Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7Q121MJYTBKQSENRY43GT

Rory stepped through the shimmering rift, the air humming against her skin like the edge of a fever dream. The Heartstone Pendant around her neck throbbed with warmth, a steady pulse that matched her quickening heartbeat. She gripped the Fae-Forged Blade tighter in her right hand, its moonsilver surface cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the sudden heat washing over her. Behind her, Nyx's shadowy form slithered through the portal like ink spilling across paper, solidifying into a tall, humanoid silhouette with faintly glowing violet eyes. Isolde followed last, her silver hair trailing like moonlit threads, her bare feet leaving no imprint on the threshold, as if she glided on whispers. The portal snapped shut with a faint pop, sealing them in this new world. Rory blinked against the onslaught of light—not the harsh glare of London's streetlamps, but a warm amber glow that bathed everything in perpetual sunset. The sky above stretched endless, no sun or stars, just that unbroken haze, like honey poured over the heavens. She inhaled sharply, the air thick with scents: ripe fruit bursting on the vine, spices roasting over open flames, the earthy tang of fresh-turned soil mingled with something sweeter, almost decadent, like chocolate melting in the sun. "Where are we?" Rory muttered, her bright blue eyes scanning the landscape. She ran a hand through her straight black hair, pushing it back from her face, feeling the small crescent scar on her left wrist itch faintly—a nervous habit from childhood. Isolde tilted her head, her pale lavender eyes gleaming with faint amusement. "A feast for the famished, where hunger wears a crown and excess is the throne. But beware the bite that never sates." Nyx's voice came as a whisper on the wind, their form shifting slightly, tendrils of shadow curling at the edges. "Dymas. The realm of Gluttony. I have glimpsed its edges from the between-spaces, but never tread its soil. It calls to the voids within us all." Rory swallowed, her cool-headed mind racing to process it. She'd fled Cardiff's rigid expectations, dodged an abusive ex in London, scrapped by on delivery shifts at the Golden Empress—but this? This was beyond out-of-the-box; this was the box shattered and reformed into something impossible. They had come here chasing a lead on the pendant's origins, guided by Isolde's cryptic visions and Nyx's shadowy reconnaissance. The Veil had parted for them during the winter solstice's weakness, a tear in reality's fabric that Nyx had widened just enough. Ahead, the land unfurled in sprawling excess. Vineyards stretched like tangled veins across rolling hills, grapes the size of plums hanging heavy in clusters of deep purple and gold, their skins glistening as if freshly waxed. Orchards dotted the horizon, trees bent under the weight of fruits Rory couldn't name—bulbous orbs that shimmered like jewels, some pulsing with inner light, others dripping nectar that stained the ground in sticky pools. Gardens bloomed in chaotic abundance, flowers with petals like velvet unfolding to reveal cores of what looked like spun sugar or roasted nuts. The ground underfoot was soft, almost spongy, carpeted in moss that released puffs of fragrant spores with each step. They moved forward, Rory leading with cautious strides, her delivery-person instincts kicking in—map the route, avoid obstacles, deliver on time. But there was no map here, no familiar streets. A gentle breeze carried sounds: distant laughter, the clink of goblets, the sizzle of meat on spits. Her stomach growled unexpectedly, a sharp pang that made her pause. She hadn't eaten since morning, but this hunger felt... amplified, like an echo chamber in her gut. "Feel that?" Nyx murmured, their violet eyes narrowing as they coalesced more solidly beside her. "The realm's essence. It seeps in, awakens cravings you didn't know you had." Isolde nodded, her ethereal form weaving between them without disturbing a single blade of grass. "The air here whispers promises of plenty, but the plate is ever full, the belly ever empty. One sip, and the river runs dry." Rory shook her head, forcing focus. "Let's keep moving. We need to find whoever sent this pendant." She touched the crimson gemstone at her throat; it glowed faintly now, warmer than before, as if attuned to this place. Deeper in, the wonders intensified. They crested a hill, and below sprawled a grand pavilion, its silken tents billowing in colors of harvest gold and wine red. Figures moved within—souls, perhaps, or demons—clad in flowing robes, piling platters high with delicacies. One chef, his skin mottled like aged cheese, wielded a knife that carved through a massive roast beast, juices spilling like rivers. The aroma hit Rory like a wave: caramelized onions, herbs she couldn't place, a sweetness that made her mouth water uncontrollably. She stopped, swaying slightly. Unease prickled her skin, a subtle wrongness beneath the beauty. Why did everything look so inviting? Why did her thoughts keep drifting to the last meal she'd had—Yu-Fei's spicy noodles, simple and satisfying—now amplified into an insatiable longing? Nyx extended a shadowy tendril, brushing against a nearby vine. A grape detached, rolling toward them, swelling as it did until it was the size of a melon. "Curious. The land responds to desire." Their whisper held a note of wariness, the first crack in their ageless composure. Isolde reached out, her fingers hovering without touching. "Touch not the fruit unless you court the vine's embrace. It grows not for the taker, but the taken." Rory knelt, examining it. The grape's skin was translucent, revealing seeds that swirled like tiny galaxies. She felt a pull, an urge to bite in, juice bursting across her tongue. But her quick thinking kicked in—Evan's manipulations had taught her to spot traps disguised as gifts. She stood abruptly, sheathing the Fae blade. "No. We're not here to indulge." As they pressed on, skirting the pavilion, the unease deepened. Shadows lengthened unnaturally under the amber sky, though no sun cast them. Whispers—not Nyx's—drifted on the breeze, faint voices urging, "Eat... taste... more..." Rory's scar itched fiercer, a reminder of childhood recklessness, falling from a tree while reaching for forbidden apples. They entered a denser orchard, trees twisting into archways that formed a natural corridor. Fruits hung low, brushing their shoulders—pears with skins like molten gold, apples that chimed softly when touched, emitting notes like distant bells. Rory ducked under one, feeling a cool mist spray from its surface, tasting faintly of cinnamon on her lips. Wonder bloomed in her chest, pushing back the disquiet. This place was alive, responsive, a living tapestry of indulgence. She imagined the chefs below crafting symphonies from these ingredients, helbound souls contracted from Earth—perhaps even people she knew, lost to this excess. Nyx paused, their form flickering incorporeal for a moment, slipping into a tree's shadow and reemerging. "There are eyes here. Watchers in the foliage. Not hostile, but... hungry for our hungers." A sudden discovery halted them: a clearing within the orchard, centered by a massive tree unlike the others. Its trunk was gnarled bark etched with glowing runes, branches heavy with fruits that shifted colors—ruby to emerald to sapphire. At its base, a pool of liquid nectar shimmered, reflecting the amber sky in ripples that moved without wind. Isolde approached, her waist-length hair swaying. "The Heart of Dymas, where gluttony's root drinks deep. Ask, and it may answer, but the price is a taste of your own void." Rory felt the pendant pulse hotter, drawing her forward. She knelt by the pool, peering in. Her reflection stared back, but distorted—her bright blue eyes wider, hungrier, her black hair wilder. Images flickered: a crimson gemstone forged in flames, handed by shadowed hands. "It's connected," she breathed. "This is where it came from." Unease surged as the pool bubbled, tendrils of nectar reaching up like fingers. Nyx yanked her back, their shadowy grip cold and firm. "Do not linger. The realm tempts, but it consumes." A low groan echoed from the tree, branches rustling as if awakening. Fruits dropped, splitting open to release scents that clawed at Rory's resolve—fresh bread, hot coffee, the comfort foods of her Cardiff childhood, twisted into something overpowering. Her stomach knotted, wonder warring with dread. This place was magnificent, a paradise of plenty, but it gnawed at the edges of self-control, promising fulfillment while hollowing you out. Isolde's voice cut through, riddling softly: "The feast ends when the guest becomes the meal. We seek the giver, not the gift." They retreated, moving deeper still, toward what looked like a grand hall in the distance, spires rising like iced confections. As they went, Rory glanced back, the tree's runes fading, but the pull lingered—a wondrous terror that this alien realm might never let them leave unchanged. The amber sky seemed to press closer, the air thicker with unspoken invitations, and Rory wondered if the real discovery was how thin the line between wonder and ruin truly was.