Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB4YV8SN9T7ZHHR4DRB3S8

Aurora's fingers tightened around the Heartstone Pendant, its crimson gem pulsing with a faint warmth against her skin. The silver chain felt heavier than usual, as if it knew what lay ahead. She glanced at Nyx, the shadowy figure gliding beside her, their form a shifting silhouette that seemed to drink in the dim light of the alley. Behind them, Isolde moved with ethereal grace, her silver hair swaying like a cascade of moonlight, leaving no footprints on the damp London cobblestones. "This rift in the Veil," Isolde murmured, her voice a riddle wrapped in silk, "whispers of feasts that devour the soul. Step lightly, lest you become the meal." Aurora swallowed, her bright blue eyes narrowing. She wasn't one for cryptic warnings—give her a straight path, a delivery route through traffic, and she'd navigate it fine. But this? This was no ordinary errand. The pendant had led them here, to a forgotten corner of Whitechapel where the air hummed with an unnatural charge, like static before a storm. Nyx had insisted on coming, their violet eyes glowing faintly as they sensed the tear in reality. And Isolde... well, the seer had appeared in her grove that morning, uninvited, with eyes full of unspoken visions. The wall before them shimmered, a faint distortion like heat rising from pavement, visible only because Isolde had touched Aurora's forehead with a cool finger, granting her "sight beyond the mundane." Aurora reached out, her hand passing through what looked like solid brick. A rush of warm air greeted her, scented with ripe fruit and spiced smoke. She stepped forward, heart pounding, and the world twisted. They emerged into Dymas, the realm of gluttony, under a sky of warm amber that bathed everything in golden hues. Aurora blinked, disoriented, as the ground solidified beneath her boots—not cobblestones, but soft earth carpeted in vibrant moss that squished like overripe peaches underfoot. The air was thick, humid, laden with aromas that made her mouth water involuntarily: roasting meats, caramelized sugars, the tang of fermented berries. It was intoxicating, pulling at her senses like an invisible hand. Nyx solidified beside her, their humanoid form coalescing into something more tangible, standing at six-foot-two with shadows rippling like dark silk. "This place hungers," they whispered, voice like wind through cracked glass. "It hungers for more than flesh." Isolde followed, her pale lavender eyes scanning the landscape with a knowing glint. She couldn't lie—Fae compulsion, Aurora had learned in the grove—but her truths twisted like vines. "The vines here bear fruit that sings of forgotten desires. Taste wisely, mortal child." Aurora ignored the "child" bit; at twenty-five, she'd outrun worse insults from her ex. She focused on the wonder unfolding around them. Sprawling vineyards stretched as far as she could see, vines heavy with clusters of grapes that shimmered like jewels—deep purples, vivid golds, some pulsing with an inner light as if alive. Orchards dotted the horizon, trees laden with fruits she'd never imagined: globes of crimson that dripped nectar, pods that split open to reveal creamy interiors scented like vanilla and fire. They moved deeper, the path winding through gardens where flowers bloomed in impossible profusion—blooms that unfurled petals like feasting mouths, releasing puffs of pollen that sparkled in the amber light. Aurora's skin prickled with unease; the warmth was cloying, seeping into her pores, making her feel bloated yet ravenous. Her stomach growled, unbidden, and she pressed a hand to it, remembering Isolde's warning. A low hum filled the air, growing into a symphony of sounds: distant laughter, the sizzle of fats on grills, the clink of goblets. As they crested a gentle hill, a grand pavilion came into view, its silken tents billowing in a breeze that carried the scent of exotic spices—cinnamon, saffron, something darker like charred bone. Tables groaned under the weight of feasts: platters of roasted beasts with hides still glistening, towers of pastries dusted in sugars that glittered like stardust, vats of stew bubbling with ingredients that writhed faintly, as if not quite dead. Aurora's breath caught. People—no, souls—moved among the tables, their forms ethereal yet solid, dressed in finery that shifted colors with each step. Some laughed uproariously, stuffing handfuls of food into mouths that stretched unnaturally wide. Others slumped in chairs, eyes glazed, bellies distended like overfilled sacks. A chef, his apron stained with juices, wielded a cleaver with fervor, hacking at a haunch of meat that regenerated as he cut. "Helbound," Nyx murmured, their shadow-form flickering as if repelled. "Contracted from Earth, bound to serve. Their excess chains them here." Aurora felt a chill despite the warmth. She'd read about Hel in old myths, but this was real—too real. The pendant at her neck throbbed hotter, drawing her gaze to a distant spire where a figure lounged on a throne of woven vines: Prince Belphegor, she guessed, though Isolde didn't confirm. His presence loomed, even from afar, a aura of indolent power that made her legs feel heavy. They pressed on, weaving through the gardens. Aurora brushed against a vine, and it coiled gently around her wrist, the small crescent scar from her childhood accident tingling as if awakened. The vine offered a grape, plump and inviting, its skin splitting to reveal juicy innards. Hunger gnawed at her—sharp, insistent—but she yanked her hand away, remembering Eva's stories of fae temptations back in Cardiff. This wasn't the Fae Courts, but the allure felt similar, a siren call to indulge. Isolde paused at a cluster of ancient oaks, their bark etched with runes that glowed faintly. "These trees remember the first feasts," she said, her voice a melody of half-truths. "They whisper of a prince who dines on ambitions, not just flesh." Aurora leaned closer, ear to the bark, and heard it—a faint rustling like pages turning in a forbidden book, murmurs of deals struck, souls traded for one more bite. Unease coiled in her gut, mixing with wonder. How could something so beautiful be so insidious? Nyx extended a shadowy tendril, touching the trunk, and recoiled as if burned. "The roots delve into despair," they said, voice strained. "This realm feeds on itself." Deeper they went, the landscape shifting. The gardens gave way to orchards where fruits hung low, brushing their heads. Aurora plucked one experimentally—a pear-like thing with golden skin that warmed in her palm. It hummed softly, a vibration that traveled up her arm, filling her mind with visions of endless banquets, laughter echoing in halls of marble. She dropped it, startled, and it burst on the ground, releasing a swarm of tiny, iridescent insects that buzzed around her ankles before dissipating. "Discovery comes at a price," Isolde intoned, her ageless face serene. She didn't eat, didn't touch; her Fae blood perhaps immunized her. But Aurora felt the pull, the wonder turning to temptation. Nyx, ever the shadow, slipped incorporeal for a moment, scouting ahead. They reformed with a whisper: "A competition brews. Chefs vie for the prince's favor. We should not linger." Yet linger they did, drawn by a clearing where a culinary spectacle unfolded. Souls in chef's whites dashed about, conjuring dishes from thin air—soups that boiled without fire, breads that rose in seconds, infused with essences that made the air shimmer. One chef, a wiry man with hollow eyes, presented a pie that, when cut, released aromas of childhood memories: Aurora smelled her mother's Welsh cakes, fresh from the oven, mingled with something rotten underneath. Unease peaked as a soul approached them, offering goblets of wine that swirled with colors like liquid sunset. "Taste the nectar of Dymas," he said, voice eager, desperate. His skin was sallow, stretched over bones that seemed to crave more. Aurora hesitated, the pendant burning against her chest—a warning? She declined with a shake of her head, but the man's eyes lingered, hungry. Nyx intervened, their form expanding to cast a chilling shadow over the man. He scurried away, muttering. "This place devours the will," Nyx said. "I was once like them—trapped in ritual, bound between realms. But here, the chains are silk and spice." Aurora nodded, her quick mind piecing it together. The realm's wonder masked its peril; every delight hid a hook. She fingered the Fae-Forged Blade at her belt, a gift from Isolde in the grove—its moonsilver cold against her hip, a reminder of edges that cut through illusions. The grove itself had been wondrous too, with time bending like reeds, wildflowers blooming eternally under ancient oaks. But Dymas was different—excess without end, a mirror to mortal hungers amplified to madness. As they delved further, the sky deepened to a richer amber, casting long shadows that danced unnaturally. A river of what looked like molten honey wound through the landscape, its banks lined with picnic spreads abandoned mid-feast, plates scattered with half-eaten delicacies that somehow remained fresh. Aurora knelt by the river, dipping a finger into the flow. It coated her skin, sweet and viscous, warming her from within. Visions flickered: her father's stern lectures on law, her escape from Evan, the flat above Silas' bar. Comforts she craved, twisted into insatiable want. She pulled back, wiping her hand on her jeans, heart racing with a mix of awe and dread. "It's like it knows us," she said aloud, voice steady despite the tremor. "Feeds on what we desire." Isolde tilted her head, silver hair catching the light. "Desire is the seed; gluttony the harvest. The prince sows well." Nyx nodded, their violet eyes narrowing. "We came for answers—the pendant's origin, the benefactor. But this realm will consume us if we seek too deeply." A sudden roar erupted from nearby—a beast, perhaps, or a chef's triumphant cry as a dish ignited in flames of blue fire, illuminating faces locked in eternal revelry. Aurora felt the pull intensify, wonder warring with unease. The air grew heavier, scents cloying, sounds amplifying: the crunch of bites, the slurp of drinks, the moans of satiation and regret. They turned a corner into a vineyard maze, walls of vines twisting like labyrinthine veins. Fruits dangled temptingly close, brushing their shoulders. Aurora's scar itched again, a phantom reminder of childhood falls, and she wondered if this place amplified pains as well as pleasures. Nyx slipped ahead, incorporeal, scouting. "A portal lies deeper," they reported upon return. "But guardians feast there—demons with appetites unbound." Isolde smiled faintly, misleading in her truth. "Appetites can be sated, or starved. Choose your weapon wisely." Aurora gripped the blade tighter, its luminescent glow faint even in this amber light. Wonder filled her—the sheer alien beauty of it all, vines alive with purpose, skies that promised endless dusk. But unease gnawed, a counterpoint to the hunger. This was no mere exploration; it was a test, a delve into the self. As they pushed on, the maze opened to a central glade where a grand table awaited, empty save for three settings. Plates gleamed, empty yet inviting, as if waiting for them. The pendant pulsed wildly now, heat spreading through her veins. Discovery beckoned—answers, perhaps, or doom. Aurora hesitated, blue eyes wide with the realm's intoxicating spell, torn between fleeing and diving deeper into its wondrous, perilous heart.