Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9PYYBR4HPMSDMGYDJZ2B8

Rory adjusted the strap of her Golden Empress delivery bag over her shoulder, leaning against a rain-slicked alley wall behind the restaurant. She rubbed the crescent scar on her left wrist—an old habit when tension coiled in her gut—before her fingers brushed the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant tucked under her uniform shirt. The crimson gem pulsed, warm enough to seep through the fabric, a thrumming that matched the skip of her heartbeat. A shadow stretched across the wet concrete, and she looked up to find Nyx solidified beside her, their 6’2” form a humanoid silhouette of living darkness, faintly glowing violet eyes cutting through the dim alley light. A whisper carried on the wind, sharp as a shard of ice. The Veil’s rift bleeds here. Winter solstice’s weight frays its threads. Rory’s head snapped to the alley mouth. Isolde stood there, her silver waist-length hair catching the faint streetlamp glow, pale lavender eyes fixed on the pendant at Rory’s throat. She took three steps forward, and Rory’s gaze darted to the concrete—no footprints marred the wet surface, not even a smudge. Isolde’s cold, ethereal fingers tapped the pendant through Rory’s shirt, and the gem’s pulse flared. Crimson stone’s pulse weaves a path to a feast of unbroken chains. The full plate gnaws the empty soul. Rory fumbled for her phone in her bag, checking the time—1:47 PM, then 3:12 AM, then 1:47 PM again. She stuffed the phone back, remembering Isolde’s grove’s time shifts, how an hour inside could melt into minutes outside. Nyx shifted to incorporeal form, slipping through the faint shimmering distortion in the alley wall that marked the Veil’s rift. Rory hesitated for a split second, then grabbed the Fae-Forged Blade hidden in her delivery bag—its moonsilver hilt cold enough to make her flinch—and stepped through the rift. Isolde followed, gliding through without breaking stride. The amber sky of Dymas hit Rory like a wave. She gasped, yanking her uniform jacket open to let the warm, scented air wrap around her. Spices she couldn’t name—burnt sugar, cardamom, fermented fruit—clung to every breath. Sprawling vineyards stretched to the horizon, their rows of vines heavy with fruits that bore iridescent blue and gold rinds, glowing faintly under the amber sun. A distant clink of goblets drifted on the wind, mixed with the low murmur of voices that sounded both sated and hollow. What is this place? The pendant’s never pulsed this hard before. Nyx solidified beside her again, their form flickering slightly as they scanned the vineyards. They gestured to a group of figures bending over the vines, their backs hunched, wrists marked with faint iron cuffs that glowed a dull gray. Rory squinted—their faces looked familiar, like people she’d passed on London’s streets: a man in a tattered suit she’d delivered dumplings to last week, a woman with a faded tattoo on her neck who’d tipped her a pound for a late-night order. They’re helbound souls. Contracted from Earth’s desperate. Their wills drain into the vines, feed the feasts that never end. Rory’s jaw tightened. She stepped toward the vineyards, her delivery boots crunching on a bed of exotic wildflowers that bloomed under the amber sun—something she’d only seen in Isolde’s grove before. Isolde glided past her, plucking a fruit from a vine; its juice dripped onto her palm, glowing crimson like the Heartstone Pendant. She held the fruit out to Rory, pale lavender eyes unblinking. The fruit’s sweet bite tastes of what you crave. The bitter aftertaste tastes of what you owe. No lie lingers, but the truth hides in the crumbs. Rory hesitated, then took the fruit—its rind was smooth, warmer than she expected. She took a small bite, and sugar burst across her tongue, so intense it made her eyes water. Then the bitter hit, sharp as Evan’s verbal lashings, a taste of trapped choices and unspoken regrets. She spat the remainder into her palm, watching the crimson juice seep into her skin. The Heartstone Pendant pulsed faster, its warmth spreading up her neck to her cheek. It’s leading us toward that mansion. Rory pointed to a grand stone mansion in the distance, its spires piercing the amber sky, smoke curling from its chimneys. A long table stretched across its lawn, loaded with platters of exotic meats, glowing fruits, and goblets of amber liquid that looked like spiced wine. Figures sat around the table, laughing loudly, but their laughter sounded hollow, like a recording played too many times. Nyx’s form flickered again, and Rory noticed a faint pull at their shadow—they were a Shade trapped between realms, and Dymas’s Hel energy tugged at their core. Belphegor’s palace. He hosts culinary competitions here—helbound souls cook for his amusement, their rewards a single day of temporary freedom that never comes. Rory grabbed the Fae-Forged Blade from her bag, its slender moonsilver form faintly luminescent even under the amber sun. She tightened her grip, the crescent scar on her left wrist throbbing in time with the pendant’s pulse. Isolde glided to the mansion’s edge, her silver hair catching the light from the goblets, and turned to face Rory and Nyx. The portal hides in the spire’s shadow. The key is the feast’s empty plate. Rory stepped closer to the vineyards, her boots crunching on a fallen iridescent fruit, its rind splitting to reveal a pulp that glowed like liquid fire. She spotted a helbound soul—a teenager she’d delivered bubble tea to last month, his face gaunt, his eyes empty—glance up at her. A flicker of recognition crossed his face before an iron cuff on his wrist glowed, and he bowed his head again, returning to plucking grapes from the vine. Why are they looking at me? Do they see the pendant? Nyx shifted to incorporeal form, slipping between the vines to the teenager’s side. They whispered something in the boy’s ear, and the boy’s shoulders tensed for a split second before the cuff’s glow flared again. Nyx solidified beside Rory, their violet eyes dimmer than before. They feel the Heartstone’s Dymasian origin. It’s a beacon to the trapped—hope and a noose, all in one. Rory’s breath caught. She looked back at the mansion, where the laughter grew louder, more forced. The spices in the air became cloying, sticking to her throat, making her cough. She adjusted her delivery bag, feeling the weight of the leftover dumplings inside—normal, mundane, a link to her life in London, to Yu-Fei’s Golden Empress, to the flat above Silas’ bar. Isolde glided past her, heading toward the mansion’s front doors, and Rory noticed that the wildflowers at Isolde’s feet bloomed brighter, even in Dymas’s alien soil. The feast’s call is a trap for the curious. The empty soul’s hunger is its key. Rory glanced at Nyx, who nodded once, their form flickering with resolve. She tightened her grip on the Fae-Forged Blade, the moonsilver’s cold cutting through the warm air, and followed Isolde toward the mansion’s front doors. The Heartstone Pendant pulsed faster, its warmth seeping into her bones, and she could hear the faint hum of the Hel portal in the spire’s shadow, a sound that matched the thrumming of her own heartbeat. She stepped onto the mansion’s marble steps, her boots clicking against the stone, and paused for a split second to glance back at the vineyards—where the helbound souls continued their work, their hollow eyes fixed on the ground, their iron cuffs glowing faintly under the amber sun.