Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9B53A1VJ086A4SJNN0HDD

Aurora's boots sank into the mossy earth of Richmond Park, the kind of soft give that made every step feel like a secret shared with the ground. The air hung heavy with the scent of wildflowers—lavender and honeysuckle twisting together in a perfume that clung to her skin. She glanced at the ancient oaks ahead, their trunks twisted like gnarled fingers marking the boundary of something unseen. Isolde moved ahead with that effortless glide, her silver hair catching the late afternoon light like threads of moonlight spilled too early. No footprints trailed her, just the faint whisper of fabric against leaves. Nyx lingered at Rory's side, a ripple in the shadows cast by the oaks. In their solid form, they stood tall, humanoid but blurred at the edges, like smoke given reluctant shape. Their violet eyes flickered, faint glows in the dimming light. "The Veil thins here," Nyx murmured, voice a breeze through cracked stone. "I feel it pulling, like threads unraveling." Rory nodded, her fingers brushing the Heartstone Pendant at her throat. The silver chain was cool against her collarbone, but the crimson gem pulsed warm now, a steady throb that matched her heartbeat. She'd found it slipped into her coat pocket weeks ago, no note, no sender—just this thumb-sized stone that hummed near places it shouldn't. Like now. Her other hand rested on the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade at her belt, its moonsilver chill seeping through her jacket. Isolde's gift, she'd called it, handed over with a riddle about cutting shadows before they swallowed the light. They'd come here on Isolde's insistence, the half-fae seer summoning Rory from her flat above Silas's bar with a cryptic missive: *The glutton's vine bears fruit that poisons the hand that plucks. Seek the amber sky, or the shadow devours the dawn.* Rory had pieced it together—Hel, the realms beyond the Veil, and something about the pendant's origin in Dymas. Nyx had tagged along uninvited, slipping from the shadows of her delivery route like a stray cat with too many secrets. Isolde, ever the oracle, led without explanation. The oaks loomed closer, their bark etched with runes that shimmered faintly, visible only when Rory squinted. The air grew thicker, charged, like the moments before a storm. A faint distortion rippled ahead—a shimmering haze, the Veil itself, bending light into prisms that danced across the wildflowers. Isolde raised a hand, her pale lavender eyes distant, as if listening to whispers no one else could hear. "Step through the mirror that reflects no face," she intoned, her voice a melody laced with thorns. "For the boundary bends to those who hunger for truth." Rory swallowed, her throat dry. Hunger. The word echoed oddly, stirring something uneasy in her gut. She wasn't sure what they sought in Hel—answers about the pendant, maybe, or why shadows had started following her deliveries—but stepping into another realm felt like jumping off a cliff without checking the drop. Nyx's form flickered, incorporeal for a heartbeat, then solidified with a nod. "I'll scout the edges. Shadows travel easier." With a deep breath, Rory followed Isolde into the haze. The world tilted, a rush of cold wind whipping her hair, carrying scents of rain and something sweeter, like overripe fruit. Pressure built in her ears, then released with a pop. She stumbled out the other side, boots crunching on gravel that wasn't moss anymore. The sky above burned warm amber, not the gray dusk of Richmond Park, but a perpetual twilight gilded with honeyed light. Vines heavy with clusters of grapes—plump, iridescent orbs in shades of violet and gold—draped from trellises that stretched endlessly into the distance. Orchards flanked them, trees laden with fruits she'd never seen: globes like rubies pulsing with inner light, pods that hummed softly when the breeze stirred them. The air was alive with aromas—roasting meats slick with honey, breads baking in unseen ovens, spices that made her mouth water despite the knot of caution in her chest. "What the hell," Rory breathed, steadying herself against a vine post. The wood was warm, almost feverish, and her fingers came away sticky with sap that smelled of caramelized sugar. Isolde smiled faintly, her ethereal face unmarred by the transition. "Dymas welcomes the wanderer with open arms and fuller plates. But arms can crush as easily as they embrace." Nyx coalesced from a nearby shadow cast by a gnarled fruit tree, their form sharpening. "It's... indulgent. Like the mortal world, but without restraint." They tilted their head, violet eyes scanning the horizon. "No sun, yet endless warmth. The shadows here are thick, greedy. They cling." Rory pushed forward, the gravel path winding between vineyards that seemed to shift subtly, rows realigning as if the land itself breathed. Her heart raced, a mix of awe and the prickling unease of being watched. Distant laughter echoed—boisterous, unending—mingled with the clink of goblets and the sizzle of fat on open flames. As they crested a low hill, the source revealed itself: a grand pavilion sprawled across a meadow, tables groaning under feasts that defied reason. Helbound souls—translucent figures with eyes too bright—tended massive roasts, their hands blurring as they basted and carved. Chefs in aprons stained with exotic juices competed nearby, flames leaping from iron grills to roast beasts Rory couldn't name: winged creatures with scales like jewels, serpents coiled in pastries flaky as autumn leaves. One soul, a burly man with a beard braided in vines, spotted them and waved a ladle dripping crimson sauce. "Fresh arrivals! Come, taste the nectar of Belphegor's own vine. It fills the belly and stirs the soul!" Rory's stomach growled traitorously, the scents weaving through her like a spell. She shook her head, gripping the pendant tighter. It pulsed hotter now, a beacon in this sea of temptation. "We're not here to eat. We're... looking for something." Isolde's laughter tinkled like wind chimes. "All seek in Dymas, but few find without savoring the path. The fruit whispers secrets to empty hands." Nyx slipped ahead, incorporeal, melting into the shadow of a banquet table. They reemerged moments later, form solid but tense. "These souls—they're contracted, bound by gluttony. I sense the prince's mark on them, a web of indulgence that traps. Deeper in, the gardens grow wilder. Something ancient stirs there." The group pressed on, leaving the pavilion's revelry behind. The path narrowed, vines encroaching like curious fingers, brushing Rory's arms with leaves that rustled secrets in a language of silk and spice. The amber sky deepened, casting long shadows that writhed unnaturally, as if alive. Rory's skin prickled; the warmth was cloying now, pressing in like a too-tight embrace. Sweat beaded on her forehead, not from exertion but from the air itself, heavy with the promise of excess. They entered the orchards proper, trees towering with branches sagging under their bounty. Fruits dangled low, inviting plucks—pears that shimmered like opals, berries clusters that sang faint melodies when squeezed. Rory's hand hovered near one, drawn by the pulse that matched her pendant's. Discovery bloomed in her chest: the gem's crimson glow intensified, syncing with the fruit's inner light. "This... it's connected. The pendant came from here." Isolde nodded, trailing a finger along a leaf that unfurled at her touch, blooming instantly with tiny star-shaped flowers. "The heart of gluttony beats in all things ripe. But ripeness can rot unseen." Unease coiled tighter as they delved deeper. The laughter from the pavilion faded, replaced by a low hum, like the land digesting its feasts. Nyx's form flickered erratically, shadows pulling at them like quicksand. "It's feeding," they whispered, voice strained. "The realm drinks from desire. I feel it tugging at my edges—old hungers from Aldric's time." Rory glanced back, but the path behind had vanished, swallowed by a wall of thorny brambles heavy with blackberries that wept juice like blood. Her pulse quickened. "We're not lost. Just... turned around." She drew the Fae-Forged Blade, its cold bite grounding her. The moonsilver gleamed faintly, even under the amber sky, humming against wards she couldn't see but felt—like invisible nets strung between trees. A discovery waited in a clearing ahead: a fountain carved from obsidian, bubbling not water but a golden elixir that steamed with aromas of mulled wine and fresh-baked bread. Marble statues ringed it—figures in eternal feast, mouths open in ecstasy, hands outstretched. One, a woman with eyes like the pendant's gem, held a cluster of grapes that pulsed warmly. Rory approached, the blade's chill countering the fountain's heat. As she touched the statue's offering, visions flickered: a ritual in shadowed halls, a benefactor's cloaked hand slipping the pendant into a pocket on Earth. But why? The image shattered as a tremor shook the ground, fruits tumbling from branches in a cascade of scents that overwhelmed. Wonder warred with dread. This place was a dream of abundance, every sense feasted upon—sights of endless color, sounds of bubbling abundance, the feel of warmth that promised to melt away worries. Yet unease gnawed: the souls in the pavilion moved with hollow eyes, trapped in cycles of craving. What if they lingered too long? Rory's scar on her wrist itched, a reminder of childhood pains she'd fled, not drowned in excess. Isolde knelt by the fountain, cupping elixir in her palms. It didn't wet her skin. "The prince's gift quenches, but the thirst returns threefold. Seek the heartvine beyond the feast fires, where indulgence roots deepest." Nyx pulled Rory back as vines slithered closer, tips probing like tongues. "We move. The shadows here remember too much—they whisper of bindings." They fled the clearing, the path reforming underfoot, leading toward distant spires wreathed in smoke from unseen kitchens. The air grew thicker, laced with the tang of overripe decay beneath the sweetness. Rory's breaths came shallow, the pendant burning against her chest now, guiding them deeper into Dymas's heart. Wonder at the alien beauty—these realms of Hel, forbidden and intoxicating—mingled with the sharp edge of fear. What secrets did this gluttonous paradise guard, and at what cost would they uncover them? As they crested another rise, the true depth unfolded: vast gardens terraced into hills, chefs' competitions raging below like battles of flavor. Flames roared, souls cheered, and in the center, a colossal tree loomed—the heartvine, perhaps—its trunk veined with glowing sap, fruits the size of her head dangling like temptations incarnate. Rory gripped the blade tighter, stepping forward. The exploration had only begun, but already Dymas clawed at her resolve, wondrous and perilous in equal measure.