AI The ground rushed up to meet my boots, hard and unforgiving. I tucked my shoulder, rolling through the momentum of the fall, and came up in a crouch, the Fae-forged blade already in my hand. The moonsilver metal hummed, cold against the sudden, oppressive warmth of the air.
"Clear," I snapped.
No response. Just the wet sound of something viscous dripping nearby.
I scanned the perimeter. To my left, Nyx coalesced from a smear of ink on the ground into their humanoid form, though the edges remained blurred, like heat haze over tarmac. To the right, Isolde stood perfectly still. The Half-Fae hadn't fallen; she simply appeared to have always been standing there, her silver hair motionless despite the breeze.
"We are through," Isolde said. Her voice carried the chime of a funeral bell. "The Veil has snapped shut behind us."
I touched the Heartstone pendant at my throat. The crimson gem burned against my skin, pulsing in time with a heartbeat that wasn't mine. "Welcome to Dymas, then."
The world of Gluttony didn't look like Hell. It looked like a fever dream of a Renaissance painting left out in the rain.
Above us, the sky was a bruised, suffocating amber, the colour of old honey trapped in a jar. There was no sun, yet the light was everywhere—gold, thick, and unrelenting. It didn't illuminate; it saturated. I rubbed my thumb over the crescent scar on my wrist. The air tasted of roasted sugar, heavy cream, and meat left out just an hour too long.
"Too bright," Nyx hissed. Their form flickered, shadows trying to find purchase in a world that seemed determined to drown them in golden grease . "The light... it has teeth."
"Stay close." I straightened, sheathing the dagger but keeping my hand on the hilt. "We find the rift point, we seal it, we leave. Standard delivery. In and out."
"One does not simply 'deliver' in the Prince's garden, Aurora." Isolde’s pale lavender eyes tracked a massive, bulbous insect buzzing lazily past. It was the size of a dinner plate, its carapace glistening like caramelized sugar. "Here, you remain the diner, or you become the dish."
We pushed forward through waist-high grass that felt disturbingly fleshy, the stalks snapping with a wet crunch rather than a dry crackle. The landscape rolled ahead of us—sprawling vineyards where the grapes were the size of melons, dark and swollen, threatening to burst.
I brushed a broad leaf aside. Sticky sap coated my gloves.
"Smell that?" I asked.
"Copper," Nyx whispered. The Shade drifted over the terrain, feet not quite touching the soil . "And burnt fat."
"Someone's cooking."
We crested a small rise and the breath caught in my throat. Below us lay an orchard, but the trees were twisted , their bark the texture of cured ham, peeling back to reveal red, wet wood underneath. And hanging from the boughs weren't apples.
They were hearts.
Hundreds of them. glistening , anatomical, and beating sluggishly.
"Do not touch," Isolde commanded, her voice sharp enough to cut glass .
I pulled my hand back. I hadn't even realized I’d reached out. The hunger hit me then—a sudden, violent cramp in my stomach that bent me double. It wasn't normal hunger. It was a hollowness, a void demanding to be filled. Saliva flooded my mouth.
"Christ." I gagged, forcing the bile down. "What is this?"
" The atmosphere," Isolde said. She walked past me, leaving no footprints in the soft, oily mud. " prince Belphegor’s hospitality. It bypasses the stomach and attacks the soul. You must starve your want, Aurora. Feed it, and you never leave."
Nyx materialized beside me, a hand of cold smoke gripping my shoulder. The chill grounded me, pushing back the amber heat. "Focus, little mortal. Your mind screams of starvation."
"I'm fine." I shook them off, though my hands trembled . "Just skipped lunch."
"Liar."
"Map says the rift point is near the estate proper." I pointed toward the horizon. Through the rows of bleeding trees, a structure loomed —a sprawling chateau of white bone and gold filigree, chimneys billowing thick, savoury smoke that clawed at the amber sky.
We moved deeper into the orchard. The silence here was heavy, broken only by the wet thumping of the fruit above and the squelch of our boots. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward the food, and I noticed Nyx keeping a wide berth of the tree trunks.
"The shadows here," Nyx murmured, their voice sounding like wind through dry leaves . "They are... sticky. They do not want to let go."
"Don't get stuck."
"Helpful."
A sound stopped us. A wet, tearing noise, followed by a low moan of ecstasy.
I signaled for a halt. We crouched behind a gnarled root system. Up ahead, in a clearing between the meat-trees, a table was set. It was elegant, draped in fine white linen, groaning under the weight of platters—roasted birds, mounds of glistening berries, towers of ribs dripping with sauce.
Seated at the table was a man. Or what used to be a man.
He was enormous, his skin stretched taut over layers of unnatural fat. He wore the tattered remnants of a business suit—human, modern. He was weeping as he ate, tearing into a leg of meat with desperate, mechanical motions. He shoved food into his mouth faster than he could swallow, choking, vomiting, and immediately eating again.
"A Helbound soul," Isolde observed quietly. "Contracted, I suspect. He likely wished for a life of plenty."
"He got it," I muttered. The sight was horrific, but I couldn't look away. The smell of the roast beef on the table wafted over us, and my stomach roared in protest. It smelled *perfect *. It smelled like safety. Like home.
*Just a bite *, a voice in the back of my head whispered. *Just a taste to keep your strength up.*
"Aurora." Nyx’s voice was urgent.
I blinked. I had taken two steps toward the clearing. "I— I'm good. I'm focused."
"Look closer," Nyx said. "At the food."
I squinted through the amber haze. The man ripped a chunk of meat from the bone. As he did, the roast *shuddered *. It wasn't dead. The bird on the platter twitched a wing. The berries on the side rolled over, revealing blinking eyes.
The man wasn't eating a meal. He was eating things that were eating him back. Tiny mouths on the food latched onto his lips, his tongue, chewing on him even as he consumed them. A cycle of consumption, endless and agonizing.
"Gluttony is not about the eating," Isolde said, her face impassive . "It is about the emptiness that cannot be filled."
The man at the table froze. He dropped the gnawed bone. Slowly, painfully, his massive head turned toward the texture of the trees where we hid. His eyes were gone , replaced by pools of congealed grease.
"More?" he croaked. The sound was wet, bubbling up from a ruined throat.
"Move," I hissed.
"Guests!" The man shrieked, lurching to his feet. The table overturned, sending the living food scattering across the grass. "Fresh courses! Fresh meat!"
The ground beneath us trembled . It wasn't just the man. The orchard was waking up. The roots around us shifted, uncoiling like snakes. The heartbeat of the fruit overhead quickened , thrumming like a war drum.
"Run," Nyx ordered, dissolving into smoke to scout ahead.
I didn't need telling twice. I sprinted, mud slicking under my heels, the Fae blade cutting a path through vines that lashed out like whips. The chateau in the distance didn't look like a destination anymore. It looked like a maw .
"To the right!" Isolde glided effortlessly over the terrain, pointing toward a stone archway distinct from the organic horror of the garden. "The warding is weaker there!"
I scrambled over a fallen log that bled sap onto my trousers. Behind us, the wet thudding of heavy footsteps grew louder, joined by a chorus of other wails. The dinner bell had rung, and the entire realm knew noticed we weren't on the menu.
Yet.
"Aurora!" Nyx’s voice screamed from the shadows ahead.
I skidded to a halt just as a massive iron gate slammed down in front of the archway, teeth of rusted metal biting deep into the soil. I spun around.
The fat man wasn't chasing us anymore. He was standing twenty yards back, smiling with a mouth full of holes. Beside him, rising from the mud, were figures tall and slender, dressed in chefs' whites that were spotless, pristine , and terrifyingly white against the grime of the world. They held cleavers that glowed with purple runes.
One of the chefs stepped forward, adjusting his toque. His face was a featureless mask of smooth skin.
"Reservations," he said, his voice sounding like knives sharpening on stone, "are required."
My hand tightened on the Heartstone. It was burning so hot I could smell my own skin singing.
"Nyx," I said, leveling my blade. "I don't think we're delivering anymore."
"No," the Shade whispered, reforming at my back, violet eyes glowing fiercely in the gloom . "Now we are merely ingredients."