AI The air tasted like wine and overripe peaches. Rory stumbled, her trainers sinking into soil unnaturally rich, glistening with what felt like nectar . Overhead, a sky the colour of burnished copper pressed down, vast and strangely humid. Not a cloud scudded across its amber expanse, only the slow, languid beat of enormous, iridescent wings far above. The Heartstone pendant pulsed against her sternum, a deep crimson throb mirroring the slow throb in her own veins.
Nyx solidified beside her, a living shadow against the vibrant, alien landscape. They surveyed their surroundings with eyes that glowed a faint violet, their form shifting like smoke in the heavy air. Around them, the world teemed with a grotesque, succulent beauty.
"This is Dymas," Rory whispered, her voice feeling too small in the overwhelming quiet. The quiet wasn't empty; it was a hushed roar of growing things, fermenting, ripening.
"Indeed," Nyx's voice drifted, a dry whisper carried on the warm, perfumed breeze. "The Realm of Gluttony. Everything here exists to be consumed."
Trees with bark like polished obsidian bore fruit of impossible sizes and hues: globes of deep violet with skins stretched so thin they threatened to burst, emerald pods dripping sweet-smelling sap onto large, waxy leaves, and clusters of golden berries that hummed with a low, internal vibration. The ground itself seemed alive, interwoven with thick vines that curled and writhed, some bearing blossoms that unfurled like fleshy, sensuous lips.
Rory reached out to touch a vine, thick and rope-like, but Nyx’s spectral hand brushed her wrist away.
"Do not," they cautioned. "Much here draws life."
A low gurgle echoed from a thicket of what looked like enormous, overgrown artichokes, their spiky leaves tinged with rose and gold. Something moved within them, a fleshy ripple, before settling back into stillness.
"Charming," Rory muttered, pulling her pack higher on her shoulders. "Any specific culinary delights we should avoid?"
"Survival remains the primary objective, Laila." Nyx’s gaze swept across a field of waist-high grasses that shimmered with every colour of the sunset. "The temptations here are... persuasive."
They advanced cautiously, the ground soft and yielding underfoot. Each step released another wave of scent – chocolate, cinnamon, something sharp and citrusy, then a deep, musky aroma like aged meat. The overwhelming perfume threatened to make her light-headed. Rory focused on the subtle, clean scent of the Fae-Forged Blade's moonsilver against her thigh, a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness.
As they pushed through a curtain of heavy, scarlet blossoms, the landscape opened into a vast garden. Here, the indulgence was more organised, almost cultivated. Rows of trellises supported fruits she didn’t recognise, each one perfect , unblemished. Narrow, winding paths of polished, dark stone led deeper, flanked by statues carved from what appeared to be solidified sugar. These depicted figures of languid repose, their features softened by time or perhaps by the very substance they were made from, holding chalices overflowing with crystallised fruit.
A small stream of thick, dark liquid flowed beside the path, its surface viscous and gleaming . It smelt of burnt caramel and something metallic, almost ferrous.
"Bloodwine," Nyx observed. "A staple of Dymasian feasts. Potent."
Rory knelt, cautiously dipping a finger into the slow-moving flow. It felt warm, sticky, and when she brought it close, the metallic tang was stronger. Not quite blood, not quite wine . Something else.
"Delicious?" she asked, a wry twist to her lips.
Nyx gave no direct answer, their form shimmering slightly , an indication of amusement or perhaps a shift in their perception. "The palate adjusts. Mortals find it... enriching."
They continued, the path widening into a grand boulevard. The air here vibrated with a low hum, a continuous, almost musical drone that seemed to emanate from the very ground . Overhead, the amber sky deepened to a fiery orange. More complex structures emerged in the distance: domes and spires crafted from shimmering, edible-looking materials, their surfaces glittering with embedded crystals of rock candy or perhaps something far more sinister . There were larger, open-air pavilions where the drone became more distinct, taking on the quality of a murmuring crowd.
"Something's happening," Rory said, gripping the hilt of the Fae blade. "Or has happened recently."
A colossal archway, wrought from intertwined golden vines that pulsed with an inner light, spanned the boulevard ahead. Beyond it, the drone swelled, spiced with the faint scent of roasting meat and exotic spices. They moved towards it, the ornate carvings on the arch depicting scenes of lavish banquets, robed figures feasting on impossible beasts, rivers of honey and wine flowing freely.
As they reached the threshold, Rory felt a strange pull, a hunger that wasn't her own, a deep, pervasive yearning for sensation. The Heartstone flared brightly against her chest, growing hot, almost burning.
"A ward," Nyx stated, their form hardening slightly . "Subtle. Designed to incite craving, to draw one in."
"I feel it," Rory admitted, clenching her jaw. "Like every sweet shop in London decided to have a fight in my head."
The Fae-Forged Blade hummed in her hand, growing colder with each beat of the Heartstone. It knew. It recognised the magical construct for what it was. Rory stepped forward, placing the tip of the slender, leaf-shaped dagger against the golden vine. A faint shower of golden sparks erupted, sizzling away into nothing. The vine writhed, a silent, slow shriek of corrupted magic.
"Clever," Nyx murmured. "A compulsion rendered inert. You possess useful trinkets, Laila."
The oppressive hunger lessened, replaced by a lingering echo , a phantom craving. They passed under the archway.
The scene beyond assaulted her senses. A sprawling plaza, paved with dark, reflective stone, was filled with long, low tables laden with food unlike anything she had ever imagined. Great haunches of meat, still steaming, rested on platters of wrought gold. Towers of spun sugar, drizzled with glowing liqueurs, stood alongside bowls overflowing with fruits that pulsed with their own light. Rivers of rich, dark gravy flowed into pools, attended by small, servile creatures with too many eyes and perpetually smiling mouths.
But the plaza was empty. Utterly, unnervingly barren of feasting figures.
Plates lay half-eaten, goblets tipped over, their contents staining the polished stone. Not a single sound emerged from the vast, silent banquet hall, only the constant, low hum that was now laced with an unbearable sweetness. The air, thick with the aroma of forgotten feast, hung heavy like a shroud. A single, enormous throne carved from obsidian and studded with grotesque rubies sat at the far end, facing the empty tables. Upon it, a golden goblet lay discarded, spilling a thick, purple sludge onto the steps.
Rory felt a prickle of unease. This wasn't just indulgence; it was abandonment. Waste on a scale that felt obscene even in the realm of gluttony.
"Where are they?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper . The silence pressed in, amplifying the question.
Nyx drifted towards one of the abandoned tables, their shadowy fingers hovering over a platter of what looked like crystallised flower petals . "A feast left untouched. Or perhaps only paused."
A faint tremor ran through the ground, a deep rumble that vibrated up through the soles of Rory's feet. It wasn't an earthquake, but something else, something rhythmic , like a colossal, distant heartbeat. The Heartstone flared again, hotly, then faded, sending only a weak pulse into the silence .
The tremor intensified. From the far end of the plaza, beyond the obsidian throne, a pair of monolithic golden doors, taller than any building in London, began to creak open. Slowly, ponderously, they swung inward, revealing a maw of inky blackness. A gargantuan sound began to emanate from within, a deep, guttural growl, accompanied by the distinct, sickening clatter of enormous claws dragging across stone.
Nyx's form solidified completely , their gaze fixed on the opening doors. "Belphegor," they stated, the whisper taut, strained. "The Prince of Dymas. And he comes hungry."