Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR6EHWRZC1BZTP9NJBVQ8E

The world folded in on itself, and Aurora felt her stomach lurch as though she'd stepped off a cliff edge in the dark. Then the sensation passed, and she was standing somewhere else entirely. The first thing she noticed was the light. It pressed against her skin like a physical weight, thick and honeyed, casting everything in shades of amber and gold. She blinked rapidly, her eyes struggling to adjust after the grey gloom of a London November. Her hand found the Heartstone pendant at her throat, its surface warm against her palm, warmer than it had been in the park. The crimson gem pulsed once, twice, a heartbeat beneath her fingers. "Breathe, Aurora." Isolde's voice drifted from somewhere to her left, unhurried as ever. "The crossing affects mortals differently. The sensation will pass." Rory sucked in air and realized she'd been holding her breath. The air that filled her lungs tasted of things she couldn't name—sweet, cloying, with an undertone of woodsmoke and something that might have been roasting meat. Her stomach growled involuntarily, and she pressed a hand against her abdomen. "Where—" She stopped. The word died in her throat as her vision finally cleared. They stood at the edge of an expanse that shouldn't exist. Beyond the threshold they'd crossed, a landscape rolled outward in impossible waves. Vineyards stretched toward a horizon that curved wrong, the vines heavy with grapes in colors she had no words for—deep burgundy, certainly, but also shimmering silver and something that looked like liquid gold. Orchards dotted the hills between, their branches heavy with fruit that seemed to glow faintly in the amber light. Above it all, a sky the color of aged whiskey stretched endlessly. No sun, but light everywhere, diffuse and sourceless, as if the atmosphere itself had been steeped in honey. "Dymas," Nyx whispered, their voice carrying that strange sibilant quality, like wind through dry leaves. Their shadowy form had become more solid here, Rory noticed. More present. The violet glow of their eyes cut through the golden haze like twin beacons. "I have not walked these grounds since before my imprisonment." Isolde stepped forward, her silver hair catching the strange light and refracting it like spider silk. Her feet left no impression in the packed earth of the path, something Rory had grown accustomed to over their months of uneasy alliance, but which still made something in her hindbrain twitch. "The realm of Gluttony," the half-Fae said, her pale lavender eyes scanning the horizon. "A place of indulgence and excess. Tread carefully here. The very air invites you to lose yourself." Rory's hand drifted to the Fae-forged blade at her hip. The moonsilver was cold even through the leather of its sheath, a grounding contrast to the oppressive warmth of this place. She thought of Evan sometimes, when she reached for a weapon. Thought of how small and helpless she'd felt in that flat in Cardiff, how certain she'd been that she would die there. The blade was a reminder that she wasn't that person anymore. Might never have been that person, if she was being honest with herself. "How far to whatever we're looking for?" she asked, falling into step beside Isolde as they began to move down the gentle slope of the hill. "That depends," Isolde replied, as infuriatingly vague as always. "On what finds us first." The path wound between the vineyards, and Rory found herself brushing against leaves that felt too smooth, too alive. Once, a tendril brushed her wrist, and she jerked away with a sharp intake of breath. Where it had touched her, her skin prickled with warmth, and she thought she saw a faint shimmer of gold before it faded. "The plants here are... responsive," Nyx said, materializing at her other side. They had been a pace behind a moment ago; Rory had long since stopped being startled by their movements. "They sense hunger. Desire. They offer gifts." The Shade's violet eyes flickered. "Accept nothing. To taste is to bind yourself to this realm." "Helpful," Rory muttered. "Thanks for the warning." "I have limited experience with Dymas," Nyx continued, their whisper-voice contemplative. "Aldric visited once, centuries ago. He sought knowledge from one of the master chefs. The meeting did not go well." "Aldric being... you? Before?" "Indeed." The word hung in the golden air, weighted with centuries of loss. They walked in silence for a time, the three of them an unlikely procession through the impossible landscape. The path took them past orchards bearing fruit that made Rory's mouth water despite herself—pears with skin like burnished bronze, apples that seemed to hold captured starlight in their flesh, berries that wept a nectar so fragrant she could smell it from twenty feet away. Each step required deliberate effort not to reach out, not to pluck and taste. The very air seemed to hum with invitation. She thought of the Golden Empress, of Yu-Fei's crowded kitchen and the way the old man could make magic with a wok and a handful of ingredients. This was nothing like that. This was hunger weaponized, desire made manifest and turned against anyone foolish enough to wander through. "How much further?" Rory asked, and her voice came out rougher than she intended. Isolde paused, her head tilting to one side as though listening to something beyond mortal hearing. "We are being observed." Rory's hand went to the blade again, her fingers wrapping around the familiar hilt. The cold moonsilver bit into her palm, sharpening her focus. "Observed by what?" Before Isolde could answer—assuming she would have given a straight answer, which was never a safe assumption—the vineyards parted ahead of them. The path widened into a proper road, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic, and then the road curved around a hill and revealed what lay beyond. Rory stopped dead. A city sprawled in the valley below, but city was perhaps the wrong word. It was more like a fever dream given architecture. Buildings rose and fell in organic waves, their walls hung with living vines and flowering creepers. Smoke curled from a thousand chimneys, carrying scents that made Rory's stomach clench with sudden, vicious hunger. Roasted meat. Fresh bread. Caramelized sugar. Wine reduced to syrup. In the center of it all, dominating the skyline, rose a structure that could only be described as a palace made of glass and copper and growing things. Spires twisted toward the amber sky like reaching fingers. Gardens spilled from its terraced levels in cascades of impossible color. "The Court of Feasts," Nyx breathed, and there was something in their voice that Rory had never heard before. Longing, perhaps. Or fear. "Prince Belphegor's seat of power." "He knows we're coming," Isolde said quietly. "He has known since the moment we crossed the threshold." Rory's fingers tightened on the blade's hilt until her knuckles ached. The Heartstone pulsed against her collarbone, steady now, a metronome counting down to something she couldn't yet see. "Then I guess we don't need to knock." She took a step forward, then another. Behind her, she heard Nyx's whisper of movement, the faint rustle of shadow on stone. Isolde made no sound at all. The city waited, patient and hungry, its amber light turning everything to gold.