Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR19N8ETYQ3HKGPAAA8FSW

The air hit Rory first—thick and warm, heavy with the scent of roasted honey and some unknown, overripe fruit. It coated her tongue, a cloying sweetness that made the back of her throat ache. She took a step forward, her boot sinking into turf that was less like grass and more like plush, emerald velvet. Above them, the sky was a deep, unending amber. There was no sun, no moon, just a high, uniform glow that cast everything in the warm, syrupy light of a perpetual sunset. The Heartstone Pendant, tucked beneath her shirt, pressed a steady, insistent heat against her skin, a frantic pulse that matched the thrumming in her own veins. “The eye is easily fooled where the palate is king,” Isolde murmured. Rory looked over at the seer. Isolde stood serene amidst the alien splendor, her silver hair a stark cascade against the golden light. As she moved, her bare feet made no impression on the velvet ground. She left no footprints, a ghost gliding over a world that shouldn't exist. To Rory’s other side, shadow coalesced. Nyx’s form wavered, a humanoid silhouette stitched from darkness, their faintly glowing violet eyes the only fixed point in their shifting shape. They seemed to drink the amber light, their edges sharpening for a moment before softening again. *This place is hungry,* Nyx’s voice whispered, not in her ear, but inside her head, a rustle of dry leaves. *It starves for sensation.* Rory’s hand strayed to her hip, her fingers brushing the cool, familiar grip of the Fae-forged blade Isolde had given her. The moonsilver was cold, a sliver of ice in the oppressive warmth of this place—Dymas. A corner of Hel itself. The thought should have made her knees weak, but instead, a cold resolve settled in her stomach. They moved deeper, following a path paved with smooth, milky stones that seemed to hum with a low energy. To their left, an orchard spread out, trees with bark like polished silver and leaves of deep indigo. The fruit hanging from their branches was a marvel: clusters of small, crystalline globes that chimed faintly when a breeze stirred them, and heavy, pear-shaped fruits that glowed with a soft, internal luminescence. The smell was intoxicating, a dozen different perfumes rolled into one. Rory saw a low-hanging branch, one of the glowing pears just within reach. Her mouth watered, an involuntary, primal urge to pluck it, to taste it. “All that glitters is not food,” Isolde said, her pale lavender eyes fixed on Rory’s hand. The Fae compulsion meant she couldn’t lie, but her warnings were always wrapped in silk. Rory pulled her hand back as if burned. “Right.” Nyx drifted closer to the trees, their form becoming less solid, more smoke-like. They passed a hand—a suggestion of fingers made from shadow—through one of the glowing fruits. It didn’t disturb the pear, but the light within it flickered and dimmed. *Memory,* Nyx whispered in her mind. *The fruit grows from the memory of a taste, a perfect meal, a moment of satisfaction. To eat it is to consume an echo. It will not nourish. It will only make you want more.* A shiver traced its way down Rory’s spine, cutting through the heat. The whole realm was an illusion of plenty, a feast for a ghost. She tore her gaze away from the tempting orchard and focused on the path ahead. It began to widen, curving around a terraced hill. On the terraces grew grapevines, not the gnarled green and brown things she knew from home, but thick, pulsing vines of crimson and gold, coiled around trellises of what looked like carved bone. The grapes were the size of plums, so swollen with juice they looked ready to burst. From somewhere beyond the vineyards, music drifted towards them. It was a chaotic symphony of stringed instruments and manic percussion, a tune that snagged at the rhythm of her heart and tried to speed it up. With the music came the sound of laughter—high and unrestrained, teetering on the edge of hysteria. The path crested the hill, and Rory stopped, her breath catching in her chest. Below them lay a sprawling city of brass and marble, built in a wide, sweeping valley. Ornate towers scraped at the amber sky, connected by impossible bridges of hanging gardens. Rivers of what looked like dark, bubbling wine flowed through canals, crossed by delicate, arching footbridges. And everywhere, there was movement. Throngs of beings—some vaguely human, others monstrously not—crowded the plazas and balconies. It was a carnival, a city-sized bacchanal that pulsed with a feverish, desperate energy. At the city’s heart was a vast, open-air coliseum. From its center, plumes of fragrant smoke billowed into the sky. Even from this distance, Rory could see the grand feast laid out within: tables groaning under the weight of roasted beasts, mountains of glittering pastries, and fountains spouting luminous liquids. But it was the workers who drew her eye. Beings in simple tunics hurried along the periphery, their movements jerky and frantic. They stoked fires, carried immense platters, and poured wine, their faces slack, their eyes hollowed out with a profound exhaustion that the endless celebration around them only seemed to mock. Helbound souls, she realized. Contracted to serve the insatiable appetites of Dymas for eternity. “So much life,” Rory said, her voice quiet. *Look closer,* Nyx whispered. The Shade pointed with a shadowy arm. *It is not life. It is consumption. They are devouring themselves.* Rory followed their gesture and saw it. The feasting figures weren’t just eating the food. They were biting at their own hands, clawing at the rich fabrics of their clothes to get at the flesh beneath, their faces smeared with gold dust and blood, their laughter never ceasing. They felt no pain, only the drive to consume. A prince in silks tore a jeweled ring from his own finger and swallowed it whole. A creature with skin like cracked porcelain drank straight from a wine canal, not stopping even as the liquid spilled down its front and stained its robes. It was a place of infinite indulgence that had collapsed into infinite self-destruction. The pendant at her chest burned hotter. Unease curdled into a cold dread in her gut. She glanced at Isolde, whose ethereal face was, for the first time, impassive, a mask of ageless sorrow. “Where we must go is not for the revellers,” the seer said, her gaze fixed on a slender spire on the far side of the city, one that seemed to be made of spun sugar and gilded bone. “It is for the one who watches the feast.” Rory nodded, swallowing against the cloying air. Her own hunger had vanished, replaced by a metallic taste of fear. She drew the Fae-forged blade. The moonsilver dagger felt impossibly, blessedly cold in her grip, the clean, sharp chill of it a small anchor in this world of overwhelming heat and desperate excess. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist seemed to stand out, a pale white line against her skin. She had fled one kind of ravenous man once. It seemed she was destined to face another. Nyx solidified beside her, their form more defined now, taut with a predator’s stillness. Their violet eyes scanned the grotesque panorama of the city. Isolde began to walk again, her silver hair catching the amber light as she started down the path toward the madness below, leaving no trace of her passage. Rory took a steadying breath, the scent of honey and rot filling her lungs, and followed.