Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7X3ENXNZ5N52NRG3GXRKB

Aurora's fingers tightened around the Heartstone Pendant, its deep crimson gem pulsing hot against her palm like a second heartbeat. The silver chain bit into her skin as she stepped through the shimmering rift in the Veil, the air thickening with a sweetness that cloyed her throat. Behind her, the Fae Grove's ancient oaks snapped shut like a closing jaw, their bark twisting into seamless unity. No going back now. The world beyond the portal unfolded in a rush of amber light. Rory blinked, her bright blue eyes watering against the haze. The sky arched overhead, not blue or gray but a vast, churning expanse of warm amber, veined with lazy swirls of gold—like honey stirred into molten glass. It bathed everything in a perpetual late-afternoon glow, casting long shadows that writhed unnaturally at the edges of her vision. She staggered forward a step, boots sinking into loamy soil that smelled of overripe fruit and spiced wine. Grapevines thicker than her thighs snaked across the ground, their leaves glossy and oversized, each one broad enough to shade a man. Bunches of grapes dangled like pendulums, swollen to the size of fists, skins translucent and veined with purple fire. One burst under a distant footfall, spraying juice that sizzled faintly on the earth. "By the stars," Rory whispered, her voice swallowed by the hum of the place. Her straight black hair clung to her neck in the humid air, and she brushed it back, feeling the small crescent scar on her left wrist throb faintly—a ghost of childhood pain amid this surreal excess. Nyx materialized beside her, their humanoid silhouette coalescing from wisps of shadow. At six-foot-two in solid form, they towered over Rory, faintly glowing violet eyes scanning the horizon. "Dymas," they murmured, voice like wind sighing through cracked stone. "Gluttony's belly. It hungers eternally." Isolde glided past without a sound—no footprints marred the soft earth where she tread. Her silver hair cascaded to her waist, catching the amber light in prismatic shimmers, and her pale lavender eyes gleamed with that eternal, knowing distance. "The prince's table stretches wide," she said, words curling like smoke. "But one bite may fill a belly, or empty a soul. Tread where the vines whisper sweet nothings." Rory shot her a glance, the Half-Fae's riddles already grating. "Thanks for the poetry, Isolde. Any chance of something straightforward?" She patted the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip, its moonsilver hilt cool even through her jacket. Isolde's gift, it hummed faintly now, as if eager. The seer only smiled, ethereal and ageless, lips parting to reveal teeth like polished pearls. They pressed deeper, the ground sloping gently into a vast orchard. Trees loomed, trunks gnarled and bulbous, branches sagging under fruits Rory had no names for: melons veined with liquid gold, apples the size of pumpkins blushing crimson, berries clustered like jewels that pulsed with inner light. The air thrummed with a low, rhythmic pulse—breathing, almost, as if the land itself inhaled the scents of decay and ripeness. A breeze carried laughter, distant and booming, mingled with the wet smack of chewing jaws. Rory's stomach twisted, not with hunger but a prickling unease. Her delivery job back in London had toughened her to the reek of takeout grease, but this was different—visceral, overwhelming. She licked her lips, tasting sugar unbidden. "Look there," Nyx hissed, pointing with a tendril of shadow that extended from their arm. Ahead, through a lattice of vines, sprawled a grand pavilion. Tables groaned under platters: roasted beasts the size of cattle, their flesh marbled with glowing fats; towers of pastries dripping honey that pooled and steamed; chalices overflowing with wines that bubbled like living things, fizzing up in colors from blood-red to starlit blue. Helbound souls feasted—translucent figures contracted from Earth, their faces bloated with eternal indulgence. A chef in soot-stained whites barked orders, flames leaping from his pans to sculpt flames into edible roses. One soul, a woman with cheeks puffed like a squirrel's, crammed fistfuls of glistening caviar into her mouth, eyes rolling back in ecstasy. It spilled down her chin, staining ethereal robes. Rory's breath caught. "They're... trapped here? Part of the show?" Nyx's form flickered, incorporeal edges fraying. "Contracts bind them. Belphegor's cooks, forever perfecting the feast. Eat too much, and you join the menu." Unease coiled in Rory's gut like bad takeout. She thought of her flat above Silas' bar, the simple joy of Eva's fish and chips. This place mocked it, promising infinity but delivering chains. The pendant burned hotter now, tucked against her chest, its faint glow visible through her shirt. Isolde paused at a low-hanging branch, plucking a pear-like fruit swollen to the girth of her forearm. It wept nectar as she turned it in her hands. "Skin of silk, heart of fire. One taste reveals the orchard's secret." She bit delicately, juice erupting in a spray that arced rainbow hues. Her lavender eyes sharpened. "The prince watches from the vineyard's heart. Seek the shadowed arbor, where vines weep blood-wine." Rory snatched the fruit from her, heart pounding. "No eating random demon fruit. Remember the last time someone ignored a warning?" She tossed it aside, where it split open, revealing a core that pulsed like a heart, tendrils snaking out to probe the soil. They veered left, following Isolde's lead into denser groves. The amber sky deepened, threads of gold weaving tighter, as if the heavens conspired to mimic a banquet cloth. Sounds amplified: the slurp of unseen mouths, the clink of infinite cutlery, a chorus of moans that blurred pleasure and torment. Rory's skin prickled; the air grew heavier, pressing on her lungs, urging her to indulge. A discovery jolted her—a clearing ringed by marble statues of gluttons mid-bite, mouths agape, eyes hollow. At the center, a fountain bubbled not water but a viscous chocolate, scented with vanilla and sin. Steam rose in shapes: dancing figures, writhing limbs. Nyx dipped a shadowy finger in, the substance clinging like tar. "Essence of excess. It binds the weak." Rory knelt, peering into the depths. Ripples formed visions—flashes of Earthly feasts: weddings drowned in cake, holidays bloated with turkey. Her own memories flickered: Christmas with her parents in Cardiff, her father's booming laugh over too much pudding. She jerked back, wrist scar itching fiercely. "Not yours to claim," Isolde murmured, her voice a lullaby laced with warning. "The fountain mirrors desires unquenched." Wonder crept in despite the dread. Rory rose, pushing through a curtain of vines heavy with blossoms that exhaled perfume like opium smoke. Beyond lay a culinary arena: tiered seats carved from petrified fruits, packed with shades and demons sporting curling horns and bellies like barrels. In the pit, two chefs dueled—knives flashing, ingredients conjured from thin air. One hurled a fireball of dough that exploded into buttery shards; the victor claimed a crown of woven laurels dripping sauce. The crowd roared, a wave of sound that shook leaves from the trees. Rory ducked behind a trunk, pulse racing. "This is insane. Beautiful, but... wrong." Nyx's violet eyes flared. "It seduces. My summoning in '43—shadows promised power, delivered chains. Like this." They crept onward, the path narrowing into a tunnel of arched branches. Thorns like curved fangs snagged Rory's jacket, drawing beads of blood that the vines lapped up with greedy rustles. The air cooled here, laced with fermentation—blood-wine, Isolde had said. Whispers slithered from the leaves: *Taste me. Fill the void. Forever.* Rory clamped a hand over her mouth, fighting the pull. Her out-of-the-box mind raced: the pendant's heat meant a Hel portal nearby, perhaps an exit or deeper gate. But why Dymas? The anonymous gift, Isolde's visions of "gluttony's heart hiding Hel's key"—it all pointed here, to unravel whatever bound Nyx or threatened the Veil. A break in the tunnel revealed the shadowed arbor. Vines twisted into a throne-like canopy, grapes weeping rivulets of deep burgundy that pooled in basins. At its foot, a dais held a single platter: a fruit resembling the pendant's gem, crimson and throbbing. Isolde halted, silver hair stirring without wind. "The prince's lure. Touch it, and the feast claims you. Or frees what hungers." Nyx solidified fully, shadows coiling like armor. "Belphegor tests intruders. We came for the rift-key, not his table." Rory drew the Fae blade, its leaf-shaped edge gleaming cold, luminescent even in amber gloom. It sliced a vine effortlessly, demonic sap hissing on the moonsilver. Unease peaked—footsteps thundered from the arena, feasters drawn by the disturbance. But wonder lingered in the arbor's pulse, a symphony of indulgence that sang of forbidden plenitude. She advanced, pendant scorching her skin. The fruit on the dais quivered, splitting to reveal not seeds, but a shard of obsidian veined with violet—the key to Nyx's full freedom, perhaps, or the Veil's tear. Her blue eyes narrowed, cool-headed resolve cutting through the haze. "Time to eat or be eaten," she muttered, blade raised. The arbor sighed, vines parting like welcoming arms, as the amber sky watched with golden indifference. Deeper they delved, the gluttony's heart unfurling secrets in every swallow of air, every gleam of excess. Rory's world had shrunk to this: survival amid splendor, where wonder and dread feasted side by side.