AI The air thinned, growing heavy and sweet like overripe fruit. Aurora Carter, Rory to those who knew her well, took a tentative step forward. The scent clung to her, a cloying perfume that promised decay beneath its sugary facade . Beside her, Nyx’s shadow-form shifted, a ripple of deeper darkness against the fading light of the portal they’d just traversed. Even in their solid state, their presence was a chilling absence of warmth .
“This… place,” Rory breathed, her voice hushed . The words felt inadequate, flimsy against the overwhelming strangeness of their surroundings. Towering structures of what looked like spun sugar crystals, impossibly delicate and impossibly large, spiralled towards a sky the color of warm amber. Sunlight, or whatever passed for it here, dappled through the translucent formations, casting shifting patterns of honeyed light onto the ground. The ground itself wasn’t ground at all. It yielded under Rory’s worn boots, a springy moss the color of emeralds that released a sigh of cool, damp air with each step.
Nyx moved beside her, their violet eyes fixed on the crystalline towers. “Dymas,” they whispered, the sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. “The realm of Gluttony. Prince Belphegor’s domain.”
Rory’s hand instinctively went to the Heartstone Pendant nestled against her collarbone. It was a dull ache, a faint pulse against her skin, but it was there. A constant reminder of the infernal pathways that laced their own world. The pendant, a tiny speck of deep crimson light on its silver chain, was her only tether to something she understood.
A low hum, resonant and deep, vibrated through the very air. It wasn’t a sound so much as a feeling, a pressure against their eardrums, a tremor in their teeth. It grew, swelling and receding in a languid rhythm. From the base of one of the sugar-spun towers, a river of what appeared to be molten gold flowed, not hot and destructive, but shimmering and slow, like thick syrup. Gnarled vines, heavy with fruit that pulsed with an inner, bioluminescent light, snaked around the crystalline spires. The fruits were unlike anything Rory had ever seen – some resembled orbs of contained starlight, others were deep indigo spheres studded with what looked like tiny, winking eyes .
“It’s… beautiful,” Rory admitted, a reluctant awe seeping into her. She’d seen the grim efficiency of Hel’s outer rims, the utilitarian grimness of the wardens’ outposts, but this was something else. This was decadence made manifest.
“Beauty is a trap here,” Nyx said, their form solidifying slightly , the edges of their shadowy silhouette sharpening. “It seduces the senses, dulls the mind. This realm feeds on desire .”
Rory nodded, though her eyes were still drawn to the river of gold. She imagined dipping a finger in, feeling its impossible warmth . A pang of hunger, sudden and sharp, surprised her. It wasn't the usual grumble of an empty stomach after a long day delivering take-out. This was a deeper, more primal craving. She suppressed it, tamping down the unfamiliar urge.
They continued deeper into the alien landscape. The moss underfoot gave way to patches of what looked like polished obsidian, reflecting the amber sky above like a dark mirror. Strange flora dotted the landscape – trees with leaves of hammered copper that chimed softly in an unfelt breeze, enormous fungi that pulsed with a soft, internal light, casting eerie violet shadows. The air grew thicker, richer, the cloying sweetness intensifying. Rory could taste it, a phantom sweetness on her tongue.
“There,” Nyx pointed with a long, tapering finger. Ahead, nestled amongst a grove of trees with branches like intertwined serpents, was a structure . It wasn't crystalline like the towers, but appeared to be carved from a single, enormous block of ivory. Or perhaps bone. Its surface was inlaid with intricate patterns of what looked like solidified moonlight . A single, Arch was carved into its facade , leading into a darkness that seemed to swallow the honeyed light of Dymas .
“A feast hall,” Nyx’s voice was barely a whisper . “Or a larder. The distinction is blurred in this realm.”
As they approached the ivory structure , the hum intensified, joined by a cacophony of delightful sounds: the clinking of unseen glasses, muffled laughter, the rich strains of music that seemed to weave itself into the very air . And a new scent, overpowering the sweetness – the rich aroma of roasting meat, of exotic spices, of wines aged for centuries. Rory’s hunger flared, a wildfire consuming her. Her stomach gave a violent lurch .
“Don’t,” Nyx warned, their gaze sharp, piercing . “It will take root. It will consume.”
Rory gripped the Heartstone Pendant, the faint warmth a steadying presence. She forced herself to focus on the mundane: the worn seams of her jeans, the scuff marks on her boots, the familiar ache in her shoulders from carrying heavy boxes. The mundane.
“Who… built this?” Rory asked, her voice strained .
“Souls, bound to service,” Nyx replied. “Chefs, entertainers, servers. Their contracts are a lifetime, and then some. Prince Belphegor prides himself on the quality of his 'ingredients'.”
The words sent a chill down Rory’s spine, far colder than Nyx’s perpetual chill . She looked at the fruits on the vines, at the river of gold. What were they truly made of? She swallowed, forcing down the image of her own small scar, a crescent moon on her left wrist, a token of a childhood fall. A life that felt a galaxy away from this place of overwhelming excess.
Suddenly, a discordant note shattered the illusion of decadent harmony. A shriek, thin and reedy, tore through the air, followed by a heavy thud. The music stuttered, the laughter faltered. Then, silence . A profound , heavy silence that felt more terrifying than the previous revelry.
Nyx shifted, their form dissolving into pure shadow for a split second before reasserting itself. “The revelry always ends,” they said, their whisper carrying a hint of something other than warning. There was almost… weariness in their voice.
Rory peered into the darkness of the ivory archway. A faint light flickered within, beckoning. The air wafting from it was cool, carrying a different scent, one of damp earth and ancient stone. It was the scent of escape.
“We need to keep moving,” Rory said, her voice regaining some of its usual steadiness . She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag. This place, for all its alien wonder , felt like a trap . A gilded cage.
Nyx nodded, their violet eyes scanning the perimeter of the grove. “The Veil is thin here, at the fringes of Hel. Yet even here, shadows have eyes.”
Rory tightened her grip on the pendant. She felt its pulse, a steady, reassuring rhythm against her skin. It was a beacon , a guide. But then her fingers brushed against something else, tucked deep within her bag. The smooth, cool weight of the Fae-Forged Blade. Isolde Varga’s gift. A weapon made of moonsilver, always cold to the touch, capable of slicing through magical wards. It felt strangely reassuring, a tangible counterpoint to the suffocating allure of Dymas.
“Which way, then?” she asked, looking at Nyx, then back at the ivory archway. The allure of the unknown, of the escape, was a siren call. But so was the warning in Nyx’s ever-present shadow.
Nyx’s shadowy form seemed to stretch and contort, as if tasting the air . “There,” they finally pointed, not towards the archway, but towards a narrow gap between two of the copper-leaved trees , barely wide enough for a single person to pass. “A less… scented path. And the heart of this realm, if you truly wish to understand it, lies not in the feasting, but in the appetite itself .” They paused, their gaze fixed on Rory. "And perhaps, something that has been lost to the gorging."