AI The stone archway swallowed them whole. One moment Rory stood in the cool, damp air of the Fae grove, her lungs filled with the scent of petrichor and blooming nightshade. The next, the world shifted, dissolved, and reformed around them in a wash of warm, honeyed light. She stumbled forward and found solid ground that was too springy, like walking on dense moss.
The air hit her first. Thick and humid, it carried a heavy perfume of ripening fruit, baking bread, and something spicy-sweet she couldn’t name. It tasted rich on her tongue, almost cloying.
“By the shifting shadows,” Nyx whispered beside her, their voice a soft rustle at her ear. Their shadow-form seemed thinner here, more diffuse against the brilliant backdrop . “This is Dymas.”
Isolde stepped through last, her silver hair cascading like a waterfall of mercury as she moved. Her lavender eyes took in the vista with a knowing, saddened look. “The realm of unsated appetites,” she murmured. “Tread lightly . Even the air here hungers.”
Rory looked. They stood on a gentle rise overlooking a valley of impossible bounty. The sky was a perpetual, warm amber, lit by no sun she could see. It cast soft, golden light over rolling hills carpeted in dense, verdant grass. But it was wrong. The grass was too emerald-green, too uniform, like a painting. Vineyards sprawled in geometric perfection, heavy with clusters of grapes that glinted like polished amethysts and rubies. Orchards of trees bore fruits of shapes and colors that defied earthly logic: spiral-twisted peaches the size of her head, apples with swirling, candied skins, pears that seemed to drip with liquid gold .
A gentle, constant breeze carried the mingled scents, and with it, distant sounds. The clink of glass. Laughter. The low murmur of a crowd. Music, strange and lilting, woven from pipes and strings she couldn’t identify. It was a festival sound, but it felt layered, repetitive. An echo of a celebration that never ended.
“This way,” Isolde said, her voice cutting through the sensory overload . She pointed a slender finger down a cobbled path that wound between two rows of those impossible fruit trees. The cobbles were polished, warm underfoot. They felt smooth, worn down by countless feet.
As they descended, the details became sharper, more unsettling. The butterflies flitting between the oversized blossoms had four wings and iridescent patterns that changed as they moved. A small stream bubbled alongside the path, its water clear and sparkling, but when Rory peered closer, she saw it wasn’t water at all. It flowed with a pale, silky liquid that smelled of cream and honey.
“Don’t touch it,” Isolde warned, her gaze fixed ahead.
“What is it?” Rory asked, her own voice sounding small in the vast, humming quiet .
“The essence of indulgence. To drink is to forget why you came. To bathe is to sleep for a century, dreaming of feasts.”
Rory pulled her hand back, her heart thumping a quick rhythm against her ribs. The pendant at her neck gave a soft, answering pulse of warmth . A reminder of why they were here.
They rounded a bend, and the valley opened up. Below, nestled beside a wide, placid lake of that same creamy liquid, sprawled a city. It was built from what looked like caramel-colored stone and polished wood, its architecture all curves and arches, domes and spires. Pennants of silk fluttered from every rooftop. Canopies of embroidered fabric shaded bustling market squares they could see even from this distance.
“A city of feasts,” Nyx observed, their form coalescing into a more solid silhouette as they stopped beside Rory. “Look at the people.”
Rory squinted. The streets teemed with figures. Some looked human, or close to it, dressed in lavish robes and gowns of vibrant colors. Others were… not. She saw a being with skin the texture of bark, carrying a tray of steaming, fragrant rolls. A woman with hair of cascading vines offered goblets from a floating tray. Many of the denizens moved with a languid, contented slowness, their faces flushed and smiling. But here and there, Rory caught glimpses of others with hollow eyes, moving with frantic purpose, their hands stained and their fine clothes smudged. Servants. The helbound.
A massive structure dominated the city’s center: a palace of gleaming white stone, its many towers shaped like inverted wine glasses and overflowing cornucopias.
“Prince Belphegor’s demesne,” Isolde said, her voice flat . “The Heartstone will guide you from here. My presence within those walls would be… unwise. The Fae and the Princes of Hel have an understanding. I dare not break it.”
Rory glanced at her. “You’re leaving us?”
“I will wait at the gate. The path back is the same as the path forward. But you must go on alone. You and your shadow.”
Nyx shifted, a ripple of darkness. “We’ve come this far.”
Rory nodded, feeling the weight of the Fae-forged blade at her hip, a comforting , alien cold against her thigh. She touched the Heartstone pendant. Its crimson gem glowed with a steady, slow pulse , like a sleeping heartbeat. It pulled her gaze toward the leftmost edge of the city, toward a district of smaller, tightly packed buildings near the lakefront.
“That way,” she said, more to convince herself.
They left Isolde standing like a silver sentinel on the path and descended into the outskirts of the city. The air grew thicker, sweeter. The sounds resolved into individual conversations, the sizzle of food on grills, the clatter of pottery.
The streets were paved with intricate mosaics depicting fruits, wines, and fantastical banquets. Every doorway led to a tavern, a bakery, a confectionery, or a restaurant. Steam billowed from vents, carrying mouthwatering aromas that made Rory’s stomach growl despite her apprehension . A baker with flour-dusted arms and a permanent smile offered them a warm, flaky pastry dusted with jewel-colored sugar.
“First taste is free, travelers!” he chimed, his eyes too bright.
Nyx flowed between Rory and the offering, a wall of cool darkness. “We decline.”
The baker’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes dimmed slightly . “As you wish. The feast is always open.”
They moved on, Rory hyper-aware of the stares. The denizens of Dymas watched them with a mixture of curiosity and a deep, unsettling hunger. It wasn’t a predatory hunger. It was the look of someone who wanted to share their obsession, to pull them into the endless celebration.
The pendant’s pulse grew stronger, warmer, leading them down a narrower alley. The grandeur faded here. The buildings were plain, made of the same warm stone but worn smooth. The scents changed, too—less of sugar and spice, more of yeast, fermentation, and the earthy smell of grain. And beneath it, a faint, sour tang Rory recognized from the industrial part of London: the smell of a brewery.
At the alley’s end stood a low, wide building with a sloping roof. Smoke, real and grey, chugged from a stone chimney. The sign above the heavy wooden door was simple, carved with a single image: a stylized, foaming tankard.
The Heartstone burned against her skin, a sudden, sharp heat.
“Here,” Rory breathed.
The door was unguarded. She pushed it open, the heavy oak swinging inward silently.
Inside, the air was cooler, dryer, thick with the smell of hops and malt and the deep, resonant hum of machinery. Vast copper vats towered toward a high ceiling crisscrossed with wooden beams and iron pipes. A catwalk ran along the upper perimeter. The floor was spotless stone, worn slick in paths between the brewing tanks.
It was a temple of production, of endless making. And at the far end, her back to them, stood a figure stirring a steaming cauldron with a long wooden paddle.
The woman was humanoid, but her arms were corded with muscle, her simple tunic stained with various liquids. Her hair was the color of wheat, tied back in a messy braid. She moved with a weary, practiced rhythm.
Rory took a step, her boot scuffing the stone.
The woman stopped stirring. She didn’t turn around. “You’re not from the kitchens,” she said, her voice rough, tired . “No one comes here but the carters for the barrels.”
“We’re looking for someone,” Rory said, her voice echoing in the vast, humming space .
The woman sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion. She set the paddle down on the cauldron’s rim and finally turned.
Her face was handsome, lined with strain. Her eyes, a faded blue, held none of the glazed delight of the citizens outside. They were clear, and sharp, and utterly , humanly sad.
“No one here is worth finding,” she said, her gaze drifting past Rory to Nyx’s shadowy form . A flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—passed through her eyes, but it was gone quickly , buried under the weariness. “This is a place for the lost. For those bound to feed the hunger that can never be filled.”
Rory’s hand closed around the warm pendant. “What’s your name?”
The woman gave a hollow, mirthless laugh. It echoed off the copper vats. “Names are for the free. Here, I am the Brewer. That’s all.” She looked at Rory, really looked at her, for the first time. Her eyes narrowed , tracing the line of her jaw, the shape of her eyes. A tremor went through her sturdy frame. “But you… you look like him. You have his eyes.”
Rory’s breath caught. “Who?”
Before the woman could answer, a door slammed open further down the brewery hall. Booted footsteps rang on the stone. A man’s voice, nasally and officious, called out, “Brewer! The prince’s evening batch is behind schedule! Explain this!”
The Brewer—the woman—flashed Rory a look of pure, desperate warning. “Go,” she hissed. “Now. Before they see you.” She turned back to her cauldron, her shoulders slumping into the familiar posture of servitude. “Coming, Master Cellarer!”
Rory hesitated, her mind racing . The pendant was a coal against her chest. Nyx’s hand, a whisper of cool darkness, closed around her upper arm.
“We must retreat,” they breathed into her ear. “This is not the place for answers.”
She let Nyx pull her back toward the alley door, her eyes locked on the weary, powerful back of the woman who might have known her father. The humid, perfumed air of Dymas hit her like a wall as they slipped back outside, the door to the brewery swinging shut behind them, cutting off the sight of the vats and the woman and the looming , unanswered question hanging thick in the hoppy air.