Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR9B6RKTVE69GZC49JJSV8

Aurora’s heart hammered against her ribs as she pressed the Heartstone Pendant into her palm. The deep-crimson gem pulsed faint warmth, a slow, insistent heartbeat against her skin. Before her, the Veil quivered like heat rising from stone, a wavering wall of dancing light shaped by fractured air. Beyond it lay Hel’s gluttonous realm—Dymas—its amber sky bleeding through the distortion. She swallowed and leaned into the veil. She emerged into warmth so sudden it stole her breath. Above her, the sky glowed a molten honey, as if the sun itself had been steeped in syrup and set alight. She blinked against the glare. Rolling hills of grapevines stretched to the horizon, each cluster of fruit swollen and glossy, the skins so taut they seemed about to burst. A breeze stirred, carrying the heavy sweetness of fermenting grapes and spiced honey, undercut by a faint, sour tang like sweat on rotted fruit. Beside her, Nyx solidified from a drifting shadow into a tall silhouette. Their form pooled into substance with a subtle hiss—smoke condensed into midnight silk. Aurora caught a flicker of violet in their eyes, dull and glowing, as Nyx tilted their head and reached a gloved hand toward a vine. The grapes behind their fingers rippled, as though recoiling from the cold shadow. Isolde Varga stood just beyond, silver hair drifting around her like moonlight on water. Her pale lavender eyes measured the scene with calm detachment; she left no footprints on the soft, yielding earth. Aurora wondered whether thoughts ran behind Isolde’s placid mask. The seer wore neither fear nor excitement, only quiet readiness, as if she expected Dymas to yield its secrets at a nod. “Keep your wits,” Isolde advised, voice like wind through oaks. “Gluttony whispers promises, but it devours more than flesh.” Aurora nodded, moving so the pendant pressed into her chest. The vine beneath her boot-grew stiff at the touch—roots thickened and twisted, as though alive, writhing toward the intruders. She stepped back, heart racing, flicked her gaze to Nyx, who murmured in a voice that curled through her skull like smoke: “They bind souls in sugar and spice. Watch the harvesters.” At the edge of the vineyard, figures hunched over low carts. Their bodies were pale, gaunt; ankles bound by iron rings that bit into skin. They plucked grapes with slow, methodical fingers, lips stained red. Their eyes flicked up, blank and dull, as if hunger had hollowed them clean. One paused, offered Aurora a cluster so plump it glistened like wet rubies. She froze. Sweetness rose in her mouth. She fought a sudden urge to reach. Isolde’s hand brushed her arm. “They’re yoked here to tend the vines. Not your kin.” The seer’s fingertips were cool, grounding. Aurora backed away. The gaunt woman’s lips parted, releasing a faint, rasping breath. The cluster fell from her hand and rolled into the grass, bursting. Dark juice seeped into the earth, black and oily. Aurora’s fingers tightened on the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip. Moonsilver glinted with an inner glow even in the amber light. Nyx unfurled their hand, shadow trailing between vine and soil. The grapes shriveled and turned to dust. The palette of sweetness receded. Aurora exhaled. “Why destroy them?” She glared at the shade. “They are remnants of debt unpaid,” Nyx whispered. “This realm feeds on excess. Their souls ferment into its harvest.” A distant trill—a half-laugh, half-shriek—drifted across the hills. Aurora turned. On the crest of a hill stood a banquet table carved from pale stone. It stretched impossibly long, laden with loaves taller than she was, wheels of cheese the size of shields, platters of fruits that pulsed with their own heartbeat. Golden goblets stood brimming with wine that glowed like molten sunset. Dozens of shapes lined the table, seated on chairs of woven vines—spectral totems of diners vanished into shadows. Their forms flickered. Some raised goblets in silent toast; others leaned forward, mouths open as if to speak, but no sound emerged. Aurora's legs trembled. The feast looked enticing, as though crafted for a queen. The aroma wafted toward her—a heady swirl of saffron, rosewater, caramel, mingled with decay. Beneath it, like a rotten undertow, lay something darker: the faint musk of fear. She fought the urge to approach. The Heartstone pulsed faster, hot enough to singe her palm. She shoved it back beneath her coat and took a step forward. Isolde drifted to the fringe of the table. She traced a blade of ivy curling up a chair leg. “No mortal palate could withstand more than a taste,” she murmured, voice soft as petals falling. “This table was set long before Belphegor claimed his throne. It remembers every dish ever conceived, every mortal dream of indulgence.” Aurora’s stomach rumbled, and she winced. “I’m not hungry.” She tried to sound firm, but her throat felt parched. She spat out a clump of saliva, as though it might dissolve in her mouth. She glanced at Nyx, whose shadow flickered unsteadily. Their form quivered, as though the feast’s hunger tugged at them, too. A low hum rippled through the air, rising in timbre until it became an insistent chant. The table began to tremble. Platters rattled; goblets clinked. The seated forms leaned toward the center, as though expecting a course to appear. Aurora’s pulse hammered so loud she feared they’d hear it. She stepped back. The ground beneath the table cracked, vines slithering out to coil around legs and tendrils digging into stone. The feast was awakening. She dropped to one knee, sliding her hand to the Fae-Forged Blade. The dagger gleamed cold, light-spun, and she gripped it tight. The blade was as cold as starlight. She welcomed the chill. Isolde’s voice drifted at her shoulder. “We did not come for dinner.” She spoke with gentle insistence, a child’s lullaby. “We came for the Heartstone’s forge.” She nodded toward the hills beyond. The vineyard gave way to twisted orchards where apples glowed like lanterns and pears oozed golden sap. A white temple crowned the nearest rise: towers of polished marble veined with blood-red lines, its steps carved with runes that thrummed beneath Aurora’s boots. Nyx rose between them. Their form rippled into half-light. “They will not pause. Move.” Aurora forced herself up. She looked back at the banquet. The dinner table writhed; chairs snapped like twigs. She shook her head, resisting the faint memory of sweetness on her tongue. She would not taste. They advanced across fermented soil toward the temple. The vines behind them recoiled, whispering threats in a tongue that tickled her ears. She blinked, and in the distance she saw a figure at the temple’s doorway—Belphegor’s sentinel, perhaps, though the silhouette was too distant to discern. Two horns rose from his helm, pale as bone. He held a chalice in one gauntleted hand. The trio pressed on. Aurora felt the ground pitch beneath her ankles, as though gravity were easier to bear if she let herself be drawn down. A cluster of grapes burst underfoot, spattering juice over her boots. She wheezed. Every vein in her body ache to taste. She clenched her jaw, tasted metal. Isolde drifted beside her, silent, drifting. Aurora turned to catch her eye. The seer’s gaze was steady; the lavender depths held no waver. Aurora drew courage from that calm. She squared her shoulders and climbed the marble steps. The runes glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with her heart. She felt the Fae-Forged Blade hum against her hip. She revealed the pendant, letting its inner light glow against the stone. The Heartstone answered with a bright pulse, as strong as a drumbeat, and she pressed it to the carvings. The runes flared. A rumble rolled through the temple. The marble walls seemed to breathe, expanding outward. A circle of light opened at the doorway, revealing the temple’s heart: a black basin set on a pedestal of glass. The brim overflowed with dark crimson liquid that shimmered like quicksilver. Reflected in its surface, Aurora saw the three of them—her bright blue eyes wide with awe, Nyx’s shadowy form slick with motion, Isolde’s silver hair floating like mist. But behind their features, creatures swam—horned beasts sipping at the basin’s edge, skeletal birds perched on shadowy columns, something vast and coiling beneath the surface. A breath caught in Aurora’s throat. She gripped the pendant and whispered, “This is it.” Isolde inclined her head. “The forge of gluttony, where hearts are tempered in excess.” Nyx drifted forward, hand extended. “Offer the Heartstone. Let its flame temper this pool.” Aurora’s fingers trembled as she held the pendant aloft. The crimson gem glowed fierce and hot. She hesitated—then let it slip free. Time slowed. The pendant arced through the amber air, until it hovered above the basin. Light from the Heartstone spilled like liquid fire into the dark pool. The surface hissed, sending ripples outward that shattered reflections. The creatures beneath shrieked. A wave of heat and hunger crashed over her, and Aurora swallowed it down. Her vision blurred, and she felt the Fae blade slide from its sheath, its cold kiss against her thigh. A shock of clarity cut through the haze. She remembered Isolde’s warning: gluttony devours more than flesh. She lunged forward, snatching the blade. Steel bit into the basin’s edge, carving a notch in the marble. Sparks of moonlight danced across the surface. Nyx pressed a hand to the pool, snuffing out the basin’s dark glow with shadow, pulling the liquid into a single droplet that rolled across their palm. The air stilled. The amber sky dimmed to a softer hue. The vines relaxed, the banquet table lay shattered at the vineyard’s edge. The gaunt souls slumped, freed from their bonds, weeping relief though their faces remained pale. Aurora stood on trembling legs, the Heartstone cool again, nestled in Nyx’s other hand, safe. She looked to Isolde. The seer’s lips curved in a faint smile. “Balance restored, for now.” Aurora exhaled, stamping her boots on the marble. Her pulse slowed beneath the temple’s hush. In the distance, the sentinel at the doorway faded with a sigh of air. The amber sky shifted, painting the hills in gentle gold. Aurora lifted the Fae-Forged Blade, glancing at its moonsilver edge. “Let’s go home.” Behind her, Nyx and Isolde fell in step. And together they descended the steps, leaving Dymas breathing once more.