Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ3QYCEDH1Q2R9F36QH25T

The Heartstone Pendant pulsed against Rory’s collarbone, a slow, insistent warmth that hadn’t faded since they’d stepped through the standing stones. The air in the grove had thickened, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter—like crushed violets left too long in the sun. Nyx moved ahead, their shadowy form rippling as they passed between the ancient oaks, fingers brushing the bark as if testing the boundary between worlds. "You’re sure this is the right place?" Rory adjusted the strap of her bag, the Fae blade tucked inside pressing cold against her ribs. Isolde didn’t turn, her silver hair swaying as she stepped over a root that hadn’t been there a moment before. "The Veil is thin here. Thinner than it should be." Her voice carried the weight of something unspoken, the kind of certainty that made Rory’s skin prickle. "Dymas doesn’t just let visitors wander in." Nyx’s laughter was a whisper on the wind, their violet eyes flickering like embers in the dim light. "Oh, it’ll let us in. It’s the *leaving* that’s the problem." The trees ahead parted—not bending, not swaying, but *unraveling* like thread pulled from a spool. Beyond them, the sky bled amber, too warm, too *hungry*. Rory’s breath hitched. The grove had been lush, alive. This place was something else entirely. They stepped through. The first thing that hit Rory was the smell. Not the rot of decay, not the sharp tang of magic, but something richer, deeper—spiced wine and roasting meat, caramelized sugar and the faint metallic bite of blood. Her stomach growled before she could stop it. Nyx inhaled sharply, their form solidifying for a moment, fingers curling into fists. Isolde’s lavender eyes darkened. "Gluttony isn’t just a sin here. It’s a *law*." The ground beneath them wasn’t dirt. It was something softer, spongier, like walking on a living thing. Rory crouched, pressing her palm to it. The surface gave slightly, then *pulsed*, a slow, rhythmic throb that matched the pendant’s warmth. She jerked her hand back. Nyx crouched beside her, their shadow stretching unnaturally long. "It’s breathing." A vine slithered past Rory’s boot, its leaves broad and waxy, the edges serrated like teeth. It curled around her ankle, not tight, not yet, but *testing*. She kicked it off, and it recoiled with a sound like a hiss. Isolde’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her own blade. "Don’t eat. Don’t drink. Don’t *touch* anything you don’t have to." Rory stood, brushing her hands on her jeans. "Noted." They moved deeper into the orchard. The trees here weren’t trees at all—they were *towers* of flesh and bark, their trunks pulsing with veins of golden sap. Fruit hung low, swollen and glistening, their skins stretched taut over what looked like *meat*, not pulp. Rory’s throat burned. She swallowed hard. Nyx plucked one from a branch, turning it in their fingers. The skin split with a wet sound, revealing something that *twitched*. They dropped it. "That’s new." Isolde didn’t look. "Keep moving." The path widened into a clearing where the ground gave way to a mosaic of tiles, each one a different shade of red—ruby, garnet, the deep crimson of old wine. In the center stood a fountain, but the water wasn’t water. It was *syrup*, thick and slow-moving, bubbling up from the mouth of a stone face that wore a permanent grin. The liquid pooled in the basin before overflowing, dripping down the sides in slow, sticky rivulets. Rory’s pendant flared hot against her chest. She hissed, pressing a hand to it. The stone’s glow seeped between her fingers. Nyx’s eyes locked onto it. "It’s reacting to something." Isolde’s gaze followed the syrup’s path. It led to a set of stairs, wide and shallow, descending into darkness. "There." The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the scent of cooking fat and something *older*, something that made Rory’s teeth ache. The stairs ended in a cavernous hall, its ceiling lost in shadow. Torches lined the walls, but their flames burned *green*, casting everything in an eerie, sickly light. Tables stretched the length of the hall, long and low, piled high with food. Not just food—*feasts*. Whole roasted beasts with apples stuffed in their mouths, towers of pastries dripping with honey, bowls of fruit that *moved* when no one was looking. Rory’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t eaten since morning, but the thought of food now made her want to retch. At the far end of the hall, a figure lounged on a throne of twisted bone. Prince Belphegor, Rory assumed. He was *large*, not just tall but *wide*, his body soft in a way that made her think of overripe fruit. His skin had the sheen of something glazed, his lips wet and red. He watched them with eyes that were too small, too dark, like currants pressed into dough. "Visitors," he said, his voice a wet gurgle. "How *delightful*." Isolde stepped forward, her movements fluid, unhurried. "We’re not here to dine, Belphegor." The prince’s laugh was a sound like something breaking. "Oh, but you *are*." He snapped his fingers. The tables groaned. The food *shifted*. Plates slid forward on their own, cutlery clinking against porcelain. A goblet tipped over, spilling wine that wasn’t wine—it was *thicker*, darker, pooling on the table like syrup. Rory’s fingers twitched toward the Fae blade. Nyx’s shadow writhed, their form flickering between solid and smoke. Belphegor leaned forward, his throne creaking. "Eat. Drink. *Indulge*." His smile split his face too wide, his teeth too sharp. "It’s the only way out." Isolde’s voice was steel. "We’ll pass." The prince’s smile didn’t waver. "Then you’ll *starve*." He waved a hand, and the hall *shifted*. The tables stretched longer, the food multiplying, the scent growing richer, sweeter, until Rory’s head spun. The pendant burned against her skin, a warning. Nyx’s whisper was a breath of wind. "We need to move. *Now*." Rory didn’t argue. She turned, but the stairs were gone. The hall stretched endlessly in every direction, the tables repeating in an infinite loop. The air thickened, pressing against her skin, her lungs. She gasped, her vision swimming. Isolde’s hand closed around her wrist, her grip like ice. "Breathe. It’s an illusion." But it *felt* real. The hunger gnawed at her, the thirst a fire in her throat. The pendant’s heat was the only thing keeping her grounded. Nyx’s form solidified beside them, their voice low. "The Veil’s weakest point is always at the heart of the sin. We find the source, we find the way out." Belphegor’s laughter echoed, bouncing off the walls. "You can’t *escape* Gluttony. It’s already inside you." Rory’s fingers closed around the Fae blade. She pulled it free, the metal humming in her grip. The moment it cleared the sheath, the air *shifted*. The illusions wavered, just for a second, like heat rising from pavement. Isolde’s eyes gleamed. "Clever girl." Nyx grinned, their teeth sharp in the dim light. "Let’s give the prince a *taste* of his own medicine."