AI The transition was not a door, but a tear in the fabric of the world. One moment, Aurora Carter was standing in the damp, grey chill of a London alleyway, the grit of the city beneath her boots. The next, the Heartstone pendant beneath her shirt flared with a heat that seared against her sternum, breathing a crimson rhythm against her skin.
She stepped forward, bracing herself for the familiar drop in stomach pressure that accompanied an elevator ride, but the sensation was far more violent. It was a physical wrenching, as if the universe were a wet sheet being wrung out, and she was the water.
When the vertigo released her, the air had changed.
Gone was the smell of diesel and rain. In its place hung a scent so thick it coated the back of her throat—overripe figs, roasted meats, and the cloying sweetness of fermentation. Aurora blinked, her bright blue eyes struggling to adjust to a luminosity that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Steady, child," a voice murmured, sounding like wind rustling through dry leaves.
Aurora’s hand flew to the hilt of the dagger at her hip. The moonsilver handle of the Fae-forged blade was ice-cold, a grounding contrast to the humid warmth pressing against her. She look ed up.
The sky was the wrong color. There was no blue, no clouds, only a vast, infinite dome of warm amber, motionless and heavy. It cast everything in a sepia wash, making the world look like an old photograph preserved in honey.
"Where are we?" Aurora asked, though the tight knot in her chest suggested she already knew the answer.
Isolde Varga drifted past her. The seer look ed as she always did—ethereal , her waist-length silver hair shimmering with its own internal light. She wore a dress of pale gossip that seemed to weave itself from the mist. As she moved across the loamy, purplish soil, her bare feet left absolutely no impression.
"The Garden of Excess," Isolde said, her pale lavender eyes scanning the horizon. "The larder of Prince Belphegor. You know it as Dymas."
To Aurora’s left, a shadow detached itself from the base of a twisted tree. It elongated, stretching upward until it formed a humanoid silhouette roughly six feet tall. Two points of violet light ignited where eyes should have been.
"It is... bright," Nyx whispered. The Shade’s voice was barely audible, a friction of sound that shivered down Aurora’s spine. Nyx shifted, their form turning incorporeal for a second, smoke caught in a draft, before solidifying again. "The shadows here are weak. They do not want to hide me."
"Stay close," Aurora commanded, her voice regaining the cool, professional edge she used when navigating a difficult delivery route or staring down a grandiose law professor. She scanned the perimeter. "If this is Hell, it’s better landscaped than I expected."
It was an understatement. They stood at the edge of a sprawling vineyard that defied logic. The vines were thick as pythons, gnarly and black, twisting around trellises made of what look ed like bleached bone. Hanging from them were clusters of grapes the size of apples, their skins so taut with juice they look ed ready to burst at a whisper.
Aurora took a step forward, her boot sinking slightly into the soft earth. She felt a phantom itch on her left wrist, right over the small crescent scar she’d had since childhood. It was a warning system she had learned not to ignore.
"Don't touch the fruit," Isolde warned, though she didn't look back. She was walking toward a break in the vines, her movement fluid, almost underwater. "In the realm of Gluttony, consumption is a two-way street. To eat is to invite being eaten."
"Noted," Aurora muttered. She kept her hand on the hilt of the leaf-shaped dagger.
They moved deeper into the vineyard. The silence here was heavy, lacking the ambient hum of insects or birds. The only sound was the crunch of Aurora’s boots and the soft, rhythmic thrumming of the Heartstone against her chest. It pulsed in time with the environment, as if the artifact recognized its place of origin.
As they walked, the scale of the place began to warp Aurora’s sense of perspective. Flowers the size of dinner plates bloomed in the undergrowth, their petals shivering as the trio passed. They smelled of spun sugar and roasting pork—a nauseating combination that made Aurora’s stomach growl and churn simultaneously.
"Do you feel it?" Nyx drifted closer to Aurora, their shadowy form condensing into something harder, sharper. " The hunger. It is not yours."
"I feel it," Aurora said through gritted teeth. It wasn't just hunger; it was a profound , hollow ache, a desire to fill a void she hadn't known existed until five minutes ago. She grasped the silver chain of the pendant, letting the metal bite into her palm. "It’s the atmosphere. It’s psychotropic."
"It is simply the truth of this place," Isolde corrected. She stopped before a massive archway formed by two intertwining trees. The bark was pale and smooth, resembling human skin. "Dymas does not lie about what it wants. It only lies about the cost."
Beyond the archway, the vineyard gave way to a ruin. It might have once been a banquet hall, open to the amber sky. immense stone pillars, carved with reliefs of feasting giants and overflowing chalices, lay toppled in the grass. But the ruin wasn't empty.
In the center of the clearing stood a long stone table, miraculously intact. It was piled high with a feast that had calcified into stone over centuries—petrified boars, fossilized breads, wine that had turned to red crystal in the goblets.
"Ancient," Aurora whispered, stepping into the clearing. The air here was cooler, stagnant. "I thought this realm was active. This look s... abandoned."
"Time is a river in your world, Aurora," Isolde said, her voice drifting like smoke. "Here, it is a swamp. Pools of stagnation stick beside rushing rapids. This hall has been forgotten by the Prince, but not by the land."
Nyx moved toward the table, their violet eyes narrowing. The Shade extended a hand—fingers lengthening into tendrils of darkness—toward a stone platter.
"Careful, Shadow," Isolde said sharply .
Nyx pulled back. "There is something beneath the table."
Aurora drew the Fae blade. The moonsilver rang softly as it left the sheath, glowing with a pale, milky luminescence that cut through the amber haze. She approached the stone slab, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was used to aggressive drunks at Silas’s bar or the occasional shady character on a delivery run, not supernatural archeology.
She crouched, peering into the gloom beneath the table.
At first, it look ed like tangled roots. Then, the roots shifted.
Aurora scrambled back, breathless. "Jesus."
Integrated into the base of the table, half-absorbed by the stone and the earth, were figures. Humanoid figures. They were twisted, mouths open in silent screams of eternal hunger, their limbs fused with the furniture they supported. They weren't statues. They were the foundation.
"Helbound souls," Nyx observed, dispassionate but wary. They hovered over Aurora’s shoulder. "Contracted. They served the feast, and when they could serve no more, they became the furniture."
Aurora stood up, wiping her hands on her jeans, feeling a sudden, violent revulsion. The beauty of the amber sky and the lush vines suddenly look ed like makeup on a corpse. "We need to keep moving. We’re here for the anchor point, not a history lesson."
"The anchor lies ahead," Isolde said, pointing a slender finger past the ruins. "The vegetation grows thicker there. The Veil is thin."
"Wait," Aurora said. She tilted her head. The silence of the vineyard had been broken .
From the dense, sugary vegetation ahead, a sound emerged. It was wet and heavy, like a cleaver chopping through meat. *Thwack. Squelch. Thwack.*
Nyx dissolved into a puddle of ink on the ground, sliding forward across the stones to scout, becoming nothing more than a trick of the light.
Aurora tightened her grip on the dagger. The cut on her wrist from years ago throbbed , a phantom memory of pain. She look ed at Isolde. "You said you can't lie. What is making that noise ?"
Isolde’s lavender eyes met Aurora’s blue ones. There was no fear in the oracle's face, only a terrible, ancient sadness.
"The gardener," Isolde said softly . "And he is pruning."
The amber light overhead seemed to darken, shifting from gold to the color of a bruised peach. The chopping sound stopped.
Then, the heavy scent of blood—fresh, metallic, and sharp—cut through the smell of rotting fruit.
"Move," Aurora ordered, abandoning the stealth of the shadow for the speed of the desperate. "Nyx, fall back. We’re leaving this clearing."
They pushed forward, past the petrified feast and the screaming table, diving into the overgrown unknown of the amber world, the silence behind them now filled with the sound of something massive dragging itself through the vines.