AI The mud of Richmond Park sucked at Aurora’s boots, a thick, freezing sludge that threatened to swallow her ankles with every step. She pulled her coat tighter against the biting London chill , her bright blue eyes tracking the ethereal figure gliding several paces ahead.
Isolde moved like a ghost. Her waist-length silver hair drifted behind her in a wind Rory could not feel, and despite the marshy ground, the Half-Fae seer left absolutely no footprints. Not a bent blade of grass. Not a single indentation in the mud. Rory frowned, her logical brain, the one that had rigorously parsed legal texts at Cardiff University before she abandoned the discipline entirely, itching desperately to find a mechanical explanation for the impossible sight.
We approach the boundary, a voice murmured near Rory’s ear. It sounded less like a person speaking and more like dry leaves scraping across a stone pavement, a hollow whisper carried on the breeze.
Rory glanced to her right. Nyx towered beside her, their frame shifting continuously between a solid, six-foot-two humanoid silhouette and plumes of dark, ink-like mist. Faintly glowing violet eyes studied the dense thicket of trees ahead. The Shade seemed agitated, their edges blurring and reforming in rapid succession.
I know, Rory said, keeping her voice low. She rubbed her left wrist, her thumb tracing the familiar crescent-shaped scar hidden beneath her sleeve. It was a nervous habit, one she actively tried to suppress, especially when running late-night deliveries for the Golden Empress in less-than-savory neighborhoods. But she was far off the clock now, and a long way from the familiar concrete sprawl of the city streets.
Ahead, a ring of ancient oak standing stones loomed through the gray mist. Their bark was scarred and gnarled, twisted into vague shapes that looked entirely too much like screaming faces. Isolde passed between two of the largest monoliths without breaking her stride. As she crossed the threshold, the gloomy atmosphere of the park visibly fractured around her.
Rory took a deep breath, steeling herself, and followed the seer through the stones. Nyx slipped through the gap beside her, their shadowy form sliding effortlessly over the damp earth.
The transition was violent in its suddenness. The biting winter chill vanished, replaced instantly by a heavy, humid warmth that smelled of blooming jasmine and damp, fertile earth. Rory stumbled slightly , disoriented. They stood in a hidden clearing, cloistered away from the rest of the world. Wildflowers carpeted the ground in brilliant, impossible profusion. Foxgloves, bluebells, and snowdrops grew tangled together, ignoring every law of season and climate.
The air in the grove felt thick, almost gelatinous, humming with dormant energy. Rory pushed her straight, shoulder-length black hair out of her eyes and glanced at her wristwatch. The second hand ticked forward seamlessly, then shuddered, snapped backward three spaces, and froze.
The sun chases his own tail in this garden, Isolde said, turning to face them. Her pale lavender eyes held a vast, ageless distance. A heartbeat may span a season, and a season may wither in a single breath. The mortal clock has no mastery here.
Time moves differently, Rory translated in her head, drawing on her pragmatic nature to ground the seer's riddles. She scanned the edge of the clearing. The trees here did not look out into the park; they looked out into a void of swirling, indistinct colors. I need a clear head for this. We aren't here for the flowers.
Where the fabric of the world grows tired, a mouth waits in the unseen, Isolde continued, pointing a pale finger toward a cluster of weeping willows. The truth hides behind a trembling glass.
Nyx drifted toward the willows. The air beneath the drooping branches was warping , shimmering like heat rising off hot tarmac on a summer afternoon. As the Shade drew near, the shimmering distortion reacted, rippling outward in concentric circles.
The Veil, Nyx whispered, their voice echoing from all directions at once. The boundary between realms. The winter solstice approaches. The dark of the year pulls the threads taut until they fray. A rift point lies here.
Before Rory could respond, a sharp, searing heat bloomed against her collarbone. She gasped, dropping her hand from her scarred wrist to clutch her chest. Beneath her sweater, against bare skin, the silver chain she wore felt like a hot wire . She hurriedly pulled the heavy pendant out from under her collar.
The Heartstone, roughly the size of her thumbnail, was fully awake. The deep crimson gemstone possessed a faint inner glow that now pulsed in a frantic, rhythmic beat, casting a bloody light over her fingers. It only behaved this way when it sensed a gateway.
Hel, Rory said, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. A Hell portal. Right here in Richmond.
A domain of sweet rot and bitter honey, Isolde corrected gently , her Fae compulsion preventing her from speaking an outright lie, yet compelling her to obscure the raw truth. The belly of the beast is lined with spun sugar. The path is open, yet locked to those without the teeth to sever the illusion.
Rory understood the prompt. She let the pulsing Heartstone rest against her jacket and reached into her pocket, her fingers closing around a slender hilt. She drew the Fae-Forged blade Isolde had gifted her days ago.
The dagger was immaculate, its leaf-shaped blade forged from pure moonsilver. In the strange twilight of the grove, the metal was faintly luminescent. Despite the humid warmth of the clearing, the hilt was freezing cold, leaching the warmth right out of her palm. The weapon felt eager, practically vibrating with latent magic. It was designed to cut through magical wards, to carve a path where none existed.
Rory stepped up beside Nyx. Through the shimmering distortion of the Veil, she could see absolutely nothing but a blurry haze. She raised the moonsilver blade, aimed for the center of the warping air, and slashed downward in a single, clean motion.
The blade parted the magic like sheer silk . A sound like tearing canvas shrieked through the grove, forcing Rory to wince. The edges of the distortion peeled back, curling away from the cut to reveal a vertical tear in reality itself.
Intense, warm amber light spilled out of the rift, casting long shadows across the wildflower meadow. The scent that wafted through the opening hit Rory like a physical blow. It was an overwhelming, intoxicating blend of exotic spices, caramelized sugar, roasted meats, and heavy, sweet wine. It smelled absolutely divine, which, given its origin, made it deeply terrifying.
Nyx did not hesitate. The Shade melted into their incorporeal form and flowed seamlessly through the jagged tear, vanishing into the amber light. Isolde followed, her silver hair catching the golden glow as she stepped through without a sound.
Taking a final, steadying breath, Rory braced herself and walked into the rift.
The sensation of crossing the Veil was like pushing through a wall of thick, electrified water. Her skin tingled violently, her eardrums popped, and for one terrifying second, she felt entirely weightless. Then her boots hit solid ground, crunching against loose gravel.
Rory opened her eyes and simply stared.
Whatever she had expected of Hel, it wasn't this. There was no fire. There was no brimstone, no jagged obsidian peaks, no rivers of boiling blood.
Instead, an amber sky arched endlessly overhead, radiating a gentle, perpetual golden-hour haze. There was no sun to be seen, yet the light was ubiquitous and warm. Rolling hills stretched out in every direction, blanketed entirely by sprawling, meticulously cultivated vineyards. The vines were impossibly thick, twisted like coiled serpents, bursting with heavy clusters of grapes that shimmered like polished amethyst.
Beyond the vineyards lay vast orchards. The trees drooped under the sheer weight of enormous, glowing fruits that dripped golden sap onto the rich, dark soil below. The air was thick, nearly suffocatingly sweet, carrying the distant, musical sounds of clinking glass, uproarious laughter, and the sizzle of grand feasts.
This is Dymas, Nyx whispered. The Shade had reformed into a solid silhouette beside her, their violet eyes sweeping the lush landscape with evident distrust. The domain of Prince Belphegor. The realm of Gluttony.
It looks like a paradise, Rory murmured, utterly bewildered. She took a few steps forward, the gravel crunching loudly beneath her boots. It looks beautiful.
The honey trap is always beautiful to the fly, Isolde said. She stood near the edge of the vineyard, examining a dripping cluster of fruit without touching it. To devour the world, one must first make the world look appetizing. Look beneath the rind, mortal.
Rory squinted, forcing herself to look past the overwhelming sensory assault of perfection. As her eyes adjusted to the amber light, the subtle wrongness of the place began to bleed through. The dark soil beneath the vines was littered with crushed, rotting fruit that gave off a cloying scent of decay beneath the spice. The massive vines didn't just crawl along the trellises; they strangled them, twisting in agonizing contortions that looked suspiciously like reaching, desperate hands. The distant laughter carried on the wind lacked joy. It was manic, frantic, endless, the sound of an indulgence that could never be satisfied.
Her Heartstone pendant was practically burning against her chest now, a constant, panicked rhythm. She slipped the freezing moonsilver blade back into her coat pocket, keeping her hand resting lightly on the hilt.
A place of excess, Rory said aloud, her mind working rapidly through the implications. Master chefs, exotic ingredients, endless consumption. If the entire realm is built on an insatiable appetite, we're essentially walking into a giant dining room as the main course.
The hunger here is absolute, Nyx agreed. Their shadowy form billowed out slightly , curling defensively around Rory’s flank. We must not partake. We must not drink the wine, we must not taste the sap, and we must not linger where the feasts are held . Contracted souls labor in these orchards, but the masters of the house are rarely forgiving to uninvited guests.
Rory nodded, tightening her grip on the hidden blade. Let's find what we came for and get back to the right side of the Veil. I deliver the food, I don't become it.
Keeping close together, the small group left the gravel path and stepped into the dizzying, fragrant labyrinth of the Dymasian vineyards, moving deeper into the beautiful nightmare.