Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0PR3HX3JTASWBY1WN40MF

The world unravelled and stitched itself back together in a heartbeat. One moment, the damp chill of a London underpass clung to Aurora’s jacket; the next, a wave of thick, honeyed warmth washed over her. It was a suffocating blanket woven from heat and the scent of a thousand baking cakes and roasting meats. She stumbled forward, a hand flying to her chest where the Heartstone Pendant burned with a triumphant, steady heat against her skin. The silver chain was a brand. The sky was not blue, or grey, or even black. It was a deep, liquid amber, as if they stood inside a globe of ancient resin. There was no sun, no moon, only this pervasive, warm luminosity that cast everything in a golden glow and erased the concept of shadow almost entirely. Almost. Nyx flowed into existence beside her, a tear in the fabric of the golden light, a column of shifting, violet-edged darkness. The Shade’s form seemed to writhe, less stable here, as if the very air sought to fill the void they occupied. Isolde stood a pace ahead, her silver hair a stark river of moonlight against the overwhelming gold. She remained serene, her pale lavender eyes taking in the vista, a small, unreadable smile on her lips. She had not stumbled. Her feet rested lightly on grass the colour of emeralds, leaving no impression. “Gods,” Aurora breathed, the word a plume of steam in the heavy air. “The smell. It’s…” She trailed off, unable to find the word. It was everything at once. Cinnamon and seared steak, melting chocolate and something floral and intoxicatingly sweet, woodsmoke and fermenting fruit. It was the scent of every desire she had ever felt, a siren call to a feast she could not see. Her stomach clenched with a sudden, sharp hunger. *Souls, seasoned with regret,* Nyx’s voice was a rustle of dry leaves in her mind, a cool counterpoint to the oppressive warmth. *This realm feeds on more than substance.* Aurora tore her gaze from the impossible sky and looked around. They stood on a gentle slope overlooking a valley of cultivated indulgence. Before them, terraced vineyards marched down the hills, their vines thick as a man’s arm, heavy with clusters of luminous, pulsating grapes. Orchards of trees with polished silver bark bore fruit of impossible colours—pears that shimmered like oil on water, apples of spun glass, plums so dark they drank the amber light. A river, wide and sluggish, meandered through the valley floor. It was not water. It was a deep, viscous crimson, and the air around it was sharp with the tang of wine. “Where do we even start?” Aurora’s hand went to the hilt of the Fae-forged blade at her hip. The moonsilver was a shock of absolute cold, a welcome anchor in the sensory deluge. Isolde turned her head, her gaze distant. “The path that offers the sweetest fruit is often the one that leads to the deepest root.” She pointed with a slender, pale hand. A track wound its way down from their position, paved not with stone but with what looked like a mosaic of polished, iridescent beetle carapaces. It shimmered with hues of green and purple. The path led towards the crimson river and a distant, glittering structure that rose in tiered layers like a wedding cake for a giant. They began to walk. The air grew thicker with every step, the scents more distinct, more seductive. The silence of their arrival was replaced by a low, constant hum of activity. Laughter, faint and distant. The clang of metal on metal, rhythmic and purposeful. The high, clear notes of a stringed instrument. As they descended into the orchards, Aurora saw people. A man with a deeply lined face and haunted eyes knelt by a tree bearing fixtures of pure, crystallised honey. He carefully, lovingly, polished each one with a silk cloth, his movements a devotion. A woman sang to a patch of strawberries, each berry the size of Aurora’s fist, and they seemed to swell and blush a deeper red in response to her song. They were souls, she realised. Not apparitions, but solid, tangible beings, utterly consumed by their tasks. None of them looked up as the trio passed. They were lost in their work, their private corners of this gluttonous paradise. Their damnation was one of exquisite obsession. *Their contracts are with the craft,* Nyx whispered, a thread of shadow trailing from their hand to caress a leaf shaped like a perfect, five-pointed star. The leaf withered to black dust at their touch. *The product is for the Prince.* Aurora pulled her jacket tighter, a useless gesture in the heat. A strange lethargy seeped into her bones, a desire to simply sit beneath a glass-apple tree and let the world drift away. Her own hunger was a living thing inside her now, a gnawing emptiness that the scents in the air promised to fill. She found herself staring at a fruit hanging from a low branch. It was a vibrant blue, the skin covered in a fine, silver dust that glittered. Her mouth watered. Her hand twitched, an involuntary urge to reach out, to pluck it, to taste it. Isolde stopped walking. She did not look at Aurora, but at the fruit. “The first bite sates a hunger of the tongue. The second, a hunger of the soul. There is no third.” Aurora snatched her hand back as if the fruit were a hot coal. The crescent-shaped scar on her wrist seemed to tighten. She swallowed, her throat dry despite the humidity. The simple act of denial was a physical effort, a pushing back against a current that wanted to pull her under. They reached the bank of the wine river. An ornate bridge of what looked like white, carved bone arched over the slow-moving liquid. On the other side, fields of strange grains rippled, their stalks topped with kernels that glittered like tiny gems. In the distance, the tiered city pulsed with light, music now carrying clearly on the air. It was a place of celebration, a festival without end. The unease in Aurora’s core solidified into a cold knot that even the oppressive warmth could not touch. This perfection was a lie. A beautiful, intoxicating, and utterly monstrous lie. She felt a profound sense of wrongness, of being a discordant note in a symphony of indulgence. Nyx drifted to the river's edge, their form shimmering. They dipped a shadowy finger into the crimson flow. *A vintage of a thousand sorrows,* their whisper came, laced with something that might have been grim appreciation. *Each drop a memory of a life’s greatest feast, soured by eternity.* Aurora watched a single, ruby-red drop cling to Nyx's fingertip before it was absorbed back into their dark form. Her eyes were fixed on the bone bridge, on the glittering city that lay beyond. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, but the pendant on her chest was a hot, insistent weight, pulling her forward.