Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR6SCCKR3RXXA0SSKVHHQR

The amber sky of Dymas did not hang overhead so much as it pressed down, heavy with the scent of overripe peaches and roasting fat. Rory stepped through the shimmering distortion of the Veil, her boots sinking into soil that felt more like pulverized spice than dirt. Behind her, the portal to Richmond Park collapsed into a microscopic needle-point of light before vanishing entirely, leaving them stranded in the realm of Gluttony. She instinctively reached for her left wrist, her fingers tracing the small crescent-shaped scar there—a nervous tic that had followed her from Cardiff to the darkest corners of the cosmos. Beside her, Nyx shifted. The Shade’s form was a jagged silhouette against the honey-colored horizon, their edges blurring like ink dropped into water. “The air here is thick,” Nyx whispered, the sound like dry leaves skittering across a stone floor. “It tastes of want.” “It tastes like Yu-Fei’s kitchen on a Friday night,” Rory corrected, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She adjusted the strap of her bag, feeling the weight of the Fae-forged blade Isolde had gifted her. The moonsilver dagger was a cold comfort against her hip, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth of this realm. Ahead of them, the landscape of Dymas unfolded in a dizzying display of excess. They stood at the precipice of a valley that shouldn’t have existed. Sprawling vineyards climbed the surrounding hills, but the vines weren’t wood; they were braided strands of translucent glass, pulsing with violet sap. Orchards stretched toward the horizon, pear-shaped fruits glowing with an inner luminescence that made Rory’s eyes ache. Isolde Varga moved past them, her silver hair trailing down her back like a frozen waterfall. As she walked, Rory noticed—not for the first time—that the Seer’s feet left no impression on the spice-dusted ground. Isolde’s pale lavender eyes swept over the horizon, distant and unreadable. “To eat is to remember,” Isolde said, her voice a melodic riddle. “To feast is to forget. The Prince of this house invites the hunger, but never the sating.” “Right,” Rory muttered, rubbing the Heartstone pendant through the fabric of her shirt. The crimson gem was humming, a rhythmic throb of heat against her chest that signaled the proximity of Hel-energy. “Keep our mouths shut and our eyes open. I’ve delivered enough takeaway to know that if something smells this good, there’s usually a steep service charge.” They began the descent into the valley. As they moved deeper, the sensory assault intensified. The wind didn’t just howl; it whistled a low, dissonant chord that resonated in Rory’s teeth. They passed a grove of trees with leaves made of hammered gold that shimmered and clinked together in the breeze. Beneath the trees, thick carpets of wildflowers bloomed in impossible colors—electric blues and screaming oranges that seemed to vibrate against the amber sky. Rory reached out to touch a low-hanging fruit that resembled a pomegranate but shimmered like a ruby. “I wouldn’t,” Nyx cautioned, their violet eyes glowing brighter. “The spirits bound to this soil were once masters of the craft. They are contracted to provide for Belphegor’s table. Every seed here is a debt.” Rory pulled her hand back as if the fruit had hissed at her. She looked closer and realized Nyx was right; the bark of the trees was etched with fine, etched script—legalese in a language that made her head swim. It reminded her of her father’s office in Cardiff, stacks of barrister’s briefs bound in ribbon, only here, the law was written in living wood and sap. They reached the floor of the valley, where a river ran not with water, but with a viscous, dark liquid that smelled of fermented blackberries and iron. “The Blood-Wine of Dymas,” Isolde murmured, stopping at the bank. She looked toward a grand structure rising in the distance—a palace crafted from white bone and polished obsidian, its spires piercing the amber clouds. “The kitchen fires are lit. The competition begins when the sun fails to set.” Unease prickled at the back of Rory’s neck. Despite the beauty, there was a rot beneath the sweetness. She saw a figure in the distance, a man in a chef’s toque kneeling by the river. He was frantically scrubbing a copper pot, his movements jerky and mechanical. As they drew closer, Rory saw the man’s eyes—they were hollow, filled with the same amber light as the sky. He didn't look up as they passed; he simply continued his rhythmic scouring, his fingers raw and bleeding into the wine-dark water. “A Hellbound soul?” Rory asked softly. “A master of the culinary arts in his former life,” Nyx replied, their form elongating as they drifted over the river without touching the surface. “Now, he cleans the vessels for a feast he will never taste. That is the nature of this place. The hunger is the point.” Rory felt a chill that the warm air couldn't touch. She was a delivery girl from London, a girl who had run away from a shadow of a man named Evan only to find herself walking through a literal hellscape. But the Heartstone pendant was pulsing harder now, a frantic heartbeat against her skin. It was guiding her toward the palace. “We’re not here for the food,” Rory reminded herself, her voice a low anchor in the surreal landscape. As they traversed a bridge made of woven sugar-glass, the sound of the palace reached them. It wasn't music, but the cacophony of a thousand kitchens—the rhythmic chopping of knives, the roar of stoked fires, and the frantic shouting of orders in a dozen different tongues. The air grew humid, thick with steam that carried the scent of searing meat and exotic spices. Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled. From the high vineyards, a pack of creatures emerged. They looked like greyhounds, but their skin was translucent, revealing glowing digestive tracts, and their teeth were made of jagged obsidian. They didn't growl; they made a sound like silver forks scraping plates. Rory’s hand flew to the hilt of the Fae-forged blade. The moonsilver felt like a shard of ice in her palm. “Company,” she hissed. Nyx stepped forward, their shadow spreading across the bridge like an oil slick. “They are the Scavengers of the Prince’s table. They scent the life in you. To them, you are merely a rare vintage yet to be uncorked.” Isolde didn’t flinch. She simply watched the creatures with her pale, prophetic eyes. “The glass bridge holds only the weight of the invited. Are you a guest, Aurora Carter, or are you the meal?” Rory took a breath, rooting her heels into the slick sugar-glass. She thought of the tiny flat above Silas’ bar, the smell of damp laundry and stale beer, and the mundane safety of London. Then she looked at the monsters, the amber sky, and the glowing red stone around her neck. Her mind, always moving a step ahead, traced the geometry of the bridge and the speed of the hounds. “I’m the one who delivers,” Rory said, sliding the moonsilver blade from its sheath. The dagger hummed, casting a pale blue light that cut through the oppressive amber gloom. “And I don’t give tips.” The lead hound leapt, a blur of translucent flesh and obsidian teeth. Rory dived to the left, the heat of the creature’s breath skimming her cheek. As she rolled, she saw Nyx rise like a tidal wave of darkness, engulfing two of the beasts in a whirlwind of shadow. Isolde stood perfectly still as a third hound lunged at her, only to pass through her shimmering form as if she were a mirage. Rory pushed off the ground, her boots finding purchase on a decorative ridge of the bridge. She swung the Fae blade in a tight arc. The moonsilver sliced through the creature’s shoulder with a sound like shattering crystal. The hound didn’t bleed; it leaked a shimmering, golden syrup that smelled of honey and ozone. It let out a bell-like chime of pain and retreated, its pack-mates hesitating as they sensed the bite of Fae magic. “Move!” Nyx commanded, their voice echoing with the weight of centuries. They ran. The bridge creaked beneath them, the sugar-glass groaning under the stress. Behind them, the hounds gathered, their obsidian teeth clicking in a frantic rhythm. But as the group reached the far bank, the golden gates of the palace swung open of their own accord. A wall of heat hit them, accompanied by a blast of orchestral music so loud it felt physical. The entrance hall was a cathedral of gluttony—chandeliers made of frozen fat dripped light onto tables that groaned under the weight of impossible delicacies. Thousands of souls and demons alike moved in a choreographed dance of consumption. Rory sheathed her blade, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked back at the valley, the amber sky, and the glass vineyards. The wonder of it was being rapidly eclipsed by a cold, sharp clarity. “We’re inside,” she whispered, adjusting her shirt over the pulsing Heartstone. “Now we just have to figure out how to leave before we’re added to the menu.” Isolde walked forward, her silver hair shimmering in the light of the tallow candles. “The path is set, Rory. But remember: in the House of Belphegor, the only thing more dangerous than being hungry is being full.”