Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR0W8N8JSF2PFY2DWW3ZPK

The air in the alleyway behind the Golden Empress smelled of wet cardboard and stale grease, but the distortion hovering ten feet ahead smelled of ozone and burnt sugar. Aurora Carter stopped, her hand instinctively going to the crimson stone resting against her collarbone. The Heartstone pendant was hot, radiating a feverish warmth that seeped through her jacket and kissed her skin. It pulsed in time with her own heartbeat, a rhythmic warning that the boundary ahead was thin. Beside her, the air grew colder. Nyx coalesced from the gloom of the brickwork, the living shadow pulling itself into a humanoid shape until it stood roughly six feet tall. The faint violet glow of their eyes was the only color in their silhouette, cutting through the London grey. The Veil shimmered before them, a faint distortion like heat haze off asphalt, though the night was chill. To anyone else passing the mouth of the alley, it would look like nothing but empty space. To Aurora, it looked like a wound in the world. Ready? Nyx's voice brushed against her ear, sounding like dry leaves skittering over pavement. Aurora tightened her grip on the hilt of the moonsilver dagger at her hip. The Fae-forged blade was always cold, a stark contrast to the burning pendant, and the chill grounded her. She took a breath, filling her lungs with the familiar scent of rain and exhaust, and stepped forward. Crossing the threshold felt like walking through a curtain of static electricity. Her hair lifted on her arms. The pressure popped in her ears, and then the smell hit her. The stale grease of London vanished, replaced by an overwhelming, cloying sweetness. It was the scent of roasted meats basted in honey, of fermenting grapes, of spices she couldn't name but felt heavy on her tongue. She opened her eyes. They were no longer in the alley. Above them, the sky was a wrong shade of amber, glowing with a perpetual, warm sunset that cast long, golden shadows across the landscape. There were no stars, no moon, only that endless, bruised twilight. They stood on a ridge overlooking a sprawling valley that defied the geography of Earth. Vineyards stretched out in neat, manicured rows, but the vines were thick as tree trunks, heavy with grapes the size of plums that shimmered with an inner light. Beyond the vines, orchards bowed under the weight of fruit that looked too perfect, too vibrant, their colors saturated to the point of pain. Dymas, Nyx whispered, the sound carrying on a wind that didn't touch Aurora's skin. The realm of Gluttony. Aurora looked down at her left wrist, where the small crescent-shaped scar from her childhood accident itched phantomly. She rubbed it, trying to ground herself. This was Hel. Not the fire and brimstone of sermon illustrations, but a landscape of excess. It's beautiful, she said, the words feeling dangerous in her mouth. It is a trap, Nyx corrected. Their form shifted, edges blurring into smoke before solidifying again. The beauty is the bait. They began to descend the ridge. The ground beneath Aurora's boots was soft, covered in a grass so green it looked painted. As they walked, the air grew thicker, humid with the steam of cooking. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the clatter of silverware on porcelain, a sound magnified until it echoed like thunder. Laughter drifted on the wind, rich and booming, but devoid of joy. Aurora kept her hand near the dagger. The moonsilver hummed against her thigh, reacting to the ambient magic of the realm. She watched the vines as they passed. Up close, the grapes weren't just fruit; they whispered. She leaned in, catching a fragment of sound. ...hungry... so hungry... She stepped back, her boot crushing a fallen leaf. It didn't crunch; it squelched, releasing a scent like blood oranges. Do you hear that? she asked. The souls contracted to this place, Nyx said. They tend the gardens. They cook the feasts. They consume until they burst, and then they begin again. Aurora felt a chill that had nothing to do with the blade. She looked toward the center of the valley where a palace of carved bone and gold rose from the earth. Tables were set outside on grand terraces, laden with platters of food that steamed in the amber air. Figures moved around the tables. Some looked human, dressed in fine silks that strained against their bodies. Others were twisted, their forms bloated and distorted, shackled by chains made of woven sugar glass. Prince Belphegor's court, Nyx murmured. Aurora stopped. A figure was approaching them from the vineyard rows. It was a man, or had been. He wore the uniform of a chef, white jacket stained with sauces of impossible colors. His eyes were hollow, fixed on Aurora's neck. On the pendant. Fresh meat, the chef rasped. His voice sounded like grinding stones. Aurora didn't flinch. She shifted her stance, lowering her center of gravity. Her mind raced, calculating distances, exits, the weight of the dagger in her hand. She was a delivery person, used to navigating hostile streets in London, but this was different. This was a world built on consumption. We're just passing through, Aurora said, her voice steady. Nothing passes through Dymas, the chef said, licking his lips. Everything stays. Everything feeds. He lunged, not with a weapon, but with his hands, fingers elongated and sharp like carving knives. Aurora sidestepped, the movement fluid. She didn't draw the blade yet. Violence here might attract attention they couldn't handle. Instead, she grabbed a cluster of the glowing grapes from a nearby vine and hurled them at the chef's face. The fruit exploded on impact, releasing a cloud of narcotic pollen. The chef coughed, stumbling back, clawing at his eyes. The sweetness of the air turned acrid. Run, Nyx said. The shadow elongated, stretching toward the tree line. Aurora didn't need telling twice. She sprinted across the soft grass, the amber sky seeming to pulse above her. The pendant burned hotter against her skin, guiding her toward a fluctuation in the air ahead—a way out, or perhaps deeper in. She couldn't tell. The ground seemed to stretch beneath her feet, the distance expanding like taffy. Time moved differently here, slippery and unreliable. An hour could be a minute. A minute could be a lifetime. She glanced back. The chef was recovering, shouting into a horn made of twisted bone. The sound rolled over the valley, waking something in the orchards. Shapes began to move among the trees. The Fae blade slipped into her hand, the cold metal biting into her palm. It glowed faintly, reacting to the threat. She felt the weight of it, the promise of violence. Where to? she called out, her breath coming in sharp gasps. Follow the shadow, Nyx replied. Their voice was everywhere and nowhere. I know the spaces between. Aurora focused on the violet eyes cutting through the golden haze. She ran toward them, toward the dark patch of shadow that looked like a tear in the amber fabric of the world. The scents of the feast grew stronger, making her stomach cramp with a hunger that wasn't hers. She clenched her jaw, forcing her mind to stay clear. She thought of her flat above Silas' bar. She thought of the smell of old wood and beer. She thought of Cardiff, of rain on Welsh slate. She refused to be hungry for this. They reached the shadow line. The air here was cold, smelling of ozone and wet cardboard. The amber sky fractured. Aurora saw the grey brick of the London alleyway through the tear. She didn't look back at the vineyards or the bone palace. She stepped through the static, the pressure popping in her ears again. The sweetness vanished, replaced by the comforting rot of the city. Aurora leaned against the brick wall, sliding down until she hit the ground. The pendant cooled slowly against her chest. Nyx stood over her, a silhouette against the streetlights of the real world. We found it, Aurora said, wiping sweat from her brow. Nyx's violet eyes glowed in the dark. Yes. But now it knows we were there. Aurora looked at the dagger in her hand, the moonsilver dull now in the absence of magic. She sheathed it. The hunger in her stomach was real now, human and manageable. Then we better move, she said, standing up. Before it decides to come here for dessert.