Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ1CE918FYMWBRFD4BNYA4

The amber sky stretched above them like a dome of melted honey, cloudless and warm. Rory stepped through the shimmering portal and felt a sudden, dizzying shift in the air—thicker, sweet with the scent of ripe fruit and baked earth. Beside her, Nyx solidified from their shadow form, their violet eyes scanning the horizon. “Welcome,” they whispered, the sound like rustling leaves, “to Dymas.” Before them lay a landscape of impossible abundance. Rolling hills folded into valleys choked with vineyards, the grapes hanging heavy and luminous, each one glowing from within like tiny lanterns. Orchards sprawled in perfect rows, trees bent under the weight of fruit Rory didn’t recognize—some spiked, some smooth and opalescent, others pulsing with soft light. In the distance, grand pavilions rose above the fields, their silken banners fluttering in a breeze that carried the murmur of distant celebration. Rory took another step. The grass beneath her boots was velvet-soft, too perfect. She knelt and ran her fingers through it. “It’s like carpet.” “Everything here is cultivated for pleasure,” Nyx said. “For indulgence.” A low hum filled the air, a vibration Rory felt in her teeth. She straightened, her hand going to the Heartstone pendant at her throat. It pulsed warmly against her skin, a steady heartbeat of crimson light. “It’s reacting.” Nyx nodded. “The Veil is thin here. This realm brushes against yours in places.” They moved forward, following a stone path laid with mosaic tiles depicting scenes of feasting—figures laughing, goblets raised, mountains of food. The tiles were warm underfoot, as though heated from below. As they walked, Rory noticed shapes moving among the orchards. At first she thought they were workers, but as one drew nearer she caught the hollow look in its eyes, the mechanical precision of its movements. “Helbound,” Nyx murmured. The soul—for that’s what it was, Rory realized with a chill—was harvesting the glowing fruit with careful, practiced motions. It wore simple robes, its face gaunt but peaceful, vacant. It didn’t glance at them as they passed. Further on, they came across a sprawling kitchen complex built into the side of a hill. Open archways revealed fires burning without smoke, cauldrons bubbling with iridescent soups, and chefs moving with frenetic grace. The air here was thick with smells—caramelized sugar, searing meat, spices Rory could name and others she couldn’t. Her stomach growled despite herself. One of the chefs, a tall figure with coppery skin and eyes like molten gold, looked up from a simmering pot. He wiped his hands on a pristine apron and approached. His smile was broad, welcoming, but his gaze lingered on Nyx with a flicker of recognition. “Travelers! Welcome, welcome. You’ve come during the Grand Tasting.” His voice was rich, smooth as warmed honey. “The Prince’s competition begins at sundown. Are you here to compete? Or to savor?” Nyx shifted, their form wavering at the edges. “We are merely passing through.” “Ah, a pity. The Prince does so love new blood in the kitchens.” The chef’s eyes slid to Rory. “You have the look of one who appreciates fine things.” Rory kept her expression neutral. “We’re looking for someone.” “Many come to Dymas looking. Few find what they seek, but all find something to their taste.” He gestured toward a long table set under a canopy of flowering vines. Platters piled high with delicacies steamed in the amber light—bread that glistened with crystallized honey, roasted meats glazed in dark sauces, fruits cut into intricate shapes. “Refresh yourselves. The journey between realms is taxing.” Nyx placed a shadowy hand on Rory’s arm. “We should not linger.” But Rory’s eyes caught on a figure at the far end of the table, a woman with silver hair reaching her waist. She was sampling a sliver of pale cake, her movements graceful, deliberate. She wore simple robes, but her ears came to delicate points, and her lavender eyes seemed to glow with their own light. Isolde. Rory started forward, but Nyx’s grip tightened. “Wait.” The chef followed their gaze. “Ah, the Seer. Yes, she arrived yesterday. Quite the palate, that one. She’s been judging the preliminary rounds.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “They say she can taste the truth in a dish. Or the lies.” Isolde set down her fork and turned. Her eyes met Rory’s across the distance, and a small smile touched her lips. She raised a hand, a faint gesture, and then she was moving away, slipping between two chefs carrying a massive roast pig on a spit. “Go,” Nyx said. “I will distract.” They flowed away from Rory, their form dissolving into a pool of shadow that slid across the mosaic tiles toward the chef. The chef’s eyes widened with fascination as Nyx rose before him, taking shape once more, whispering something Rory couldn’t hear. She didn’t wait. She ducked under a low-hanging vine heavy with purple blossoms and followed the path Isolde had taken. It led away from the kitchens, down a sloping hill into a garden of night-blooming flowers. Here, the light from the amber sky deepened into gold, and the air grew cooler, scented with jasmine and something sharper, like anise. The garden was a labyrinth of tall hedges, their leaves dark and waxy. Rory moved quickly, her boots silent on the mossy path. She rounded a corner and nearly collided with Isolde, who stood waiting beside a marble fountain shaped like a gaping mouth, water pouring from its lips into a basin of liquid that shimmered like mercury. “You found me,” Isolde said. Her voice was melodic, but there was an edge to it. “Or the path found you.” “You left the Grove,” Rory said. “The Grove is where I dwell. Not where I am bound.” Isolde’s lavender eyes studied her. “You wear the Heartstone. And you travel with a Shade. Dangerous company.” “Nyx is helping me.” “Isolde smiled, a faint, knowing curve of her lips. “Shades help themselves. But that is a truth you must taste for yourself.” She turned to the fountain, trailing her fingers through the shimmering water. It clung to her skin like quicksilver before dripping away. “You seek the warlock.” “You know I do.” “I have seen him,” Isolde said. “He walks these fields, sampling the excess. He thinks himself hidden, but his hunger leaves a trail. Like rot in sweet fruit.” Rory’s pulse quickened. “Where?” “The Prince’s pavilion. At the heart of the feast.” Isolde’s gaze shifted past Rory, toward the distant sounds of music and laughter. “He will be there tonight, competing. He believes a victory here will grant him power enough to tear the Veil wider.” The cold weight of the Fae-forged dagger pressed against Rory’s thigh where she’d hidden it beneath her clothes. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because the balance must be kept,” Isolde said softly. “And because I, too, have tasted his ambition. It is bitter. It spoils everything it touches.” She reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew a small, crystalline vial filled with clear liquid. “A gift. For when you face him. One drop will reveal what is hidden.” Rory took the vial. It was cold, colder than ice, and the liquid inside moved sluggishly. “What is it?” “Truth,” Isolde said. “Distilled from a Fae spring where no lies can be spoken.” She stepped back, her form blurring at the edges. “Go now. Your Shade cannot distract forever. And remember—in Dymas, nothing is as it seems. Even the food can bind you, if you consume it willingly.” With that, she melted into the shadows of the hedge, leaving no footprints on the moss. Rory stood alone by the fountain, the vial clenched in her hand. From beyond the garden walls, the sounds of the feast swelled—music, laughter, the clatter of plates. The amber sky began to darken toward twilight, streaks of orange and crimson bleeding across the honeyed dome. She slipped the vial into her pocket and turned back the way she’d come, the Heartstone pulsing against her chest like a warning.