Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT1117QZK3VQNGEYM51NQ4Q

Frost-rimed grass crunched under Aurora’s boots, the sound unnervingly rhythmic in the absolute silence of Richmond Park. A thick, pearlescent fog swallowed the familiar oak trees of London, replacing the scent of damp earth with the cloying sweetness of jasmine and overripe nectarines. Beside her, Nyx moved like an inkblot dropped into water, their boots never touching the ground, their violet eyes scanning the shifting mist. "The border is thin here," Nyx’s voice grated softly, like dry leaves skittering across stone. "The air tastes of honey and old blood. Hold the pendant." Rory reached beneath her coat, her fingers brushing the Heartstone. The crimson gem throbbed against her palm, a rhythmic heat that matched her own accelerating pulse. It didn't just glow; it pushed back against the cold, a tiny furnace of Dymasian energy. They stepped through a gap between two gnarled oaks that looked less like trees and more like frozen lightning bolts. The shift happened in a heartbeat. The gray London haze dissolved into an explosion of amber light. Rory shielded her eyes. Above, the sky stretched out in a vast, bruised gold, like a sunset that refused to die. Clouds the color of bruised plums drifted lazily over a landscape that defied every law of Cardiff geography. Sprawling vineyards climbed the sides of obsidian cliffs, their vines heavy with translucent, jewel-toned grapes. The air felt heavy, saturated with the smell of roasting meats, caramelizing sugar, and the sharp tang of fermenting fruit. "Is this... Dymas?" Rory’s voice sounded small against the backdrop of a distant, booming waterfall that poured liquid silver into a basin three miles below. "The outskirts," Nyx replied, their form sharpening in the rich light. Shadows stretched long and jagged behind them. "The realm of Belphegor. Every craving Earth ever birthed is nurtured here until it rots." They followed a path paved with crushed shells that shimmered with iridescent oils. To their left, an orchard of trees with silver bark bore fruit shaped like glass starbursts. One fell, shattering against the ground with a chime like a crystal bell, spilling a thick, golden syrup that smoked in the warm air. Rory gripped the hilt of the moonsilver dagger Isolde had gifted her. The metal felt like a sliver of ice in her hand, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth of the Dymasian air. "Don't touch the flora, Carter." "I wasn't going to," Rory snapped, though she had been staring at a flower that looked like a blooming ribcage. "It’s hard to ignore the fact that the grass is breathing." She pointed. Beneath their feet, the emerald blades of grass rippled in waves, not from wind, but in a slow, heaving motion that suggested something massive slept miles below the surface. A low hum vibrated through the soles of her shoes, a steady, subterranean drone. They crested a ridge and the true scale of the Gluttony realm revealed itself. A city carved from white marble and gold sat nestled in a valley of perpetual harvest. Towers wound like corkscrews into the amber sky, topped with banners that fluttered despite the stillness of the air. Great aqueducts carried wine instead of water, the red liquid staining the stone a deep, permanent mahogany. "Look there," Nyx pointed a shadowy finger toward a shimmering distortion in the air near the city gates. "The Veil is weeping." Rory squinted. The air buckled and folded like heat haze over asphalt, revealing brief, flickering glimpses of a rainy London street—black taxis, umbrellas, the neon sign of the Golden Empress. It was a jagged tear in reality, held open by nothing but the sheer weight of the excess on this side. A group of figures moved along the road toward the city. They walked with a slow, hypnotic gait, their clothes fine but tattered, their faces fixed in expressions of blissful vacancy. "Are those... people?" Rory whispered, hunkering down behind a bush that smelled of cinnamon and wet fur. "Souls," Nyx corrected. "Contracts signed in salt and hunger. They come to the feasts promised by the Prince. They eat until they forget their names. Then they become the ingredients for the next cycle." Rory’s stomach did a slow, nauseous somersault. The beauty of the amber sky and the silver waterfalls suddenly felt like a layer of gold leaf over a carcass. She looked at her wrist, the crescent-shaped scar white against her tan skin. She’d spent her life running from one type of trap; she wasn't about to end up as a garnish in a demon's kitchen. As they descended toward the valley floor, the sensory assault intensified. The sound of distant music—harps and drums playing a frantic, erratic beat—drifted on the wind. It wasn't joyful. It felt like a heartbeat during a panic attack. They reached a bridge made of woven vines that spanned a river of dark chocolate. The liquid moved with the consistency of lava, bubbling and popping to release clouds of bitter cocoa steam. "The Heartstone is burning," Rory said, pulling the pendant out. The crimson gem was no longer just pulsing; it was vibrating, emitting a high-pitched whine that set her teeth on edge. "We’re close to a portal. A real one, not just a rift." "Then the Wardens will be close as well," Nyx warned. "They don't take kindly to Shades, and even less to humans carrying Fae-forged steel." Rory ignored the warning, her eyes fixed on a structure ahead. It was a pavilion made of rib bones and silk, standing solitary amidst a field of giant, blue-capped mushrooms. Within the pavilion, a pedestal of black basalt held a spinning orb of liquid shadow. "That’s it," Rory breathed. "That’s how they’re leaching the energy from London." She stepped off the vine bridge, her boots sinking into the spongy, fungal soil. The mushrooms hummed as she passed, their gills glowing with a faint, bioluminescent purple. "Wait," Nyx hissed, but Rory was already moving. She felt a pull, a magnetic tug on the moonsilver blade at her waist. The dagger wanted to cut. It was a cold hunger that rivaled the gluttony of the realm around them. As she stepped into the shadow of the pavilion, the air temperature plummeted. The jasmine scent vanished, replaced by the sterile, metallic bite of moonlight. Rory reached for the orb. The Heartstone against her chest flared with blinding light, screaming a warning in a language of pure heat. "Rory, get back!" A figure stepped from behind the basalt pedestal. He was tall, dressed in robes of shimmering silk that changed color with every movement—from the deep red of a pomegranate to the pale gold of honey. His skin was the color of polished mahogany, and his eyes were two burning coals of pure, unadulterated hunger. "A guest," the man said, his voice a rich baritone that seemed to vibrate in Rory’s very marrow. "And she brings a gift of silver and stone. How wonderfully... indulgent." Rory didn’t hesitate. She drew the Fae blade, the moonsilver hilt freezing her palm. The metal caught the amber light and refracted it into a thousand shards of cold, white brilliance. "I’m not here to join the menu," Rory said, her voice steadier than she felt. The man smiled, revealing teeth that were too many and too sharp. He raised a hand, and the river of chocolate behind them roared, a massive wave of dark liquid rising up like a hooded cobra. "In Dymas, everyone is on the menu eventually, little bird. It’s just a matter of seasoning." The Heartstone turned ice-cold against Rory’s skin, a sudden, jarring shift that signaled the presence of something even older than the demon before her. The shadows around Nyx began to boil, the Shade growing in height, their violet eyes flaring until they eclipsed the amber sky. "She is under the protection of the Shadow, Belphegor," Nyx’s voice wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a landslide. The Prince of Gluttony let out a melodic laugh that ended in a snarl. He snapped his fingers, and the giant mushrooms around the pavilion began to vent a thick, yellow gas. "Then let us see if the Shadow can feast on smoke." Rory lunged, the Fae blade slicing a path through the sulfurous cloud. The air screamed where the moonsilver cut it, a sound of tearing fabric that echoed through the amber valley. She didn't look back; the only way out of this gilded larder was straight through the throat of the one who owned it.