Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8E9TGH2MXC0TY2RW5F6DE

The air tasted of overripe fruit and something metallic, like warm pennies. Rory adjusted the strap of her bag, the weight of the Fae-Forged Blade a cold comfort against her hip. Around her, the trees of Richmond Park thinned, their familiar bark giving way to something smoother, almost polished, the color of aged bone. Nyx drifted ahead, a shifting silhouette against the deepening amber light. They weren’t walking *through* anything tangible, but rather past a point where the park simply… ceased to be. “Are you sure about this?” Rory asked, her voice tight. It felt disrespectful to call it ‘this’ – a hidden grove in Richmond Park was one thing, but this felt like trespassing on a forgotten god’s estate. Nyx’s voice, a whisper on a non-existent breeze, replied, “Isolde assures me this is the closest point. The Veil thins here, especially now.” Rory glanced at the Heartstone Pendant resting against her sternum beneath her jacket. It pulsed with a barely perceptible warmth, a red heartbeat against her skin. The closer they got, the faster it beat. It had led them here, after all, reacting violently—almost painfully—to a location Eva had mentioned during a late-night rant about a strange smell near the Isabella Plantation. They moved between the bone-white trees, stepping onto a carpet of wildflowers unlike any Rory had ever seen. They weren’t delicate blossoms, but defiant explosions of color – electric blues, crimson reds, and golds that seemed to vibrate in her vision. The air hummed with the drone of unseen insects, and a cloying sweetness coated her tongue. “Time doesn’t… behave itself here,” Nyx said, their form flickering as if caught in a current. “Be mindful.” Rory checked her watch. Pointless, she knew. Isolde had warned them about the Grove’s temporal distortions. An hour inside could be a day outside, or just a fleeting moment. Ahead, the trees opened into a clearing, and Rory stopped, breath hitching in her throat. It wasn’t a clearing, not exactly. It was a valley, impossibly contained within the boundaries of Richmond Park. The ground sloped downwards into a vista of vineyards that stretched as far as the eye could see, their leaves a deep, almost bruised purple. Beyond the vines, elaborate gardens unfolded, bursting with fruits Rory only knew from historical texts – pomegranates the size of her head, golden peaches radiating heat, and berries that glowed with an internal luminescence. The sky wasn’t blue, or grey, but a swirling panorama of warm amber, like looking through honey. “Dymas,” Nyx breathed, the sound barely audible. “A pocket of Gluttony, leached into this side of the Veil.” The scent was overwhelming now – a potent blend of ripe fruit, spices, and something else, something rich and savory that made Rory’s stomach clench. It was intoxicating, unsettling. She felt a strange pull, a desire to simply lie down among the vines and lose herself in the abundance. “Prince Belphegor is… accommodating,” Nyx continued, their voice taking on a cautious tone. “He enjoys visitors. Especially those who appreciate the finer things.” Rory ignored that, focusing on the details. In the distance, perched on a terraced hillside, was a banquet hall, vast and opulent, constructed from what looked like polished obsidian. Figures moved within, shadowy and indistinct, but she caught glimpses of laughter and the clinking of glasses. The entire scene felt… staged, artificial. Too perfect. They descended into the valley, the wildflowers soft beneath their feet. Rory kept a hand on the hilt of the Fae Blade. "What are we looking for?" she asked. "A rift," Nyx replied, gliding forward. “A weakening in the Veil. Isolde sensed a disturbance, a… *taste* of Hel bleeding through. Something is attempting to solidify a connection." As they walked among the vines, Rory noticed the workers. They weren’t human, not entirely. Their features were blurred, softened, and their movements were sluggish, almost dreamlike. They harvested the fruit with a mechanical precision, their baskets overflowing with the glowing bounty. They didn’t acknowledge Rory and Nyx, didn’t even seem to *see* them. It was as if they were ghosts, trapped in an endless cycle of labor. She reached out and touched a pomegranate. It was warm to the touch, almost feverish. She hesitated, then plucked it from the branch. The skin yielded easily beneath her fingertips. “Don’t,” Nyx warned, their voice sharper now. “Everything here has a cost.” Rory ignored them, splitting the pomegranate open. The seeds inside weren’t red, but a deep, shimmering gold. The scent was intoxicating, and the first bite exploded on her tongue, a rush of sweetness that bordered on decadent. She felt a wave of euphoria wash over her, a sense of contentment she hadn’t known she was missing. Then, the unease returned, a cold knot forming in her stomach. The sweetness was cloying, almost suffocating. She felt sluggish, her limbs heavy. “Nyx…” she mumbled, her voice slurred. Nyx was already moving, their shadow-body stretching and distorting as they scanned the vineyards. "It's not the fruit itself, but what it represents. Excess. A surrendering of will." They continued towards the obsidian hall, the Heartstone Pendant now thrumming against her chest, radiating a heat that was almost painful. The closer they got, the more distorted the scene became. The laughter from the hall sounded hollow, the vibrant colors seemed to bleed at the edges, and the workers moved with an increasingly frantic, mechanical rhythm. Then, she saw it. Tucked away behind the hall, concealed by a tangle of flowering vines, was a tear in reality. It wasn’t a grand, dramatic rift, but a subtle shimmering distortion, like heat rising from asphalt. The air around it crackled with energy, and a faint smell of sulfur clung to the breeze. The Heartstone Pendant was practically burning against her skin. “There,” Nyx said, their voice a brittle whisper. “A small tear, but growing. Someone is actively weaving a pathway." As she focused on the rift, she saw a shape coalescing within, a darkness that wasn’t simply the absence of light, but an active, predatory entity. It writhed and pulsed, slowly solidifying into a vaguely humanoid form, draped in shadows. A figure emerged from the hall, a being of impossible elegance, their skin pale as moonlight and their eyes burning with a cold, violet fire. They wore robes of woven shadow and a crown of twisted thorns. "Welcome," the figure purred, their voice like silk over steel. “Prince Belphegor extends his greetings. And offers a taste of paradise.” Rory gripped the Fae Blade, the icy metal a stark contrast to the feverish warmth of the Heartstone. The taste of paradise, she suddenly realized, was not a gift, but a trap.