AI Rory's Fae-forged blade sliced the Veil's shimmer like silk underwater. The tear yawned wide, exhaling a gust thick with cinnamon and roast meat. She plunged through first, boots squelching into loamy soil that clung like warm tar.
Nyx flowed in behind, their shadowy form rippling as solid edges frayed. Isolde glided last, silver hair trailing without stirring the air, her pale lavender eyes scanning the haze.
Vines snaked across the ground, heavy with fruits the size of fists—plump, bruise-purple orbs that wept amber nectar when brushed. Rory crouched, severed one with her dagger. Juice burst across her palm, sticky and scalding. She licked a drop. Honey laced with iron, sharp enough to sting her throat.
"Careful," Nyx whispered, voice threading through the leaves like distant wind. "Dymas devours the hasty."
Rory wiped her hand on her jeans. The pendant at her throat throbbed , crimson glow pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. She pressed forward, machete-ing through foliage denser than any jungle. Thorns pricked her skin but drew no blood, only a numb itch that spread up her arm.
The grove thinned. Arches of bone-white marble loomed , carved with writhing figures mid-feast—mouths agape, hands clutching platters. Beyond stretched vineyards in endless rows, grapes swelling to softball girth under amber skies. Air hummed with low moans, not wind but throats gorging unseen .
Isolde halted at a marble basin, dipped her fingers into pooled wine the colour of congealed blood. She lifted them, droplets hovering before splashing back.
"Excess fills the cup," she murmured, "yet thirst remains the shadow's friend."
Rory snorted, hefted a cluster of grapes. One split in her grip, seeds rattling like dice. She spat the pulp. Sweetness flooded her mouth, then curdled to ash. Her stomach clenched, demanding more.
Nyx solidified beside a trellis, violet eyes flickering. Tendrils of shadow probed the vines, recoiling from pulses of heat beneath.
"Hear that?" Their whisper sharpened .
Laughter bubbled ahead, wet and choking. The group crested a hillock. Below sprawled a banquet hall without walls—tables groaned under pyramids of glistening meats, pastries veined with gold leaf, fruits carved into obscene shapes. Helbound souls in tattered aprons darted between, ladling sauces that steamed and sang. One chef, face bloated like rising dough, force-fed a patron whose belly distended with each swallow.
Rory's boots crunched gravel as she descended. The gravel shifted—petrified crumbs from some greater feast. A soul spotted them, waved a dripping ladle.
"Fresh mouths! Come, taste the Prince's vintage. Belphegor's own recipe—eternal satiation!"
Isolde's lips curved, but her eyes stayed flat.
"Satiation promises chains," she said, "wrapped in velvet ribbons."
The chef blinked, cheeks quivering. He thrust a goblet forward. Wine sloshed, flecked with what looked like eyes . Rory sidestepped, nostrils flaring at the reek of overripe flesh masked by cloves.
Nyx melted partially, skirting the table. Their hand brushed a roast fowl, feathers still twitching. "These birds... they dream of flight no more."
Rory snatched a pear from a stack, bit deep. Flesh yielded like butter, flooding her with visions—orchards blooming in reverse, roots sucking fruit back into earth. She dropped it, juice searing her chin. Hunger gnawed harder now, a hollow ache below her ribs.
"Keep moving," she said. "Pendant's pulling north."
They wove through the feast. Patrons slumped in chairs, skin stretched translucent over writhing innards. One woman pawed at a servant, lips smeared crimson.
"More... the marrow melts so slow..."
Servants complied, splitting bones with cleavers that rang like bells. Rory's scar itched on her wrist, old wound flaring as if freshly torn.
The hall gave way to orchards. Trees towered, branches bowed under fruits pulsing with inner light—lemons veined blue, apples striped in flame. Wind carried sizzles from distant kitchens, where flames roared without fuel. Rory plucked a low-hanging fig, split it open. Inside writhed tiny maggots, fat and golden, devouring each other in ecstatic loops.
"Gluttony's children," Nyx hissed. "Born to consume, never sated."
Isolde knelt by a stream, water thick as syrup, fish gasping on banks with bellies split from gluttony. She trailed fingers through it, ripples forming faces that mouthed silent pleas.
"The river drinks itself," she intoned, "and wonders why it runs dry."
Rory gripped her pendant. Heat built, matching the ambient warmth that slicked her skin. Sweat beaded, tasting of salt and regret when she wiped it away. Deeper in, paths forked into labyrinthine gardens. Hedges rustled, parting to reveal gazebos of living candy—walls spun sugar, thrones of marzipan crumbling under spectral weights.
A competition unfolded in a sunken amphitheatre. Chefs hurled platters skyward; dishes arced, fused mid-air into chimeric beasts—roast boars with peacock tails, pies birthing live eels. Spectators cheered, mouths unhinging to swallow whole.
Rory paused at the edge, pulse racing . The air thickened here, pressing lungs like a full stomach . Nyx's form wavered , shadows thinning against the pervasive glow.
"Too bright," they murmured. "Shadows starve in excess."
Isolde pointed to a central podium, where a figure lounged—Prince Belphegor himself, or his echo . Corpulent form draped in vines heavy with jewels, fingers drumming a belly that growled like thunder.
He beckoned a winner forward, fed him a sliver of something iridescent. The chef swelled, eyes glazing in rapture, then burst in a spray of confetti-flavoured gore.
Laughter erupted anew.
Rory backed away, dagger drawn. The blade hummed cold, luminescent edge cutting the humid air. "Not here. Pendant's hotter—portal ahead?"
Nyx nodded, shadows coiling tight. "Through the orchard's heart. But listen."
A new sound layered the din—slurping, closer. Vines behind them quivered , fruits splitting to reveal maws lined with teeth. Roots erupted, coiling like serpents toward their feet.
Isolde rose smooth, no footprints scarring the soil.
"The garden hungers now," she said. "What it plants, it reaps in kind."
Rory slashed the nearest vine. Moonsilver bit deep, sap hissing like acid. The plant shrieked, a chorus of tiny voices. More roots surged, wrapping her ankle, tugging with wet insistence.
Nyx lashed out, shadows solidifying into blades that sheared through. Isolde hummed a note, wildflowers blooming sudden underfoot—thorny blooms that snared the tendrils.
They bolted, pendant blazing like a coal. Orchards blurred, fruits pelting like hail, bursting on impact to release swarms of nectar-dripping insects. Rory's lungs burned, each breath laden with spice that clawed her throat.
The path narrowed to a grotto, walls veined with glowing fungi that pulsed invitations. Steam vented from cracks, carrying moans of ecstasy twisted into pain.
"There." Rory jabbed her blade at a archway ahead, carved with feasting demons. The pendant scorched her skin now, pointing straight.
But the ground heaved. Massive roots breached soil, forming a cage around them. From the centre rose a bulbous mass— a heart-fruit the size of a man, skin splitting to reveal rows of grinding teeth.
Nyx solidified fully, violet eyes blazing.
"Belphegor sends greetings."
Isolde's voice cut sharp amid the rumble.
"The Prince offers a seat at his table. Will you dine, or become the course?"
Rory lunged, blade plunging deep. The heart-fruit convulsed, spewing acidic pulp that ate at her sleeve. Roots tightened, cracking ribs with pressure.
Then a shadow detached from the walls—not Nyx. A deeper darkness coalesced, eyes like pits, voice booming through the earth.
"Intruders taste finest unprepared."