Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMRCZQA1YAAJM8WZRPT40KA

The air grew thick, honeyed, clinging to the back of Rory’s throat. It was the smell of overripe fruit and damp earth, a scent that didn't belong in the crisp autumn air of Richmond Park. Ahead, reality wavered, distorting the familiar oaks into shimmering, watery shapes. The Veil. Beneath her jacket, the Heartstone Pendant throbbed against her sternum, a warm, insistent pulse that matched the frantic beat of her own heart. It was more than warmth now; it was a low, steady heat that bled through the fabric of her t-shirt. Proof. “The tear is close,” a voice whispered, seeming to coalesce from the breeze itself. Nyx stood at her shoulder, a figure of living shadow whose faintly glowing violet eyes were fixed on the distortion. In the fading twilight, their form was barely distinguishable from the deepening gloom beneath the trees, a tear in the world just like the one they approached. On her other side, Isolde Varga moved with an unnerving grace, her silver hair a splash of moonlight against the grey evening. She drifted over the fallen leaves and damp soil, leaving no trace of her passage. Her pale lavender eyes, ancient and knowing, met Rory’s. “The door that is opened may also be a mouth that swallows.” “Comforting,” Rory muttered, her hand straying to the hilt of the Fae-forged blade tucked into the back of her jeans. The moonsilver was unnaturally cold, a sliver of ice against her skin that did little to calm her nerves. They stopped before the shimmering rift. It was like looking through heated air rising from asphalt, only this distortion smelled of nectar and decay. Rory could see the familiar world of the park on the other side, but it was muted, distant, as if viewed through a faulty lens. The pendant burned now, a small coal against her skin. “Once we cross, time will be… inconstant,” Nyx’s voice rustled. “Stay close.” Isolde simply inclined her head, a silent promise or a warning, Rory couldn’t tell. She took a breath, the cloying air feeling heavy in her lungs, and stepped through. The sensation was one of falling and being pulled apart simultaneously. Colors bled at the edges of her vision, and a low hum vibrated through her bones. Then, her boots met solid ground with a soft thud. The pressure vanished. She blinked, her eyes struggling to adjust. The sky wasn't blue, or grey, or black. It was a deep, warm amber, as if they were trapped inside a fossilized jewel. There was no sun, no moon, just this pervasive, honey-colored light emanating from the sky itself. A slow, gentle warmth settled on her skin, pleasant but deeply unnatural. “Welcome to Dymas,” Nyx whispered, their form more solid here, a sharp-edged silhouette against the golden light. Rory’s jaw went slack. They stood on a path of moss-soft turf that wound through a landscape of impossible bounty. To her left, a sprawling vineyard climbed a gentle slope, the grapes swollen to the size of plums, their skins gleaming a purple so dark it was almost black. To her right, an orchard of trees she didn't recognize groaned under the weight of their fruit. Some were star-shaped and glowed with a soft internal luminescence; others were a startling crimson, twisted into elegant spirals. The air, thick with the scent of fermentation and floral perfume, was so heavy she felt she could chew it. A soft, melodic chiming drifted on the breeze, a sound like a thousand tiny glass bells. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Music, or just the sound the realm made? “The hungriest mouths sing the prettiest songs,” Isolde said, her gaze fixed on a stand of flowers whose petals were the color of her eyes, a pale, ethereal lavender. She was the one thing in this place that seemed to belong, yet her otherworldly beauty was a stark contrast to the gluttonous ripeness surrounding them. Rory took a cautious step forward. The ground felt springy, alive. She reached out, her fingers brushing against a broad, velvety leaf on a nearby bush. It was warm to the touch, and for a fleeting, sickening moment, she thought she felt a faint pulse within it, like the skin of some great, sleeping creature. She snatched her hand back, her gaze darting around. There was no sign of anyone, no gardeners, no workers. The entire realm felt curated and wild all at once. Perfect, yet abandoned. The unease began as a knot in her stomach. This place was beautiful, an artist’s dream of paradise, but it was the beauty of a venus flytrap. Everything was too much. The colors were too vibrant, the scents too strong, the silence beneath the chiming too profound. It was a place of excess, and it set her teeth on edge. Nyx drifted ahead, their shadowy form flowing over the path. “The souls bound to this plane are kept in the feasting halls and kitchens of Prince Belphegor. Close to the heart of the realm. We are on the periphery.” “Good,” Rory said, her voice tight. “Let’s keep it that way.” Her eyes scanned the horizon, but the amber sky met rolling hills of impossibly lush foliage in every direction. There were no landmarks, no points of reference. She rubbed the small, crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a nervous habit from childhood. It was a tangible link to home, to a world where skies were blue and fruit didn't glow. They followed a stream for a time, its waters slow and viscous. As they drew closer, Rory realized it wasn't water at all. It was a dark, shimmering liquid that smelled of spiced wine. Golden fish with feathery fins swam in its sluggish currents, their scales glinting in the amber light. One of them broke the surface, its mouth opening in a silent ‘o’, before it submerged again, leaving concentric rings of treacle-like liquid to spread slowly outward. Isolde paused by the bank, tilting her head. “That which sustains can also intoxicate. That which quenches can also drown.” She looked at Rory, her lavender eyes seeming to pierce right through her. “The Heartstone you carry feels a familiar hunger here.” Rory’s hand instinctively went to the pendant, which still pulsed with a steady, reassuring warmth. She didn't like the way Isolde said that, the careful phrasing that wasn't a lie but felt like a trap. The benefactor who had sent it to her was unknown, a mystery that felt more dangerous with every step she took into this world. As they moved deeper, the landscape grew more extravagant. Fungi sprouted from the sides of trees in wide, pearlescent shelves that dripped a sweet, sticky nectar. Birds with plumage like spun gold flitted between branches, their songs a complex, liquid melody that was both beautiful and sorrowful. Rory watched one land on a low-hanging branch, pluck a glowing, star-shaped fruit, and swallow it whole. For a moment, the bird’s chest glowed with the same soft light as the fruit before fading. A flicker of movement in the distance caught her eye. It was indistinct, a humanoid shape working amidst a grove of the spiral-crimson fruit trees. They were too far away to see clearly, but their movements were slow, methodical, without energy or purpose. A helbound soul, Nyx had said. A chef, a gardener, a prisoner. The word echoed in her mind. This wasn't a paradise; it was a plantation. A beautiful, sprawling prison built to feed an insatiable appetite. The sense of being watched prickled at the back of her neck. She slowed, turning her head, but saw only the oppressive fecundity of the realm. “Do you feel it?” she asked, her voice low. “It is the nature of this place,” Nyx’s whisper surrounded her. “The air itself is possessive. The ground covets your footsteps. Dymas consumes all things.” Rory drew the Fae blade. The cold moonsilver was a comfort, a stark, clean sensation against the cloying warmth of the realm. It didn't glow here, not without a moon, but its leaf-shaped blade seemed to drink the amber light, leaving its edges terrifyingly sharp and dark. They came to a clearing where a single, immense tree stood. Its bark was the color of polished mahogany, and its branches, laden with heavy, blood-orange spheres of fruit, wept a clear, crystalline sap that hardened into amber teardrops on the ground. The melodic chiming was louder here, emanating from the tree itself. As they approached, a new sound became audible over the chimes: a soft, rhythmic thumping. It was the sound of a heartbeat. Huge, deep, and slow. It was coming from the tree. Rory stared, mesmerized and repulsed. The ground vibrated with each beat. This was the source. This was the heart of the grove, maybe the heart of this whole section of the realm. “A Life-Tree,” Nyx breathed, their form solidified in awe. “Ancient. They are…” A sharp crack echoed from the feasting halls in the distance, followed by a chorus of triumphant shouts. The sounds were faint, but they cut through the placid atmosphere like a knife. The slow-moving figures she had seen earlier suddenly straightened, turning as one toward the sound, their movements becoming hurried, frantic. The spell of the place was broken. This was enemy territory. Isolde laid a cool, delicate hand on Rory’s arm. Her touch was feather-light, yet it sent a jolt through her. “The cooks have been summoned. The feast is about to begin.” Rory’s gaze followed the seer’s to a ridge overlooking their position. Silhouetted against the amber sky were three figures. They were tall and broad, clad in ornate armor that gleamed like polished beetle shells. They hadn’t been seen. Not yet. She tightened her grip on the Fae-forged blade, the cold biting into her palm. The wonder of Dymas had curdled into pure, sharp dread. The mouth was opening, and they were standing on the tongue.