Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94PCV4DB9JY75GJKRSFQVK

Aurora’s breath hitched. The air, thick and sweet, pulled at her lungs immediately, a heavy perfume of overripe fruit and simmering spice. The Heartstone Pendant, a deep crimson against her skin, thrummed, a steady beat against her ribs. One moment, the cold, damp chill of a London alley clung to her coat, the next, a wave of humid warmth enveloped them. The shimmering tear in the air, a momentary ripple of violet light, sealed itself behind them without a trace. She stood on a path of polished, dark stone. It reflected the sky, a vast, unbroken expanse of warm amber, its light casting everything in shades of rich gold and burnished copper. No sun or moon marked its face, just an unending, soft glow. The ground under her boots felt smooth, unnervingly pristine. “This is Dymas,” Nyx’s voice, a dry rustle of leaves, drifted from beside her. The Shadow’s form, a towering silhouette of night, seemed almost more solid in the dim, luminous air, violet eyes like embers. Isolde stood a few paces ahead, silver hair a cascade down her back, catching the amber light. Her pale lavender eyes swept across the landscape, an unreadable calm on her ageless face. Her delicate slippers left no impression on the polished surface beneath. The path snaked between colossal plants that dwarfed any tree Rory had ever seen. Their leaves, broad and glossy, shimmered with iridescence, shifting from emerald to sapphire with every subtle flicker in the air. Clusters of fruit, the size of human heads, hung heavy from branches, their skins smooth and mottled in shades of deep indigo and fiery orange. Some pulsed with a soft, internal luminescence. The air hummed with a low, resonant frequency, a deep bass note underlying the whisper of unseen breezes. Rory reached out, her fingers brushing against a drooping cluster of crimson berries. Their skin felt velvety, cool despite the humid air, yielding slightly under her touch. They smelled like mulled wine mixed with something sharp and metallic, yet intoxicating. A single drop of sweet, viscous liquid beaded on her fingertip. “Leave the bounty of the Prince untouched, unless you wish to be accounted among his harvest,” Isolde’s voice, a soft chime, rang out, her gaze fixed on a distant grove. Rory pulled her hand back, a shiver running down her spine. The berry, perfectly round, pulsed faintly, seeming to watch her. She wiped her fingers on her trousers. They continued, the path widening into a broad avenue. The foliage grew denser, more extravagant. Vines, thick as Rory’s arm, coiled up the massive trunks of the trees, their blossoms unfurling into grotesque, lily-like flowers that dripped a clear, sugary nectar onto the polished stone. Tiny, iridescent insects, no bigger than her thumbnail, flitted between the blooms, their wings leaving trails of faint, shimmering dust. The scent intensified. Beyond the fruit and spice, a roasted aroma began to mingle, faint at first, then growing stronger. It smelled of slow-cooked meat, rich gravies, and something subtly sweet, like caramel burning. Ahead, the avenue opened into an enormous plaza. At its centre, a structure rose, not built of stone or wood, but of solidified light. It stood in the shape of a massive, multi-tiered fountain, water not gushing from its spouts but a constant flow of what looked like molten gold. The golden liquid cascaded down sculpted bowls, each one overflowing into the next, disappearing into an unseen reservoir at its base. The air around the fountain shimmered with heat, radiating the aroma of butter, roasting nuts, and a thousand baking spices. “The Golden Spout,” Nyx murmured, their form rippling, “a spring of liquid manna for the favored.” Rory squinted. The liquid wasn’t exactly gold. It was thick, viscous, swirling with tiny motes of light. And the smell… it was overwhelming now. Every rich, indulgent scent she had ever known, magnified, distilled, and poured into the air. It made her stomach churn with both desire and a strange nausea. Beyond the fountain, terraced gardens stretched away into the hazy amber light. Each terrace held rows of plants unlike any she’d witnessed. One row bore stalks of what looked like crystalized sugar cane, each stalk glowing from within. Another contained bushes heavy with crimson pods, their surfaces ridged like brains but pulsating with a soft, inviting warmth. A sound reached them then, a low, melodic murmur interspersed with sharp, rhythmic clangs. It sounded like distant hammering mixed with a slow, mournful choral chant. “The kitchens,” Isolde stated, her silver hair momentarily catching a glimmer from the golden fount. “Where purpose meets hunger.” Rory noticed movement in the distance, near the base of one of the immense, glowing-fruit trees. Several figures, indistinct in the amber light, moved with a slow, deliberate pace. They wore simple, dark robes, and their heads were bowed. Their movements possessed a ritualistic quality. They tended to the glowing botanical marvels, carefully collecting the enormous fruits in baskets woven from thick, fibrous vines. One of the robed figures paused, straightening for a moment. Rory saw a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer around their head, like a heat haze. They reached for a fruit, pulled a knife from their belt, not made of metal but of a dark, obsidian-like material, and made a single, precise cut. The fruit detached, leaving a clear sap dripping from the branch, already beginning to crystallise into glittering amber. “Who are they?” Rory whispered, the rich air sticking in her throat. Nyx turned its violet gaze towards the figures. “Servants. Or, perhaps, resources. The Gluttony Prince demands much sustenance.” Isolde gestured towards the nearest terrace, where the crimson pods grew. “The first taste often ensnares. Seek not the easy bounty, nor the sweet promise it whispers.” Rory felt a prickle of unease. The beauty here was profound, almost hypnotic, but it carried a subtle, unsettling weight. The air, delicious as it was, felt heavy, almost suffocating in its richness. The sheer abundance, the endless cycle of growth and harvest, implied an equally endless consumption. They walked towards the base of the nearest terraced garden. The obsidian path gave way to a softer ground, springy and yielding beneath Rory’s boots, feeling like rich loam. The soil itself glowed with faint, phosphorescent veins. Small, toadstool-like fungi, some as tall as her knee, grew in clusters, their caps emitting a soft, ethereal light. They smelled of damp earth and fermentation. Rory knelt, pressing her palm against the glowing soil. It felt warm, almost alive. Tiny motes of light, like miniature fireflies, zipped just beneath the surface before disappearing. She pulled her hand away, brushing off the clinging earth. The rhythmic clanging and chanting grew louder, now accompanied by a faint, bubbling sound, like a colossal stew simmering. It beckoned them deeper into the strange, abundant world. Rory looked towards the source of the noise, a distant, sprawling complex of low-slung buildings visible through a gap in the impossibly tall vegetation. Smoke, thick and fragrant, rose in lazy plumes from its many chimneys, adding another layer to the already intoxicating aroma of Dymas.