AI The air in the alley behind Silas’ bar tasted of wet brick and old garbage, but the shimmer in front of them tasted of nothing at all. Aurora — Rory to her friends, and she desperately needed to remember she had friends here — stood with her hand pressed against the faint distortion in the air. It felt like pressing against cold, still water that refused to break the surface. The Heartstone Pendant against her chest was no longer just warm; it was a live coal, its deep crimson gem pulsing with a slow, insistent rhythm that matched the quickening beat under her ribs.
“It is here,” Isolde said, her voice as soft as the brush of moth wings. The Half-Fae seer stood a few feet away, her silver hair seeming to gather what little light the overcast London sky offered. She left no imprint on the damp asphalt. “The way is thin. The solstice approaches, and the Veil dreams.”
Nyx, a humanoid silhouette of concentrated darkness leaning against the brick wall, stirred. “Dreams are often nightmares,” they whispered, the sound seeming to come from just behind Rory’s left ear. “This one smells of spice and rot. An old recipe.”
Rory took a steadying breath, the cool-headedness she was known for feeling like a thin veneer over a deep, churning well of fear. She’d left Cardiff to escape a different kind of nightmare. This one, with its whispers and shimmering air and a pendant that beat like a second heart, was somehow more real and less comprehensible. “Right. So we step through. What’s the protocol? Do we hold hands?”
“The protocol is not to be eaten,” Nyx murmured, but they peeled themself from the wall, their form solidifying into something more defined, though still carved from shadow. Their faintly glowing violet eyes regarded the rift. “I will go first. My substance is… flexible.”
Before Rory could argue, Nyx stepped forward and simply melted into the distortion. There was no sound, no flash of light. One moment they were there, the next they were gone , absorbed by the cold-water surface.
Isolde’s pale lavender eyes met Rory’s. “The path is walked by putting one foot before the other. The destination is never certain.” A faint, sad smile touched her lips. “You carry the blade I gave you?”
Rory’s hand went to the small of her back, where the Fae-forged dagger rested in a leather sheath. The moonsilver was always cold, a constant, reassuring chill against her skin. She nodded.
“Then walk, Aurora Carter. And do not look back. Looking back is for poets and ghosts.”
Rory clenched her jaw, touched the crescent scar on her left wrist out of habit, and stepped into the shimmer.
The world did not so much tear as it *unfolded *.
The cold pressure gave way to a sudden, overwhelming warmth . The scent of garbage was replaced by a cacophony of smells so rich and layered it made her head spin: baking bread, honey, roasting meat, exotic flowers, fermenting fruit, and beneath it all, a deep, earthy scent like turned soil and mycelium. She stumbled, her boots landing not on asphalt but on soft, springy turf .
The sky was not grey, but a warm, luminous amber, as if the air itself were infused with late afternoon sunlight, though there was no visible sun. She stood in a field of grass that was a shade of purple so deep it was almost black, dotted with flowers that glowed with their own inner light, soft blues and yellows.
“Breathe,” Nyx’s whisper came from beside her. “The air is safe. It is merely… indulgent.”
Rory forced herself to inhale. The air was thick, humid, and sweet. It felt like drinking syrup.
Isolde appeared beside them, seamless and silent . Her lavender eyes scanned the horizon, her expression unreadable . “Dymas,” she said, the word a sigh. “The realm of the insatiable palate.”
They were at the edge of a vineyard. But the vines were unlike any Rory had seen. The trunks were thick and gnarled like ancient oak, and the grapes hanging in heavy clusters were the size of plums, their skins gleaming like polished amethyst. Beyond the vineyard, Rory could see orchards where fruits in impossible shapes and colors dangled from silver-barked trees. In the distance, rising from a mist of what looked like steam and smoke, were grand, sprawling structures of golden stone and polished wood.
“It’s beautiful,” Rory heard herself say, and immediately felt foolish. It was a trap of aesthetics. She remembered Evan’s charming smile, the flowers he’d bring before his fists would fly. Beauty was often a wrapper for poison.
“It is consumption made landscape,” Isolde corrected gently . “Every sight, every scent, is designed to provoke want. To see is to hunger.”
As if to prove her point, Rory’s stomach gave an involuntary growl. The smell of baking bread was so acute it brought water to her mouth. She shook her head, focusing. “Which way?”
The Heartstone Pendant throbbed , a sharp, almost painful pulse . She looked down. The crimson gem’s inner glow had intensified, and it was pulling very slightly , like a compass needle, toward the distant structures.
“It seems your stone has an appetite of its own,” Nyx observed. They were half-insubstantial, their shadowy form blending with the long, dark grass. “Toward the kitchens, I would wager. Where the Prince of this place holds his court.”
They began to walk. The ground was soft, almost spongy. Rory noticed that the glowing flowers closed their petals as she passed, then slowly reopened. The air hummed with a low, pervasive sound—not insects, but a distant, melodic chiming, like thousands of tiny bells being stirred by the wind.
They passed into the orchard. Up close, the trees were even more alien. One bore fruit that looked like crystalline pears, their translucent skins revealing a swirling, liquid core. Another’s fruit resembled clenched fists of burnished copper. Rory reached out, curiosity overriding caution, and lightly touched one. It was warm, and she felt a faint vibration, like a heartbeat.
“I would not,” Isolde said, not looking back . “To taste the fruit of Dymas is to crave it forever. The hunger it leaves behind is a hollow no mortal meal can fill.”
Rory snatched her hand back, wiping her fingers on her jeans.
They came upon a path of smooth, white stones that wound through the orchard. Lining the path were statues, but they were not of stone. They were figures of what Rory first thought were elaborate, life-sized marzipan creations. Then she saw the subtle rise and fall of a chest, the blink of a glassy eye. They were people—or what had been people—frozen in poses of ecstatic consumption, their mouths open in silent laughter or sighs, their hands clutching at invisible goblets and plates. Their skin had a waxy, candied sheen. A cold knot tightened in Rory’s stomach .
“The satisfied,” Nyx whispered, drifting past a statue of a woman caught mid-bite, her expression one of rapture. “Or so they are called. Their wants have been fulfilled to the point of permanence.”
“They’re alive?” Rory asked, her voice hushed .
“In a manner of speaking. They feel nothing but the echo of their last, perfect taste. It is a kind of paradise. And a kind of hell.”
The unease that had been a background hum now crescendoed into a steady drum of alarm. This wasn’t just an alien place; it was a digestive system, a realm that consumed desire itself. She gripped the hilt of the Fae blade, the cold metal a welcome anchor.
The chiming grew louder, mixed now with other sounds: the clatter of pans, the hiss of steam, a low, rhythmic chopping. The path sloped downward, opening into a vast, natural amphitheater. Below them, spread out like a model, was a bustling kitchen-city. Dozens of open-air hearths and clay ovens glowed with fire. Countless figures moved with frantic, precise energy—stirring enormous pots, turning spits laden with unrecognizable beasts, kneading dough on slabs of marble . But the workers moved in utter silence . No shouts, no chatter, only the sounds of their labor.
“The helbound,” Isolde said. “Souls contracted from your world. Their punishment is to create perfection they are forever forbidden to consume.”
As Rory watched, one figure, a man with a gaunt, focused face, carefully placed a finished, magnificent pie on a long table overflowing with dishes. He stared at it for a long moment, his hands trembling, before turning back to his station with robotic resignation.
A procession was winding its way through the kitchen, heading toward a grand pavilion of silk and gold at the far end. Figures in lavish, colorful robes carried platters aloft. On one, a whole beast roasted, its skin crackling and glistening . On another, a tower of frosted cakes shimmered . On a third, a fountain flowed with dark, red wine.
The Heartstone Pendant gave a violent throb , so strong it felt like a kick . Rory gasped, her hand flying to her chest.
“It is not the food it senses,” Isolde said, her eyes fixed on the pavilion. “It is the gate. The way deeper. Or the way home. They are often the same.” She turned her pale gaze on Rory. “The Prince of this place sleeps after his great feasts. The path to his pavilion is open. But we are not guests. We are crumbs on the table. We must move as shadows move.”
Nyx coalesced fully, their violet eyes glowing. “I can be a shadow. The girl… less so.”
Rory looked down at the bustling, silent kitchen, at the path of white stones that led down into it, lined with more of the waxy, ecstatic statues. The air was thick enough to chew. Every instinct told her to run, to find the cold, grey, familiar misery of London. But the pendant burned, a promise or a threat. She had left one life running. She would not run from this.
“Then we don’t walk on the path,” she said, her mind clicking into that cool, quick-thinking space . She pointed to the side of the amphitheater, where thick, fragrant bushes with broad, waxy leaves grew in a tangled mass. “We go through the scenery. Stay low, move fast. And if anything asks, we’re just here to deliver a takeaway.”
A flicker of what might have been amusement passed through Nyx’s shadowy form. Isolde simply nodded. “The clever mouse avoids the feast,” she said. “It nibbles the threads of the tapestry instead.”
Rory took the lead, stepping off the white stones and into the alien, wondrous, terrifying garden of Dymas, the pendant a burning star against her chest, guiding them deeper into the hunger of the world.