AI The ground lurched, not like an earthquake, but as if the world itself had turned liquid for a moment before setting into something hard and wrong. Aurora Carter staggered, her hand flying from the searing heat of the Heartstone Pendant at her throat to brace against the gnarled trunk of a tree. The bark felt warm and yielding, like flesh.
Beneath her boots, the grass was a shade of emerald so vivid it hurt her eyes. It hummed, a low thrum that vibrated up through the soles of her feet.
“The thread is anchored.” Isolde Varga’s voice was as calm and placid as a forest pool, a stark contrast to the vertigo still swirling in Rory’s head. The Half-Fae seer stood a few paces away, her silver hair unstirred by the cloying, heavy air, her lavender eyes fixed on the impossible sky.
It was not a sky. It was a vast, unending ceiling of warm amber, a colossal piece of ancient resin that trapped a sunless light within it. Golden motes drifted lazily through the air, catching the light like dust in a cathedral.
Nyx coalesced beside Rory, a column of shifting darkness that bled into the unnatural shadows cast by the glowing flora. Faintly glowing violet eyes blinked slowly .
*This realm is… loud.* The voice was a whisper in her mind, a rustle of dry leaves. *It screams with satiety.*
Rory pushed herself off the tree, wiping her palm on her jeans. A sticky, sweet sap clung to her skin, smelling of caramel and something vaguely metallic. She drew the Fae-forged blade Isolde had given her. The moonsilver felt blessedly, sharp and cold against the humid air.
“Where are we?”
Isolde turned, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She left no footprints on the unnaturally lush grass. “Where the cup is always full, and the thirst is never quenched.”
They stood at the edge of a great orchard. The trees were not of any earthly variety. Some bore clusters of luminous, pearl-like fruit that chimed softly when the thick air stirred. Others were heavy with gourds that swelled and contracted with a slow, rhythmic pulse , like sleeping lungs. A path of crushed rose-quartz snaked through the orchard, leading towards a sprawling vineyard in the distance where colossal, iridescent beetles crawled over vines thick as a man’s arm. The grapes they tended were the colour of blood, each one the size of a fist.
The air was thick with a symphony of smells: roasting meats, honeyed wine, spices that had no name on Earth, a thousand decadent aromas all layered one on top of the other until they became a single, overwhelming scent of pure indulgence. It was intoxicating, but with an undercurrent that made Rory’s stomach clench. It was the smell of a feast that had gone on for too long, of sweetness beginning to rot.
“Gluttony,” Rory murmured, the name of the sin tasting foul on her tongue . The Heartstone Pendant, now cool against her skin, pulsed with a faint, steady warmth . Dymas.
*Look.* Nyx’s shadowy arm extended, a tendril of darkness pointing towards the vineyard.
Among the vines, figures moved with a languid, listless grace. At first, Rory thought they were workers, tending the impossible harvest. But as she watched, she saw the emptiness in their movements. They picked the heavy, blood-coloured grapes, their hands moving mechanically, but their eyes were fixed on the sky, mouths slightly agape as if waiting for rain . Their clothes were fine silks and velvets, now stained and torn. They were the guests, not the staff. Trapped in the motions of a harvest for a feast that would never end.
One of them, a man in the tattered remains of a dinner jacket, stumbled and fell. He did not cry out. He simply lay there, his hand still clutching a cluster of grapes, as one of the giant, jewel-toned beetles crawled over his leg without pause. No one else stopped to help him.
Rory felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. She tightened her grip on the Fae blade. “What are they?”
“They are the cautionary tale,” Isolde said, her gaze sweeping over the mesmerised souls . “They who tasted and wanted more, until all that was left of them was the wanting.”
They followed the quartz path, leaving the orchard behind. The humming of the grass gave way to the soft crunch of the crystals under Rory’s boots. The path widened as it approached a terraced garden built into the side of a gently sloping hill. Here, fountains flowed not with water, but with thick, golden honey , and rivers of dark chocolate cut through flowerbeds of crystallised sugar blossoms. The sheer excess was nauseating . Everything was edible, everything was offered , and everything felt like a trap .
Nyx drifted ahead, their form becoming less solid as they moved, merging with the long shadows cast by statues carved from what looked like giant blocks of nougat .
*Something is wrong,* the Shade whispered in her thoughts. *The shadows here… they do not rest. They hunger.*
As if to prove their point, the shadow of a honey fountain stretched, elongating unnaturally towards a sugar-spun songbird perched on its edge. The bird chirped, oblivious, as the darkness crept closer, wrapping around its delicate form. The chirp cut off abruptly. The shadow recoiled, looking no different than it had a moment before. The bird was simply gone.
“Stick to the light,” Rory said, her voice low .
Isolde smiled faintly. “In Dymas, the light is merely a different flavour of shadow.”
They crested the hill. Below them, nestled in a valley carved from polished obsidian, lay the heart of the realm. A city of feasting halls. Sprawling, open-air pavilions with tables that stretched for miles, groaning under the weight of golden platters. Towers sculpted from gingerbread and spun sugar scraped the amber sky. And from it all rose the sound of celebration—a discordant swell of laughter, music, and the clatter of a million forks on a million plates.
It was the epicentre of the indulgence, the source of the realm’s cloying perfume. Yet from this distance, the sound was hollow, thin. The laughter held no joy. The music had no soul. It was the sound of a machine performing the function of a party.
A smaller, more ornate building sat apart from the main city, on a promontory of rock that overlooked the endless feast. It was a distillery, with copper pipes coiling around it like great serpents, puffing out clouds of fragrant, lavender-coloured steam.
“Prince Belphegor’s private reserve,” Isolde said, her voice barely a murmur . “He crafts the drink that binds the souls who feast. A vintage of despair.”
“That’s our target, then,” Rory stated.
They began the descent, moving through a grove of trees that dripped a thick, syrupy nectar onto the path. The sound of the city grew louder, clearer. Now Rory could distinguish individual voices in the cacophony , but they spoke of nothing. They shouted toasts to forgotten kings, they laughed at jokes with no punchlines, they sang songs with no words.
They skirted the edge of one of the grand tables. The patrons were a grotesque menagerie. Bloated nobles in finery from a dozen different centuries sat beside horned demons, their mouths stained with wine the colour of midnight. They gorged themselves on roasted leviathans, mountains of impossible pastries, and fruits that wept shimmering juices. Their eyes were glazed , fixated on their plates, their hands shovelling food into their mouths with a desperate, rhythmic intensity . They were prisoners, and their prison was an endless buffet.
Rory’s stomach turned. She looked away, focusing on the distillery. It was closer now. The copper pipes glowed with an internal heat, the intricate machinery within visible through crystalline vats.
Nyx suddenly solidified, blocking her path. *Wait.*
A procession was making its way from the distillery towards the main feast. At its head was a towering, corpulent demon with skin like burnished bronze, carried on a litter by a dozen of the listless, broken souls from the vineyard. He held a golden goblet, swirling its contents. Prince Belphegor. Behind him, more souls carried a huge, sloshing cask.
Rory ducked behind a statue of a cherub carved from white chocolate, pulling Isolde with her. Nyx simply melted into its shadow. The procession drew level with their hiding place. The reek of distilled sweetness and arrogance washed over them.
Belphegor took a sip from his goblet and sighed, a sound of profound boredom. “Is the new batch ready for the tables?” His voice was rich and smooth, but coated in a layer of oily condescension.
“Yes, my Prince,” chirped a smaller, simpering creature trotting alongside the litter. “Brewed from the regrets of a failed poet. A particularly bitter, yet full-bodied vintage.”
The Prince grunted, unimpressed. He scanned the endless tables of feasting prisoners, his gaze sweeping over them with the disinterest of a farmer surveying his cattle. His eyes passed over the cherub statue, over the shadow at its base, and then they stopped.
Locked.
His gaze snapped directly to where Rory was crouched . He couldn’t possibly see her. But he was staring right at her hiding spot. A slow, cruel smile spread across his wide mouth, revealing rows of sharp, golden teeth.
The cacophony of the feast did not diminish. The music did not stop. But in that small corner of Dymas, a pocket of absolute silence fell as the Prince of Gluttony raised a single, well-manicured finger and pointed directly at them.