Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7PCC650TZX6STDQHKB4H6

Aurora's fingers tightened around the Heartstone Pendant, its deep crimson gem pulsing like a heartbeat against her palm. The silver chain bit into her skin, warm—not hot, but insistent, as if urging her forward. She stood at the edge of the rift, a tear in the Veil that shimmered like heat haze over asphalt, distorting the familiar chill of a London winter night. Richmond Park stretched behind her, fog-shrouded oaks whispering in the wind, but ahead... ahead was something else entirely. Isolde's pale lavender eyes gleamed in the dim light filtering through the ancient standing stones that ringed the clearing. The Half-Fae seer moved without a sound, her silver hair swaying like willow branches in a breeze that didn't touch the ground. No footprints marred the frost-kissed grass where she stepped. "The amber veil thins where hunger calls," she murmured, her voice a riddle wrapped in silk. "Step through the feast's open maw, and taste the glutton's thrall." Nyx hovered at Rory's shoulder, their form a humanoid silhouette of writhing shadow, faintly glowing violet eyes the only anchor to something humanoid. They had no breath to fog the air, no weight to sink the earth, but Rory felt their presence like a chill draft down her spine. "It's stable," Nyx whispered, their voice a wind through cracked stone. "The portal holds. For now." As a Shade, they could slip between realms like smoke through fingers, but even they paused, tendrils of darkness coiling uneasily. Rory glanced at the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a relic from a childhood tumble off her father's garden wall. It itched now, as if the past tugged at her too. At twenty-five, she'd fled Cardiff's stifling expectations—Pre-Law lectures, an abusive ex named Evan who left bruises deeper than skin—for London's chaotic anonymity. Delivering dim sum by day, crashing above Silas's bar by night, she'd thought her life mundane enough. Then Eva's warnings, the pendant's anonymous arrival, and now this: chasing whispers of Hel to unravel a curse she barely understood. Cool-headed, they called her. Quick-thinking. But her heart hammered like a delivery van over potholes. "Right," Rory said, forcing steadiness into her voice. Straight shoulder-length black hair whipped across her bright blue eyes as she squared her shoulders. At five-foot-six, she felt small against the rift's pull, but the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip—Isolde's gift, slender and leaf-shaped, cold as moonlight—reminded her she wasn't defenseless. Moonsilver hummed faintly against her thigh, eager. "Let's not linger. In we go." She stepped forward first, the Veil parting like cool silk against her skin. A disorienting lurch yanked at her gut, as if the world folded inward. Then, solidity returned, but nothing else did. The air hit her like a sip of mulled wine—thick, spiced, laced with the heady perfume of overripe fruit and roasting meats. No London fog here; the sky arched overhead in a warm amber glow, not the black-velvet night she knew, but a perpetual dusk lit from within, as if the heavens simmered on a low boil. Below, the ground unfurled in rolling waves of green, but not the tidy lawns of Richmond Park. Vineyards sprawled like living tapestries, grapes the size of fists dangling from trellises that twisted into impossible knots, their skins shimmering in hues of sapphire and gold. Orchards dotted the landscape, trees heavy with fruits she'd never seen: orbs like swollen hearts pulsing with inner light, clusters of berries that wept crimson nectar onto the soil. Rory's boots sank into loamy earth, soft and yielding, as if the ground itself feasted on excess. She inhaled deeply, and a wave of warmth flooded her chest, tempting her to loosen her coat, to taste the air. But unease prickled at the edges—too sweet, too inviting, like the false comfort of Evan's apologies. "God, it's... alive," she breathed, turning in a slow circle. The air hummed with distant laughter, clinking goblets, the sizzle of unseen fires. No birdsong, but a low, rhythmic thrum, like a heartbeat echoing from the earth. Nyx materialized fully beside her, their six-foot-two frame solidifying into a lean silhouette cloaked in shadow. They tilted their head, violet eyes scanning the horizon. "Dymas," they confirmed, the name slipping out like a sigh. "Gluttony's domain. I remember fragments from Aldric's time—feasts that never end, hungers that devour the soul." Their voice carried the weight of centuries trapped between realms, a sorcerer's hubris turned to eternal whisper. Isolde glided past, her ethereal form ageless and untouched by the warmth, silver hair catching glints of amber like threads of captured sunlight. She paused at a vine, plucking a golden grape that burst under her touch, releasing a scent of honeyed smoke. "The prince's table stretches long," she said, lips curving in a knowing smile. "But beware the salt that seasons the endless course. What fills the belly empties the spirit." Rory shot her a look. "Riddles later, Isolde. We need to move." The pendant throbbed hotter now, its glow visible through her clenched fist, pointing deeper into the vineyards like a compass drawn in blood. They were here for answers—why the pendant had chosen her, what rift in the Veil threatened London—but first, survival. The group pressed on, weaving through the vines. The path—if it could be called that—emerged unbidden, a winding trail of crushed petals and fallen fruits that squelched underfoot. Rory's senses sharpened with each step: the air grew denser, carrying strains of music—lutes and flutes weaving melodies that tugged at her resolve, making her mouth water despite the half-eaten sandwich in her pocket from the shift at Golden Empress. She shook it off, focusing on the details. The leaves rustled without wind, as if breathing, and shadows stretched long under the amber sky, pooling like ink in the dips between hills. Unease crept in as they crested a rise. Below, in a vast amphitheater carved from obsidian-veined marble, a feast unfolded. Tables groaned under platters of extravagance: roasted beasts with hides like jeweled mosaics, pies that steamed with visions of golden crusts revealing rivers of gravy, fruits carved into sculptures that wept ambrosia. Helbound souls—mortals contracted from Earth, their eyes hollow with eternal servitude—scurried about, clad in silks stained with sauces. Chefs bellowed orders in tongues that twisted like smoke, their knives flashing as they diced exotic roots that pulsed with faint life. One soul, a burly man with flour-dusted hands, glanced up and froze. His gaze lingered on Rory's pendant, hunger flickering—not for food, but recognition. "Travelers," he rasped, voice thick as porridge. "Come to compete? Prince Belphegor delights in new palates." Rory's hand drifted to the Fae blade, its cold bite grounding her. "We're just passing through. Seen any... unusual stones? Red ones?" The man laughed, a wet, indulgent sound, and waved a dripping ladle. "All is feast here, lass. Eat, and forget your quests." He turned back to his work, but Rory caught the tremor in his hands, the way his eyes darted to the shadows beyond the tables. Wonder bloomed despite the dread. As they skirted the amphitheater's edge, Rory reached out, brushing a low-hanging branch. The fruit yielded like velvet, warm juice trickling over her fingers. She licked it instinctively—sweetness exploded on her tongue, a cascade of flavors: sun-ripened peaches laced with cinnamon, the tang of forgotten summers. For a heartbeat, Cardiff's gray rains vanished; she was a child again, racing through her mother's garden, free. But the aftertaste lingered, cloying, pulling at her like chains disguised as silk. "Stop," Nyx hissed, their shadow-form flickering as they grabbed her wrist. Tendrils of darkness cooled the stickiness on her skin. "It's laced. The excess binds you here." Rory yanked her hand back, wiping it on her jeans, cheeks flushing. "Bloody hell. Thanks." Her pulse raced, the pendant's warmth now a warning burn. Isolde watched with those unblinking lavender eyes. "The vine gives what the heart craves, but the root drinks deep from the vein. Deeper we go, where the true banquet hides." They descended into a sunken garden, the air shifting to a humid embrace, heavy with the scent of blooming nightshade and caramelized sugar. Streams of what looked like liquid gold wound through beds of herbs that sang softly when brushed—high, ethereal notes that raised gooseflesh on Rory's arms. Flowers unfurled petals wide as dinner plates, their centers glowing with bioluminescent pollen that drifted like fireflies, alighting on her coat before dissolving into sparks of warmth. But the wonder soured as they moved deeper. The streams' glow revealed submerged shapes: half-sunken statues of revelers, mouths agape in eternal laughter, vines creeping over stone limbs as if devouring them. A low groan echoed from the earth, not wind but something alive, hungry. Rory's scar itched fiercely now, and she scratched at it, drawing a thin line of blood. The pendant throbbed in sync with the ground's pulse, guiding them toward a grand archway of woven branches, thorns like curved daggers guarding its entrance. Nyx scouted ahead, slipping incorporeal into the shadows. They returned swiftly, form coalescing with urgency. "Demons patrol beyond. Belphegor's guards—gluttons themselves, bloated on souls. But there's a hall, lit by eternal flames. Your stone... it calls to something there." Rory nodded, gripping the blade's hilt. Its moonsilver chilled her palm, a faint luminescence blooming as if sensing the demonic taint. "Then that's where we head. Stay close." Isolde's laugh tinkled like glass chimes. "Close as the shadow to the feast, the riddle to the truth. But remember, child of earth: in Dymas, every bite is a bargain sealed." They slipped under the arch, the thorns parting with a sigh, as if reluctant to let go. The hall beyond yawned vast, a cathedral of indulgence where chandeliers of crystallized honey dripped slow amber tears onto floors of polished ivory. Tables stretched into infinity, laden with dishes that shifted—roasts becoming puddings, wines bubbling into soups—attended by more helbound souls, their movements mechanical, eyes glazed with insatiable want. A hush fell as they entered, heads turning. Unease coiled in Rory's gut like overeaten curry. Whispers slithered through the air: "Fresh meat... new hungers..." One figure detached from the throng—a demon, perhaps, its form a bloated parody of humanity, skin stretched taut over rolls of flesh, eyes like bottomless pits. It lumbered toward them, jowls quivering. "Join the banquet," it boomed, voice echoing like thunder in a full stomach. "Prince Belphegor welcomes all who hunger." Rory drew the Fae blade in a fluid motion, its edge singing as it cut the air. The demon recoiled, a hiss escaping its maw—moonsilver bit true against infernal flesh, a ward against the gluttony's grasp. "We're not here to eat," she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her knees. "We're here for what's ours." Nyx flanked her, shadows elongating into claws. Isolde merely smiled, weaving a hand through the air; pollen from the gardens clung to her fingers, forming illusory vines that snared the demon's ankles, tripping it into a puddle of its own spilled sauce. Wonder and terror warred in Rory as they pushed past, deeper into the hall's heart. The pendant's glow intensified, illuminating a pedestal at the far end—a twin to her own stone, crimson and pulsing, embedded in a cradle of thorns. Answers, perhaps. Or a trap. But in Dymas, the line blurred, and every step deeper pulled her into the feast's inexorable embrace. The air thickened with moans of delight from unseen revelers, the amber sky pressing down like a lover's too-heavy arm. Rory's mouth watered again, unbidden, but she pressed on, the group's breaths—human, Shade, Fae—mingling in the alien chorus. Discovery beckoned, but so did the devouring dark beneath the splendor.