Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMRADDH8AF3DGTCEF8NHWAE

Aurora Carter had expected the world to end with fire, not with the smell of baking bread. The scent drifted through the Fae grove as Isolde traced a circle in the moss with one bare, pale foot. It shouldn’t have been there—warm yeast and butter and sugar thickening the cold night air of Richmond Park—but it slid over Rory’s tongue like an invisible syrup all the same. “Hel,” Nyx whispered behind her, the word rustling through the leaves. “So close you can taste it.” Rory rubbed the pad of her thumb over the little crimson stone at her throat. The Heartstone had started to pulse the moment they’d stepped between the crooked oak standing stones. Now it lay hot against her skin, beating a lazy, heavy rhythm out of sync with her own heart. Each thud rolled through her chest like the echo of a distant drum. “Closer,” Isolde murmured, more to the air than to them. The seer’s silver hair floated around her like a curtain pulled by an unseen wind. She stopped at the edge of the clearing, where moonlight tangled itself in the low-hanging branches of the trees and refused to pass. “The wheat drinks the blood of the world tonight,” Isolde said. “And the Veil goes thin where the hunger is thickest.” “Translation,” Rory said, squinting at the dark between the trees. “Door to Hel. Here.” Lavender eyes flicked to her, amused. “The lamb learns to name the wolf.” Nyx’s outline stretched beside her, tall and wrong against the bright scatter of wildflowers. In the grove’s ambient glow their body was an absence, a cut-out silhouette of deeper black. Only their eyes held color—a faint, pulsing violet, twin embers in a shape that was almost human. “The Wardens won’t like this,” Nyx whispered. Their voice was always the same—like words riding the edge of a draft through a cracked window. “Veil’s already thin for solstice. One more tear and they’ll start looking.” “We won’t linger,” Isolde said. “Belphegor’s kitchens wait for their heart.” Their gaze fell to the stone at Rory’s throat. Rory swallowed. “You’re sure,” she said, “this thing came from there?” Isolde tilted her head as if listening to some distant, private song. “Where else would you find a heart that never stops feeding?” Helpful. The bare moss of the grove ended in a tight braid of roots and leaves. Beyond that, the darkness thickened into something almost solid. Rory took a breath and stepped until her trainers nudged the invisible line. She lifted her hand and reached out. The air there had texture. It pressed against her skin like cool glass, resisting. Then, with a sharp, silent snap, it rippled under her fingers. A faint, silvery distortion skated out from where she’d touched it, like water disturbed by a pebble. The hairs rose on her arms. “The Veil,” she murmured. “Hungry, hungry curtain,” Isolde said softly. “Mind your pockets, or you’ll pass through with less than you brought.” Rory tried to pretend that helped. Her other hand drifted down to her belt, brushing the hilt of the dagger Isolde had given her weeks ago. The Fae-forged blade lurked in its sheath, cold even through the leather, a small precise strip of winter at her hip. Nyx flowed forward, their arm lengthening, shadow-fingers pushing where Rory’s human ones could not. The distortion shuddered, light bending in a brief, dizzying twist. The smell of bread grew stronger, braided now with something richer—meat and wine, spiced fruit and roasting fat. It rushed out in a slow exhale that fogged the grove’s glow. The Heartstone burned hot enough to sting. Rory hissed softly, fingers tightening around it. “Door’s open,” Nyx murmured. “Ladies first.” Rory glanced back at the grove—the standing oaks leaning in, their leaves whispering secrets in a tongue she still didn’t speak. Time moved badly here. There was no telling how long they’d been in the clearing, only that London’s city lights no longer bled through the trees. “If I don’t come back,” she said, “don’t let Eva sell my vinyl collection to that guy from the third floor with the man-bun.” Nyx’s eyes brightened with something that might have been amusement. Isolde only smiled, small and strange. “Step quickly,” the seer said. “Remember—what is offered is rarely a gift, and what is eaten is seldom forgotten.” “Right,” Rory muttered. “No snacking in Hell.” Then she stepped through the Veil. The first sensation was heat—not heat like a fire, but heat like a crowded restaurant kitchen, like too many bodies and too many ovens all shoved into one space. It wrapped around her instantly, thick and humid. The second was smell. The scent on the other side hit like a physical blow: sugar and char, wine turned almost to vinegar then pulled back, cinnamon and clove and things she couldn’t name, all layered over the faint copper of blood. For a heartbeat she couldn’t see. The world became amber and noise—a low, constant distant clamor of clattering metal, bubbling liquid, a thousand soft wet sounds of chewing and swallowing. Then her eyes adjusted. They stood at the edge of a hill that might once have been stone but was now crusted over in something else—baked, cracked, the texture of stale bread. It crunched under her trainers, depressingly like walking on old toast. The hill sloped down into a valley that glowed under a sky the color of melted honey. Vineyards rolled away in precise, unnatural rows, marching to a horizon that wavered and folded back on itself. The vines here were thicker than any she’d seen, their trunks spiraled and braided together like ropes. Leaves shone a waxy, almost greasy green, shimmering with a thin sheen of oil instead of dew. Heavy clusters of fruit drooped from them—some she recognized as grapes, though each was as large as a plum; others were stranger, translucent orbs veined with faint pulsing light, like sacs of trapped sunrise. Rivers of liquid cut through the valley, their surfaces catching the amber sky. Wine, Rory thought, but the smell was more complicated—fermenting, alive, furious. Bubbles rose on the surface in patterns that suggested breathing. “What the—” she began. “A vineyard,” Nyx said, stepping out of the Veil’s thinning shimmer behind her. In this light they were even harder to look at, the edges of their form smearing into the shadows cast by nothing Rory could see. “Dymas breeds excess like London breeds estate agents.” Isolde emerged last, pale feet leaving no mark on the crumbling bread. The amber light kissed her silver hair, turning it the color of champagne. “Gluttony’s garden,” she said. “Where hunger grows fat on itself.” As if in answer, something moved in the rows below—a ripple, quick and sinuous, running along the ached backs of the vines. Rory squinted. For a second she thought it was the wind. Then she realized the leaves were turning, all at once, their glossy faces swiveling upward like a thousand dark green eyes. The nearest cluster of grapes shivered. One of the glassy orbs detached and fell, landing with a wet, obscene plop at her feet. It wobbled, the light inside swirling lazily. It wasn’t quite round; ridges bulged along its surface, forming a faint suggestion of parted lips. Rory took a slow step back. “If that thing asks me to kiss it, I’m leaving.” Nyx’s whisper gusted soft amusement. “Try poking it.” “You poke it.” Curiosity edged out disgust by a hair. Rory knelt, dagger still sheathed, and extended a finger. The fruit’s skin gave under the slightest pressure, impossibly yielding, warm. It shivered and split with a wet sigh, opening along those ridged seams. Inside, instead of flesh and seeds, there was a slick, swirling syrup of deep crimson, releasing a fresh wave of scent—wine and berries and some older, darker sweetness that snagged right behind her knees. Her stomach clenched—not with hunger, not exactly, but with a low, painful wanting. Saliva flooded her mouth. “Careful,” Isolde said lightly. “The first taste is free. The second is your name. The third is everything else.” Rory jerked her hand back as if burned. The feeling faded, but slowly, leaving a sticky echo behind her teeth. She wiped her fingers on her jeans, heart thudding. “Let’s keep moving,” she said, voice hoarse. “Before something decides I’m on the menu.” They picked their way down the hill. As they descended, the sounds grew clearer—a clatter of pans, a rise and fall of voices in dozens of tongues, laughter that never quite reached joy, moans that never quite reached pain. The sky brightened to a more liquid amber overhead, its light strangely directionless, as if it bled from the air itself. A narrow path wound between the first rows of vines, the soil dark and rich and damp. The bread-crust hill gave way to something more like chocolate cake underfoot, compressing slightly with each step. Rory tried not to think about it. She failed. “Do you smell that?” she asked after a while. Nyx tilted their not-quite head. “Which part?” “There’s… layers.” She inhaled again, more cautiously. “Fresh-baked… something. Also… coffee? And—” “Regret,” Isolde supplied. “And fat, and pride, and a little fear. Hel remembers what it’s fed.” “Comforting.” They passed under a trellis arch. Thin strands of sugar glass hung from it like icicles, chiming softly as they brushed the air. On the other side, the vineyards opened into an orchard. The trees here were short and squat, their trunks the glossy brown of caramel. Their branches curled upward in elegant spirals, heavy with fruit. At first it looked familiar—apples, pears, plums. Then Rory looked closer. One tree bore what looked like apples, except their skins were marbled with streaks of marigold and violet, and faint, intricate sigils glowed just beneath the surface. On another tree, something like pears dangled in clusters, each fruit faintly translucent. Inside, instead of seeds, little shapes drifted—eyes, tongues, tiny grasping hands, all dissolving and re-forming in slow motion. A soft sound to their right drew Rory’s attention. She watched as one such pear-fruit split open on its own, its skin peeling back in thick, eager petals. A pale, trembling hand reached out of the pulp, grasped blindly for something to hold, then dissolved into dripping juice again. She swallowed hard. “Tell me that’s normal.” “For Hel?” Nyx said. “Yes.” For the first time since stepping through, they looked almost uneasy. The line of their shoulders blurred, edges fracturing like smoke in crosswind. “You’re not fond of this place,” Rory said quietly. “Dymas is all appetite,” Nyx murmured. “No shadows in a belly. Only digestion.” Isolde had wandered ahead, fingertips brushing a low-hanging branch without ever quite touching the fruit. “Do not pity them,” she said, eyes on the orchard. “They ate well in life. They feast better in death.” “The souls?” Rory asked, glancing around sharply. “Where are they?” A distant cheer rose, then the shattering crash of breaking crockery. The orchard dipped, and for a moment the trees parted just enough for her to see the next valley over. Long tables stretched there, dozens, hundreds, arranged in concentric rings around a central pit. They were laden with food—platters of meat glistening with fat, towers of sugared pastries, bowls of something steamy that smoked in colors Rory had never seen smoke in. Figures sat shoulder to shoulder on benches: some obviously demonic, inhuman silhouettes with horns and extra joints and skin like polished onyx or raw meat; others looklingly painfully human. Their faces were blurred by distance, but their movements were clear enough—hands tearing, mouths working, throats gulping. Servants darted among them, refilling plates the moment they emptied. “No one stops,” Nyx said softly. “That’s the trick. You never stop eating, or the hunger catches up.” “And if you do stop?” Rory asked. Nyx’s eyes glowed faintly. “Ask one of them.” The central pit roared. A gout of flame leaped up, followed by the faint, unmistakable sound of screaming. Rory tore her gaze away. The Heartstone hammered against her sternum, each pulse now a sharp, insistent knock. “Where are we going?” she asked, voice low. “Specifically.” Isolde turned back to her, a smile curving the corners of her mouth as if she’d been waiting for the question. “To the root,” she said. “Every vine has one. Every hunger a seed. Belphegor built his kitchens around the oldest table in Hel. Your little stone remembers the feast.” She pointed past the orchard, where the land began to rise again in a slow, sinuous swell. Beyond the amber haze, a dark shape loomed—a structure that might have been a castle if castles were grown instead of built. Towers of bone-white porcelain twisted upward, fused with branches laden with stoneware fruit. Great windows yawned open, their frames made of stacked silver platters, their panes thin sheets of cooled sugar glass. Smoke of various flavors curled from dozens of chimneys shaped like fluted cake molds. Even at this distance, Rory could hear it—the clatter and roar, the hissing steam and crackle of fat on flame. A constant, thunderous heartbeat of industry. “Kitchen-cathedral,” Nyx whispered. “Haven’t seen it since…” They trailed off. The air around them tightened. “What?” Rory said. “Since what?” “Since I was still human enough to be hungry,” Nyx said. Their voice had gone quieter, the whisper thinning. “Aldric liked his wine. And his ambition.” Rory’s throat dried. For a moment, the alien world wavered and a much older one overlapped—a man in seventeenth-century clothes, maybe, reaching for power through a ritual gone wrong. A kitchen-cathedral waiting, patient as rot. She shook it off. There’d be time to unpack that later. Maybe. If they lived. “Alright,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “We go to the root. We find out what this thing is.” She touched the Heartstone again. It was almost too hot to bear now, the faint inner glow visible even in the honeyed light. It pulsed in answer, and as it did, the path ahead of them shifted. The cake-soft soil firmed, darkening to something like baked clay streaked with veins of glossy caramel. Between the trees, a narrow track revealed itself where none had been before—slabs of polished bone nestled in the earth, leading toward the rising land and the kitchen-cathedral beyond. On either side, the orchard’s branches bent back, their strange fruits turning away as if sulking. “Invited,” Isolde murmured. “Or expected.” “Is that better?” Rory asked. The seer’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “It is what it is.” They followed the bone path. With each step, the air grew thicker, the scents denser, layered until breathing felt like eating. Rory’s stomach turned somewhere between queasy and ravenous. She didn’t know which was worse. Once, a low branch dipped toward her, its fruit brushing her hair. A single drop of juice spattered onto her cheek. It burned cold, searing a path down to the corner of her mouth. Instinct screamed at her to lick it away, to taste, just a little, to know. She clenched her jaw and wiped it off with the back of her hand. Her fingers shook. Nyx slid closer, a towering shadow at her side. “Good,” they murmured. “Hel works best when you don’t notice you’ve already agreed.” “Agreed to what?” “To more.” They crested the last rise, and the kitchen-cathedral reared above them in full. Up close, it was worse and better than she’d thought. The porcelain towers were not smooth; they were carved in endless reliefs of feasts—tiny figures hollowed out of the white material, forever lifting cups, forever leaning over plates. Some of the carvings moved, cycling through the same small gestures on endless repeat. A wine jug tipping, refilling itself, tipping again. A roast sliced and sliced and sliced, never diminishing. The great doors at the front were slabs of dark wood banded with iron, but the iron was shaped like cutlery—forks and knives and spoons elongated into sinuous, writhing bands. The handles flexed as they approached, just slightly, as if waking from a long nap. Heat rolled out from the seams, carrying the roar of internal fires. Rory could hear voices inside now, some shouting orders, some singing snatches of old songs woven around words like salt and bone and bargain. The Heartstone hammered so hard it hurt. She realized, abruptly, that her palms were slick with sweat, her shirt sticking to her back despite the heat that should have baked any moisture away. The dagger at her side felt heavier, its cold sinking deep into her hip like a reminder. Isolde stopped a few paces from the door. The amber light lent her an unhealthy glow, like a painting left too long in direct sun. “Here,” she said softly. “The oldest hunger. The first kitchen. Belphegor’s heart and hearth.” Nyx’s form thinned at the edges, their violet eyes dimming. “You don’t have to come in,” Rory said, thinking of bellies and digestion and no shadows. Nyx’s whisper stirred her hair. “I’ve been running from this place for centuries, Aurora Carter. Time I stole something back.” The knives in the door flexed again, metal tines clinking together with anticipatory hunger. Rory took one more breath of the too-rich air. It tasted like every meal she’d ever loved and every one she’d ever missed and something vast and gnawing beneath both. “Alright,” she said, fingers closing tight around the Fae-forged hilt at her side. The cold bit her skin, sharp enough to anchor. “Let’s see what’s on the menu.” And together, they stepped toward the doors of Dymas’s heart.