment comes in many flavors, little lawyer," Isolde replied over her shoulder, her tone light but lacking any real warmth. "To be full is a blessing. To be unable to stop filling oneself is a curse. Do not touch anything. Do not eat anything." They pushed forward through a grove of trees that defied biology. The trunks were thick and gnarled, weeping a sticky, resinous sap that smelled of maple and blood. The leaves were the size of platters, casting deep, maroon shadows. Hanging from the boughs were fruits that Aurora couldn't name—bulbous, glistening things with skin stretched tight over bursting pulp. As they walked, Aurora noted the silence. It wasn't the silence of emptiness; it was the silence of a held breath, of a predator waiting for the prey to take a bite. "I feel... heavy," Nyx murmured. The Shade coalesced into a more solid, humanoid shape, trying to hold themselves together against the pressure of the realm. "My old self. Aldric. He remembers hunger. This place pulls at memories I thought washed away centuries ago." "Don't let it," Aurora said sharply. She fell into her 'crisis mode'—the same cold, analytical detachment she used to employ when examining contract law or navigating a darker alleyway back in Cardiff. "Focus on the objective. We find the anchor, we break the seal, we leave. No sightseeing, no snacking." She scanned the environment, looking for threats. Her eyes, bright blue and constantly moving, caught movement in the irrigation ditches running parallel to their path. She stepped closer, careful not to slip. It wasn't water flowing through the trenches. It was wine. A dark, viscous red liquid moved sluggishly through the earth, feeding the roots of the monstrous orchards. "Jesus," she whispered. "Unlikely to find him here," Isolde said. The Seer stopped abruptly, her hand raised. Her pale lavender eyes widened, staring at something invisible to the others. "Wait." Aurora froze. "What is it? A patrol?" "A hunger," Isolde said. "Ancient and blinding." From the depths of the orchard, a sound emerged. It was a wet, tearing noise, followed by a soft moan of ecstasy. Aurora drew the Fae-forged blade. The moonsilver glimmered, cutting through the amber haze like a shard of ice. The sudden drop in temperature around the blade made the humid air recoil, creating a faint mist around her hand. They crept forward, pushing aside grand, velvet-textured leaves. In a clearing ahead, a table had been set. It was carved from a single block of pink marble, groaning under the weight of a feast that could have fed the entirety of South London. Roasted boars with apples stuffed in their jaws, towers of shellfish glistening with butter, cakes that defied gravity. Sitting at the head of the table was a creature. It was vaguely humanoid, but its proportions were all wrong—too wide, too soft. Its skin was translucent, showing the pulsing veins and shifting organs beneath. It was weeping as it ate, shoving fistfuls of meat into a maw that unhinged like a snake's. "A soul," Nyx whispered, their form rippling. "Helbound. Look at the chain." Aurora squinted. Around the creature's neck was a collar of heavy iron, the chain disappearing into the ground. The creature wasn't eating because it wanted to. It was eating because the food was forcing itself into its hands. The vines from the orchard were moving, snake-like, pushing platters closer, replenishing the wine goblet the moment it was drained. "He is serving his sentence," Isolde said softly. "The more he consumes, the emptier he becomes." Aurora looked down at the scar on her left wrist, a crescent moon of pale tissue from a childhood fall. It was a grounding point. Pain was real. This excess was a lie. She felt a sudden, irrational spike of hunger—a desire to drop the dagger and grab a grape the size of a fist. Her stomach growled, a traitorous, violent sound in the quiet clearing. The creature at the table stopped chewing. it swiveled its head toward them. Its eyes were milky white, blind from cataracts of fat. "More?" the creature rasped. Its voice was wet bubbles popping in sludge. "Is there... more?" "Back," Aurora commanded, her voice steady despite the trembling in her legs. She held the dagger out. "Isolde, which way?" "The path is not straight," Isolde said, her gaze fixed on the weeping trees beyond the clearing. "The realm shifts to keep you here. It wants you to sit. It wants you to taste." "I'm on a diet," Aurora snapped. "Nyx, can you shadow-step us past this?" "The shadows here are... thick," Nyx replied, their voice straining. "Sticky. If I step into them, I may stick fast. But I can cloak us." The ground beneath them shuddered. The wine in the irrigation ditch sloshed over the banks, staining Aurora’s boots blood-red. The creature at the table let out a wail, and the vines around the clearing animated, snapping like whips. They weren't plants; Aurora realized with a jolt of horror that they were muscle fibers masquerading as vegetation. "Run," Aurora said. She didn't wait for a consensus. She bolted past the table, the Heartstone pendant searing her skin. She grabbed Isolde’s arm—which felt cool and insubstantial, like holding a handful of mist—and yanked her forward. Nyx dissolved into a streak of twilight, flowing alongside them. They sprinted through the nightmare garden. Branches swiped at them, heavy with fruit that exploded on impact, showering them in hot, sticky nectar. The smell was overpowering now, the scent of rot undercutting the sweetness, the stench of a dumpster behind the Golden Empress on a hot July day amplified a thousand times. They burst through the tree line and skidded to a halt on the edge of a precipice. Aurora gasped, her breath hitching in her chest. Below them lay the heart of Dymas. It was a sprawling, golden city nestled in a valley of bones. The architecture was bulbous and organic, domes of amber crystal and spires of ivory that looked suspiciously like teeth. Rivers of wine and grease flowed through the streets, converging on a central palace that throbbed with a slow, biological rhythm. "There," Isolde said, pointing a slender finger toward the palace. "The Larder. The Veil is thinnest there." Aurora sheathed her dagger, though her hand remained on the hilt. She wiped the nectar from her face, her expression hardening. The wonder of the alien sky had faded, replaced by a cold, sharp determination. "Alright," Aurora said, staring down at the city of gluttony. "Let's go break something."