Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0M3QH2DBFEST997XV02GB

Rory felt the Heartstone Pendant pulse against her collarbone before she saw the tear. The gem's rhythm matched no heartbeat she recognized—too slow, too ancient. She pulled the chain free. The crimson stone pointed toward the standing stones ahead, glowing with inner luminescence. Between the ancient oaks of Richmond Park, reality had worn thin. The air shimmered, not with heat, but with a visible absence, a place where the world forgot to be solid. Nyx coalesced beside her, their shadow form flickering at the edges. The Shade's violet eyes reflected the distortion. "The Veil frays here. Winter's approach weakens the Barrier." Isolde stood apart, her silver hair stirring though the air lay still. The Half-Fae left no indentation in the grass. "Doors open widest when hunger strikes. We stand at the threshold of appetite." Rory touched the Fae-Forged Blade strapped to her thigh. The moonsilver was cold, even through her jeans. Her left wrist itched—a childhood scar in the shape of a crescent moon, reminder of a window she'd broken fleeing a shouting match. She traced it when anxious. They stepped through. The shift jarred every bone. Sound died. Then returned, amplified—the whisper of wind became a roar, the scrape of her boot on stone became thunder. Rory stumbled. The ground held firm, but her inner ear insisted she fell. The sky pressed down in hues of warm amber. Not sunset. Not sunrise. Perpetual golden hour stretched in every direction, thick as syrup. Where London's grey afternoon had waited moments before, now vineyards sprawled toward horizons that curved upward, impossible and immense. "Warm." Nyx's voice carried on currents that stirred the vines heavy with fruit. The Shade solidified partially, gainings density in the alien light. "Too warm for shadows. I feel... stretched." Rory wiped sweat from her upper lip. The air tasted of honey left too long in the sun, of fermentation and saffron. Each breath coated her tongue with richness. Her stomach grumbled, then clenched. The pendant thrummed against her palm, hotter now, guiding them forward. Isolde moved ahead, her bare feet silent across marble paths that wound between the rows. No prints marked the dust. "What feasts without hunger." Her gaze fixed on distant spires. "What drinks without thirst." They walked. The vines grew thicker, twisting into trellises of obsidian and gold. Rory reached out to steady herself against a post. The material pulsed under her palm—warm, alive. She jerked her hand back. Clusters of fruit hung within arm's reach. Pomegranates the size of rugby balls split their skins to reveal seeds like rubies. Grapes wept wine that pooled in crystal basins carved from single pieces of quartz. Rory's fingers twitched. She hadn't eaten since morning. "Don't." Isolde caught Rory's shoulder, her fingers ice against overheated skin. "To eat is to owe. To owe is to remain." Rory withdrew, wiping her hand on her jacket. The air shimmered above the fruit, suggesting heat, though the temperature remained constant, cloying, intimate. Figures moved between the rows ahead—humans in chef's whites stained with sauces that glowed faintly. Their eyes were hollow, dark circles sunk into faces too thin for the profession they practiced. They harvested with jerking, precise movements, plucking fruits that opened mouths to scream, though Rory heard no sound, only felt the vibration in her molars. "They're cooking." Rory's voice sounded flat in the heavy air. Nyx drifted toward a rise, their form thinning as they moved uphill against the amber light. "Not cooking. Being prepared." From the vantage point, Dymas sprawled in impossible geometry. Castles of spun sugar and bone perched atop waterfalls of wine that flowed upward, defying gravity. Kitchens the size of stadiums belched steam that formed shapes—hands reaching, mouths opening—before dissipating into the amber sky. And everywhere, the eating. Long tables groaned with meats that still moved, with vegetables that sang harmonies, with breads that rose and fell like breathing lungs. Rory's stomach turned. The pendant pulsed faster, frantic against her chest. They descended into a valley where the vines grew meat. Rory stopped dead. Trees of marbled fat and muscle stretched upward, branching into ribs that held spheres of perfect, raw filet mignon. The bark was seared, crusted with herbs. The smell wasn't putrid—it was magnetic, making her mouth water despite the revulsion. Her hand went to her stomach. The scar on her wrist burned. "Don't breathe too deep." Nyx's form had compressed, growing denser, smaller, as if the atmosphere pressed against them. "It fills you up. Empties you out. Leaves no room for refusal." Isolde walked faster here, her ethereal form blurring at the edges. "Gluttony is not fullness. It is the endless opening. The mouth that never closes." Beyond the meat-grove, they found the river. It flowed not with water but with broth—dark, aromatic, carrying chunks of vegetation and spice. Bridges of stale bread stretched across it, sagging in the middle, being replaced by helbound workers even as they watched. On the far bank, a palace loomed, its walls built from stacked dining tables, its towers made of reaching silverware that caught the amber light and refracted it into rainbows that tasted of sugar when they touched Rory's skin. The pendant grew hot—almost painful—against her sternum. She pulled it free. The stone pointed toward the palace like a compass needle, glowing crimson against the golden sky. "There." Rory pointed with the hand holding the pendant. "Of course." Nyx's voice was wind through dry leaves. "The heart of appetite." They crossed the bread bridge. It squelched underfoot, warm and yielding, regenerating beneath them even as they crushed it. Midway across, Rory felt the structure shift, growing, healing itself. The broth river steamed below, carrying the scent of her mother's cooking, of Sunday dinners in Cardiff, of safety. She gripped the bridge rail—a baguette crust hard as iron. "Focus." Isolde stood on the other side, though Rory hadn't seen her move. "Memory is meat here. It feeds on what you miss." Rory stepped onto the far bank. Her boots sunk into soil that crunched like fried batter, releasing scents of childhood and comfort. The palace gates stood open, fashioned from the ribcages of leviathans, bleached white and bound with golden sinew. Inside, the amber sky darkened to a deeper gold, and the air hummed with the sound of chewing—thousands of jaws working in wet rhythm. They entered the courtyard. Circular tables ringed a central pit where fire burned blue and cold. At each table sat figures in various states of consumption, their bodies distended, their eyes blissful and vacant. Some had grown into their chairs, flesh merging with wood. And above them, on a balcony of porcelain plates stacked twenty high, a figure watched. Rory's hand found the Blade's hilt. The cold shocked her system, clearing the honey-thick thoughts that had begun to cloud her mind. She drew the weapon. The moonsilver caught the amber light and turned it sickly green, frost forming along the leaf-shaped edge. The figure descended the stairs—not walked, but glided, growing larger with each step, filling space like poured cream, wearing a coat of living moths that ate and regenerated their wings without pause. "Welcome." The figure's coat rustled as it gestured to the feasting tables. "You bring such curious appetites to my table." Rory stepped forward, placing herself between the figure and her companions. The pendant burned against her chest. "We're passing through." The figure smiled. Its teeth were pomegranate seeds, wet and red. "No one passes through Dymas. They only arrive. And then..." It gestured to the feasting tables with hands that had too many joints. "They stay for the feast. Forever hungry. Forever eating." Nyx solidified fully beside Rory, drawing shadows from the corners of the courtyard, forming armor of darkness that drank the amber light. "We are not guests." The figure laughed, and the sound was the clinking of crystal and the pouring of vintage wine. "Everyone is a guest at the table of Belphegor. The only question that remains—" It leaned close, and Rory smelled cinnamon and gravesoil, vanilla and rot. "—are you dining? Or are you the dish?" Rory raised the Blade. The cold radiated outward, frosting the nearest table setting, causing the feasting figures to pause, their jaws working silently. "We're leaving." Rory tightened her grip on the hilt. "Show us the thinnest part of the Veil. The way back." The figure's smile widened, generous, horrible. "The way out is through. Through the kitchens. Through the feast. Through the belly of want itself." It gestured toward archways leading deeper into the palace, where the sounds of cooking—sizzling, chopping, the weeping of ingredients—echoed with increasing fervor. "Truth serves the hungry poorly." Isolde stepped forward, her hair whipping though no wind blew. "We seek the Veil's seam. The thin place. The between." The figure's expression flickered, irritation crossing features that shifted between handsome and horrific. "Then walk deeper, little morsels. The center of Gluttony is a mouth that swallows. See if you taste enough to satisfy it." Rory looked at her companions. Nyx's violet eyes glowed brighter in the dimming light, two points of defiant color. Isolde's hair moved like water in a current. The pendant pulsed in Rory's fist, pointing toward those archways, toward the heart of the feast, demanding they advance deeper into the realm of endless appetite. She stepped forward. The Blade's cold was the only anchor keeping her from drifting into the promised satisfaction, the eternal meal, the comfort that would consume her completely.