AI Rory adjusted the straps of her delivery pack, though it carried moonsilver instead of chow mein tonight. The air in Richmond Park had curdled. It didn’t smell of damp earth or dog walkers anymore. It smelled of overripe peaches and ozone. Beside her, Nyx drifted like a smudge of charcoal against the twilight, their violet eyes pulsing with a rhythmic , feline glow.
"The border is thin here," Nyx whispered. The sound grated like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "The Veil frays like moth-eaten silk ."
They stepped between two ancient oaks. The bark didn't feel like wood; it felt like warm, petrified bone . As Rory crossed the threshold, the evening chill of London vanished, replaced by a heavy, humid heat that tasted of sugar and rot. The sky above didn’t fade into the bruised purple of a British dusk. Instead, it stretched into a vast, suffocating canopy of warm amber.
"Isolde said the Grove was a pocket," Rory muttered, her fingers tracing the crescent scar on her wrist. "This doesn't feel like a pocket. It feels like a stomach ."
The Heartstone Pendant against her chest began to thrum. A deep, rhythmic heat radiated from the crimson gem, matching the pulse of the realm they had just entered. This wasn't the Fae Grove. The shimmering distortion of the Veil had deposited them somewhere far more gluttonous.
Sprawling before them lay a valley that defied the laws of biology. Trees with leaves the color of bruised plums bent under the weight of fruits shaped like teardrops, glowing with an inner, liquid light. Vines as thick as a man's thigh coiled around marble pillars that rose haphazardly from the soil, their surfaces etched with scenes of chaotic banquets.
"Dymas," Nyx hissed, their form flickering, becoming more translucent . "The Prince’s larder. We have strayed, Little Bird."
Rory pulled the leaf-shaped Fae blade from her belt. The moonsilver felt like an icicle in her palm, a sharp contrast to the stifling air.
"We don't turn back. The rift won't hold that long."
They moved deeper into the orchard. Every step released a puff of spores from the velvet grass that smelled of cinnamon and old wine. The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional wet *thud * of overripe fruit hitting the ground.
Rory paused by a fountain. Instead of water, a viscous, golden syrup bubbled from the mouths of stone gargoyles. It pooled in a basin of polished obsidian, swirling with iridescent patterns. She reached out, drawn by the scent—blackberries and honey—before a shadow-wrapped hand caught her wrist.
"Do not taste the indulgence," Nyx warned. "In Dymas, hunger is a terminal illness. One drop and you will spend eternity trying to find a flavor that matches it, orering your soul for a second lick."
Rory pulled back, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She looked at the gargoyles. Their stone eyes seemed to track her movement, their carved grins wide and hungry.
The path narrowed, led by the ripening heat. The flora grew more aggressive. Flowers with petals like raw steak unfurled as they passed, exhaling clouds of sweet, numbing perfume. Rory breathed through her sleeve, the Fae-forged blade humming a low, silvery note in her hand. The weapon hated this place. It was a sliver of winter in a land of eternal, rotting summer.
"Look there." Rory pointed toward a rise in the landscape.
Through the haze of amber light, a crystalline structure rose like a jagged tooth. It wasn't built; it looked as if it had grown out of the earth, a cathedral of spun sugar and translucent bone. Figures moved behind the faceted walls—shimmering distortions that lacked the solid weight of mortals.
"The kitchens," Nyx whispered. "Belphegor’s architects are busy tonight. The air carries the scent of a contract."
As they climbed the slope, the ground transitioned from soil to a mosaic of crushed shells and sea-glass. A breeze finally cut through the stagnant heat, but it brought no relief. It carried the clatter of silver on porcelain and the low, guttural chanting of entities that had forgotten the need for breathe.
Rory tripped over a root that bled thick, white sap. She hissed as the sticky substance scorched her jeans.
"The environment is reacting to us," she said, watching the grass curl away from her boots as if offended by her presence.
"You carry the iron of the mortal world and the frost of the Fae," Nyx said, their violet eyes scanning the perimeter . "To a realm of pure consumption, you are a bitter pill. Look at the Heartstone."
Rory looked down. The pendant wasn't just glowing; it was vibrating , the crimson light carving lines through the amber gloom . It pointed toward the crystalline palace, frantic and demanding.
"It wants in," Rory said. "Or it wants something inside."
They reached the perimeter of the palace. The "glass" walls were actually towering panes of sugar-ice, thick enough to hold back the weight of the sky. Inside, Rory could see the flickering shadows of the Helbound—souls bound by contract, their hands moving with frantic, practiced grace as they prepared a feast that would never end.
A high-pitched chime echoed through the valley, vibrating in Rory’s teeth. The heavy scent of roasted meat and caramelized sugar intensified until it was a physical weight in her lungs.
"The first course is served," Nyx said, their shadow-form elongating, merging with the jagged shadows cast by the sugar-walls. "If we are caught here, rory, there is no barrister in Cardiff who can argue your way out of the Prince’s debt."
"Good thing I didn’t finish my degree then," Rory whispered.
She stepped toward a massive archway carved from a single, gargantuan rib bone. The entrance wasn't guarded by soldiers, but by the sheer, overwhelming sensory assault of the place. The music from within was a discordant mix of flutes and the screams of something being slowly simmered.
Rory gripped the hilt of the moonsilver dagger. The coldness of the metal was her only tether to reality. She stepped into the hall, her boots clicking on a floor made of interlocking teeth. The ceiling was lost in a cloud of golden steam, where translucent eels swam through the air, their bodies glowing with the same amber light as the sky.
"Stay close," she told the shadow at her side.
"I am the shadow you cast, Rory," Nyx replied, their voice barely a ripple in the humid air . "I cannot be anywhere else."
They moved past tables groaning under the weight of impossible delicacies. Birds made of singing flames were carved by knives that moved on their own. Platters of fruit that wept wine sat beside cakes that breathed. The Helbound chefs ignored them, their eyes vacant, their skin translucent and pale as parchment.
Rory's stomach gave a sharp, treacherous twist of hunger. The smell was a siren song, promising an end to every worry, every fear of her past, every night spent sweating in a flat above Silas’ bar. She looked at a plate of tiny, silver fish that seemed to be swimming in a pool of moonlight .
"Just a taste," a voice whispered in her ear—not Nyx’s voice, but a chorus of a thousand sighs .
The Heartstone slammed against her sternum, a jolt of pure heat that snapped her back. She gasped, the silver dagger clattering against her palm.
"Rory!" Nyx's voice was sharp.
"I'm fine," she lied, her throat dry . "I'm fine. The pendant... it stopped me."
"The stone is of Dymas," Nyx said, drifting closer. "It knows its master’s tricks. Use that clarity. We are not here to eat. We are here to find the anchor."
Rory nodded, her gaze hardening. She ignored the shimmering displays and the seductive aromas, focusing instead on the way the Heartstone pulled her toward the center of the hall. There, beneath a dome of pulsing, raw meat-colored stone, sat a pedestal.
It wasn't a plate or a chalice that sat upon it. It was a tear in the air itself—a jagged, shimmering rift that bled the cold, gray light of London into the warm amber of Hel.
"The Veil," Rory breathed. "It’s being fed."
She saw the mechanism then. Thin, golden tubes ran from the tables, siphoning the essence of the gluttony, the very energy of the indulgence, and pumping it into the rift. The realm was literally eating its way into her world, fueled by the excess of the Prince’s table.
"Can the blade cut it?" Rory asked, stepping toward the pedestal.
"The Fae blade cuts wards," Nyx said, their form agitated, flickering like a dying candle. "That is not a ward. That is a wound. You must cauterize it."
Rory reached for the Heartstone. The silver chain scorched her neck as she pulled it over her head. The crimson gem was screaming now, a silent vibration that made her vision blur.
As she neared the rift, the air began to hum. The eels in the ceiling stopped swimming. The Helbound chefs froze, their knives hovering over half-carved roasts. A heavy, rhythmic thud echoed through the floorboards—the sound of something massive waking up beneath the palace.
"The Prince notices his guests," Nyx warned.
Rory didn't wait. She thrust the Heartstone toward the shimmering gray tear. The moment the crimson gem touched the London air on the other side, the reaction was violent. A flash of white light collided with the golden steam of Dymas.
The sugar-walls groaned. The floor of teeth began to chatter. Rory felt a wave of nausea as the two realms fought for dominance over the small patch of space.
"Hold it!" Nyx cried, their shadow-form throwing itself in front of her as a shard of crystalline sugar flew from a nearby pillar.
The rift began to shrink, drawing in the golden tubes, snapping them like dry twigs. The essence of Dymas hissed as it met the cold reality of the mortal plane. Rory felt the Heartstone grow heavy, its light fading from a violent crimson to a dull, soot-covered red.
The heat in the room plummeted. The amber sky visible through the dome turned a sickly, bruised gray. The singing birds of flame flickered and died, leaving behind only the smell of burnt feathers.
The rhythmic thudding from below accelerated. The ground buckled, sending Rory sprawling across the mosaic of teeth. She reached out, her fingers brushing the cold moonsilver of her dagger.
"We have to go," she gasped, scrambling to her feet.
The rift was now no larger than a coin, spinning violently. The Heartstone fell to the floor, its energy spent. Rory grabbed it, the metal cooling instantly in her hand.
"The way is closing!" Nyx vanished into her shadow, their presence a frantic pressure at the base of her skull.
Rory lunged for the shrinking circle of gray light. Behind her, the crystalline palace began to dissolve into a slurry of syrup and rot. The grand feast collapsed into piles of moldering waste. A roar, deep and gluttonous, shook the very foundations of the realm.
She dove headlong into the gray.
The sensation was like being pulled through a straw. The heat of Dymas stripped away, replaced by the biting, wonderful chill of a London rainstorm. Rory hit the grass hard, the smell of wet earth and diesel fumes filling her lungs like the sweetest vintage.
She lay there for a moment, her face pressed into the mud of Richmond Park. The twin oaks stood silent above her, their bark just bark, their leaves just leaves.
She opened her hand. The Heartstone lay dark in her palm, and the Fae-forged blade was tucked firmly in her belt, its moonsilver surface etched with the grime of another world.
"Rory," Nyx’s voice returned to its whisper , anchored once more to her shadow. "You still have the delivery bag."
Rory looked back at her shoulder. The pack was still there, but it felt lighter. She unzipped it, expecting to see her gear. Instead, a single, glowing teardrop fruit sat nestled in the dark fabric—the only thing that had survived the transition.
It smelled of everything she had ever wanted.
She zipped the bag shut with a trembling hand.
"Let’s get out of here," she said, her voice shaking . "I think I’m done with the park for tonight."