Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94MYABF61K70X6HPW4WW4E

The transition through the Veil felt like stepping through a wall of chilled, liquid silk. For a dizzying heartbeat, Rory’s vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of grey and silver, the familiar damp scent of Richmond Park’s ferns replaced by a sudden, jarring vacuum. Then, the pressure snapped. Rory stumbled, her boots hitting ground that felt unnaturally soft, like walking on powdered spice. She gasped, her lungs filling with air so thick and sweet it tasted of fermented peaches and heavy cream. Beside her, Isolde Varga didn’t even sway. The half-Fae woman stood perfectly still, her waist-length silver hair cascading down her back like a frozen waterfall. She left no footprints in the amber-hued dust, her weight seemingly a suggestion rather than a physical law. Behind them, the shadow stretched. Nyx coiled out of the shimmering distortion of the Veil, their form a jagged silhouette against the sudden brilliance of the new world. Glowing violet eyes flickered within the darkness of their hood, scanning the horizon with a predatory rhythm. "Dymas," Nyx whispered, the sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. "The belly of the world. Be careful, little mortal. Here, the hunger never truly ends." Rory didn't answer immediately. She was too busy staring at the sky. It wasn't the bruised purple of a London twilight or the grey sheets of rain she’d grown up with in Cardiff. The sky of Dymas was a deep, radiant amber, as if they were standing inside a giant bead of honey backlit by a dying star. There was no sun, only a pervasive, golden glow that cast long, velvet-edged shadows. She reached down, her fingers brushing the Heartstone pendant hanging from her neck. The deep crimson gem was uncharacteristically hot, pulsing against her skin with the steady rhythm of a resting heartbeat. It was a warning, or perhaps a greeting. On her hip, the Fae-forged blade Isolde had given her felt like an icicle against her thigh, its moonsilver hilt humming a low, discordant note that vibrated in her bones. "It’s beautiful," Rory murmured, though her stomach tightened with a sudden, instinctual unease. "A pitcher plant is beautiful to the fly," Isolde said. Her pale lavender eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the silhouettes of massive, twisted trees broke the golden skyline. "We walk where the fruit is heavy and the wine is red. Do not taste the air too deeply, Aurora Carter. It has a way of making one forget why they ever wished to leave." They began to move, descending a gentle slope toward what appeared to be a vast, sprawling orchard. The scale of the place was impossible. The trees were gargantuan, their trunks thick as manor houses and barked in what looked like hammered copper. Instead of leaves, the branches were draped in translucent, crystalline veils that shimmered with every movement of the perfumed wind. As they drew closer, the sound hit them—a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a thousand cellos playing a single, vibrating chord. It wasn't mechanical; it was the sound of growth, of sap moving through veins, of a realm that was perpetually over-ripening. Rory stepped over a root that bled a thick, golden resin. The smell was intoxicating—vanilla, scorched sugar, and something iron-rich and raw. She thought of the Golden Empress back in London, the grease-stained menus and the smell of cheap frying oil that clung to her clothes after a shift for Yu-Fei. That world felt like a fever dream now, a thin, grey memory compared to the hyper-saturated reality of Dymas. "Look at the fruit," Rory whispered, pointing upward. Hanging from the copper branches were clusters of fruit the size of pumpkins, shaped like teardrops and glowing with an inner, bioluminescent light. They were deep plums, vibrant oranges, and greens so bright they hurt to look at. Some were translucent, revealing seeds that swam inside like tiny, golden fish. Nyx drifted toward one of the trees, their shadow-form elongating as they flowed up the trunk. "The harvest of Belphegor," the Shade hissed. "Tended by those who thought they could out-eat their grief. Look closer, girl." Rory squinted. Deep within the groves, she saw movement. Figures moved between the trees, dressed in tattered silks that might have been fine centuries ago. They were humans—or had been. They moved with a slow, hypnotic grace, carrying silver long-hooks and woven baskets. They didn't speak. They didn't look at one another. They simply moved from tree to tree, cradling the heavy fruit as if it were made of glass. "Helbound," Isolde said, her voice a cool blade in the warm air. "Contracted souls. Master chefs, viticulturists, gourmands who traded their eternity for a single perfect flavor. They serve the Prince of Gluttony now, refining the excess of the realm into delicacies for the high courts of Hel." Rory felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. She thought of her father, the barrister, and the dry, legalistic way he spoke of contracts. There was no fine print that could prepare a person for this—an eternity of tending golden orchards under an amber sky, never allowed to taste the bounty they gathered. A small, crescent-shaped scar on Rory’s left wrist began to itch, a nervous habit from her childhood. She rubbed it absentmindedly, her eyes tracking one of the workers. The man looked up. His eyes were milky and vacant, his mouth sewn shut with fine gold wire. She recoiled, her hand flying to the hilt of the moonsilver dagger. "His mouth..." "To ensure the ingredients reach the kitchens untasted," Nyx said, sliding back down to the ground and solidifying into a tall, humanoid silhouette beside her. Shadows swirled around their feet like ink in water. "Belphegor does not care for theft. In Dymas, to want is a virtue. To take is a death sentence." They pushed deeper into the orchard, the air growing warmer and more claustrophobic. The ground changed from dust to a carpet of fallen blossoms that felt like crushed velvet under Rory’s boots. The scent was becoming overwhelming, a cloying sweetness that made her head swim. She felt a sudden, irrational urge to pluck one of the low-hanging emerald fruits, to feel the skin burst between her teeth, to know if it tasted as sweet as the air promised. Her hand drifted toward a branch. *Clang.* The sound of the Heartstone hitting the silver chain around her neck snapped her back. The pendant was searingly hot now, a physical prick of pain against her collarbone. "Aurora." Isolde’s voice was sharp. The Seer didn't turn around, but her hand was held out, a silent command. "The path is narrow. The hunger here is a sentient thing. It seeks the hollow spaces in your heart. It remembers the girl who fled Cardiff with nothing but a bruised lip and a suitcase. It offers you the fullness you were denied." Rory pulled her hand back, her heart hammering against her ribs. She took a ragged breath, trying to find the cold, logical center she usually relied on. She was a delivery girl for a Chinese restaurant. She was a law school dropout. She was a survivor. She wasn't a guest at this feast. "I'm fine," she lied, her voice shaking. "You are human," Nyx countered, their violet eyes glowing with a strange, flickering light. "To be human is to be a vessel of wanting. This realm is simply the mirror." They emerged from the heavy canopy of the copper trees into a clearing that took Rory’s breath away. In the center of the grove sat a long, winding table made of white marble, stretching so far the end was lost in the amber haze. It was laden with silver platters, crystal decanters, and towering arrangements of food that defied geometry. Steam rose from porcelain bowls in lazy spirals, carrying scents of rosemary, roasted meats, and spices Rory had no name for. But there were no chairs. And the food was rotting. As they approached, Rory realized the "feasts" were in various stages of decay. Some platters held fresh, steaming delicacies, while others were covered in a fine, iridescent mold that shimmered like crushed pearls. Insects with gossamer wings and jeweled shells crawled over the spoils, their buzzing adding to the low thrum of the realm. "The Eternal Banquet," Isolde whispered. "A gift that is never eaten, a feast that is only for the eyes. It is the purest form of gluttony—the desire to possess the thing without the indignity of consuming it." Rory looked at the marble table, then at the silent, wire-mouthed workers moving in the distance, and finally at the amber sky that felt like it was slowly pressing down on them. The wonder she had felt upon entering was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. This wasn't a paradise of plenty. It was a well-appointed larder. "We need to move," Rory said, her voice firming as she gripped the hilt of her dagger. The moonsilver felt grounding, a piece of winter in this suffocating autumn. "Where is the rift point? The pendant is pulling me toward the center." Isolde nodded, her silver hair shimmering. "The heart of the orchard, where the Prince’s shadow is longest. But be warned, Aurora. The Veil is weak here, but the hunger is strong. Do not let the beauty of the rot deceive you." They stepped forward, three shadows moving through a golden world, leaving trails in the spice-dust that the wind had already begun to erase. Rory didn't look back at the table. She kept her eyes on the amber horizon, her hand steady on the cold silver at her side, walking deeper into the heart of the golden ache.