AI Rory gripped the small crimson Heartstone. It pulsed a frantic rhythm against her palm, a living ember. The air shimmered with a distortion that pulled at her vision, like looking through old, flawed glass. A faint, almost imperceptible hum filled the space, a vibration she felt more in her bones than her ears.
Nyx stood silent beside her, a deeper shadow against the already dim alley. Isolde, a wisp of silver and pale lavender, watched the shimmering distortion with eyes that saw more than the present.
"Almost there," Isolde's voice brushed the air, a whisper of dry leaves. "The path opens."
Rory took a breath. The Fae-Forged Blade, cold against her hip, offered little comfort. This was Dymas. She stepped through the shimmering veil.
The world inverted. The claustrophobic alley disappeared, replaced by air thick with the scent of ripening fruit and something floral, yet alien. Warm amber light bathed everything, painting the leaves of unfamiliar trees in shades of gold and bronze. Above, the sky hung like a vast, polished jewel, without a sun, only the pervasive, gentle glow.
The ground under Rory’s boots was soft, springy, like moss but firmer, woven with tiny, luminous threads that pulsed with the light. She looked back; the shimmering tear in the air had already begun to contract, fading.
Nyx solidified beside her, their shadowy form deepening for a moment before resolving into a more definite shape, faint violet eyes sweeping the vast landscape.
"This is it," Rory murmured, her voice feeling too loud in the sudden, expansive quiet.
Isolde drifted past her, leaving no impression on the luminous ground. "A garden," she said, her gaze fixed on a distant, sprawling structure . "And a gilded cage."
Rory walked forward, her curiosity battling a rising tide of unease. Tall, slender trees lined a path, their bark shimmering, not like wood, but like polished obsidian . From their branches hung globular, purple fruits, each larger than her head, exuding a sweet, cloying aroma. Closer to the path, bushes heavy with flowers unfurled petals of iridescent green and deep indigo, their stamens dripping with a thick, golden nectar.
Nyx pointed a hand. A vine, thick as Rory's arm, snaked across the path ahead, its leaves a vibrant cerulean. It bore clusters of berries that pulsed with a soft, internal light like miniature hearts.
"They glow," Rory noted, bending to touch one . The skin felt cool, smooth, almost gelatinous. A faint hum vibrated from it against her fingertip.
"Sustenance for the Prince's chosen," Isolde offered, her hand sweeping towards the expanse of cultivation . "Each fruit, each flower, a testament to desire ."
Rory straightened, a chill tracing her spine. "Chosen? You mean the helbound souls?" The thought made the sweet, rich air feel heavy.
They followed the path, which wound deeper into what felt like an eternal autumn garden . The air grew warmer, the scents richer. Distant music, like harps made of crystal , began to drift on the breeze, accompanied by the low thrum of many voices. Ahead, through a break in the foliage, a colossal structure began to emerge. It wasn't a castle or a palace defined by sharp angles, but a series of interconnected domes and pavilions, crafted from a material that seemed to ripple and shift like molten gold in the amber light .
"That must be it," Rory said. "Belphegor's domain."
The ground grew more manicured, the luminous threads in the path weaving into intricate patterns. They passed massive fountains, their basins overflowing with a liquid that shimmered with all the colours of sunset, smelling faintly of wine and exotic spices. Statues of figures too plump, too gleeful, adorned the pools, their faces contorted in expressions of endless joy.
Nyx’s form wavered , their head tilting slightly . "Motion," they whispered, a sound like dry leaves skittering. "Many. Moving towards the centre."
Rory paused, straining her ears. The muffled sounds grew clearer. Laughter, music, the clatter of what sounded like plates and silverware, all swelling into a chorus of opulent revelry. Ahead, the path opened into a vast piazza paved with smooth, dark stone, reflecting the amber sky.
The piazza was lined with stalls, not hawking trinkets, but displaying an unprecedented array of food . Towers of pastries, spun sugar as tall as Rory, glistening roasted meats, fruits she could not name piled high on platters of precious metals. Chefs, some with skin the colour of ash and eyes that held the glazed emptiness of the damned, moved with practiced efficiency, preparing dishes. Their movements were precise, yet devoid of any spark. Rory’s gut twisted. These were the helbound souls.
A figure, dressed in flowing robes the colour of ripe figs, bustled past a stall laden with iridescent oysters. He paused, picking up a glistening fruit that looked like an oversized plum, and bit into it with a sound of pure bliss, juice dribbling down his chin. His face, though human, held an air of pampered indulgence, his eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction. He wasn't one of the chefs.
"This is… a lot," Rory breathed, a mixture of awe and revulsion warring within her . The sheer volume, the extravagance, the endlessness of it all. It felt like a trap.
Isolde’s pale eyes, usually fixed on visions unseen, surveyed the feast. "A banquet without end. A hunger never sated." She offered no further explanation .
Nyx, meanwhile, stepped closer to one of the stalls. Their shadowy limb reached out, hovering briefly over a platter of what looked like candied flowers . The chef behind the stall, an older man with wisps of grey hair and a permanent slump to his shoulders, didn't react, his gaze fixed on stirring a cauldron of thick, crimson stew. Nyx pulled their hand back, a subtle ripple passing through their form. Before moving on they spoke, quieter than usual.
"Emptiness," Nyx observed. "A core of nothing."
Rory shivered. "They're just going through the motions," she said, watching another ash-skinned chef meticulously arranging tiny, jewelled tartlets. There was no joy, no pride in his craft, only unending repetition. "Do they feel anything?"
Isolde's voice was soft, barely audible above the growing din of the piazza. "Their torment is in the memory of taste, never truly found." She looked at Rory, her lavender eyes holding a depth that suggested ancient sorrows. "To be surrounded by all nourishment, yet starved."
A wave of intense, sweet-spicy aroma washed over them from a nearby roasting spit, where a monstrous, golden-skinned fowl slowly turned. Rory's stomach gave a strange lurch , a mixture of hunger and nausea. The sheer opulence was overwhelming, almost suffocating. The air hummed with indulgence, a palpable energy born of excess.
Rory felt the Heartstone thrum harder against her side, a low pulse echoing her own quickening heartbeat. She realised it wasn't just near a portal that it pulsed , but perhaps in the presence of strong Hel energies, strong sin. This entire realm was a giant manifestation of Gluttony.
Ahead, past the stalls and the perpetually feasting patrons, a grand archway curved into the largest of the golden domes. The sounds of revelry were loudest there. Rory tightened her grip on the Fae-Forged Blade at her waist. This wasn't merely a garden; it was a consumption engine.
They moved into the flow of patrons, a river of beings focused entirely on the act of consumption. Brightly dressed figures, many with an unhealthy pallor beneath their rosy cheeks, navigated the stalls, their hands constantly reaching, tasting, discarding, and reaching again. None paid the small group any mind, consumed by their own insatiable appetites.
A sudden flash of movement caught Rory's eye. A small, scuttling creature, like a grotesque, multi-legged crustacean, snatched a dropped candied nut from the ground and disappeared under a food stall. Its shell was a dull crimson, its mandibles snapping. Rory watched it vanish, a flicker of unease turning into a knot in her stomach . Even the vermin were partaking in the gluttony.
The air grew thicker, richer, as they approached the grand archway. The golden material of the dome shimmered , displaying shifting patterns of light and shadow, like reflections on a vast, curved pool of honey. They passed under the arch, and the sheer scale of the interior swallowed them whole.
It was an immense hall, stretching further than Rory could discern, its ceiling lost in the amber glow. Tables, long and heavy with food, carved from what looked like petrified, jewelled wood, extended into the haze. Patrons of all shapes and sizes, some human-like, others subtly monstrous, reclined on silken cushions, perpetually eating. The sounds were deafening now – laughter, slurping, groans of pleasure, clinking glasses, the constant tear of food.
Rory shielded her eyes momentarily against the onslaught of sensory information. The aroma here was almost physical, a crushing weight of sweet, savoury, pungent, and rich. A nearby table held a roasted beast, glistening , its many limbs splayed, eyes replaced with glistening candied fruits. It looked vaguely familiar , yet utterly alien.
"This is Belphegor's court?" Rory mumbled, trying to make sense of the chaos .
Isolde's distant gaze swept over the hall. "His grand design. Where excess is worship, and the soul is the offering."
Nyx remained silent, their presence a quiet counterpoint to the roaring indulgence. They watched the feasting figures, their violet eyes unblinking. Rory followed their gaze, noticing a pattern. Many patrons, after eating to the point of visible discomfort, would then purge themselves, their bodies writhing, only to immediately resume eating. An endless cycle.
Rory's stomach churned again, more violently this time. This was more than just indulgence; it was torment dressed in luxury. The helbound chefs, the endlessly eating patrons, the very air, all saturated with a sick, ceaseless hunger. She felt a profound sense of wrongness, despite the dazzling visuals. The Fae-Forged Blade felt like a cold anchor in this sea of warmth and excess. The deeper they plunged, the more the wonder gave way to a chilling understanding of Dymas's true nature.