AI The air shimmered, distorting the familiar London parkland like heat haze above asphalt. Rory’s breath hitched. She gripped the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant, its crimson gem already pulsing with a warmth that felt too eager against her skin. The sensation grew, a low thrum that vibrated through her bones, a counterpoint to the familiar chill radiating from the Fae-Forged Blade strapped discreetly to her thigh.
"The Veil thins here, where worlds touch," Isolde's voice was a whisper , as delicate and fragile as the silver strands of her hair. She stood a few feet ahead, her pale lavender eyes fixed on the shimmering distortion. Around them, the ancient oak standing stones of the Fae Grove pulsed with a faint, unseen light. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible abundance, their petals iridescent in the artificial twilight of the pocket realm.
Nyx, a silhouette of living shadow, flowed beside Isolde, their faintly glowing violet eyes seeming to absorb the light rather than reflect it. A low, guttural murmur rippled through the shadowed form, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement.
Rory felt a cold dread trickle down her spine , but beneath it, a current of fierce resolve . She’d faced far worse since London became home, since magic had punched a hole through her carefully constructed ordinary life. This, at least, was a choice. A necessary one.
Isolde raised a hand, her slender fingers tracing an unseen sigil in the air. The shimmering distortion before them rippled violently, then tore. Not like fabric, but like a wound opening in the very fabric of existence . Beyond it, a world of deep, bruised amber light spilled forth, thick and warm, instantly assaulting Rory’s senses.
The portal widened, a gaping maw of golden-orange energy. Isolde stepped through without hesitation, her silver hair catching the amber light as she vanished. Nyx followed, dissolving into a wisp of shadow that stretched and reformed on the other side. Rory took a deep, shaky breath, her fingers tightening on the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade. The crescent scar on her left wrist tingled, a phantom echo of forgotten pain. She pushed the memory away. This was now. Cardiff no longer mattered, Evan no longer mattered. Only the mission.
She stepped through.
The sensation was akin to falling through warm honey, then solidifying with a jarring *thud *. The air rushed into her lungs, thick and sweet, laced with the scent of overripe fruit, exotic spices, and something else… a cloying undertone of fermentation, almost decay. The taste of it coated her tongue, sugary and rich.
She stumbled, knees buckling on a surface that felt springy and yielding beneath her worn boots. Not earth, not grass, but a carpet of velvety mosses and impossibly vibrant flora. She pushed herself upright, her bright blue eyes scanning the alien landscape.
The sky truly *was * amber. A deep, saturated orange-gold that bled into a bruised, smoky purple at the horizon, casting the entire world in a perpetual, languid sunset. No sun was visible, just a vast, diffuse glow that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere . Towering trees, unlike any she’d ever seen, stretched towards the luminous canopy, their branches heavy with fruits that glowed with an internal incandescence – some emerald green, others sapphire blue, ruby red, all impossibly large, dripping with rich, sticky juices. The air hummed with unseen insects, a low, constant drone that vibrated in her teeth.
“Welcome, Rory Carter,” Isolde’s voice. The Seer stood as if she had been born here, unaffected by the sudden shift in reality. Her pale lavender eyes, however, seemed to absorb the amber light, reflecting none of it. “To Dymas. Where indulgence knows no end, and hunger never truly sates.”
Nyx materialized beside Isolde, their shadow form seeming to ripple and shift, almost expanding, in the strange light. “The air itself sings of appetite,” they whispered, their voice a dry rustle amidst the buzzing.
Rory looked around, a mix of wonder and unease warring within her. This wasn't the barren, twisted Hel of morbid tales; it was a landscape of obscene beauty, of overwhelming abundance. Grapevines, their trunks as thick as ancient oaks, snaked through the air, laden with clusters of grapes the size of her fist, their skins stretching taut, threatening to burst. Fruits lay scattered on the ground, some split open, revealing flesh that pulsed with an inner light, attracting iridescent flies that orbited them like tiny, jeweled moons.
She reached out, mesmerized, to touch a fruit hanging low from a gnarled branch. It was spherical, the size of a melon, with a skin of impossible violet, streaked with gold. It felt soft, yielding, like velvet over something liquid. A faint, sweet syrup beaded on its surface where she touched it, smelling intoxicating. She pulled her hand back, a prickle of caution overriding her fascination. Eating anything here felt like a terrible idea .
Everything felt *too much *. Too vibrant, too sweet, too rich. It was beauty pushed past its zenith, teetering on the edge of gluttony, exactly as the codex had described. She could almost taste the sin in the air, a physical presence. The Heartstone Pendant continued its steady thrum, a constant, reassuring warmth against her sternum, telling her she was indeed in Hel.
They began to move, pushing through foliage that felt strangely resistant, yet soft. The ground beneath their feet was a springy mattress of exotic flora, cushioned and silent. Isolde left no footprints, her ethereal form gliding over the vibrant ground. Nyx, meanwhile, moved like a shadow across a wall, sometimes coalescing into solid form, sometimes dissolving into ripples of darkness that flowed around obstacles.
Rory, the only true mortal among them, found herself increasingly reliant on her senses. The constant hum in the air grew louder, the distant sounds of revelry and strange, mournful music becoming clearer. It was coming from deeper within the groves, a cacophony of laughter, shouts, and the clinking of what she imagined were enormous goblets.
They passed through orchards where trees bore not one kind of fruit, but dozens, each branch a different species, all growing in grotesque symbiosis. A tree with pears the color of rubies also bore peaches of sapphire blue. Their leaves, too, were a riot of color – scarlet, emerald, gold, purple – constantly shifting, rustling like silk in a breeze that never seemed to quite materialize.
"The bounty here is endless," Isolde said, her voice lilting, "yet an endless hunger persists."
Rory’s brow furrowed . “So, these things… they just grow like this naturally?”
Nyx’s form shifted, a subtle ripple in the amber light. "Naturally for Dymas. A place woven from aspiration and… desire . Prince Belphegor's court savors every imaginable sensation. This realm delivers."
Rory shivered despite the thick, sweet air. The Fae-Forged Blade on her hip felt exceptionally cold, a stark contrast to the cloying warmth around her. Its moonsilver pommel pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible luminescence in the perpetual dusk. It was a weapon of precision, of clean, sharp truth. This realm was neither clean nor true.
Suddenly, a sound cut through the drone and the distant revelry – a wet, tearing noise, followed by a muffled squeal. Rory froze, instincts screaming. She strained her ears, eyes darting through the vibrant foliage.
Isolde paused, her pale lavender eyes fixed on a spot ahead. “A taste of life, quickly forgotten.”
Nyx, already a blur, had shifted into a more concentrated form, their violet eyes narrowed into incandescent slits. They pointed a clawed hand, shimmering with shadow, towards a cluster of enormous, blood-red berries, each the size of a human head, nestled amidst thorny vines.
There, half-hidden, a small creature lay, not unlike a badger but with iridescent scales and multiple sets of tiny, twitching antennae. Its body was contorted, ripped open, and its viscera spilled onto the gleaming moss. Its lifeblood, a sickly blue, seeped into the ground, quickly absorbed by the ravenous flora. One of the huge berries, ruptured, lay beside it, its pulp glistening .
Rory’s stomach lurched . The beautiful excess was also brutal. This was a place where life fed on life, endlessly, voraciously. Gluttony wasn't just about food for consumption, but consumption in its purest, most ruthless form.
“The cycle here is rapid,” Nyx whispered, their voice chillingly calm . “Life springs forth, ripens, and is devoured. A constant renewal through consumption.”
Rory swallowed, the cloying sweetness in her mouth now tasting like something else. Decay. Greed. She clenched her jaw . Her quick mind worked overtime, trying to reconcile the beauty with the inherent horror. This place was a trap, a lure. It promised endless satisfaction, but delivered only endless hunger.
They continued their walk, more cautiously now. Rory kept her hand near the Fae blade, her senses heightened. The ground began to slope gently downwards, and the vegetation thinned slightly , making way for what looked like broad, winding paths paved with polished stone – not unlike flagstones, but glowing with an internal, amber light .
The distant sounds of revelry grew into a roar, a wave of noise that washed over them. Laughter, music, the clang of feasting. Rory could make out individual voices now, some deep and resonant, others high-pitched and maniacal. This wasn't just a party; it was a maddening frenzy.
Through a break in the trees, she saw it: the silhouette of structures. Grand, impossibly ornate buildings, their spires reaching into the amber sky, their facades carved with intricate patterns that seemed to writhe and flow . Gardens of unbelievable splendor spread around them, filled with exotic, glowing plants and fountains of shimmering, viscous liquids.
This was the heart of Dymas. Prince Belphegor’s domain.
Isolde turned her head, her silver hair catching the strange light, her lavender eyes seeming to pierce through the illusions of the realm. “The table is set,” she murmured, her voice a low, resonant hum . “And the guests await.”
A sudden, sharp movement in the periphery caught Rory’s eye. Tall, lean figures, draped in shimmering fabrics that matched the hues of the Dymasian flora, moved through the gardens. They held long, slender instruments, playing a mournful, rhythmic tune that somehow underpinned the cacophony . Their faces were obscured by deep hoods, but Rory could feel their gaze, cold and assessing, even across the distance. They were not human.
A chill , deeper than the Fae blade’s cold steel, settled in Rory’s gut. They had stepped from one world into another, but the dangers had only just begun. The beauty was a gilded cage, and they were, most certainly, the new and intriguing morsels in a realm built on insatiable hunger. Her gaze hardened. She pulled the Fae-Forged Blade from its sheath. The cold steel felt familiar , steady, a promise of defiant resistance.