Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0DDFGN1294W92GN4R1P8N

The air pressure dropped with a sudden, violent pop, like a cork firing from a champagne bottle. The damp chill of the London alleyway vanished, replaced by a wall of heat that smelled of roasted cinnamon and copper. Rory stumbled forward, boots sinking into soil that felt disturbingly soft, like rotting velvet. She gasped, hand flying to her chest where the Heartstone Pendant seared her skin, radiating a heat that had nothing to do with the sudden temperature spike. The crimson gem throbbed against her sternum, a frantic second heartbeat. "Close your mouth. You look like a stranded fish." The voice brushed against her ear, a dry rasp of wind over dead leaves. Nyx coalesced beside her, their dark form rippling in the light. The shade hunched, contracting into a tighter silhouette to escape the oppressive glow above. "It’s the sky." Rory looked up, shielding her eyes. Her breath hitched in her throat. The horizon bled in hues of violent orange and deep amber, a bruised twilight that refused to dim. There was no sun, just a suffocating, radiant ceiling of heavy light that pressed down on her shoulders, a physical weight. "Dymas. The realm of excess. I’d hoped for a shadowier hell." "We aren't in Hell. Not exactly." Rory squinted at the landscape before them. It stretched out in a riot of impossible geometry. Hills rolled in impossible spirals, orchards twisted into fractal shapes that hurt the eyes. Trees with bark like polished obsidian rose from the earth, their leaves shimmering with a metallic sheen—copper, silver, and gold. Then the smell hit her. It roared through her senses, bypassing her brain and striking directly at her gut. Roasting garlic, caramelised sugar, the rich tang of spiced meats, the scent of fresh bread so potent she could taste the yeast. Her stomach gave a treacherous, lurching growl. Her mouth watered, instantly and painfully. "Do not eat." Nyx drifted forward, their feet leaving no impression on the dark soil. "I wasn't planning to." Rory lied. She took a step, eyes locked on a bush nearby. It bore fruit that looked like pomegranates, but the skin pulsed with a slow rhythm, translucent to reveal the juice inside. It looked delicious. It looked like the only thing that mattered in the universe. "The compulsion is the first course. You eat, you stay." She ripped her gaze away, forcing herself to look at the path ahead. A road of crushed white shells wound through the orchard. "Where are we going?" "To the source. The stone is warm, is it not?" Rory clutched the silver chain, the gem burning her palm. It pulled slightly, like a magnet finding north. "It feels like it's melting my skin." "Then we are close." They moved deeper into the orchard. The air here didn't just smell of food; it tasted of it. Moist, humid, and thick. Every inhale felt like swallowing a heavy cream sauce. Sweat pricked at Rory’s hairline, plastering stray black strands to her neck. Silence hung over the grove, but not the peaceful silence of an empty library. This was a held breath. A waiting silence. Every rustle of the metallic leaves sounded like a coin dropping on pavement. A vine curled across the path, thick as a man's arm and covered in glistening thorns. As Rory stepped over it, the thorns retracted with a wet hiss. "Watch the flora. It bites." "I noticed." Ahead, the trees thinned. In the clearing, a fountain bubbled. But the liquid wasn't water. It churned with a thick, golden viscosity—honey or maybe molten butter. The scent of vanilla drifted from it, cloying and sweet. Rory stopped. She drew the Fae-Forged Blade from her belt. The moonsilver metal gleamed in the amber light, cold against her knuckles. It felt grounding. Real. "Do you see that?" She pointed to the edge of the clearing. A figure stood there, motionless. It looked human, but its skin was stretched tight over its bones, pale as parchment. It wore a tunic of fine silk, stained with wine and oil. It was pruning a tree that grew glass apples. "Helbound," Nyx whispered, the sound dispersing into the warm air. "A soul indentured to Prince Belphegor. Or perhaps just a waiter for the eternal feast." The figure turned. Its eyes were gone, sewn shut with silver thread. Yet, it tilted its head directly at them. "Greetings, travellers from the Veil. The feast is not yet served, but the appetisers are ripe for the plucking." Its voice didn't come from a mouth. It vibrated from the chest, a resonant hum that made the ground beneath Rory’s boots tremble. Rory tightened her grip on the dagger. The Heartstone flared against her chest, a sudden spike of heat. "We aren't here for the food." "All are here for the food. Eventually." The blind figure reached up, plucked a glass apple from the branch. It crunched loudly as it bit down, shattering like thin candy. "Pass. But perhaps you would care for the vintage? The blood of a thousand grapes, wept under the amber sun." Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx. The shade had flattened themselves against Rory’s shadow, barely a sliver of darkness in the overwhelming brightness. "Keep walking," the wind whispered. "Do not accept." "We're just passing through. Heading to the Spire." She gestured vaguely to the distant structure she could see jutting into the sky—a needle of black stone that pierced the amber glow. The Helbound soul laughed, a dry, rattling sound like parchment crumbling. "The Spire? The Prince's larder? You have a sweet tooth, little mortal. Or perhaps a death wish. The path is paved with sugar." It gestured with a shattered apple stem. "Go then. But beware the bees. They dislike the scent of the Fae." Rory nodded once, curt and sharp. She stepped around the fountain, giving the blind servant a wide berth. As she moved past, the scent of the honey fountain intensified, making her head spin. Her knees buckled slightly. "Steady." Nyx flowed up her leg, solidifying just enough to offer a cold, supporting pressure against her calf. "This place... it's heavy. Like walking through treacle." "It is the atmosphere of desire. It wants you to stop. To sit. To consume until you burst." She gritted her teeth, forcing her legs to move. The air grew thicker the further they went from the orchard, the vegetation changing. The metallic trees gave way to fields of grain that shimmered in colours no wheat should possess—blue, violent purple, iridescent green. In the distance, a roar went up. A cheer. Thousands of voices screaming in delight. "The competition," Nyx said. "They never stop." "Competition?" "Culinary. The prize is immortality. The price is often sanity." Rory looked down at the pendant. The glow was bright now, cutting through the amber gloom of her shirt. It pulled toward the roar, toward the Spire. She adjusted her grip on the Fae blade, the cold metal the only thing keeping her grounded against the hunger gnawing at her insides. "Let's move. Before I start eyeing up that purple wheat." She strode forward, boots crunching on the strange, spongy earth. The amber light bathed them in a sweaty, claustrophobic glow, casting long, distorted shadows that writhed on the ground like dying snakes. Nyx floated beside her, a shadow in a world of too much light. "Just don't chew the scenery, Rory. It bites back."