Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94W8Q92KGP4TM1ANYVB1P0

The silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant bit into the back of Aurora’s neck, the crimson gem thumping against her sternum like a second, frantic heart. It wasn't just warm; it was hot, a localized fever that warned her they were nearing the tear. Beside her, Isolde Varga moved through the tall grass of the Richmond Grove with a silence that defied physics. The Seer’s silver hair trailed behind her like a comet’s tail, and as Rory watched, she confirmed the unsettling truth: the wildflowers didn't even bend under Isolde’s weight. She left no footprints, a ghost in a realm of living green. "The Veil is thin here," Nyx’s voice drifted over Rory’s shoulder, a raspy whisper that sounded like dry leaves skittering across pavement. The Shade was a silhouette against the ancient oak standing stones, their form flickering between a solid, towering man and a smudge of charcoal smoke. Their violet eyes glowed with a faint, predatory light. "Can you feel the hunger of the other side, Little Malphora?" Rory tightened her grip on the hilt of the moonsilver dagger tucked into her belt. The Fae-forged blade was a cold comfort against her thigh, literally freezing to the touch, providing a sharp contrast to the humid air of the Grove. "I feel like I'm about to walk into a furnace," Rory muttered, her black hair sticking to her forehead. "Let’s get this over with." Isolde stopped between two massive stones that seemed to vibrate with a low-frequency hum. She turned her pale lavender eyes toward Rory. "The door is not a door, but a mouth," the Seer said, her voice melodic and frustratingly indirect. "To enter is to be swallowed, but only the one who does not chew will survive the belly." Rory sighed, glancing at Nyx. "Translation?" "Don't eat anything," the Shade rasped. Nyx stepped forward, their shadowy hand reaching out to touch the shimmering distortion in the air. The space between the stones rippled like oil on water. With a sudden, violent lurch of Rory’s stomach, the garden scent of Richmond Park—damp earth and blooming jasmine—was sucked away, replaced by the overwhelming, cloying aroma of caramelizing sugar and roasting meat. They stepped through. The transition wasn't a walk; it was a fall. Rory stumbled onto a path made of crushed peppercorns and white salt, her boots crunching loudly in a world that felt suddenly, oppressively heavy. She gasped, her lungs filling with air that was thick, warm, and scented with a thousand spices she couldn't name. "Welcome to Dymas," Nyx said, their form stabilizing into a more solid, obsidian-skinned humanoid shape to cope with the physical density of the realm. Rory looked up and froze. The sky wasn't blue or black; it was a deep, glowing amber, the color of honey held up to a candle. There was no sun, yet the light was pervasive, casting long, soft shadows across a landscape that defied every law of nature she knew. To her left, a vineyard stretched toward the horizon, but the vines weren't wood; they were braided copper, and the grapes hanging from them were the size of plums, glowing with an inner translucent light that suggested they were filled with liquid gold. To her right, an orchard of trees with leaves like spun sugar rattled in a hot breeze. Every branch was heavy with fruit—pears that looked like blown glass, peaches with fur as soft as velvet, and pomegranates that had cracked open to reveal seeds that sparkled like rubies. "It’s... beautiful," Rory whispered, though a primal part of her brain was screaming for her to run. "Excess is always beautiful until it is felt," Isolde said. The Seer began to walk down the salt-path, her silver gown billowing. Even here, in the realm of Gluttony, she left no mark on the white grains. "The Prince Belphegor crafts a masterpiece of the senses. He provides the feast, but the guests are the main course." As they moved deeper into the realm, the sense of wonder began to curdle into unease. The scale of everything was wrong. The flowers lining the path were enormous, their petals thick and fleshy like succulent tongues, dripping nectar that pooled in the salt and turned it into a sticky, grey slush. Rory noticed a movement in the vineyard. A man was there, dressed in a tattered chef's coat that might have once been white. He was hunched over a copper vine, his hands stained dark purple. He wasn't harvesting the grapes; he was shoving them into his mouth with a panicked, rhythmic intensity. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and fixed on nothing. "A helbound soul," Nyx explained, noting Rory’s gaze. "A master of the culinary arts in life, now contracted to Belphegor. He will eat until he bursts, and then he will wake up and begin the banquet again. The Prince demands perfection in every ingredient, and the ingredients require... tasting." Rory looked away, her stomach turning. The Heartstone Pendant on her chest pulsed rhythmically, a low thrumming heat that seemed to be communicating with the very ground beneath them. "The pendant is reacting. The portal we're looking for is close." They reached a sprawling plaza where the salt-path opened into a courtyard made of polished obsidian. In the center, a fountain bubbled, but it didn't spout water. Dark, rich chocolate cascaded down tiers of carved bone, the scent so intense it made Rory’s head ache. Around the fountain, long tables were groaned under the weight of a feast that looked like a painting brought to a horrific kind of life. There were roasted boars with skin like crackling mahogany, towers of pastries dusted with iridescent sugar, and carafes of wine that shimmered with the colors of a bruised sunset. "Look at the architecture," Rory said, pointing past the tables. Rising behind the feast was a palace that seemed to be grown rather than built. Its walls were ivory—actual ivory, Rory realized with a shudder—and the window frames were gilded in gold leaf that peeled and fluttered like dead skin. The entire structure looked like a rotting wedding cake left out in the sun. "The Seat of Gluttony," Nyx whispered. The Shade seemed agitated, their edges blurring and sharpening rapidly. "The shadows here are hungry, Rory. They are not like the shadows of Earth. They have been fed on the scraps of the Prince's table." A sound echoed across the plaza—a deep, resonant chime, like a finger being run around the rim of a massive crystal glass. It was followed by the sound of laughter, high-pitched and melodic, coming from the palace. "The diners approach," Isolde warned. She turned to Rory, her pale eyes wide. "The vision I saw was of a silver blade in a field of red. Do not let the sweetness deceive you, Aurora Carter. The sugar here is ground from the teeth of those who forgot their way home." Rory reached for the Fae blade at her hip. As she drew it, the Moonsilver metal hissed in the amber air, a faint blue luminescence blooming along its leaf-shaped edge. The coldness of the weapon crawled up her arm, centering her, a sharp needle of reality in a world of cloying hallucinations. "We need to move," Rory said, her voice Tight-Person Limited perspective sharpening her focus. She spotted a rift in the air near the base of the ivory palace—a shimmering distortion identical to the one they had used to enter, but this one bled a pale, sickly green light. "There. That’s the tear." But as they stepped toward the palace, the ground beneath the salt-path began to heave. The giant, fleshy flowers at the path's edge turned their heads toward the trio. Their petals peeled back to reveal rows of needle-like teeth. The smell of the realm changed instantly—the sweetness vanished, replaced by the pungent, metallic tang of raw bile. "The garden is waking up," Nyx said, their voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. The Shade’s form expanded, their arms lengthening into smoky claws. "It seems the Prince doesn't like guests who refuse to eat." Rory gripped her dagger, her thumb brushing the small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist—a reminder of a different kind of trap she’d once escaped. She looked at the amber sky, the copper vines, and the weeping ivory palace. The wonder was gone, replaced by the cold, hard intelligence that had kept her alive in the streets of London and the kitchens of the Golden Empress. "Fine," Rory said, her blue eyes flashing. "I was never much for dessert anyway."