Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8X7P5MFZ7T6FKPSH3WS62

The air tasted like crushed berries and ozone. Rory wrinkled her nose, pulling her threadbare scarf higher around her mouth. Rain, thick and viscous, plastered her black hair to her forehead. Beside her, Nyx shifted, a ripple of shadow deepening across their form. “Remarkable,” Nyx murmured, their voice a low, shifting whisper. “The Veil thins considerably here. Almost…fragile.” Behind them, Isolde moved with an unsettling grace, her silver hair flowing around her like liquid moonlight. She didn't speak, merely observed, her pale lavender eyes scanning the surroundings with unnerving intensity. The entrance to Dymas had been less a doorway and more a tear in reality – a smear of bruised amber light clinging to the crumbling brick wall of a forgotten alleyway behind Silas’ bar. Now, that tear had solidified into a vast, impossible cavern. The space opened into a world sculpted from indulgence. Vines thick with plump, glistening grapes draped from impossible heights. Orchards overflowed with fruit she couldn’t name, radiating a sickly sweet perfume. The air thrummed with the low, constant murmur of hundreds, maybe thousands, of voices – a chorus of satisfied sighs, booming laughter, and the clatter of cutlery on platters piled high with delicacies. The sky above wasn’t sky at all, but a perpetual sunset of warm amber, casting everything in a golden, hazy glow. “Prince Belphegor’s domain,” Isolde finally said, her voice a riddle. “A place built on excess, fueled by forgotten appetites.” Rory took a hesitant step forward, her hand instinctively reaching for the Fae-Forged Blade strapped to her thigh. The cool touch of the moonsilver was grounding, a small anchor in this overwhelming sensory assault. “It’s…intense,” she stated, trying to keep her voice steady. “Like someone’s been systematically amplifying every pleasure imaginable.” Nyx drifted forward, phasing partially into a shadow against a wall of ripening figs. “The souls here…they aren’t hostile. Just…lost. Bound to serve a pleasure they can never truly satisfy.” They paused, a brief distortion in the air where their form momentarily solidified. "A clever trap, Prince Belphegor." The ground beneath their feet was paved with polished obsidian, reflecting the amber light in a dizzying display. They passed tables laden with mountains of roasted meats, rivers of glistening wine, and towers of sugared pastries. Servers – spectral beings with frozen smiles – glided silently, replenishing plates with an unsettling efficiency. A group of towering, obese figures, their faces slick with sauce, were locked in a furious game of dice, their bellows of laughter echoing through the cavern. “This is…excessive,” Rory whispered, pulling her hood further over her face. She hated this. She hated the way her stomach clenched, the insistent pull toward the endless bounty. The Heartstone Pendant in her pocket pulsed faintly, a subtle warmth against her skin – a warning. Isolde gently pushed past a table piled with honeycombs the size of small children. “Observe,” she instructed, her eyes fixed on a vast, domed structure in the distance. “The Grand Hall. Where the feasts are held, and where Prince Belphegor presides.” As they approached the Hall, the sounds intensified – the revelry swelled into a discordant symphony. Inside, the sight was breathtaking and horrifying in equal measure. A colossal banquet table stretched as far as the eye could see, laden with every conceivable delicacy. Hundreds of shadowy figures, gaunt and pale, moved with mechanical precision, carving portions of food and offering them to the monstrously obese guests who consumed them with frightening speed. A wave of nausea washed over Rory. The air was thick with the smell of decay mingling with the sweetness of fruit and spice. She noticed a strange, rhythmic chanting emanating from the center of the Hall, a low, droning pulse that seemed to vibrate within her very bones. “The Veil is particularly weak within this space,” Nyx hissed, their voice barely audible above the din. “Focus. We need to find the source of the rift. It’s radiating a discordant energy.” They ventured deeper into the Hall, dodging the frantic movements of the servers and the ravenous appetites of the guests. Rory’s hand tightened around the Fae-Forged Blade, its coldness a sharp contrast to the oppressive warmth of the room. She spotted a small alcove, shielded from the main spectacle by a tapestry depicting a monstrous feast. Within the alcove, a single figure stood apart from the chaos – a young woman, no older than twenty, dressed in shimmering silks, meticulously arranging a platter of iridescent mushrooms. As they approached, the woman looked up, her face pale but serene. “Welcome,” she said, her voice clear and melodic. “I am Lyra. I cater to the Prince’s guests.” “You seem…unaffected,” Rory observed, wary. “Most of these people are consumed by their desires.” Lyra smiled faintly. “Desire is a powerful thing,” she conceded. “But it can also be a prison. I find solace in the preparation. The careful arrangement. The beauty of the creation.” Suddenly, the chanting intensified. The amber light flickered, plunging the Hall into momentary darkness. A tremor shook the ground, and the monstrous figures began to scream in unison. “The Veil is collapsing,” Nyx shouted, pulling Rory behind a massive pillar. “Belphegor is attempting to consolidate his power!” From the center of the hall, a swirling vortex of shadows erupted, pulling everything towards it – food, guests, even the foundations of the building. As they watched in horror, a towering, grotesque figure emerged from the vortex – Prince Belphegor himself, a bloated demon with eyes like burning coals. “Intruders!” Belphegor bellowed, his voice a guttural roar. “You dare trespass in my domain?” Isolde stepped forward, her silver hair shimmering in the flickering light. “Your indulgence is not strength, Prince. It is a weakness.” Belphegor laughed, a sound that chilled Rory to the bone. “A weakness? I am the embodiment of satiety! You cannot comprehend my power!” As he spoke, Rory felt a sharp jolt in her pocket – the Heartstone Pendant pulsed violently, radiating an intense heat. A vision slammed into her mind: a swirling vortex of shadows, a desperate plea for help, and a single, chilling image – a landscape of endless hunger, stretching into an infinite void. “It’s a monitoring point,” she gasped, clutching the pendant. “A rift point. The Veil is being actively reinforced through these feasts.” Nyx moved swiftly, slipping through the shadows and targeting Belphegor with a swift, silent strike. But the Prince merely brushed off the attack, a scornful expression on his face. “You cannot hope to defeat me,” he snarled. “I am the master of this realm!” Rory realized they were trapped, caught in the center of a grotesque spectacle of excess and decay. She raised the Fae-Forged Blade, the moonsilver glowing with an eerie light, and charged into the chaos, determined to disrupt Belphegor’s ritual and sever the connection between Dymas and the mortal realm. The taste of crushed berries and ozone filled her lungs as she prepared to face the Prince of Gluttony.