Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8BP3H2QED43EBPVDK9P54

Aurora's fingers tightened around the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant, its deep crimson gem pulsing like a heartbeat against her palm. The air in the Fae Grove had thickened, carrying the scent of wildflowers that shouldn't bloom in November—honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine twisting with something sharper, like fermented plums. Isolde had led them here, her silver hair swaying like liquid moonlight as she wove between the ancient oak standing stones that marked the grove's boundary. Nyx drifted beside Aurora, their shadowy form flickering between solid silhouette and wispy tendrils, violet eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. "This is the threshold," Isolde murmured, her pale lavender eyes distant, as if peering through veils no one else could see. She didn't turn, her bare feet leaving no imprint on the mossy earth. "The Veil thins here, like silk stretched too far. But hunger pulls from the other side. Beware the feast that never ends." Aurora glanced at Nyx, who shrugged—a fluid ripple in their shadow-form that passed for nonchalance. "Hel's not kind to first-timers," Nyx whispered, their voice a breeze rustling leaves. "But the pendant will guide us. Or trap us. Shades don't get invited often." Rory swallowed, her throat dry despite the humid air. She'd fled Cardiff for London to escape Evan, not to chase riddles into hellish realms. But Eva's disappearance—whispered ties to some underground deal with demons—had dragged her here. The pendant had arrived in her delivery bag two weeks ago, anonymous, warm against her skin ever since. Isolde's visions pointed to Dymas, the gluttonous pit of Hel, where souls bargained for excess and lost more than they gained. Isolde raised a hand, tracing an invisible arc between the oaks. The air shimmered, a faint distortion like heat haze over summer pavement, but colder. The Veil. Aurora's scar on her left wrist itched, an old reminder of a swing-set fall, as if the boundary itself stirred her blood. The Heartstone warmed further, its glow seeping through her clenched fist. "Step through," Isolde said, her words curling like smoke. "Or stay and starve for truths unspoken." Rory nodded, steeling herself. Nyx solidified, their tall frame—six-foot-two of inky blackness—brushing her shoulder in silent solidarity. Isolde glided first, vanishing into the shimmer without a ripple. Aurora followed, Nyx at her heels. The crossing hit like plunging into warm honey. Aurora's skin tingled, every nerve alight as the world inverted. Pressure built in her ears, then released with a soft pop. The grove's wildflowers blurred into streaks of color, the oaks twisting into impossible spirals. For a heartbeat, she floated in nothingness—weightless, breathless—before solidity rushed back. She stumbled onto soft earth, knees buckling. The air was thick, laced with spices and roasting meats, so rich it coated her tongue. No London chill here; warmth enveloped her like a fever dream. She straightened, blinking against the amber sky overhead—not blue, but a perpetual sunset glow, streaked with veins of gold like fat marbled through flesh. "Where..." Aurora trailed off, her voice echoing strangely, muffled yet amplified. Nyx materialized fully beside her, scanning the horizon. "Dymas. Welcome to gluttony’s belly." The landscape unfolded in alien splendor. They stood on a gentle hill overlooking sprawling vineyards that stretched to hazy horizons, vines heavy with clusters of grapes the size of fists—deep purple, shimmering as if dusted with sugar. Orchards dotted the valleys, trees laden with fruits she'd never seen: orbs of crimson that pulsed faintly, like the Heartstone; golden pears veined with sapphire; apples that hummed a low, inviting tune when the breeze stirred them. Pathways of crushed petal-stone wound between, flanked by gardens where vegetables grew in riotous excess—carrots as thick as her arm, cabbages unfurling like roses. But it was the scents that assaulted her first. Sweetness cloyed the air, mingling with savory undertones: caramelized onions, smoked herbs, the tang of citrus bursting under invisible flames. Aurora's stomach growled unbidden, a betrayal after skipping breakfast to make this trek. Isolde paused ahead, her ethereal form silhouetted against a distant pavilion. "The land feeds on desire," she said, her tone a riddle wrapped in silk. "What you crave will find you, but never sate." Unease prickled Aurora's skin. The warmth from the pendant spread up her arm, comforting yet insistent, urging her forward. She slipped it back under her shirt, the chain cool against her collarbone. Nyx's violet eyes narrowed, shadows coiling tighter around their edges. "Souls here are bound. Chefs, mostly—mortals who sold their talents for eternity in the kitchens. Listen." Aurora tilted her head. Beneath the rustle of leaves and distant laughter, a cacophony emerged: clanging pots from hidden cookhouses, the sizzle of fat on open grills, voices raised in harmonious chants—perhaps recipes, or pleas. Closer, the ground thrummed faintly, like a heartbeat syncing with her own. They descended the hill, feet sinking into loamy soil that smelled of fresh-turned earth and overripe berries. Aurora's boots left deep prints, unlike Isolde's silent passage. As they entered the vineyard, the vines seemed to lean toward them, tendrils quivering. One brushed her hand; its skin was velvety, warm, and she jerked back, heart pounding. "Alive," Nyx murmured, their whisper carrying a note of wonder. They reached out, incorporeal fingers passing through a grape without disturbing it. "Everything here hungers too." Discovery came swiftly. At the vineyard's edge, a stone archway loomed, carved with writhing figures—humans and beasts locked in eternal banquets, mouths agape. Beyond lay a grand plaza, where long tables groaned under feasts. Helbound souls moved among them: translucent figures in aprons, faces flushed with perpetual exertion. One, a burly man with a chef's toque tilted jauntily, stirred a cauldron bubbling with iridescent stew. The aroma hit Aurora like a wave—nutmeg, saffron, something metallic like blood. "New guests?" the chef called, his voice booming yet jovial. His eyes gleamed with unnatural hunger, pupils dilated. "Prince Belphegor welcomes all to sample the vine's kiss!" Aurora hesitated, but Isolde glided forward. "We seek no plate, only passage," she replied, words dancing around truth. "The shadows whisper of a stolen light." The chef chuckled, ladling stew into bowls for spectral diners who shoveled it in without pause. "All seek something here. Eat, and the way reveals itself." Nyx pulled Aurora aside, their form flickering. "Don't. Gluttony binds through indulgence. One bite, and you're theirs." The warning twisted in her gut, mingling with the saliva pooling in her mouth. Her scar burned now, a sharp reminder of pains endured. She shook her head, forcing her gaze away. "We keep moving." Deeper they pressed, past the plaza into the orchards. The amber sky deepened, casting long shadows that writhed like Nyx's form. Fruits dangled temptingly, some splitting open to reveal glistening cores—juices dripping like liquid gold. Aurora plucked a low-hanging pear, more curiosity than intent. It was cool in her hand, heavier than it looked. When she bit in, sweetness exploded—honeyed, with undertones of vanilla and smoke. For a moment, wonder overtook her; the flavor bloomed on her tongue, evoking childhood summers she'd never had, warmth spreading through her limbs. Nyx snatched it away before she could take another. "Foolish," they hissed, but their eyes held no anger, only concern. The bitten fruit withered in their shadowy grasp, skin cracking like parched earth. Aurora wiped her mouth, a flush creeping up her neck. "It was... incredible. But wrong." Isolde nodded, her silver hair catching the light like spun glass. "Taste the lie, and the truth hungers back. The heart's stone points true—follow its warmth." The pendant throbbed now, a steady pulse drawing Aurora eastward, toward a cluster of low buildings wreathed in steam. Unease grew as they approached; the air hummed with activity, but the souls here moved with frantic energy. Laughter rang out—too loud, edged with desperation. One woman, her form flickering like a faulty bulb, kneaded dough on a marble slab, muttering recipes under her breath: "Add the soul of regret, a pinch of forgotten dreams..." "Why do they stay?" Aurora whispered, voice tight. Nyx's presence beside her felt like a shield, their incorporeal chill balancing the realm's heat. "Contracts," Nyx replied, voice a low wind. "They traded skills for immortality in service. Belphegor's chefs, crafting banquets for demons and the damned. But excess devours." A grand feast unfolded in the central pavilion ahead, tables stretching endlessly under canopies of woven vines. Demons lounged there—horned figures with bellies distended, tearing into roasts that reformed as they ate. Music swelled: lutes and flutes weaving melodies that tugged at Aurora's resolve, promising forgetfulness. She gripped the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade at her belt—Isolde's gift, its moonsilver cold even through leather. It hummed faintly, a counterpoint to the chaos. Wonder resurfaced amid the opulence. Fireflies—or were they motes of hellfire?—danced above the tables, illuminating platters of delicacies: pastries flaking with edible gold, fruits sculpted into likenesses of lovers entwined. One soul presented a pie, steam rising in shapes of forgotten faces. Aurora's mouth watered again, but she pushed it down, focusing on the pendant's pull. Deeper still, beyond the pavilions, the landscape shifted. The orchards gave way to terraced gardens, where exotic blooms unfurled petals wide as platters, releasing perfumes that made her head spin. A stream wound through, its waters sparkling like champagne, bubbling with tiny fish that nipped at the surface. Isolde knelt by the bank, trailing fingers that left no ripples. "Time bends here, as in my grove," she said softly. "An hour's sip, and days flee the world above." Nyx paused, their form solidifying to peer into the water. "Rifts in the Veil echo through. This stream... it connects to Earth. Eva might have crossed here." Aurora's pulse quickened. Her friend—gone after a shady deal, whispers of a Fae artifact traded to Hel. The pendant warmed insistently, leading to a shadowed alcove where an ancient tree loomed, its trunk gnarled like a gorged stomach. Roots delved into the earth, pulsing with the same rhythm as the gem. Unease crested as they neared. Whispers emanated from the tree—souls trapped within, their voices a chorus of cravings: "More... always more..." The air grew heavier, pressing on Aurora's chest. Nyx's shadows recoiled, violet eyes flaring. "A ward. Old magic." Isolde's lavender gaze sharpened. "Draw the blade, child of earth. Cut the thread of want." Aurora unsheathed the Fae-Forged Blade, its leaf-shaped edge gleaming coldly, luminescent even in the amber light. It sliced through the air with a shiver, parting invisible threads around the tree. The whispers screeched, then silenced. The trunk split, revealing a hollow containing a faint shimmer—a tear in the Veil, small as a doorway, leading to... London fog? Eva's face flashed in Aurora's mind, a vision or hope. Wonder bloomed anew. This place, for all its excess, held keys to realms intertwined. But the cost gnawed at her—the souls' fates, the pull of indulgence that could ensnare them all. "We've found the rift," Nyx said, voice hushed with rare awe. "But closing it—or using it— that's the feast's true price." Aurora sheathed the blade, the pendant cooling against her skin. The amber sky pulsed overhead, indifferent. They had entered Dymas as strangers; emerging whole would demand more than they'd bargained for.