AI The transition felt less like stepping through a door and more like falling through a heavy, velvet curtain. The damp chill of the London night vanished, replaced instantly by a suffocating, perfumed heat. Aurora stumbled, her boots sinking into ground that felt too soft, too yielding, like overripe peach flesh beneath a carpet of moss.
She gasped, lungs seizing at the sudden intake of air. It didn't smell of ozone or exhaust; it smelled of roasted pheasant, caramelized honey, and the copper tang of old blood.
Nyx hissed, a sound like steam escaping a cracked pipe.
Aurora scrambled for balance, her hand flying to the small crescent scar on her wrist—a nervous tic she hadn't managed to shake since childhood. With her other hand, she gripped the hilt of the leaf-shaped dagger at her belt. The Fae metal remained icy against her hip, a stark contrast to the oppressive warmth radiating from the crimson stone around her neck. The Heartstone was pulsing, a frantic, rhythmic heat against her sternum.
Shielding her eyes, she looked up.
There was no sun. The sky was a vaulted ceiling of churning liquid amber, casting the world in a sepia tone that made depth perception a treacherous game. Light didn't strike from above; it permeated everything, a thick, golden haze that eliminated deep shadows.
Nyx recoiled, their humanoid outline fracturing at the edges. Without shadows to anchor themselves, the Shade looked fragile, like ink bleeding into wet paper. Their violet eyes burned with a frantic intensity as they tried to condense their form into something solid.
"Too bright," the Shadow rasped, the voice barely carrying over the low, thrumming hum of the landscape. "There is nowhere to hide here."
Isolde drifted past them, her silver hair floating as if suspended in water. She didn't look at the sky. Her pale lavender eyes were fixed on the tree line ahead. She took a step, then another, the hem of her dress skimming the strange, iridescent grass. Where Aurora’s boots left deep, muddy divots, the Seer passed without bending a single blade.
"The golden cage," Isolde murmured, her voice sounding like wind through dry chimes. "Where the hunger is the lock and the key."
Aurora wiped sweat from her brow, her black hair sticking to her neck. She forced herself to scan the perimeter, locking down the panic rising in her throat. She needed to think like a courier, not a victim. Assess the route. Identify the hazards.
"Where are we, exactly?" she asked, though the sinking feeling in her gut suggested she already knew.
Nyx coalesced into a sharper silhouette, favoring the left side of Aurora to use her body as a meager shield against the ambient glow. "Dymas. The Prince’s garden. Do not touch the vines."
They stood at the edge of a sprawling vineyard that defied logic. The grapevines were thick as pythons, twisting around trellis work made of polished bone. The leaves were a deep, bruised purple, pulsing with slow, rhythmic veins. Heavy clusters of fruit hung low, glistening with a sheen that looked more like oil than dew.
Aurora stepped forward, the heat of the pendant urging her onward. "We need to move. If the Veil steered us here, there’s a reason."
She led the way into the rows. The air grew heavier, cloying and sweet. It was silent, but not empty. The silence felt expectant, like a held breath before a scream.
To her left, a cluster of grapes burst spontaneously. Red juice splattered across the bone trellis. It didn't drip; it oozed, thick and dark.
"Disturbing," Aurora muttered, stepping wide to avoid a trailing vine that seemed to lean toward her body heat .
"Efficiency," Nyx whispered, floating just above the track to avoid the sticky soil. "Belphegor does not believe in waste. The soil feeds the vine, the vine feeds the soul, the soul feeds the soil. A perfect circle of digestion."
Isolde paused by a tree laden with apples the color of gold bullion. She tilted her head, listening to a sound Aurora couldn't hear. "The roots struggle. They scream for water, but they are given only wine."
Aurora stopped. A low vibration traveled through the soles of her boots. Ahead, the vineyard gave way to a clearing dominated by a structure that looked like a gazebo, but grown rather than built—woven from living wood and flowering brambles. In the center sat a table, long enough to seat twenty, groaning under the weight of a feast that looked as if it had been laid out moments ago.
Whole roasted boars, towers of shellfish, mounds of glistening pastries, and decanters of ruby wine that caught the amber light and fractured it into rainbows.
"Is that..." Aurora started, her stomach giving a traitorous growl . The sudden sharpness of her own hunger caught her off guard. She hadn't eaten since her shift at the Golden Empress six hours ago. The smell of glazed pork hit her like a physical blow, dismantling her defenses. "Is anyone else starving?"
Nyx drifted wide, their form elongating as they circled the perimeter of the clearing. "It is the air. It metabolizes your energy faster than you can replenish it. It wants you empty."
Aurora approached the table. The craftsmanship of the platters was exquisite—gold and porcelain . But there were no chairs. The table was waist-high. A standing feast.
She reached toward a silver tray of figs.
A cool hand clamped around her wrist.
Aurora jumped, her other hand instantly drawing the moonsilver blade. The metal hissed as it sliced the humid air, leaving a faint trail of pale luminescence.
Isolde stood beside her, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who looked like she might blow away in a stiff breeze. The Seer didn't look at Aurora; she looked at the fig.
"To eat the fruit of the dead land is to plant its seed in your belly," Isolde said softly . "The seed grows. It commands. You become the garden."
Aurora lowered the dagger, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked closer at the fig. The skin of the fruit was shifting minute by minute. A tiny tear in the purple flesh healed itself before her eyes.
"It’s alive," Aurora whispered, revulsion replacing the hunger .
"Regenerating," Nyx corrected, drifting back toward them. The Shade seemed to shrink away from the table, the violet light in their eyes dimming. "Infinite consumption requires infinite supply. This food... it does not die."
Aurora holstered the blade but kept her hand on it. "Okay. No snacking. We find the rift point, we seal it or whatever we need to do, and we get out."
She walked past the table, forcing herself not to look at the glazed meats. The path continued on the other side of the clearing, leading toward a distant ridge where the amber sky darkened to the color of dried blood.
As they walked, the environment became more aggressive. The flowers lining the path were massive, their petals fleshy and wet. Some of them slowly tracked their movement, swiveling on thick green stalks.
The landscape was beautiful in the way a tiger is beautiful—vibrant, mesmerizing, and evolved solely to kill.
"Wait." Aurora held up a hand.
The humming sound had changed. It was no longer a background drone. It was a melody.
Faint, discordant music drifted through the humid air. Flutes made of bone and drums that sounded like wet leather being struck .
"A procession," Nyx warned, their body dissolving into a puddle of smoke that slid along the ground, trying to find purchase in the divots of Aurora's footprints. "Guardians of the grove. Maybe chefs. In Dymas, the difference is negligible."
Aurora crouched low behind a cluster of oversized ferns. She peeked through the fronds.
Down in the valley below, a line of figures moved. They were bulbous, towering things, their skin the color of uncooked dough. They possessed too many joints in their arms and wore aprons stained with things Aurora didn't want to identify. They carried crates on their backs, and from the crates, faint, mewling sounds emerged.
"Souls," Isolde whispered, her voice devoid of fear, stating it as a simple fact. "Ingredients."
Aurora felt the blood drain from her face. "They're farming people?"
"They are farming desire ," Isolde corrected, her pale eyes wide and unblinking . "The soul is merely the husk."
One of the dough-skinned giants stopped. It rotated its head a full hundred and eighty degrees. It didn't have eyes, just three vertical slits where a face should be. It sniffed the air, its nostrils flaring.
The Heartstone pendant burned so hot Aurora had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out. It was reacting to the proximity of the hell-spawn, pulsing a frantic rhythm.
"It smells us," Aurora hissed.
"It smells the Half-Fae," Nyx whispered from the ground, reforming into a solid shape crouched beside her. "She reeks of wild magic. It does not belong here. It tastes bitter to them."
Isolde stood up.
Aurora grabbed for her, but her fingers passed through the sheer fabric of the Seer’s dress. "Isolde, get down!"
Isolde didn't crouch. She stood amidst the ferns, a beacon of silver and lavender against the rotting amber world. "To hide from the glutton is to season oneself with fear. Salt makes the meat sweeter."
The giant in the valley let out a roar that sounded like grinding rocks . It pointed a massive, multi-jointed finger toward their hiding spot. The other creatures dropped their crates, the mewling sounds intensifying, and began to lope up the hill with terrifying speed.
Aurora drew the Fae blade, the moonsilver flaring with a harsh, cold light that cut through the amber haze. "Okay," she said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her legs . "Diplomacy is out. Nyx?"
The Shade stood, expanding, drawing in the scant darkness from beneath the ferns until they towered over Aurora, a jagged rift in the world. "I am not fond of this place," Nyx said, the voice now a gale force wind. "I would like to leave."
"Then let's carve a path," Aurora said.
She stepped out from the cover, the blade leading the way. The air of Dymas thickened, sensing the foreign magic, reacting like an immune system attacking a virus. The amber sky seemed to lower, pressing down with the weight of an ocean.
The first giant crested the ridge, drool sloughing from its facial slits.
Aurora didn't wait. She lunged.