Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8A8P7KN1CDG3EM5RC0PB8

The winter solstice twilight seeped through the gap between the standing stones. Aurora, her left wrist scar tight beneath her sleeve, pressed a hand to the Heartstone pendant. It pulsed like a faint heartbeat, warm against her palm. Her breath fogged. Not from the cold—Richmond Park in December bit, but not enough to steal air so sharp. “Almost there,” Nyx said, their voice a whisper that stirred her hair. They materialized at her side, a shadow with the faint glow of violet eyes. Aurora turned. Nyx’s form was half-solid, edges bleeding into the stone, like a painting smudged. “The Veil’s thin. Felt it when we crossed the perimeter.” Isolde stepped into view behind them. Her silver hair, caught in the wind, moved as if underwater. No footprints marred the moss. “Thinner than the last,” she said, her voice a chime. She held no lantern, but the clearing around them lit up—wildflowers in impossible hues, petals shifting from indigo to gold. “Time inside bends. Ten steps out, an hour in.” Aurora’s boots sank into moss that smelled of ripe peaches and rain. She glanced at the stones—ancient oaks, gnarled, their rings etched with runes she didn’t recognize. “Why here?” she asked. Evan had never brought her to Richmond Park, but he’d mentioned it once, in a fit of rage, called it “a dump.” She’d never cared. Now, the air hummed. *Alive*. “Because the Glutton is hungry,” Isolde said, and Nyx shifted, their shadow thickening. Aurora noticed a flicker at the edge of her vision—a figure, half-seen, stepping into the shadow of a tree. When she blinked, it was gone. “Show us,” she said. The rift appeared as the pendant’s glow flared. A rippling of light, not dim, but *bright*, like a cracked mirror. Beyond it, the sky was amber, as if the sun had set and then risen again at a different angle. The air smelled of honeyed wine and roasted chestnuts, rich enough to cloy. Aurora stepped forward. Nyx hovered at her shoulder. Isolde trailed, her silver hair brushing the rift’s edge. They fell. Not a fall—more like floating, gravity thinning. Aurora grabbed Nyx’s arm. Nyx’s form shifted, solid, and she felt their fingers close around hers, cool as the Fae blade strapped to Aurora’s waist. Below, a landscape stretched: rolling hills, but not green. The grass was emerald, but the vines climbing the oaks bore fruit—yes, fruit, but not apples. These were ovoid, purple, with veins of gold. A river curved through the valley, its water clear, but when she leaned closer, she saw *souls* in it—faint, wispy, struggling against the current. “Hel,” Nyx said. Their voice was lower, harsher. “The Glutton’s realm. Dymas. They take souls here, feed on their hungers.” Aurora’s pendant burned. She fumbled it free, staring at the deep crimson gem. It glowed, the warmth spreading up her arm. “Why did Isolde bring us here?” Isolde tilted her head. “Why does the seer seek? To see. To know.” “See what?” The air shifted. The sky dimmed, but not with night—with something heavier, thicker. A sound reached them: clinking, laughter, a cook’s voice calling out. Aurora squinted. Below, a grand palace loomed, its spires gilded. Around it, vineyards stretched, their vines dripping with fruit that glowed like embers. Servants moved through the gardens, carrying platters heaped with pastries, roasted meats, bowls of stew that bubbled with a thousand spices. And everywhere, the souls in the vineyards—they writhed, their forms stretching as they reached for the fruit. “They’re *craving*,” she said, and realized it was her own voice. The fruit looked sweet. *Tasted* sweet, just looking at it. She felt a pang in her stomach, sudden, intense—like she hadn’t eaten in days. Nyx’s hand tightened on hers. “Don’t look at the fruit. Don’t smell the wine.” Their shadowed form seemed to shrink, as if the air itself pushed against them. “Shades rot in Hel. The Glutton feeds on *longing*.” Aurora tore her gaze away. A cook, her white apron stained with sauce, looked up and caught her eye. She smiled, wide, and pointed. In her other hand, she held a platter of pastries—flaky, golden, with a filling that glowed like liquid amber. Aurora’s throat went dry. “Come,” Isolde said, and started walking. Her feet didn’t touch the ground; she glided, like a leaf on a stream. “The first feast is ready. But beware—indulgence is a chain.” Aurora followed. Nyx was right behind, their shadow now a solid presence beside her. They stepped onto a path made of stone squares, each carved with a different symbol—a heart, a knife, a hourglass. The air grew warmer. Not hot, but *alive*, like the stone held a memory. She noticed a vine缠绕ing the base of a stone, its leaves shimmering silver. When she brushed it, it coiled away, hissing—a sound like a thousand tongues. “Magic,” she said. “Not Fae,” Nyx said. “Hel. They twist the natural. Make things *hungry*.” They nodded at the vine. “See the fruit? It doesn’t die. It *hungers*. Sucks the life from whatever it touches.” Aurora stepped back. The cook at the palace gate now waved a platter of pastries. “Come, little ones,” the voice said, but it wasn’t the cook’s. It was a thousand voices, all at once, in her head. *Hungry. Tired. Come eat.* Isolde stopped. “Look.” Aurora followed her gaze. A group of Helbound souls sat at a table near the garden. They were not writhing now. They were *still*, faces slack, eyes hollow. Their plates were empty—all the food gone. But their bodies were... stretching. Skin thinning. Limbs growing longer, more flexible. One soul’s arm elongated, snaking toward the table, seeking more. “They’re merging with the land,” Nyx said, their voice hollow. “Becoming part of the Glutton’s feast.” Aurora pressed a hand to her pendant. It burned, but not with pain—with warning. She thought of Dymas’s ruler, Prince Belphegor. Evan had told her once, in a drunk argument, that Belphegor liked to play with souls, make them *beg* for more. She’d laughed it off. Now, she didn’t. A trumpet blared. The palace doors opened. A man stood in the doorway, tall, with horns that curled back from his forehead. His skin was dark, his eyes like molten gold. He wore a tunic of silk, red as blood. “Guests!” he called, his voice booming. “The feast has begun! Come, be fed! Be *full*!” The souls at the table jolted, as if waking. They stood, their faces forming expressions of hunger. One looked up at Aurora, its eyes empty, and smiled. “You’re here,” it said, and the voice was Evan’s. Aurora staggered. Nyx’s hand shot to her shoulder. “Evan’s not here,” they said. “It’s the Glutton. It knows what you hunger for.” “I’m not hungry,” she said, but her stomach rumbled. She thought of her ex, of the way he’d yelled, the way he’d hit her. *Empty*. The fruit looked so full. The pastries, so sweet. *Full*. “Liar,” the soul said, and Evan’s voice hissed in her ear. “You’re empty. Come fill yourself.” Isolde stepped in front of her. Her pale lavender eyes glowed, faint, but bright. “It feeds on desire,” she said. “Not hunger. Want. Take what you *need*, not what you *crave*.” She closed her eyes, then opened them. “The Heartstone warns. The Fae blade cuts through chains.” Aurora’s hand fumbled for the Fae blade. It was cold, as always, its moonsilver surface reflecting the amber sky. She gripped it, and the image of Evan’s face vanished. The soul at the table stumbled, its form faltering, and the cook in the gatehouse yelped, dropping her platter. “Beautiful,” the prince said, raising a hand. “The Glutton rewards those who resist. Come, then. Taste the wine. Bite the meat. Allow the feast to *fill* you.” Aurora looked at Nyx. Nyx nodded, their shadow shifting, solid, ready. She looked at Isolde. Isolde smiled, a small, sad smile. “The Veil is thin. We can leave when we choose.” “Let’s go deeper,” she said. Nyx’s eyes flared. “Dealer’s choice.” They walked toward the palace, the Fae blade in Aurora’s hand, the Heartstone burning against her chest. The air hummed with the sound of feasting, of laughter, of souls whispering promises. But Aurora didn’t look away from the path. She kept her eyes on the stone squares, on the symbols, on the way the light played over the gardens. This was a place of wonder. A place of horror. But it was *alive*. And somewhere, deep inside, Aurora thought, *I belong here*. Not to the hunger, but to the *seeing*. To the exploring. To the edge of the Veil, where anything was possible. She stepped onto the palace steps. The trumpets blared again. And the prince smiled.