Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFGV32200134KKGSK4TSHK

Rory's fingers tightened around the Fae blade's hilt as she stepped through the shimmering boundary between worlds. The moonsilver dagger remained ice-cold against her palm despite the sudden warmth that washed over her skin. One moment she'd been standing in Richmond Park beneath a grey London sky, and now amber light bathed everything in honeyed tones. "Well," she breathed, blinking against the strange luminescence. "This isn't Kansas anymore." Behind her, Nyx flowed through the portal like smoke given form. Their violet eyes pulsed brighter in this alien atmosphere, shadow-substance rippling as they adjusted to the new realm's physics. "Dymas," they whispered, voice carrying that familiar wind-through-leaves quality. "I haven't set foot here in... centuries." Isolde glided through last, her silver hair catching the amber light like spun metal. She left no impression in the soft earth beneath their feet—earth that looked deceptively normal until Rory noticed the way it sparkled, as if mixed with crushed gemstones. "Time moves strangely here," Isolde said, her pale lavender eyes distant. "What seems like hours may be days. What feels like days..." She trailed off, tilting her head as if listening to something only she could hear. Rory took a tentative step forward, then another. The Heartstone pendant grew warm against her chest, pulsing in a rhythm that almost matched her accelerated heartbeat. The air itself felt different here—thicker, sweeter, coating her throat with each breath. It reminded her of walking into a bakery just as fresh bread emerged from the ovens, but magnified tenfold. They stood at the edge of what appeared to be an endless vineyard. But these were no ordinary grapevines. The leaves shimmered between deep purple and burnished gold, shifting color as she watched. The grapes themselves hung in impossible clusters—some glowed like paper lanterns, others seemed to contain swirling galaxies within their translucent skins. "Don't touch anything," Nyx warned, solidifying enough to place a restraining hand on Rory's shoulder. Their touch felt cool against the realm's pervasive warmth. "In Dymas, even the fruit can bind you. One taste and you might never want to leave." "Charming," Rory muttered, but she tucked her free hand into her jacket pocket to resist temptation. The path between the vines beckoned, paved with what looked like crushed pearls that crunched softly beneath her trainers. As they walked, the soundscape of this strange realm revealed itself. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear laughter—not cruel or mocking, but rich with genuine pleasure. Music drifted on the warm breeze, a complex melody played on instruments she couldn't identify. Beneath it all thrummed a bass note that seemed to come from the very ground, a satisfied purr of a well-fed realm. "The Grove was strange enough," Rory said, glancing at Isolde. "But this..." "The Fae touch Earth lightly," Isolde replied, her words carrying their typical cryptic weight. "Hel embraces with both arms and will not let go." They crested a small hill, and Rory's breath caught. Before them stretched a city—if city was even the right word. Structures of polished amber and gold reached toward the perpetually twilight sky, their architecture defying euclidean geometry. Bridges of crystallized honey connected floating platforms where figures moved in elaborate dances. Steam rose from a thousand chimneys, carrying scents that made Rory's mouth water despite her better judgment. "The Palace of Satisfaction," Nyx murmured. "Belphegor's seat of power." Even from this distance, Rory could see the markets sprawling between the impossible buildings. Vendors hawked their wares beneath canopies of silk that rippled like liquid. The sound of sizzling meat and bubbling sauces created a symphony of temptation. "We need to keep moving," Rory said, though her feet seemed reluctant to obey. The Fae blade hummed in her grip, its chill the only thing keeping her grounded. "Whatever answers we're looking for, standing here gawking won't—" A figure materialized on the path before them. Not appeared—materialized, as if the amber air had condensed into solid form. It wore chef's whites that somehow remained pristine despite the realm's golden atmosphere. Human in shape but wrong in every detail—fingers too long, smile too wide, eyes that held depths of hunger no mortal could comprehend. "Visitors!" it exclaimed, voice carrying the rich timbre of aged wine. "How delightful. You must be famished after your journey. Please, allow me to offer—" "We decline your hospitality," Isolde interrupted, stepping forward with fluid grace. "We walk the pilgrim's path and claim the ancient right of passage." The creature's smile flickered but didn't fade. "Of course. But surely a small taste—" "No." Rory was surprised to hear her own voice, firm and clear. The Heartstone pendant burned hotter against her chest. "We have business elsewhere." "Business." The creature—demon, Rory realized with a chill that had nothing to do with the Fae blade—spoke the word like it tasted sour. "How dreadfully boring. But as you wish. The pilgrim's path extends that way." One too-long finger pointed toward a narrower trail that wound away from the city. "Do try not to stray. The orchards can be so... inviting." It dissolved back into the amber air, leaving only the lingering scent of caramelized sugar and something darker underneath. "Well handled," Nyx said, a note of approval in their whispering voice. "Many would have accepted before thinking." They followed the indicated path, and soon the city's temptations faded behind them. But new wonders replaced them. Trees heavy with fruit that looked like jewels lined the way—rubies that dripped juice like blood, sapphires that chimed like bells in the breeze. Rory kept her eyes fixed ahead, but her peripheral vision caught glimpses of impossible things. A fountain of chocolate that formed elaborate sculptures before melting back into itself. Gardens where vegetables grew to the size of houses, tended by figures that might once have been human. "Are those—" she started to ask. "Souls, yes," Nyx confirmed. "Contracts willingly made. The finest chefs, the most innovative gardeners, the masters of their craft. They come to Dymas seeking the ultimate ingredients, the perfect kitchen, the appreciation they craved in life." "And they stay forever." "Forever is a very long time in Hel," Isolde said softly. "Though here, wrapped in pleasure and praise, perhaps it passes more kindly than elsewhere." The path began to climb, winding up a hillside covered in what looked like ordinary grass until Rory noticed each blade was actually a tiny fork, knife, or spoon, silver-bright and sharp. The Heartstone pendant's heat had become almost uncomfortable now, and she pulled it out from beneath her shirt. The crimson gem pulsed with internal light, brighter than she'd ever seen it. "We're close to something," she said. Nyx's form rippled with agitation. "Yes. But close to what?" At the hill's summit stood a single tree, its trunk twisted into a natural spiral. The bark gleamed like polished copper, and its leaves... Rory blinked. Each leaf was a different delicacy from Earth, perfectly preserved at the moment of peak flavor. She saw Sunday roasts, birthday cakes, comfort foods from a dozen cultures, all hanging like impossible fruit. Beneath the tree sat a table set for three. "A trap?" Rory asked, raising the Fae blade. "A test," Isolde corrected. "Look closer." On each plate rested not food, but objects. The first held a compass that pointed not north but to something that made Rory's eyes water to follow. The second contained a key made of crystallized honey. The third... "My mother's recipe book," Rory breathed. She'd know it anywhere—the worn leather cover, the coffee stain on the spine from when she'd knocked over her mug at age twelve. "How is it here?" "It isn't," Nyx said. "It's a echo, a reflection of desire. Dymas knows what you hunger for, and it's rarely food." Rory approached the table slowly, every instinct screaming warnings. The recipe book looked so real she could almost smell the vanilla extract her mother always somehow spilled on page forty-three. But the Fae blade in her hand grew colder with each step, frost forming along its edge. "What does the test want?" she asked. "To see if you understand the nature of true satisfaction," Isolde said. "Take what's freely given, or hunger forever for what's withheld." Rory studied the three objects. The compass might guide them where they needed to go. The key could open doors better left closed. But the recipe book... that was personal. That was bait shaped specifically for her. "None of them," she decided. "We make our own way." The moment the words left her mouth, the tree shuddered. Its copper bark cracked, revealing a hollow within. Inside, stairs descended into darkness—real darkness, not Dymas's amber twilight. "The pilgrim's path continues below," Isolde said with what might have been approval. "You chose wisdom over want." "I chose not to be manipulated," Rory corrected, but she felt a small surge of pride nonetheless. They descended into the dark, leaving Dymas's temptations behind. But Rory knew they were far from safe. The Heartstone pendant still pulsed with heat, and somewhere in the depths below, answers waited. Whether they would satisfy or damn them remained to be seen.