AI The stench of damp earth and something vaguely metallic, like old pennies, clung to the air. Rory coughed, a dry hack that did little to clear her throat. "How much further, Nyx?" Her voice was raspy, the words scraping their way out. She gripped the Fae-Forged Blade, its moonsilver cool against her sweating palm, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the Heartstone Pendant beneath her shirt.
Nyx, a shifting silhouette of living shadow, paused at the edge of a chasm that yawned before them, a black maw swallowing the faint, otherworldly glow of this place. "The path lies ahead, though not one trod by mortal feet in seasons uncountable." Their voice, a whisper on the wind, seemed to emanate from the very air around them. Rory squinted, trying to discern Nyx’s form in the gloom , a faint violet luminescence hinting at their eyes.
Eva, her lifelong friend, scrambled to catch up, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Seasons? What does that even mean? Are we talking Earth seasons or… Fae seasons? Because I’m fairly sure I left London in autumn." She gestured vaguely, her hand disappearing into the viscous darkness for a moment before emerging.
"It means time here is not a straight line, Eva. It bends, it folds, it might even cease to exist for those who linger too long." Rory kept her voice steady, though a prickle of unease slithered down her spine . This place… it felt wrong. Too still, too silent.
They stood at what felt like a threshold, a boundary between the oppressive , oppressive darkness of the chasm and a faintly illuminated space beyond. Rory’s pendant pulsed, a frantic heartbeat against her skin, urging her forward.
"D-Dymas," Nyx breathed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. "The realm of Gluttony. Prince Belphegor’s domain."
Rory braced herself. Hel. They had stepped through a rift in the Veil, guided by Nyx, and landed squarely in one of its deepest, most decadent circles. She’d expected fire and brimstone, screams and torment. Not… this.
As they stepped past the unseen marker, the air shifted. The metallic tang receded, replaced by an intoxicating aroma, a dizzying bouquet of ripe fruit, roasting meats, and a sweetness so profound it verged on cloying. The ground beneath their feet transformed from rough earth to something like polished obsidian, reflecting the soft, amber glow that suffused the cavernous space. Gigantic, impossibly lush vines, laden with fruits that pulsed with inner light, snaked up the sheer, impossibly tall walls. Orchards of trees, their branches bowed under the weight of emerald-green and sapphire-blue pears, stretched into the hazy distance. It was a larder of staggering, overwhelming proportions.
"Bloody hell," Eva whispered, her eyes wide . "It’s… edible."
"Not just edible," Rory replied, her breath catching in her throat . The sheer abundance was terrifying. This was Gluttony, after all. And what kind of trap was laid out before them?
They moved further into the echoing expanse, their footsteps impossibly loud on the polished floor. The amber light, it turned out, emanated from colossal fungi, their caps shimmering with an internal, warm luminescence, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with Nyx’s shifting form.
"The Helbound chefs," Nyx murmured, their shadow shifting into a more curious, upright posture . "They cook for Belphegor. Always striving for new flavours, new textures. This is where they find their ingredients."
Rory noticed the details then. The fruits, while vibrant, had an unnerving stillness about them, an unnatural perfection. The leaves of the trees were too uniformly green, too flawlessly veined. It was the kind of beauty that spoke of artifice, not nature.
They drifted past a vast, bubbling vat, its contents a rich, viscous crimson. The aroma here was intensely savoury, laced with something sharp and vinegary. Rory gagged, her hand flying to her mouth. "What is that?"
"A reduction," Nyx said, their voice devoid of emotion . "Of… sentiments. And certain bodily fluids."
Eva groaned and swayed, her hand flying to her stomach . "Oh, gods. I think I’m going to be sick."
"Hold it together, Eve," Rory said, her own stomach threatening to rebel . She steered Eva gently forward, her Fae blade held at the ready. "We're looking for information. Belphegor might know something about the artifact… the key, whatever it is."
Nyx led them deeper, past more extravagant displays. Tables groaned under the weight of platters piled high with iridescent fish, their scales like captured starlight, and roasted birds with plumage of impossible colours. There were entire trees carved from crystallized honey, dripping slow, golden tears onto the obsidian floor.
Then, they heard music Ripping. A cacophony of discordant sounds—a mournful wail from something like a harp made of bone, a frenetic, jarring beat from percussion that sounded suspiciously like ribcages being struck , and a guttural chanting that vibrated in Rory’s very teeth.
"Culinary competition," Nyx explained, a hint of something that might have been amusement in their whisper . "Belphegor enjoys the spectacle. The despair."
They rounded a bend, and Rory’s breath hitched. Before them lay a vast amphitheatre, carved from the same glowing amber material as the fungi. In the centre, atop a raised dais, a single, enormous pig, its skin shimmering like mother-of-pearl, roasted slowly over a bed of what looked like smouldering souls . Beside it, chefs—gaunt, hollow-eyed figures in stained aprons—worked with frantic, desperate energy, their movements jerky and unnatural. Across from the pit, figures in rich, opulent robes sat at a long, lacquered table, their faces obscured by shadow or grotesque masks.
"The judges," Nyx said, their form seeming to coil tighter . "And the contestants. Competing for the right to serve Belphegor. Or for a brief respite from their eternal torment."
Rory’s eyes scanned the seated figures. One, in a mask of gilded porcelain that depicted a grinning gargoyle, raised a hand. A small, polished stone, the colour of spilled wine, gleamed in the amber light as it was passed from one judge to another.
The Heartstone Pendant thrummed violently against Rory’s chest. It was here. The object Nyx had spoken of—a ‘key’ to navigating the treacherous currents of Hel.
"That…" Rory pointed, her voice barely a whisper . "The red stone. Is that what we're looking for?"
Nyx’s form rippled. "It is a focus. A fragment of Dymas itself, imbued with the essence of its sin. It is said to open passages, to bend the will of Dymas. And Prince Belphegor covets it."
Eva, who had been steadily regaining her footing, now looked pale again. "So, he has a piece of what we need. And he's some kind of demon lord who loves to eat. Great."
"Not exactly *eats *," Nyx corrected, their whisper laced with an unnerving dryness. "More… consumes. His domain is indulgence. He takes pleasure in the excess of all things."
As if summoned by their words, a figure emerged from the shadows behind the judges' table. He was impossibly tall, his frame thick with soft flesh that spilled over his silken robes. His face was hidden behind a mask of polished gold, intricately carved to resemble a wolf's maw , perpetually bared in a snarl. He moved with a languid grace that belied his bulk.
"Prince Belphegor," Nyx breathed.
The masked figure’s gaze swept over the arena, lingering for a moment on the roasting pig. Then, his eyes, or what Rory assumed were his eyes behind the mask, fixed on their small group, standing awkwardly at the edge of the gathered crowd. A chill , profound and absolute, cut through the cloying sweetness of the air. The Heartstone Pendant flared, a desperate pulse against Rory's skin.
Belphegor gestured, a slow, deliberate movement of his hand. The music abruptly ceased. The chefs froze mid-chop. The entire amphitheatre fell silent, a suffocating, expectant quiet descending upon them.
"Intruders," Belphegor's voice boomed, resonating with a deep, guttural rumble that seemed to shake the very foundations of the realm . "In my hall of indulgence. How… impolite."
He took a single, gliding step towards them. The mask’s golden fangs seemed to lengthen. Rory instinctively raised the Fae-Forged Blade, its moonsilver giving off a faint, ethereal glow that seemed to mock the warm, oppressive amber of Dymas . Eva stumbled back, her hand tightening around Rory’s arm. Nyx’s shadowy form seemed to expand, a silent, watchful guardian. The game, as Rory had suspected, had officially begun.