AI A searing heat lanced through Rory, followed by the cloying sweetness of rot. She stumbled, her boots scrabbling for purchase on something impossibly soft. Her stomach churned . The Heartstone Pendant at her throat pulsed , a frantic drum against her collarbone, warm enough to sting, radiating a deep crimson glow that fought the alien light.
"Hold fast, child." Isolde's voice, like wind chimes, cut through the sudden disorientation. The Half-Fae seer stood unwavering beside her, silver hair luminous, her bare feet silent on the springy, moss-like ground. She left no prints.
Rory steadied herself, drawing a shuddering breath. The air itself tasted thick, saccharine, like overripe figs left too long in the sun. Above, the sky hung in a perpetual, warm amber, a colossal piece of polished gemstone. It offered no sun, no clouds, simply an omnipresent, heavy light.
"Dymas." Nyx’s voice, a dry whisper , drifted from the shifting shadow coalescing at Rory’s side. They seemed unaffected by the sudden shift, their form already solidifying into the tall, indistinct silhouette she knew. "It welcomes."
The welcome felt less like a greeting and more like a consumption. Before them, a landscape unlike anything on Earth sprawled into the syrupy distance. Not trees, but colossal, knotting vines, thick as ancient oaks, formed a canopy. They dripped with bulbous, glistening fruits, some the size of melons, others small as berries, all in riotous shades of purple, dark green, and vibrant orange. The air hummed with unseen insects, a low, constant thrumming that vibrated in her teeth.
Rory plucked a strange, fleshy leaf from her shoulder. It felt velvety, then dissolved into sticky residue between her fingers. "Welcomes, or devours?"
"The difference here is merely a matter of time," Isolde murmured, her pale lavender eyes fixed on a distant, swirling mist.
They began to move, the ground beneath their feet a living carpet of mosses, fragrant fungi, and soft, clinging tendrils. Each step felt like walking through a spring-loaded mattress of velvet . The warmth of the Heartstone throbbed against Rory, guiding them deeper, a small, resolute heartbeat in the alien landscape.
"Look at this." Rory knelt beside a patch of what looked like oversized strawberries, but their seeds pulsed with a faint, bioluminescent light. The scent, previously sweet, now held a faint, unsettling metallic tang.
"Do not touch." Nyx’s whisper was sharp, a sudden cut through the hum. "Unless you favour the slow rot."
Rory drew her hand back, a prickle of unease rippling across her skin. "Is this… life?"
"Life, as consumption," Isolde clarified. "Everything feeds. Everything grows fat."
The sheer abundance of Dymas was overwhelming. They passed groves of fruit bearing trees whose branches bent under the weight of their impossible bounty. Some fruits oozed thick, golden nectar onto the ground, attracting swarms of bizarre, iridescent beetles that skittered between the roots. Others hung ripe, splitting open to reveal glistening , ruby-red flesh, begging to be tasted. Rory felt a constant, almost hypnotic pull towards them, a strange hunger that was not her own. The air itself felt heavy with indulgence, pressing down, whispering of satisfaction.
A narrow path, surprisingly barren of the more grotesque flora, appeared before them. It wound between two towering, arching vines, their bases fused into a crude tunnel. The moss-carpeted ground here gave way to packed earth, strangely resilient and cool beneath Rory’s heavy boots. The change was stark , almost artificial.
"A trail," Rory observed. "Someone uses this."
"Paths in Hel always lead somewhere intentional," Nyx stated, their voice barely audible as they scanned the gloom within the archway. "Always to a purpose."
They passed through the arch. The light within shifted from amber to a softer, diffused glow, filtering through natural vents in the dense, woven canopy overhead. The air grew cooler, circulating gently . The saccharine smell lessened, replaced by a subtle, earthy musk, mingled with something else… something faintly metallic, like freshly sharpened iron, beneath rich, sweet spices.
The path opened into a clearing. Here, the landscape was tamed. Rows of neat, low-growing plants snaked across the ground, bearing small, uniformly sized fruits. Beyond them, a series of terraced gardens stepped up a gentle slope, each level cultivated with meticulous precision. Immense, pale, fungal structures rose like grotesque statues among them, releasing plumes of fragrant, sweet-smelling smoke into the still air.
"A farm," Rory breathed, awe and revulsion warring in her. "In Hel."
"A kitchen garden," Isolde corrected, her eyes darting over the carefully tended plots . "For a grander palate."
A low, guttural murmur echoed from further up the slope, followed by the clatter of what sounded like heavy stone . Rory gripped the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip, the moonsilver hilt a cold comfort against her palm. It thrummed faintly, a sympathetic shiver reflecting her own unease. This place was not just wild overgrowth; it was a deliberate cultivation. And someone, or something, was tending it.
"We approach a heart," Nyx whispered, momentarily more solid, their glowing violet eyes fixed on the smoke plume. "The heart of Gluttony."
From the top of the terraced gardens, a shadow detached itself from one of the massive fungal towers. It was indistinct at first, then resolved into a squat, bipedal figure, heavily muscled and with a disproportionately large, bald head. It wore a crude leather apron, stained dark, and carried a long, curved implement that glinted in the amber light. Its skin was mottled grey-green, and as it turned its head, Rory saw a single, vestigial eye-stalk twitching from its forehead. It sniffed the air, a deep, resonant rumble, then started slowly descending the terraces, moving with an eerie, rhythmic stomp.
Rory instinctively drew the Fae blade, moonlight glinting along its leaf-shaped edge. Isolde placed a hand lightly on her arm, her touch like frost.
"Do not cross the gardener," Isolde said, her voice unusually clear, abandoning her usual riddles . "Not yet."
The creature wasn't looking at them, its single eye-stalk fixed on a patch of ripening, purple bulbs. It raised its implement, a wide, serrated shovel, high above its head. Rory watched, transfixed , as the shovel plunged down, not into the earth, but directly into one of the fat, purple bulbs . A thick, dark sludge oozed out. But it wasn't the bulb that cried out.
A moan, low and guttural, like a human held back from screaming, echoed across the garden. The creature grunted, levering another scoop, and another moan followed, this one sharper, full of desperate agony. Rory felt a cold dread clamp around her heart. The 'plants' weren't plants at all. The entire garden... was screaming.