AI The air smelled wrong the moment they stepped through the standing stones.
Rory Carter exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the silver chain of the Heartstone pendant tucked beneath her jacket. The pendant’s faint pulse had been steady all afternoon, but now it thrummed against her collarbone, warm as a living thing. She glanced at Nyx, who stood just ahead, their shadowy form rippling like oil on water. They didn’t need to speak—Rory already knew what she’d see if she looked.
And she did.
The world had split open.
The grove wasn’t just a grove anymore. The ancient oaks stretched upward, their bark black as polished onyx, their branches twisting into impossible spirals. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible hues—petals the color of dried blood, leaves the shade of twilight. The light here was wrong, too, diffused and golden, as if the sun itself had been filtered through stained glass. Rory’s breath fogged in the unnatural chill , though no wind stirred the leaves.
Isolde moved ahead, her silver hair catching the strange light like spun moonlight. She didn’t walk so much as glide, her bare feet leaving no impression in the damp earth. Rory had seen that before—the way the Seer left no mark, no trace. Like she wasn’t quite of this world .
“Breathe,” Nyx murmured, their voice a whisper carried on a sigh. “It’s only air.”
Rory did, and the scent hit her again—sweet, cloying, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. Her stomach twisted. *Dymas.* The name flickered in her mind, unbidden. She’d heard whispers of it in Silas’ bar, back when she still thought the stories were just myths. Now she knew better.
Nyx stepped forward, their shadow stretching unnaturally long, as if the light here bent to their will. Rory followed, her boots sinking slightly into the spongy earth. The ground beneath her feet felt alive, pulsing faintly, like a slow heartbeat. She crouched, brushing her fingers against the moss. It wasn’t damp. It was *warm.*
“Careful,” Isolde called from deeper in the grove. Her voice echoed, though there was no cavern, no hollow to carry it. “The grove remembers.”
Rory’s pulse spiked. *Remembers.* Like it had seen others before them.
She stood, wiping her hands on her jeans. The pendant grew warmer, pressing insistently against her skin. She tugged it free, turning it in her palm. The crimson gem pulsed once, twice—then stilled. But the warmth lingered, seeping into her fingers.
Nyx was already moving ahead, their form flickering at the edges like a candle flame. Rory hurried after them, her breath coming faster. The trees here were thicker, their trunks wide enough to wrap her arms around. Vines coiled around them like serpents, their leaves shimmering with a faint, iridescent sheen. She reached out, hesitating before brushing her fingers against one. It recoiled, slithering away from her touch.
“Don’t,” Isolde warned, though her tone wasn’t unkind . “Not all things here are friendly.”
Rory jerked her hand back. “What *is * this place?”
Isolde turned, her lavender eyes unreadable . “A door.”
A door. Of course. That was what the grove was—a threshold, a crack in the world. And they were standing in the middle of it.
Nyx had stopped ahead, their silhouette frozen. Rory nearly collided with them as she skidded to a halt. The air here was thicker, heavier, like breathing through wet wool. The trees parted ahead, revealing a clearing—and in the center of it, a feast.
Tables groaned under the weight of platters piled high with food—roasted meats glistening with fat, fruits so ripe they wept juice, breads still steaming. The scent was intoxicating, making Rory’s mouth water. Her stomach growled, betraying her. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but this wasn’t hunger. This was *need.*
She took a step forward—
“Don’t eat,” Nyx said, their voice sharp .
Rory froze. “What?”
“Any of it.” Nyx’s shadow deepened, their form solidifying like ink on parchment . “This isn’t food. It’s a trap.”
Rory swallowed. The feast shimmered , the colors too bright, too *real.* She could almost taste it—the crispness of the bread, the tang of the meat, the sweetness of the fruit. Her fingers twitched.
Isolde stepped between them, her presence like a cool hand on Rory’s arm. “The grove feeds on desire ,” she said. “And desire is a hungry thing.”
Rory dragged her gaze away from the feast. The tables were empty now, the platters bare. The illusion had vanished as quickly as it had come. She exhaled, her hands shaking.
Nyx turned to Isolde. “How much longer until we’re through ?”
The Seer tilted her head, listening to something Rory couldn’t hear. “The Veil weakens at the heart of the grove. But we must move quickly .” She gestured toward the center of the clearing, where the trees thinned into a path of smooth, white stones. No moss grew there. No vines coiled around them. They were unnatural, too perfect , like something carved by hands that had never known fatigue.
Rory hesitated. “What’s on the other side?”
Isolde’s lips curved, just slightly . “Dymas.”
The name settled over her like a shroud. She’d heard the stories—whispers in back alleys, murmurs in pubs where the ale was cheap and the patrons were desperate. A realm of excess, where the sinful were fed until they burst. Where the air tasted like decadence and the earth was soft with indulgence.
And they were walking into it.
Nyx moved first, their shadow stretching ahead like a warning. Rory followed, her boots crunching on the white stones. The pendant at her throat grew warmer, its pulse steady now, like a second heartbeat. She touched it again, her fingers tracing the silver chain.
The path sloped downward, the air growing thicker, heavier. The scent of the feast lingered, clinging to her skin like sweat. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips.
Ahead, the trees parted again, revealing a vast expanse of vineyards. Rows upon rows of grapes stretched into the distance, their leaves a deep, rich green. The vines were lush, overgrown, as if they had been tended by hands that never tired. The air hummed with the scent of fermentation, of wine left too long in the sun.
And then she saw them.
Figures.
Not people. Not exactly. Their forms were blurred at the edges, their movements too fluid, too *wrong.* They wore fine clothes, their postures relaxed, their faces turned toward the sky as if in worship. One raised a glass, the liquid inside catching the light like fire. Another laughed, the sound rich and deep, like the tolling of a bell.
Rory’s breath hitched.
A demon.
Not just any demon—a *glutton.* One of the helbound, their bodies swollen with excess, their eyes hollow with the weight of their sin. She’d seen them before, in the underbelly of London, where the desperate traded their souls for a meal, for a moment’s escape from hunger.
But these weren’t beggars. These were *lords.*
Nyx’s shadow deepened, their form solidifying into something more substantial. “Stay close,” they murmured.
Isolde didn’t move. She stood at the edge of the vineyard, her silver hair catching the light like a beacon . “They know we’re here.”
Rory’s pulse spiked. “How?”
The Seer’s lips curved. “Because they *want * us to.”
A figure detached from the group, drifting toward them like smoke given form. He was tall, his frame broad, his clothes fine but rumpled, as if he had just risen from a long sleep. His face was handsome in a way that made Rory’s skin crawl—too smooth, too perfect , like a mask worn over something far less pleasant.
“Ah,” he said, his voice a purr . “Visitors.”
Rory’s fingers closed around the hilt of the Fae blade at her belt. The metal was cold, familiar . Isolde had given it to her with a warning: *Use it only when you must.*
The demon tilted his head, his gaze flicking to the pendant at her throat. “A Heartstone,” he murmured. “How… *interesting.*”
Rory didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice.
The demon smiled, his teeth too white, too sharp. “Prince Belphegor,” he said, bowing with exaggerated grace. “Ruler of this humble domain. And you are?”
Nyx stepped forward, their shadow stretching between them like a barrier. “We’re not here to stay.”
Belphegor’s smile didn’t waver. “No? Then what brings you to Dymas?”
Isolde spoke before Rory could. “We seek passage.”
The prince’s eyes gleamed. “Passage? To where, dear Seer?”
“Through.”
A beat of silence . Then Belphegor laughed, the sound rich and deep, like the clink of crystal glasses. “Through?” He shook his head. “No one passes *through * Dymas. Not without invitation.”
Rory’s grip tightened on the blade. “We don’t need an invitation.”
Belphegor’s smile faded, just slightly . “Oh? And what makes you think you can simply *take * what you want ?”
Nyx’s shadow rippled. “Because we’re not here to take .”
The prince’s gaze flicked to the pendant again. “Then what are you here for?”
Rory exhaled, her fingers brushing the Heartstone. It pulsed against her skin, warm and insistent. She didn’t know why she’d been given it. She didn’t know what it was supposed to do.
But she knew this.
She was here for a reason.
And she wasn’t leaving without answers.
“Tell us about the Veil,” she said.
Belphegor’s eyes narrowed . “The Veil?”
“The barrier,” Rory said. “Between here and Earth. How do we cross it?”
The prince studied her for a long moment. Then he laughed again, the sound echoing through the vineyards. “You mortals,” he mused. “Always so *desperate.*”
Isolde stepped forward, her voice soft but carrying. “We don’t ask for mercy. We ask for truth.”
Belphegor’s gaze flicked to her, his smile fading. “Truth is a dangerous thing, Seer.”
“So is hunger,” Isolde replied.
The prince’s eyes gleamed. Then, without warning, he lunged.
Rory barely had time to react. The Fae blade was in her hand before she even realized she’d drawn it. The metal was cold, familiar , *right.* She slashed—
—and the world exploded in light.