AI The Heartstone pendant burned against Aurora’s chest like a fresh brand.
“We’re close,” she hissed, her hand flying to the silver chain. The deep crimson gem pulsed through her fingers, a frantic, hot rhythm that matched her own heartbeat.
“The Veil is tissue here,” Nyx whispered, their voice a rustle of dry leaves in the silent alley behind the Golden Empress. The living shadow beside her seemed to drink the weak London light, a humanoid silhouette that blurred at the edges. Their faintly glowing violet eyes fixed on a patch of brick wall that shimmered , a heat haze on a summer road. “A tear. Old, but recently used.”
Rory approached, the Fae-forged blade a comforting weight in her coat pocket, always cold against her thigh. The wall didn’t just shimmer—it breathed. A slow, rhythmic expansion and contraction she felt in her teeth. The scent of exotic spices, rich earth, and something sickly-sweet wafted through, utterly alien to the damp concrete and bin-juice smell of the backstreet.
“Isolde’s directions were correct,” Nyx observed.
“She said the path would be open for one hour. Time moves differently there.” Rory glanced at the shadow being. “You sure about this? You said yourself, Dymas isn’t a holiday destination.”
“A place of gluttony is a place of distraction. Distraction is useful for those who wish to move unseen.” Nyx extended a hand that was more suggestion than substance towards the shimmer. “But the Seer’s warning stands. Do not eat. Do not drink. The price is never worth the taste.”
Rory took a steadying breath. *Cool-headed. Quick thinking.* She repeated the mantra, then stepped into the wall.
There was no impact, only a sudden, overwhelming warmth , like plunging into a bath after a winter storm. The sounds of London vanished, replaced by a low, resonant hum and the distant, melodic clash of what might have been cutlery or wind chimes. The light shifted from grey to a warm, pervasive amber.
She stumbled forward onto soft, springy turf. Nyx flowed out of the air beside her, their form solidifying.
They stood at the edge of a vast, impossible orchard. The sky was a dome of honey-gold, no sun visible, yet everything was bathed in that gentle, eternal twilight. Trees heavy with fruits she couldn’t name arched overhead. Some globes shone with their own inner light, pulsing softly ; others were matte and dark, draped in velvet leaves. The air was thick and humid, carrying that same cloying sweetness layered over the rich smell of loam and fermentation.
“Right,” Rory muttered, forcing her feet to move. “Look for the marker. A tree with silver bark, splitting into three.”
They moved off the path—if the carpet of moss and clover could be called a path—and into the orchard proper. The grass beneath her trainers was unnaturally uniform, each blade perfect . She brushed against a low-hanging branch, and a fruit the colour of a bruise detached, hitting the ground with a sound like a sigh. It dissolved into the turf within seconds, leaving only a darker patch and a brief, intense fragrance of port and regret.
“This place consumes itself,” Nyx murmured, watching the spot.
Every sense felt overloaded. The hum resolved into layers: a deep, terrestrial drone from the earth itself, a chorus of insect-like trills from the canopy, and that ever-present melodic clinking, growing slowly louder. The light had a weight to it, pressing on her skin like a physical blanket.
They found the silver tree at the centre of a small clearing. It was exactly as Isolde had described: bark like polished mercury, splitting into three perfect trunks a few feet from the base. At its roots, half-hidden by glowing white mushrooms, sat a small, rough-hewn stone bowl.
“The offering,” Rory said. From her pocket, she pulled the item Isolde had given her: a smooth, grey river pebble from the Thames. It felt insignificant, mundane. She placed it in the bowl.
The stone flared with a cool, blue light that fought against the amber haze. For a second, the scents of Dymas were washed away by the crisp, clean smell of rain on pavement. Then it faded, and the pebble was gone . In its place lay a single, slender key made of tarnished brass.
“A means to move freely, for a time,” Nyx said, picking it up. It looked minuscule in their shadow-hand. “The hospitality of Prince Belphegor is… transactional.”
A new sound reached them then, from beyond the clearing. Not clinking, but a roar . A roar of applause, of cheering, punctuated by booming laughter that shook the leaves. The direction of the melodic noise suddenly made sense—it was the sound of a grand kitchen working at full tilt.
“The feast hall,” Rory said. “That’s where we need to go.”
They pushed through a curtain of weeping vines laden with translucent grapes, each containing a swirling, tiny galaxy, and emerged onto a scene of breathtaking, grotesque splendour.
A terraced valley sprawled before them, descending to a colossal open-air pavilion of carved, golden wood. Long tables, groaning under mountains of food, stretched into the distance. Creatures of every description—some humanoid, many not—feasted with a frantic, desperate joy. A being with skin like polished oak gulped wine from a fountain that flowed with different vintages from spigots labelled with years Rory didn’t recognise. Another, a swirling mass of colour and teeth, devoured an entire roast beast in one continuous, snapping motion.
But it was the servers who made Rory’s blood run cold. They moved with silent efficiency, their eyes hollow, their faces etched with a permanent, polite smile. Human faces. Or what had once been human. They were dressed in simple linens, refilling goblets, replacing platters, their movements a well-practised dance of endless service.
“The helbound souls,” Nyx said softly . “The contracted chefs.”
The air here was a solid wall of aroma—roasting meats, caramelising sugars, herbs so pungent they made her eyes water. Her stomach clenched, not with hunger, but with a deep, primal revulsion. The Fae blade in her pocket grew so cold it felt like it was freezing through the fabric.
“We stick to the edges,” she said, her voice tight . “Isolde said the one we’re looking for will be in the kitchens. The master saucier. He’s the one who knows about the Soul-Trade routes.”
Skirting the revelry was like walking along the rim of a volcano. The laughter was too loud, the joy too sharp, edged with hysteria. They passed a small, ornate stage where a musician played a complex instrument made of glass tubes and glowing liquid. The music was beautiful, achingly so, but the player’s fingers were bleeding , staining the tubes pink, and he never stopped smiling.
They found a service entrance—a wide arch leading into a cavernous space where the heat hit like a fist. The kitchens of Dymas were a controlled inferno. Dozens of hearths roared. Souls toiled at stoves, chopped at lightning speed on endless blocks, stirred vast cauldrons that bubbled with iridescent sauces. The melodic clinking was the sound of their knives and ladles, a relentless, driving symphony of production.
And at the centre of it all, presiding over a line of a dozen simmering pots, was a man. He was stout, red-faced from the heat, with a magnificent white handlebar moustache. He moved with an artist’s grace, dipping a long spoon into each pot, tasting, adjusting pinches of dust from bowls at his elbow. He looked… content. Proud. Unlike the hollow-eyed servers, his expression held a craftsman’s focus.
Rory’s pendant gave one last , fierce throb of heat.
“Him,” she whispered.
They were halfway across the kitchen floor, dodging a procession of soul-borne platters, when the master saucier looked up. His eyes, a watery blue, swept past the demons and helbound and landed directly on Rory. On the mortal. He didn’t look surprised. He looked… expectant.
He laid his spoon down carefully on a clean cloth and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod towards a darkened alcove stacked with barrels.
Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx, whose violet eyes narrowed . They changed course, slipping into the relative quiet of the alcove. The smell of old wine and vinegar was a relief.
Seconds later, the saucier joined them, wiping his hands on his apron. He smelled of garlic, saffron, and a deep, earthy sorrow.
“You’re earlier than I was told,” he said, his voice a rough whisper, his accent pure East London . “The delivery for table seven isn’t for another hour.”
Rory’s mind raced . *Delivery.* Isolde had set this up. “The order changed. We need the special stock. The one that comes through the… private import channel.”
The saucier’s eyes darted around, checking for observers. “Risky. That stock’s accounted for. By the Prince’s own stewards.”
“We have the key,” Nyx intoned, their whisper making the man flinch . He looked at the shadow-being properly for the first time, and fear flickered across his face, cutting through the professional facade .
“Right. Okay.” He took a shaky breath. “The last shipment came through the Avarice-Dusk gate. They’re moving them as luxury ingredients now. Seasoned souls, they call ‘em. Aged in mortal misery.” He spat the words with a venom that surprised Rory. “The manifests are in the cellars. Third corridor, behind the casks of ‘47 Amontillado. But you can’t go now. The steward does his rounds—”
A gong sounded, deep and resonant, shaking the very stones under their feet. The constant clatter of the kitchen ceased for a single, pregnant second.
The saucier’s face went pale. “That’s the summons for the main course.” His eyes locked on Rory’s, wide with panic. “He feasts *last *. And he always inspects the kitchens before he sits down.”
From the grand hall, a new wave of cheering erupted, deafening, worshipful. The rhythmic tramp of heavy, armoured feet began to echo from the main entrance, growing steadily louder, coming their way.