AI The air between the ancient oak standing stones shivered, distorting the vibrant wildflowers that carpeted the hidden clearing in Richmond Park. Rory stood before the shimmering ripple in space, the tip of her leaf-shaped dagger hovering just inches from the anomaly. The moonsilver metal of the Fae-forged blade leached a steady, biting cold into her grip, a stark contrast to the heavy, throbbing warmth radiating from the Heartstone pendant resting against her collarbone.
She pressed her left thumb to the small, crescent-shaped scar on her wrist—a grounding habit she had carried since childhood. Cardiff, her father’s law books, the rainy streets of London, the endless deliveries for the Golden Empress—all of that felt a million miles away.
"The Veil is thinnest here," Isolde murmured softly from behind her. The half-fae seer seemed to float above the lush grass, her waist-length silver hair catching the ambient twilight of the Grove. "Cut the thread, Aurora. The doorway waits, patient and hungry."
Rory drew a slow breath, tightened her grip on the frigid dagger, and sliced downward through empty air.
The blade caught on nothing, yet the resistance was immense, like dragging heavy iron through thick mud. The distortion tore open with a wet, tearing sound. A rush of hot, sweet wind spilled out of the rift, carrying the cloying scent of roasted sugar, overripe fruit, and heavy spices.
Nyx stepped forward to flank her. The Shade was a towering silhouette of living, shifting darkness stretching to six feet and two inches, their faintly glowing violet eyes fixed on the tear.
"The space between realms groans," Nyx said. Their voice lacked the resonance of vocal cords; instead, it washed over Rory like a hollow whisper carried on a chilled autumn wind. "Step quickly , Carter. Rifts do not bleed forever."
Rory nodded, tucking her dark, shoulder-length hair behind one ear. She tightened her jaw, stepped through the oak stones, and plunged into the breach.
The transition was violent, a momentary sensation of being stretched thin across a cosmic loom, followed by a sudden plunge into suffocating warmth . Gravity asserted itself, and Rory’s boots slammed onto soft, loamy earth.
She blinked, her bright blue eyes struggling to adjust. Forget the rainy overcast skies of Earth or the eternal silver twilight of the Fae Court. The sky above them was a sprawling, unbroken canopy of warm amber. It cast a golden, syrupy light over everything, making the landscape look as though it were dripping in honey.
They stood at the crest of a sloping hill. Endless rows of exotic vineyards curled down the sweeping valley below, the vines thicker than ancient tree trunks. Their leaves were a bruised, vibrant magenta, and clusters of fruit the size of human fists hung heavy from the branches, glistening with nectar. Further down, geometric orchards separated vast, blooming gardens.
"Where are we?" Rory asked, her voice sounding muffled in the thick air . The pendant beneath her shirt was practically burning now, pulsing in a frantic, steady rhythm.
"Dymas," Isolde said. She stepped smoothly out of the shimmering rift, her bare feet touching the rich soil without leaving a single footprint. "The amber jewel of Hel. The domain of Prince Belphegor."
Rory’s stomach gave a sharp, involuntary rumble. The air smelled magnificent. It was a chaotic, intoxicating blend of roasting meats, steeped wine, caramelized marrow, and blooming night-jasmine. As a delivery driver who spent her nights boxing up fragrant curries and crispy duck, Rory knew the power of a good aroma. But this was an assault. The scent seemed to worm its way directly into her bloodstream, bypassing logic.
Nyx slid from the rift last, the localized reality twisting to accommodate them. Here, beneath the amber sky, the Shade’s form solidified, the wisps of darkness coalescing into a sharp, humanoid shape. Nyx knelt, trailing long, shadowy fingers over the base of a nearby vine. The shadows stretching from the colossal twisted roots seemed to reach out and coil around their wrist, welcoming them.
"Gluttony," Nyx whispered to the shadows. "A realm of unending appetite. A trap woven of spun sugar and fermented dread."
"Exactly," Rory muttered, forcing herself to look away from a particularly plump cluster of deep purple grapes hanging just an arm's length away. A droplet of golden juice swelled at the base of the lowest grape, catching the amber light before falling to the soil with a heavy plop. She took a step back. "Don’t touch the food. Don’t even lick your lips. This whole place is a psychological bear trap."
Rory began walking down the grassy path between the sweeping rows of vines. She let her quick mind catalog the environment. The soil was a dark, russet brown, rich with moisture and giving slightly beneath her boots. The air temperature was perfectly , insidiously comfortable —exactly the sort of warmth that made one want to unbutton their collar, lie back in the grass, and let time slip away.
She noticed movement in the distance. At the bottom of the valley slope, colossal stone structures entirely lacking walls or doors squatted amid the orchards. Giant spires of smoke rose from bronze chimneys.
"Kitchens," Isolde observed, following Rory’s gaze. The seer’s pale lavender eyes were distant, tracking threads of fate only she could perceive. "Mortal souls, bound by contracts signed in blood, laboring over braziers of hellfire to perfect a single pastry, a singular sauce. They chop and boil for centuries, praying to conjure a dish that will earn the Prince’s mercy."
Rory paused, staring at the distant, sprawling pavilions. Even from here, she could make out the impossibly long banquet tables, piled high with towering confections, whole roasted beasts, and pyramids of shimmering alien fruit. Shadowy figures moved frantically around the blazing hearths.
"And does he?" Rory asked, her grip tightening on the hilt of the moonsilver blade at her thigh. Its biting cold was the only thing keeping her mind sharp against the drowsy, intoxicating warmth of the valley. "Grant them mercy?"
Isolde turned her head slightly , offering a serene, enigmatic smile. "A starving dog cares nothing for the leash that binds it, only for the bowl. The Prince eats, and the Prince forgets. To remember is to be satisfied, and there is no satisfaction here."
Rory filed the riddle away. She knew Isolde couldn't lie, but the seer rarely handed over a straight answer. It meant no. The contracts were a sham. Belphegor never let them go.
Something rustled heavily in the vines to their right.
Nyx shifted, their solid silhouette instantly dissolving into incorporeal smoke, sliding along the darkened soil like spilled ink to investigate. The violet eyes ignited brightly within the shade beneath the broad magenta leaves.
Rory raised her dagger. "What is it?"
"Harvesters," Nyx whispered, the sound drifting from multiple directions at once. "Scavengers of the rotting excess. They are blind, driven only by the smell of hunger."
Rory took another step back, her boot snapping a fallen twig. In the ensuing silence , the rustling stopped. Then, a low, wet chittering began, accompanied by the sound of tearing flesh and slurping juice.
She exchanged a glance with Isolde, who stood completely still, her silver hair drifting softly in a breeze Rory couldn't feel. The seer’s expression was an unreadable mask, but Rory didn’t need prophecy to know they had overstayed their welcome on this ridge. Out-of-the-box thinking had kept her alive in London when her ex Evan had tried to corner her, and it would keep her alive in Hel. They couldn't fight an unknown enemy when the very air was trying to sedate them.
"Move," Rory commanded, keeping her voice low but steady. She pointed her dagger down the winding path, away from the rustling vines and the grand kitchens below. "We stay away from the orchards, we avoid the main roads, and we keep moving. No stopping, no matter how hungry you feel."
Nyx coalesced beside her, nodding once, their solid form blocking the space between Rory and the chittering darkness. Together, the trio stepped deeper into the amber-lit heart of Gluttony, leaving the safety of the Veil behind.