Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8XDXAWTNW7H8KRFE5C6NP

The air smelled like honeyed wine and something older—something that had been fermenting in the dark for centuries. Aurora Carter exhaled slowly, her breath fogging the cold air just enough to make her fingers twitch. She adjusted the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant beneath her shirt, feeling its faint warmth against her skin. The pendant pulsed once, barely noticeable, as if responding to the shift in the world around her. Nyx moved ahead, their shadowy form flickering like a candle flame in a draft. The Shade didn’t speak, but their presence was a living thing, a whisper of wind against her neck. Aurora followed, her boots crunching on something soft—perhaps moss, perhaps something more. The ground sloped gently downward, the earth rich and dark beneath her feet. To her left, vines coiled around ancient stone pillars, their leaves shimmering with a sickly, golden light. The pillars were carved with symbols she didn’t recognize, spiraling upward like the veins of some great, sleeping beast. Isolde Varga lingered behind, her silver hair catching the dim light as she tilted her head. Her pale lavender eyes gleamed with an intensity that made Aurora’s skin prickle. “The Veil thins here,” Isolde murmured, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves. “But it does not break. Not yet.” She stepped forward, her bare feet leaving no impression in the earth, as if she were walking on water. “The first taste of Hel is always sweet,” she added, though her gaze was fixed on something beyond the grove—something Aurora couldn’t see. Aurora swallowed hard. She had read about Dymas, of course. The realm of gluttony, where the air was thick with the scent of feasts and the weight of excess. But this—this was different. This was *alive*. The vines pulsed faintly, as if breathing. The air hummed with a low, resonant frequency, like the vibration of a cello string plucked too deep. She reached out, hesitantly brushing her fingers against one of the golden leaves. It was warm, almost scorching, and for a second, she thought she saw a flicker of movement within it—something like a face, smiling. A sound cut through the quiet. A chime, soft and melodic, like wind bells in a high mountain pass. It came from ahead, where Nyx had paused near a cluster of trees whose branches twisted into shapes that made her stomach clench. The trees weren’t quite right—too many leaves, too many curves, as if they had been grafted together from different species. Their bark was smooth and silvered, reflecting the amber glow of the sky above. Aurora’s breath caught. The sky. It wasn’t the sky she knew. It was warm amber, thick and heavy, like molten gold poured across the heavens. Stars twinkled down at them, but they weren’t stars. They were eyes. Dozens of them, watching. Waiting. “What is that?” Aurora asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Isolde didn’t answer. She was already moving, her silver hair swirling around her like a living thing. Nyx stepped forward, their shadow stretching long and thin, as if reaching for something. Aurora hesitated, then followed, her pulse hammering in her throat. The closer she got, the more the air seemed to thicken. The scent of wine and honey sharpened, becoming something richer, more intoxicating. Her stomach growled, and she realized with a start that she was *hungry*. Not the usual hunger, the kind that gnawed at her ribs after a long day. This was deeper. This was a craving, a longing that coiled in her gut like a serpent. She forced herself to focus. The trees. They weren’t just trees. They were *growing*. Vines snaked from the ground, wrapping around her ankles, warm and supple. She stumbled back, but the vines only tightened, just enough to steady her. “Don’t touch them,” Nyx’s voice whispered in her mind, though their lips hadn’t moved. Aurora jerked her foot free, her heart pounding. The vines retreated, slinking back into the earth like serpents satisfied. Isolde had reached the center of the grove now, where the trees formed a sort of clearing. And there, at its heart, was a fountain. Not like any fountain Aurora had ever seen. This one was carved from a single piece of stone, its surface smooth and gleaming, like polished obsidian. Water flowed from its center, but it wasn’t water. It was liquid gold, shimmering and thick, bubbling gently as it spilled into a basin below. The scent of it was overwhelming—spiced wine, roasted meats, sweet pastries. Aurora’s mouth watered. She took a step forward, then another. The gold liquid lapped at her toes, warm and clinging. She reached out, dipping her fingers into it. The moment her skin touched the surface, a jolt of pleasure shot up her arm, like electricity and sugar combined. She gasped, pulling her hand back. The gold clung to her fingers, dripping slowly, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. “Careful,” Isolde warned, her voice tight. “The water of Dymas does not give freely. It takes in return.” Aurora licked her lips, tasting the faint metallic sweetness of the gold on her tongue. “What does it take?” Isolde’s eyes darkened. “A taste. A memory. A piece of yourself.” Aurora’s breath hitched. She thought of the last time she had been truly hungry—not for food, but for something else. For Evan, her ex, who had once told her she was too sharp, too clever for her own good. She thought of the way he had looked at her when he said it, like she was something fragile, something he could break. The memory made her skin crawl. She shook her head, forcing it away. Nyx stepped between her and the fountain, their shadow blocking the golden light. “We do not stay,” they said, their voice like wind through dead leaves. “The longer we linger, the more it will ask.” Aurora nodded, her throat tight. She turned away from the fountain, her fingers still sticky with gold. The vines had retreated now, but the air still hummed around her, thick and heavy. She followed Nyx toward the edge of the grove, where the ground sloped downward into a valley. The valley was a riot of color—orchards stretched as far as she could see, their trees heavy with fruit. Apples, pears, figs, grapes—all of them larger than anything she had ever seen, their skins glistening with a sheen that wasn’t quite dew. The scent of them was intoxicating, making her head spin. She reached out, plucking a fig from a low-hanging branch. It was warm to the touch, almost pulsing. She bit into it, and the flavor exploded on her tongue—sweet, rich, with a hint of spice that made her eyes water. She swallowed, then bit into it again, harder this time. The flesh gave way easily, juices running down her chin. She licked them away, her stomach growling louder now. “Stop,” Nyx said, their voice sharp. “You will not leave with an empty stomach, but you will not leave *hungry* either.” Aurora hesitated, then dropped the fig back into the branch. The tree seemed to sigh, its leaves rustling softly. She turned away, her fingers still sticky with juice. The valley stretched before her, endless and beautiful. She could see feasts laid out in the distance, tables groaning under the weight of food, people laughing and drinking, their faces alight with pleasure. The sight made her chest ache. She had never been one for grand feasts, but the idea of being *wanted* there, of being *fed* by it, made her throat tighten. Isolde was watching her, her pale eyes unreadable. “The hunger you feel,” she said, “it is not just for food. It is for *more*. For what you have lost. For what you have never had.” Aurora looked away, her fingers twisting in the chain of the Heartstone Pendant. She thought of her mother’s voice, of her father’s sharp wit, of the way Eva had looked at her when she said, *Come with me, Rory. Let’s get out of here.* She thought of the flat above Silas’ bar, of the quiet nights when she worked deliveries and the only company she had was the hum of the city outside her window. She swallowed hard. “What do we do now?” Isolde smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “We walk. And we remember why we came.” Aurora nodded, her pulse steadying. She followed Nyx toward the edge of the valley, where the ground rose again, leading them back toward the standing stones that marked the boundary of the grove. The air grew cooler as they climbed, the scent of the orchards fading into something cleaner, sharper. The standing stones loomed ahead, their bark smooth and silvered, their leaves whispering in the wind. Aurora reached out, touching one of the leaves. It was cool to the touch, almost cold. She pulled her hand back, her fingers tingling. The pendant at her throat pulsed once, twice, then fell silent. Nyx turned to her, their shadow flickering like a candle in the wind. “The Veil is thinning,” they said. “But it does not break. Not yet.” Aurora exhaled, her breath steadying. She looked back at the valley, at the endless orchards and the feasts beyond. She thought of the gold water, of the figs that had tasted like heaven. She thought of the hunger that still gnawed at her, deeper than her stomach. She nodded. “Then we go.” And with that, they stepped through the standing stones, back into the world beyond.