AI The portal didn't so much open as the world tore.
One second Rory was standing in Isolde's grove, the cool evening air smelling of damp earth and wildflowers. The next, a vertical slit of warm amber light appeared in the air before her. It widened without sound, peeling reality back like a scab. Through it, heat washed over her face, carrying the scent of roasting meats, honey, and something spiced she couldn't name.
"Is this safe?"
She hadn't meant to ask out loud. The question sounded small, ridiculous. She held the Fae-Forged Blade Isolde had given her, its hilt cold against her palm even in the heat pouring from the rip.
Nyx flowed past her, their shadowy form solidifying into a humanoid silhouette just inside the tear. "Define safe."
Their voice was a whisper , the kind you hear in the quiet after a door shuts. It held no comfort.
"We are expected, child," Isolde said from behind her . The Half-Fae seer hadn't moved from where she stood by the oak stones. Her lavender eyes watched the portal, expression unreadable . "The pendant called. Dymas answered. The invitation was never a choice."
Rory looked down at the Heartstone hanging from its silver chain. It glowed with a deep, steady crimson, pulsing in time with her own heartbeat. Warmth radiated from it through her shirt. She touched it, half expecting a burn. It was only warmth . Life.
"The Veil thins here," Nyx observed. They gestured with a shadow-arm. "The tear is stable. For now."
Stable. Rory stared into the amber-lit world beyond. "So we just... step through."
"You wanted to understand your gift," Isolde said. Her voice held the weight of years. She wasn't coming with them; this was Rory's burden. "Answers require stepping into the question."
No going back. She thought of the flat above Silas's bar, her delivery bike, Eva's worried texts unanswered. Her old life, small and painful, but hers. She tightened her grip on the moonsilver dagger and stepped forward.
The transition wasn't a step so much as a lurch . The ground shifted underfoot from soft English earth to something smoother, harder. The air changed quality—thicker, richer, like breathing in soup.
She was in Dymas.
The sky was the first shock. It wasn't sky at all, but a dome of warm, translucent amber, glowing with its own inner light. No sun, no clouds. Just that constant, honeyed glow that cast long, soft shadows. It made everything look polished, golden, like the world was dunked in aged whiskey.
The ground beneath her boots was made of interlocking stones the colour of dark honeycomb. They were warm to the touch when she crouched to run a hand over them. The heat was pleasant, not scorching, like stones left in sunlight.
"Don't linger." Nyx was already moving ahead, their form flickering at the edges. They seemed more solid here, more defined . "Portals are watched."
Rory stood up, taking it in. They stood in what looked like a vast courtyard, enclosed by walls of the same golden stone. Archways led off in multiple directions. The architecture was grand, sweeping, all curves and arches. It reminded her of illustrations from an old storybook about palaces of the East, but twisted, softened. There were no sharp corners.
And the sounds. A low hum filled the air, a busy, contented noise. Distant laughter. The clatter of pans. Snatches of music—strings and something like bells . The air itself tasted sweet, with an undercurrent of spice that caught at the back of her throat.
"This way." Nyx gestured toward an arch that seemed wider than the others . It framed a view of sloping terraces cascading downward, covered in lush, impossible greenery.
They moved into the archway, and the world opened up.
The terraces were gardens. Vineyards stretched as far as she could see, heavy with grapes the size of plums, their skins a deep, glossy purple. Fruit trees grew in orderly rows, branches laden with fruits she couldn't name—some pulsing with soft inner light, others shaped like stars or bells. Between them, enormous flowers bloomed, petals shifting colour as she watched: from cobalt blue to violent magenta to gold.
"It's... too much," she murmured. The sheer abundance was overwhelming. It felt like a painting by someone who'd never learned restraint.
"Gluttony is not about need," Nyx whispered beside her. They were looking at the nearest vine, where a grape had split open on its own, dripping thick, dark juice onto the stone path. "It is about the celebration of excess. The joy of more. Even when it spoils."
A figure moved between the rows ahead. Humanoid, but moving with an unnatural, liquid grace. Its skin was the colour of polished bronze, and it wore simple linen robes. It was harvesting grapes, placing them gently into a basket woven from what looked like silver strands . It didn't look up.
"Helbound," Nyx said, voice low . "Souls contracted from your world. Chefs, bakers, farmers. Those who lived for creation now serve in eternal creation."
The figure picked up its basket and walked away, disappearing into the foliage. Its movements were precise, practiced. There was no hurry, no frustration. Just endless, silent work.
They followed the path down, the air growing warmer, sweeter. The scent of baking bread joined the symphony of smells. They passed an open kitchen built into the side of the terrace, where a dozen helbound workers moved in perfect synchrony around massive stone ovens. Flames danced blue and orange. Loaves of bread, each bigger than her torso, were pulled out with long paddles, their crusts crackling.
No one spoke.
"Where are we going?" Rory asked.
"Toward the centre," Nyx answered. "The palace kitchens. The heart of the indulgence. If your pendant has purpose here, it will be there."
The path widened into a broad avenue paved with the same honeycomb stone. Buildings rose on either side, ornate and open-fronted. A patisserie displayed cakes that sparkled with edible gemstones. A chocolatier had fountains of molten chocolate flowing in endless loops. A butcher's window hung with cured meats glistening with herbs and spices.
Everywhere, there were people. Not helbound workers, but others . They moved with a languid, satisfied pace. Their clothes were rich fabrics, silks and velvets, all in shades of gold, amber, crimson. They laughed loudly, ate from golden plates held by silent attendants, drank from crystal goblets. Their faces were flushed with pleasure, eyes bright. But Rory noticed something hollow in that brightness. A desperate shine, like a fire fed too much fuel.
One woman, wearing a gown of crimson silk that trailed behind her, caught Rory's eye. She was feeding herself spoonfuls of a shimmering, pink dessert. Her movements were mechanical , unwavering . Eat, swallow, repeat. Her expression was one of bliss, but her eyes were fixed on nothing, glazed over.
"She has been at that gateau for three days," a voice said beside her.
Rory jumped. A man stood there, slender, dressed in immaculate white linens. His eyes were the colour of dark honey, and he wore a small, polite smile. He held a silver tray bearing a single, empty crystal glass.
"Three days?"
"Time is... flexible here," the man said. His voice was smooth, cultured. "When one finds a perfect pleasure, why move on? The chefs strive for such moments. It is the highest compliment." He inclined his head slightly . "I am Lyrion. Steward of the Amber Terrace. You are... new."
It wasn't a question. His gaze lingered on the Heartstone pendant, then flicked to the Fae blade in her hand. Neither seemed to surprise him.
"I..." Rory cleared her throat. "We're just looking."
"Of course," Lyrion said. His smile didn't change. "Many come to look . Few understand what they see. This is a place of gifts, not curses." He gestured with his tray toward the woman. "She wanted eternal satisfaction. She found it. Is that so terrible?"
"It looks like a trap," Rory said before she could stop herself.
Lyrion's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "A cage of one's own making is still a home. Come. The main feast hall is just ahead. The Prince enjoys new audiences."
Nyx shifted beside her, a ripple of darkness. "We have our own path."
"Do you?" Lyrion asked, still looking at Rory. "The Prince has asked for you specifically. It would be... impolite to decline."
The air seemed to grow heavier. The distant laughter sounded sharper. The woman with the gateau let out a low moan of pleasure that was almost a sob.
Rory's fingers closed around the cool hilt of her dagger. The pendant against her chest gave a single, hard throb of heat.
Lyrion bowed, just a fraction. "This way."