Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8PYMNMQ2YN172JYM1DRA1

Rory's heart hammered against her ribs as the shimmering rift in the Veil swallowed them whole. One moment, she stood in the misty confines of Isolde's grove in Richmond Park, the ancient oaks whispering secrets to the wind; the next, a wave of disorienting warmth crashed over her, like stepping from a Welsh winter into a sun-drenched vineyard. She blinked, her bright blue eyes adjusting to the amber glow that bathed everything in a perpetual twilight haze. The air hummed with an unnatural vitality, thick with scents of ripening fruit and roasting spices that made her mouth water despite the knot of unease twisting in her gut. Beside her, Nyx materialized from a swirl of shadows, their form coalescing into a tall, humanoid silhouette of inky blackness, faintly glowing violet eyes scanning the horizon. "We tread where mortals seldom dare," they whispered, voice like a breeze rustling dry leaves. "Hel's gluttonous heart beats here, pulsing with hungers unbound." Isolde glided ahead, her silver hair swaying like a waterfall of moonlight, though her bare feet left no imprint on the loamy soil. She turned, pale lavender eyes twinkling with cryptic amusement. "A feast for the senses, or a trap for the unwary? The vines whisper of indulgence, but roots remember the famished." Rory clutched the Heartstone Pendant at her neck, the deep crimson gem pulsing warmly against her skin, a faint inner glow confirming their crossing into this realm—Dymas, if the codex fragments in her mind were right. The silver chain felt heavier here, as if the artifact sensed the alien energies. Her other hand rested on the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade strapped to her belt, the moonsilver dagger cold to the touch, a reassuring chill against the oppressive heat. At twenty-five, she'd fled one kind of hell in Cardiff—Evan's bruising grip and her parents' disappointed stares—only to dive headfirst into this literal one. But Eva's letters from London had promised adventure, not portals to demonic feasting grounds. Still, Rory's cool head kept her steady; she scanned the landscape, mind racing for patterns, exits, advantages. They stood at the edge of a sprawling vineyard, rows of vines heavy with clusters of grapes that shimmered like jewels under the warm amber sky—no sun visible, just an endless, diffuse light that cast no shadows except where Nyx willed them. The grapes were oversized, each berry the size of a plum, their skins a riot of colors: deep purples veined with gold, reds that bled into obsidian black. As Rory stepped forward, a vine tendril twitched, coiling lazily toward her like a curious serpent. She froze, breath catching. "Easy," Nyx murmured, extending a shadowy tendril to brush the vine aside. It recoiled with a soft, fleshy sigh, releasing a burst of aroma—sweet, almost cloying, like honeyed wine mixed with something earthier, forbidden. Isolde laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. "The land hungers as you do. Touch not without invitation, lest it claim a taste in return." Rory swallowed, her straight black hair sticking to her damp forehead. The heat pressed in, not scorching but insistent, making her part-time delivery jacket feel like a woolen trap. She shrugged it off, tying it around her waist, revealing the small crescent scar on her left wrist—a reminder of childhood folly, climbing trees in Cardiff's rain-slick parks. "This place... it's alive. Not just growing, but watching." She moved deeper, boots sinking into soil that felt unnaturally fertile, springy underfoot, as if it might swallow her whole if she lingered too long. The group pressed on, the vineyard giving way to orchards where trees bore fruits Rory had no names for: orbs that pulsed with inner light, fuzzy spheres emitting a low hum, like distant beehives. One tree's branches drooped under the weight of golden apples, each one emitting a faint, melodic chime when the breeze stirred them. Nyx reached out, their incorporeal hand passing through a leaf, which shivered and turned a shade darker. "Echoes of mortal desires," they said. "Belphegor's domain feasts on excess. These groves birth banquets that could sate kings—or drive them mad." Unease prickled Rory's skin. She'd read about Hel in stolen library books after Eva's wild tales, but experiencing it was different. No fire and brimstone; instead, this seductive abundance that whispered promises of fulfillment. A distant roar echoed, not a beast's, but laughter—raucous, unending, mingled with the clatter of dishes and the sizzle of cooking fats. Her stomach growled, betraying her, even as her mind screamed caution. "We're not here to eat," she muttered, more to herself than the others. "The codex said something about rifts weakening on the solstice. We need to find the tear back to Earth before time slips away." Isolde tilted her head, her ethereal form seeming to blur at the edges. "Time dances here as fruit ripens—slowly, then all at once. Seek the heart of indulgence, where the gluttonous prince holds court, and paths may unfold like petals in bloom." She couldn't lie, Rory knew from the grove's lore, but her riddles twisted truth into knots. The half-Fae's waist-length hair caught a nonexistent wind, floating as if underwater. They crested a gentle hill, and wonder bloomed in Rory's chest, chasing away the unease for a heartbeat. Below stretched a grand pavilion, its pillars carved from what looked like petrified vines, draped in silks that shifted colors like oil on water. Tables groaned under feasts: platters of roasted meats glistening with glazes, towers of pastries dusted in sugars that sparkled like diamond dust, fountains bubbling with wines that cascaded in impossible arcs, defying gravity. Figures moved among them—helbound souls, perhaps, their forms humanoid but edged with demonic flair: horns curling like grapevines, skin textured like bark. They laughed and ate with abandon, chefs in aprons wielding knives that sang as they sliced. One soul, a burly man with eyes like smoldering coals, spotted them and waved a laden fork. "Newcomers! Join the eternal banquet! Prince Belphegor welcomes all who hunger!" Nyx's form rippled, shifting partially incorporeal, shadows lengthening around their feet. "We decline," they whispered, voice carrying like a chill draft. "Our appetites lie elsewhere." Rory felt the pull, a magnetic draw toward the tables. The air grew thicker, scented with cinnamon and charred sugar, making her head swim. She gripped the Fae blade tighter; its cold glow steadied her, the luminescent edge humming faintly, as if sensing hidden wards. "It's a trap," she said, voice low. "Like the stories of Fae food—you eat and you're stuck forever." Isolde nodded, her lavender eyes distant. "Excess binds as chains do. But look deeper, mortal seeker; the feast hides the famine beneath." Pushing past the pavilion, they entered a garden labyrinth, hedges of blooming flowers that released pollen in iridescent clouds. Rory brushed one petal, and a vision flickered in her mind: a memory not her own, of endless starvation turning to ravenous joy. She yanked her hand back, heart racing. "Did you feel that? It's... feeding on thoughts." Nyx nodded, their violet eyes narrowing. "Shades like me sense the echoes. This realm was forged from human sins, gluttony made manifest. Aldric— I—once sought power here, in rituals gone awry. Now, it seeks to consume us." Deeper in, the wonder turned eerie. They discovered a clearing where a massive tree dominated, its trunk wider than a house, bark etched with glowing runes that pulsed like heartbeats. Fruits dangled from its branches, but these were different—translucent, filled with swirling mists that formed faces, screaming silently. Rory approached, the pendant at her neck throbbing hotter. "What are these?" Isolde traced a rune with a finger, leaving no mark. "Souls ensnared, distilled into essence. Taste one, and know eternity's crave; resist, and the path reveals." Unease morphed into dread as the ground trembled faintly, vines slithering across the soil like veins coming alive. Nyx shifted fully to shadow, enveloping Rory and Isolde in a protective veil. "We must move. The land awakens to our intrusion." Rory drew the blade, its leaf-shaped edge cutting through a encroaching tendril with ease, the vine screeching as it withered. The act sparked a moment of clarity—power, rare and coveted, as Isolde had gifted it. "This way," she said, spotting a faint shimmer ahead, like the Veil's distortion but warmer, amber-tinged. They hurried through, the garden's whispers fading to a dull roar. Emerging into a vineyard overlook, Rory gasped at the vista: endless fields undulating like a living sea, dotted with colossal amphitheaters where culinary spectacles unfolded—chefs dueling with flames that danced without burning, audiences devouring the results in ecstatic frenzy. The amber sky deepened to ochre, and distant thunder rumbled, not storm but the groan of overfull bellies. Wonder gripped her again, mingled with awe at the sheer scale. This wasn't destruction; it was creation run amok, a realm where indulgence warped reality. Nyx reformed beside her, solid now, their 6'2" frame towering. "Beautiful, in its peril. But we are not of this place." Isolde smiled enigmatically. "Yet all realms touch, as hungers do. The rift calls—feel its pull?" Rory did—the pendant guided her, warmth leading to a hidden arbor where the air shimmered, a portal back flickering into view. But as they approached, shadows lengthened unnaturally, and a voice boomed from the vines: "Leaving so soon? The feast has just begun." Belphegor's minions, perhaps—figures emerging from the undergrowth, eyes hungry, hands extended. Rory's mind whirred, out-of-the-box thinking kicking in. "Nyx, shadows! Isolde, mislead them!" Nyx unleashed a wave of darkness, blinding the pursuers, while Isolde spun riddles that confused their paths: "Chase the shadow that flees not, find the fruit that sates the void." They dove through the rift, the amber world collapsing behind them. Back in the grove, time had barely passed—minutes, not the hours it felt. Rory leaned against an oak, breathing hard, the scar on her wrist itching from the phantom vines. Wonder lingered, a taste of the alien sublime, but so did the unease: Hel's gluttony had marked her, a hunger she'd carry back to London's shadowed streets.