Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY86C4B8X83KC4H1J5SRMT9

Aurora's fingers tightened around the Heartstone Pendant as the faint shimmer of the Veil tore open before them, a rip in the fabric of reality that hummed like a distant swarm of bees. The air in the Fae Grove had already felt charged, thicker than London's fog, laced with the perpetual bloom of wildflowers that defied the autumn chill outside. But this—this was different. Isolde had led them here, her silver hair catching the Grove's eternal twilight as she murmured a riddle about "hunger's door behind the seer's gaze." Nyx, ever the shadow at her side, had simply nodded, their form flickering between solidity and wisps of darkness, violet eyes glowing faintly in anticipation. Rory stepped forward first, her boots crunching on the mossy ground marked by those ancient oak standing stones. The pendant throbbed against her chest, warm as a heartbeat, pulling her toward the rift. "This better not be another one of your cryptic detours," she muttered to Isolde, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach. At twenty-five, she'd fled worse than riddles—abusive exes, dead-end jobs slinging dim sum for Yu-Fei—but realms beyond the Veil? That was Eva's world of whispers and shadows, not hers. Isolde's pale lavender eyes met hers, unblinking, ethereal face ageless and serene. "The path to gluttony's feast opens only to those who starve for truth," she said, her words weaving like smoke. She couldn't lie, that much Rory knew from their brief alliance, but misleading? That was Fae blood for you. The Half-Fae seer glided forward without a sound, her long silver hair trailing like a comet's tail, leaving no imprint on the dew-kissed grass. Nyx slipped beside Rory, their shadowy form brushing her arm—a cool, insubstantial touch that sent a shiver racing down her spine. "The spaces between call to me here," they whispered, voice like wind through cracked stone. "But this... this pulls from deeper." Ageless, trapped since 1643 in that sorcerer's folly, Nyx had become her reluctant guide in this madness. Rory nodded, drawing a breath, and plunged through the Veil. The transition hit like diving into warm honey. Rory stumbled, her straight black hair whipping across her face as the world inverted. Cool Grove air gave way to a humid embrace, thick with scents of overripe fruit and spiced meats charring on unseen fires. She blinked, steadying herself on a vine-choked archway that hadn't been there moments ago. The sky above stretched in a vast dome of warm amber, not the crisp blue of Earth or the Grove's perpetual dusk, but a glowing haze like eternal sunset, casting everything in hues of gold and crimson. "What in the hells—" Rory bit off the curse, her bright blue eyes widening. Hel, she realized with a jolt. This was Hel. The pendant's pulse steadied now, a rhythmic thrum against her skin, confirming it. Around her, the group emerged one by one. Isolde stepped through gracefully, her Fae-forged blade— that slender, leaf-shaped dagger of moonsilver—glinting coldly at her belt, a gift she'd pressed into Rory's hand earlier but now reclaimed for the crossing. Nyx coalesced fully, their 6'2" silhouette solidifying into a humanoid shape cloaked in living shadow, faintly glowing violet eyes scanning the horizon. The land unfolded before them like a fever dream of indulgence. Sprawling vineyards rolled out in endless waves, grapes swollen to the size of fists, hanging heavy from trellises that twisted like living serpents. Orchards dotted the landscape, trees laden with fruits Rory couldn't name—pear-shaped orbs pulsing with inner light, berries that wept crimson juice at the slightest breeze. The air hummed with life, but not the comforting kind; it buzzed with excess, a cloying sweetness that coated her tongue unbidden. Distant laughter echoed, mingled with the clatter of platters and the sizzle of fats on hot stones. Feasts, endless and grand, she thought, her stomach twisting despite the allure. "Stay close," Nyx murmured, their whisper cutting through the din like a blade. They moved ahead, incorporeal tendrils scouting the path, slipping into shadows cast by the amber light. Rory followed, her 5'6" frame tensing as she gripped the hilt of the Fae blade at her waist—Isolde's gift, always cold to the touch, its faint luminescence stirring now in this alien realm. The ground beneath her boots was soft, almost spongy, like walking on decayed velvet, and each step released puffs of aromatic steam from hidden vents. As they ventured deeper, the unease crept in like fog. The vineyards gave way to manicured gardens where exotic herbs writhed in planters of polished bone—wait, bone? Rory knelt, brushing her fingers over a raised bed. The material gleamed white, etched with faint carvings of screaming faces. She yanked her hand back, the small crescent scar on her left wrist itching as if remembering its own origin. "This isn't right," she said, voice low. "It's... too much. Like the world's been force-fed." Isolde tilted her head, silver hair cascading like a waterfall over her shoulder. "Excess blooms where want takes root, yet roots may strangle the bloom," she replied, her tone lilting, misleading as always. But her lavender eyes darted to the horizon, where grand pavilions rose like mirages—tents of silken gauze billowing in a breeze that carried moans of pleasure and pain intertwined. Wonder sparked then, unbidden. A cluster of trees ahead bore fruits that sang—soft, melodic chimes emanating from their skins as wind rustled the leaves. Rory approached cautiously, reaching out. The nearest orb, a swollen mango-like thing veined with gold, vibrated under her palm, its song a haunting lullaby that tugged at memories of her mother's Welsh lullabies back in Cardiff. "Listen," she breathed, turning to the others. Nyx paused, their shadowy form rippling as if absorbing the sound. "Echoes of mortal souls, bound into bounty," they said, a note of sorrow in their wind-whispered voice. Further on, they stumbled upon a clearing dominated by a colossal banquet table, stretching fifty feet if it was an inch, heaped with delicacies that defied logic. Roasts glistened under amber light, their juices carving rivers down sides of crackling skin. Pies overflowed with fillings that shifted colors—emerald custards swirling to sapphire creams. Chefs in tattered aprons, their faces gaunt yet eyes wild with fervor, darted about like possessed marionettes. One, a helbound soul Rory guessed, contracted from some earthly kitchen, plated a dish of wriggling tendrils that steamed with infernal heat. "For the Prince's table!" he bellowed, voice cracking, before shoveling a handful into his mouth, sauce dribbling down his chin. Rory's mouth watered involuntarily, the scents assaulting her—cinnamon and brimstone, honey and ash. But revulsion followed swift. The man's eyes rolled back, body convulsing in ecstasy or torment; she couldn't tell. "They're trapped," she whispered, glancing at Isolde. "Feeding the excess, but it's eating them." The seer nodded, her ethereal form gliding past the table without disturbing a crumb. "Gluttony devours the devourer, in circles unending." No footprints marked her passage, even on the tiled mosaic floor depicting Belphegor's sigil—a bloated figure lounging amid vines. Rory felt the pull then, a subtle hunger gnawing at her edges, not for food but for more—more sights, more secrets. The pendant warmed again, guiding them toward a distant spire wreathed in grapevines, where culinary competitions raged under the amber sky. Cheers erupted as a competitor unveiled a cake that bloomed like a flower, petals unfurling to reveal chambers of spiced air. Nyx's form flickered, pulling Rory back as shadows deepened unnaturally around the spire. "Wards," they hissed. "Demonic bindings, thick as chains." The Shade extended a tendril, testing the edge; it recoiled with a sizzle, like water on hot iron. Unease bloomed in Rory's chest, her quick mind racing. This place was wondrous, yes— a paradise of flavors and forms Earth could only dream of—but laced with horror. Souls slaved in opulence, their labors fueling an endless cycle. She thought of her flat above Silas' bar, the simple deliveries for Golden Empress; this excess mocked such normalcy. A discovery came abruptly as they skirted the competition grounds. Tucked in a alcove of orchard trees, Rory spotted a pedestal of twisted ivory, atop which rested a cluster of orbs not unlike the singing fruits—but these pulsed with the same crimson glow as her pendant. Heartstones, smaller, raw. She reached out, but Isolde's hand—cool and firm—stayed her. "Touch not the heart that beats for another," the seer warned, her riddle carrying a genuine edge. Nyx investigated instead, phasing through the pedestal's shadow. They emerged moments later, form denser, eyes brighter. "Fragments of Dymas's core," they explained. "Power unbound, but guarded. Belphegor's eyes are everywhere." As if summoned, a distant horn blared, and the group ducked into the underbrush. Vines parted like welcoming arms, but thorns pricked Rory's skin, drawing beads of blood that the plants seemed to drink with greedy rustles. Deeper still, the air grew heavier, the amber sky pressing down like a lid on a boiling pot. They crested a hill overlooking a vast amphitheater, where a feast unfolded on a scale that stole Rory's breath. Thousands of figures—demons with horned crowns, souls in silken rags—reclined on cushions of living moss, devouring platters that refilled themselves. Music swelled, flutes carved from thighbones piping tunes that burrowed into the mind, urging indulgence. Wonder warred with dread; Rory's scar itched fiercely now, a reminder of fragility in this realm of excess. Isolde paused, her voice cutting through the revelry. "The Prince watches from his vine-wreathed throne. Seek not his gaze, lest your hunger become his." Rory nodded, heart pounding. They'd come for answers—about the pendant, about rifts tearing the Veil—but Dymas clawed at her resolve, promising delights that masked chains. Nyx's hand—shadowy, reassuring—grazed her shoulder. "We press on," they whispered. As they descended into the amphitheater's fringes, the world pulsed around them, alive with alien rhythm. Rory felt the wonder take root despite the unease, a spark of the out-of-the-box thinking that had saved her before. This place was a labyrinth of temptation, but somewhere in its glut lay the key to sealing the rifts—or unleashing worse. She straightened, blade cold against her hip, and moved forward into the heart of gluttony's domain.