AI The Heartstone Pendant pulsed against Aurora’s collarbone, its warmth seeping through her shirt like a second heartbeat. She didn’t need to look down to know the crimson gem had brightened—its glow bled through the fabric, casting jagged shadows across the cobblestones beneath her boots. Beside her, Nyx’s silhouette flickered , their violet eyes narrowing as they scanned the alley’s dead end.
"Right where the note said it’d be," Rory muttered, pressing her palm against the damp brick wall. The mortar crumbled under her fingers, brittle as old bone. "You sure this is the way in?"
Nyx didn’t answer. Instead, they reached out, their shadowed fingers passing through the wall like smoke before solidifying on the other side. A breath later, the bricks shimmered , dissolving into a swirling vortex of amber light. The scent hit her first—rich, cloying, like overripe fruit left to ferment in the sun. Her stomach twisted.
"Hel’s teeth ," she breathed.
Isolde stepped forward, her silver hair catching the unnatural glow. "Dymas welcomes those who know its hunger ." Her voice was a melody, just shy of a whisper . "But beware, child. The Veil here is thin, and Belphegor’s court is always watching."
Rory didn’t need the warning. The pendant’s heat had become a burn, searing her skin. She clenched her jaw and followed Nyx through the portal.
The world on the other side was a feast for the senses—and a knife to the gut.
They stood on the edge of a sprawling vineyard, rows of gnarled vines stretching into the distance, heavy with fruit that shouldn’t exist. Pomegranates the size of melons, their skins split to reveal seeds like rubies. Bunches of grapes so dark they drank the light. The air hummed with the drone of insects, their wings iridescent, their bodies too large, too *wrong *. Above them, the sky wasn’t blue but a warm, sickly amber, like honey left too long in the sun.
Rory’s boots sank into the soil, rich and black, clinging to her soles. She crouched, brushing her fingers through the dirt. It was warm. Alive. When she pulled her hand back, the earth clung to her skin, writhing like something beneath the surface had tasted her.
"Don’t let it touch your lips," Nyx warned, their voice a rasp . "Dymas feeds on more than just food."
Isolde inhaled deeply, her lavender eyes half-lidded. "Can you not *smell * it? The excess. The *want *." She plucked a grape from a nearby vine and held it up, watching the juice drip like blood between her fingers. "This place doesn’t just grow food. It grows *desire *."
Rory wiped her hand on her jeans, leaving streaks of dark soil. "And we’re just supposed to walk through it?"
"Unless you ’d rather fly," Nyx said dryly. They gestured ahead, where the vineyard gave way to a path of crushed white stone, winding toward a distant hill. At its peak, a structure loomed —a palace of gold and obsidian, its towers spiraling like the horns of some great beast. Smoke curled from its chimneys, carrying the scent of roasting meat, spices, and something sweeter. Sugar. Caramel. *Rot.*
Rory’s mouth watered.
Isolde laughed , a sound like wind chimes. "Oh, little mortal . You feel it already, don’t you ? The pull."
Rory swallowed hard. "I feel like I haven’t eaten in days."
"That’s the point." Nyx’s form flickered , their edges blurring as if the very air of Dymas was trying to digest them. "This place doesn’t just feed bodies. It feeds *hunger *."
They set off down the path, the white stone warm beneath Rory’s boots. The vineyard seemed to watch them go, the vines shifting subtly, leaves rustling without wind. Every so often, a fruit would drop from a branch, splitting open with a wet *thunk *. The scent of it—overripe, cloying—made Rory’s head spin.
Then came the sounds.
Laughter, deep and rich, carried on the breeze. The clink of glasses. The crackle of fire. Somewhere, a woman moaned in pleasure, the sound twisting into something darker, hungrier. Rory’s fingers twitched toward the Fae-forged blade at her hip. The metal was cold, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of Dymas.
"Feels like we’re being herded," she muttered.
Isolde’s bare feet made no sound on the stone. "Of course we are. Belphegor’s court is a gourmet. He doesn’t just want guests—he wants *courses *."
Nyx’s shadow stretched long and thin ahead of them, their form flickering in and out of solidity. "Stay sharp. The first course is always the most dangerous."
Rory didn’t ask what that meant. She didn’t have to.
The path curved, and the vineyard gave way to an orchard. Here, the trees were twisted things, their bark black and glossy, their branches heavy with fruit that gleamed like polished gemstones. Apples of ruby red, peaches with skins like molten gold, plums so dark they seemed to swallow the light. And between the trees, figures moved.
Not human.
Not quite.
Their bodies were too long, their limbs too many, their skin shifting between shades of gold and crimson like living flame. They plucked fruit from the branches, their fingers leaving trails of smoke in their wake. One turned as Rory passed, its face a smooth expanse of polished obsidian, its mouth a lipless slit. It smiled.
Rory’s breath hitched.
The creature plucked an apple from the tree and held it out to her. The fruit pulsed in its palm, its skin stretching, thinning, until she could see the dark seeds within, writhing like insects.
"Take," it whispered, its voice like honey and rust. "Eat. *Become.*"
Rory’s fingers twitched. The pendant at her throat burned hotter.
Isolde’s hand shot out, gripping Rory’s wrist. "Don’t."
The creature’s smile widened. "Afraid, little seer? Or just *hungry *?"
Nyx stepped between them, their form solidifying into something almost human. "She’s not for you ."
The creature’s laughter was a chime of breaking glass. "Everything is for us, shade. Even *you *." It turned away, its body dissolving into smoke as it rejoined the others. The orchard swallowed them whole.
Rory exhaled shakily. "What the hell was that?"
"Helbound," Nyx said. "Souls who traded their humanity for a taste of Dymas’s bounty. They’re not alive. Not dead. Just... *hungry *."
Isolde’s grip on Rory’s wrist tightened. "And they’re not the only ones watching."
Rory followed her gaze.
Ahead, the path split. To the left, a grand staircase of white marble , its steps worn smooth by centuries of use, led up to the palace. To the right, a narrow bridge of black iron spanned a chasm, its depths lost in shadow. And between the two, standing as still as the trees, was a man.
No. Not a man.
His skin was the color of aged parchment, stretched too tight over a frame that was too tall, too thin. His fingers were long and delicate, ending in nails like polished bone. His eyes—
His eyes were pits of endless amber, swirling with the same light as the sky.
"Prince Belphegor," Isolde breathed.
The prince inclined his head, his lips parting in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Seer. Shade. And... *mortal *." His voice was a purr, rich and smooth, like aged wine. "What brings such interesting company to my court?"
Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. The pendant at her neck was a brand now, searing her skin. She forced herself to meet his gaze. "We’re looking for someone."
Belphegor’s smile widened. "Aren’t we all?"
A sound cut through the tension —a wet, tearing noise, like flesh being pulled from bone. Rory turned.
The orchard was changing.
The trees were *bleeding *. Sap, thick and red, oozed from the bark, dripping onto the ground where it sizzled like acid. The fruit split open, revealing not seeds but *teeth*, rows of them, grinding together in a hungry rhythm . And the helbound—
The helbound were *feeding *.
Their bodies stretched, their limbs elongating as they tore into the fruit, their mouths unhinging like snakes. One of them looked up, its face a ruin of blood and pulp, and *laughed *.
Belphegor sighed, almost fondly. "Ah. The first course begins."
Rory’s hand flew to her dagger. The blade was ice in her grip.
Nyx’s form flickered , their edges blurring. "Run."
And then the orchard *screamed *.