AI Rory stepped through the archway, the damp air clinging to her like a shroud. Rain hadn’t fallen in weeks, yet this place smelled of it – wet stone and something else, something ancient and sickly sweet. Silas’ bar, normally a haven of smoky beer and disgruntled regulars, had dissolved behind her, replaced by a tunnel carved from obsidian that pulsed with a faint, internal light. Beside her, Nyx shifted, their shadow deepening, almost solidifying against the slick walls.
“Definitely Hel,” Nyx murmured, their voice a rustle of dry leaves. “And not the particularly pleasant kind.”
Isolde moved ahead, her silver hair gleaming in the arch’s strange luminescence. She didn’t speak, simply continued deeper into the tunnel, her footsteps silent, leaving no trace on the obsidian. Rory followed, clutching the Heartstone Pendant around her neck. It warmed against her skin, a small, insistent pulse against the chilling air.
The tunnel opened abruptly into a vast cavern. Amber light, not from any discernible source, saturated the space, casting elongated, distorted shadows. Before them stretched a landscape unlike anything Rory had ever imagined. Rolling hills of bruised purple velvet undulated beneath a sky that swirled with shades of ochre and crimson. Crystalline trees, their branches laden with glowing, amber fruit, dotted the landscape. A sluggish river, the color of arterial blood, snaked through the valley, reflecting the bizarre sky.
“By the Old Gods,” Isolde finally said, her voice a low, measured cadence. “Dymas.”
The air thrummed with a palpable decadence, a thick, cloying sweetness that coated Rory’s tongue. It was the scent of ripe fruit overripe to the point of decay, of crushed spices mingled with something dark and ferrous. A low, rhythmic chanting resonated through the cavern, seemingly emanating from the hills themselves.
“What is that?” Rory asked, her hand instinctively moving to the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip. The cold metal seemed to mock the warmth of the Heartstone.
Nyx tilted their head, their violet eyes scanning the horizon. “Celebration. A harvest of souls, perhaps. Prince Belphegor’s kind of party.”
They began to walk, the ground yielding softly beneath their feet, like walking on a bed of moss. The crystalline trees emitted a subtle hum, a high-pitched resonance that vibrated in Rory’s teeth. As they moved further, the chanting grew louder, punctuated by the clatter of what sounded like metallic instruments and boisterous, guttural laughter.
“It’s… overwhelming,” Rory admitted, her brow furrowed . “I feel… lighter. Like something’s pulling at me.”
Isolde stopped abruptly, raising a slender hand. “The Veil is thin here. We tread carefully .” She gestured towards a towering structure in the distance – a palace built from interlocking cubes of obsidian, its surface shimmering with trapped light. “That is Prince Belphegor’s seat. We are not invited.”
As they approached the palace, the sounds intensified. They saw figures moving within the obsidian walls - grotesque, elongated shapes draped in shimmering silks, their faces obscured by elaborate masks. Some carried enormous goblets overflowing with viscous, iridescent liquids. Others engaged in what appeared to be ritualistic dances around towering braziers filled with smoke that smelled of burnt sugar.
“Look,” Nyx hissed, pointing to a cluster of figures gathered around a massive table laden with exotic delicacies. “They’re *consuming * something. Not just eating it. They’re… absorbing it.”
On the table lay a mosaic of shimmering, golden flesh, sculpted into grotesque shapes and adorned with jewels. Two of the figures were kneeling , their mouths open wide, feeding directly from the flesh, their bodies visibly swelling with each bite.
Rory’s stomach churned . The casual brutality, the sheer excess, was horrifying. She felt a strange pressure building in her chest, a pull towards the feast, a desire to partake in the oblivion offered by the indulgence.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice strained . She instinctively clutched the Heartstone pendant tighter, drawing on its warmth , battling the unnatural urge.
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the cavern, rich and resonant, laced with amusement. “Welcome, little voyagers. We’ve been expecting you.”
They turned to see a figure emerge from the palace gates – a towering being of living shadow, radiating an unsettling warmth . It was Nyx, but… older, darker, more substantial. He wore a crown of polished obsidian and carried a staff topped with a pulsing, crimson stone.
“You should not be here,” Nyx said, their voice a chilling whisper . “Dymas offers no hospitality to those who wander from its designated paths.”
“And yet, here you are,” Nyx—this older, darker version—responded, a flicker of something akin to sadness in their violet eyes . “Fate, perhaps? Or a bargain struck long ago?”
“I don’t appreciate necromantic company,” Rory said, her hand tightening on the blade . The Fae-Forged Blade pulsed with a faint, icy light, a stark contrast to the oppressive warmth of Dymas.
“You carry a gift,” the shadow-being said , gesturing towards the Heartstone Pendant. “A remnant of a forgotten price. It draws you here, doesn't it?”
As he spoke, the ground beneath them trembled . The crystalline trees began to sway violently, their amber fruit raining down in a shower of sparks. The chanting intensified, coalescing into a cacophony of voices. The figures at the feast turned, their masked faces suddenly revealing expressions of brutal glee.
“We feast on memories,” the shadow-being continued, a cruel smile playing on their lips . “And your memories are particularly… potent.”
Nyx moved with impossible speed, intercepting a group of approaching figures, their shadow enveloping them in a chilling embrace. They dissolved into wisps of darkness, disappearing without a trace.
“You will not interfere,” Rory warned, but the shadow-being merely laughed .
“Interference is a form of sustenance, little warrior. Especially when it’s flavored with defiance.”
Isolde stepped forward, her gaze piercing. “The Veil weakens when this place is disturbed. We must leave. Now.”
A wave of nausea washed over Rory, the pull towards the feast intensifying. She felt her thoughts beginning to unravel , fragmented memories flashing before her eyes—a childhood birthday party, a first kiss, a painful argument with Evan. The Heartstone pulsed frantically, trying to shield her, but it was not enough.
“The pendant… it’s struggling,” she gasped, her grip weakening .
Nyx moved beside her, their hand brushing against hers. A jolt of cold energy surged through Rory, momentarily pushing back the encroaching darkness. “Focus,” Nyx urged. “On the blade. On the reality you know.”
She forced herself to grip the Fae-Forged Blade tightly , channeling her will, her determination, into the cold metal. The blade flared with icy light, pushing back the oppressive warmth , sealing off a small pocket of reality around them.
They retreated, fleeing back towards the tunnel, the echoes of Dymas’s decadent revelry pursuing them. As they ran, Rory caught a glimpse of the shadow-being, watching them with amusement, their violet eyes burning with an unsettling intelligence.
“You cannot escape,” the being said, their voice a mournful whisper . “Dymas always claims what it is owed.”