Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8WTYAKZGJ042QKC2FXDZM

The air tasted of cinnamon and something metallic, like old blood. Rory pulled her scarf higher, the chill radiating from Dymas was unlike anything she’d experienced in London. Prince Belphegor’s domain wasn’t just decadent; it was actively, aggressively cold. Amber light, thick as honey, dripped from the low-hanging, bruised-purple sky, illuminating a landscape that defied Euclidean geometry. Buildings leaned at impossible angles, their facades shimmering with a pearlescent sheen, and vines thick as pythons choked the crumbling stone walls. “This…this isn’t right,” Eva muttered, her breath misting in the unnatural air. She gripped the Fae-Forged Blade, the silver of the hilt gleaming unnaturally in the dim light. “It’s supposed to be… celebratory. Not… oppressive.” Nyx stepped forward, their shadow lengthening and contracting with an unsettling rhythm. “Celebration is a construct,” they rasped, the whisper-like voice carrying surprisingly far in the silent space. “Dymas seeks only satisfaction. It offers a warped imitation of joy.” Rory consulted the Heartstone Pendant, its crimson gem pulsing a faint warmth against her palm. The pulse quickened, a subtle tremor against her skin. “The Veil is thinner here,” she stated, her voice tight. “Definitely thinner.” Isolde followed, her silver hair flowing around her like liquid moonlight. She didn’t walk so much as glide, leaving no trace on the slick, moss-covered cobblestones. “This place… it remembers,” she said, her lavender eyes fixed on a towering vineyard that stretched as far as the eye could see. “It remembers the souls consumed, the feasts indulged in, the endless cycle of excess. It feeds on that memory.” They moved deeper into the city, past stalls overflowing with grotesque delicacies—roasted grubs glazed in honey, shimmering jellies that pulsed with an internal light, and wines that smelled of decay and forgotten desires. The sounds were equally unsettling – the incessant chatter of unseen servants, the clinking of cutlery, the delighted (and occasionally horrified) cries of the bound souls who seemed to be permanently trapped within the opulent surroundings of the feasts. “Look,” Eva hissed, pointing to a grand hall where a banquet was in full swing. Tables laden with impossible dishes stretched into the shadows, illuminated by flickering torches. Hundreds of figures – some human, some clearly not – were gorging themselves with extravagant abandon, their faces a mixture of blissful ignorance and tormented satisfaction. Rory felt a prickle of unease. The sheer scale of the excess was overwhelming. “They’re…detached,” she observed, watching a man with a face like polished granite mechanically shoveling a mountain of roasted swan into his mouth. “Like they’re performing a ritual, not eating.” Suddenly, a plume of smoke erupted from a nearby building, accompanied by a chorus of panicked screams. A wave of heat washed over them, carrying the stench of burning flesh. “Something’s happening,” Nyx stated, their shadow twisting into a tighter, more agitated form. “The Veil is responding.” They pushed their way through the throng of decadent diners, navigating through a maze of overflowing tables and grotesque sculptures. The architecture shifted subtly, the impossible angles growing more pronounced, the colors more vibrant—and more unsettling. They passed a fountain sculpted in the likeness of a weeping gorgon, its stone eyes perpetually tracking their movements. “This grove… it’s not natural,” Isolde murmured, her voice barely audible above the din. “The trees here…they possess a weary sentience.” As they rounded a corner, they entered a vast, open courtyard dominated by a colossal, skeletal tree. Its branches, adorned with glittering fruit that resembled miniature skulls, reached towards the bruised sky. Beneath the tree, a circle of glowing runes pulsed with an eerie energy. “This is a rift point,” Rory said, her voice hushed. “A tear in the Veil.” The Heartstone pulsed violently, the crimson gem flaring brightly. “A significant one.” A figure stepped out of the shadows beneath the tree – Prince Belphegor himself. He was a towering, serpentine being with scales the color of obsidian and eyes that burned with cold, calculating intelligence. He wore a robe embroidered with images of feasting souls and a crown crafted from polished bone. “Welcome, mortals,” he hissed, his voice like grinding stone. “You have stumbled upon a private indulgence. You are… unexpected guests.” “We didn’t mean to intrude,” Rory said, attempting to project an air of confidence she didn't entirely feel. “We were simply… exploring.” Belphegor chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Exploring? Such a quaint justification. Dymas has no truck with polite words. It consumes. It demands. And it is always… wanting.” Nyx stepped forward, their shadow extending to nearly engulf Belphegor. "Your satisfaction is built on stolen lives. A foundation of suffering." The Prince merely smiled, a chilling display of teeth. "Suffering is merely a spice, Shade. A necessary ingredient for a truly memorable feast." He gestured towards a group of souls, chained to a nearby pillar, their faces etched with terror. “They will provide a delightful amuse-bouche.” Before he could give the order, Isolde raised her hand, her gaze piercing. “You cannot simply consume, Prince. The Veil remembers. It will not forget.” A wave of energy erupted from Isolde, momentarily disrupting the runes beneath the tree. The glowing fruit on the skeletal branches withered and crumbled to dust. Belphegor recoiled, his expression darkening. “The Fae interfere,” he snarled. “A tiresome distraction. Eliminate the seer.” Shadows coalesced around Isolde, forming tendrils that snaked out to restrain her. But before they could fully ensnare her, Eva moved with incredible speed, drawing the Fae-Forged Blade. The steel shimmered in the amber light, its coldness a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth of Dymas. She slashed through the shadows, severing the tendrils with a precise, deadly movement. “Don't let him touch you," she warned Isolde. Rory, realizing they were outnumbered, grabbed the Heartstone Pendant and hurled it at the rift point. The gem struck the swirling energy with a blinding flash of crimson. The rift shuddered, briefly shrinking before expanding again, even wider than before. “Foolish mortal,” Belphegor hissed. “You seek to disrupt the natural order?” As he spoke, the ground began to tremble beneath their feet. The buildings around them started to contort and twist, the impossible angles growing even more pronounced. Dymas was reacting, its hunger intensifying. "We need to go," Rory shouted, grabbing Eva's arm. Nyx pulled them forward, leading them away from the epicenter of the chaos. “The Veil weakens. The path back is perilous.” They sprinted through the distorted streets of Dymas, the sounds of the Prince’s enraged fury echoing behind them. As they reached the edge of the city, they glanced back. Belphegor stood beneath the skeletal tree, watching them with cold, burning eyes. The rift point pulsed with an ominous glow, a gateway to a world of endless excess and eternal torment. And Rory knew, with a chilling certainty, that they had merely scratched the surface of Dymas's depravity. The Heartstone pulsed again, a frantic warning— a reminder of the price of their intrusion.