AI The ancient oak standing stones in Richmond Park didn't just mark a boundary; they hummed. Aurora gripped the Heartstone Pendant through the fabric of her jacket, her thumb tracing the smooth, thumbnail-sized crimson gem. It pulsed against her palm, a rhythmic heat that matched the frantic thudding in her chest. Beside her, Isolde Varga glided over the uneven roots, her waist-length silver hair trailing behind like a frozen waterfall. The Half-Fae didn't crush a single blade of grass, her feet leaving the dew-heavy earth undisturbed as if she weighed no more than a breath of wind.
"The shimmer thickens where the light dies," Isolde whispered, her pale lavender eyes fixed on a gap between two gnarled trunks. "Step where the shadow bleeds, or the Veil will tear more than your clothes."
Aurora glanced back at the third member of their party. Nyx remained a humanoid silhouette, a shifting patch of midnight that seemed to absorb the twilight filtered through the canopy . Only their faintly glowing violet eyes betrayed their position.
"I have spent three centuries avoiding the touch of sunlight," the Shade’s voice carried the rasp of wind through dead leaves. "Tearing is a mercy compared to the glare of a Prince's realm."
They stepped through.
The sensation hit Aurora like a wall of physical pressure. One moment, the damp, cool scent of a London evening filled her lungs; the next, the air turned heavy, tasting of overripe peaches and caramelised sugar. The transition didn't involve a door or a gate. Instead, the world simply folded. The green-grey hues of the Grove snapped into a staggering, vibrant amber.
Aurora stumbled, her boots sinking into soil that felt like crushed velvet . She squinted against the light. Overhead, the sky glowed a constant, warm gold, like the inside of a honey jar. There was no sun, just an all-encompassing radiance that cast no distinct shadows.
"Dymas," Isolde announced, her voice losing its melodic edge. "The belly of the world. Do not eat the fruit, Aurora. Not even if the hunger makes you weep."
The landscape ahead defied the geometry of Earth. Sprawling vineyards stretched toward the horizon, but the vines didn't climb trellises. They spiralled upward into the air, weaving themselves into living towers and arches that dripped with clusters of grapes the size of plums. The fruit shimmered with an internal, oily light—deep purples, neon greens, and translucent reds that looked like liquid gems .
Aurora reached down to her hip, her fingers brushing the hilt of the moonsilver dagger Isolde had gifted her. The metal felt ice-cold, a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth of the Dymasian air.
"The Heartstone is screaming," Aurora muttered, pulling the pendant out. The crimson gem didn't just pulse anymore; it glowed with a frantic, internal fire. "It’s pointing toward those orchards."
She gestured to a cluster of trees further down the slope. Their leaves were broad and waxy, swaying in a breeze that carried the scent of roasting meat and exotic spices. It was an intoxicating aroma, one that made her stomach groan despite the sandwich she’d bolted down at the Golden Empress two hours ago.
"The Prince’s kitchens lie beyond the groves," Nyx said, their form flickering as they struggled to maintain a solid shape in the brilliant amber light. "Belphegor does not welcome tourists. The souls contracted here are bound by their own appetites. See that they do not share their feast."
They descended the slope. As they moved deeper, the silence of the realm became apparent. There were no birds, no insects—only the heavy, wet sound of fruit falling from the vines and the distant, rhythmic clatter of metal on stone.
Aurora stepped over a fallen pear that had split open on the path. Instead of juice, a thick, golden syrup oozed from the white flesh, smelling so intensely of vanilla and cream that she felt a momentary wave of dizziness. She shook her head, focusing on the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. The old mark always itched when her nerves frayed.
"The architecture here is... wrong," Aurora observed, pointing toward a structure rising from the centre of the vineyards.
It looked like a cathedral made of bone and polished copper. Huge, sweeping buttresses supported a roof that seemed to be thatched with dried lavender and wheat . There were no straight lines; every wall curved and swelled, reminiscent of a stomach or a wine cask.
Isolde slowed her pace, her silver hair shimmering as she turned her head.
"Gluttony is not merely the act of eating, Rory. It is the refusal to be satisfied. The buildings grow because the hunger never ends. They add a stone for every vintage, a beam for every banquet."
A low, resonant chime echoed through the valley. It wasn't the sound of a bell, but the vibration of a massive crystal being struck . As the sound wave passed over them, the Heartstone in Aurora's hand flared bright enough to blind.
"Someone knows we’ve crossed the boundary," Nyx hissed, their silhouette thinning out until they were little more than a smudge of charcoal against the amber ground. "The Wardens of the Veil are not the only ones who watch the rifts."
The path narrowed, leading them into a grove where the trees were laden with heavy, pendulous fruits shaped like human hearts. The skin of the fruit was a delicate, translucent pink, and as Aurora walked past, she could swear she saw them beat.
The air grew thicker, more humid. The smell of sugar was being replaced by something more primal—the scent of a hearth, of fat dripping into a fire, of heavy red wine spilled on old wood.
Aurora drew the moonsilver blade. The cold radiated up her arm, clearing the fog of the scents.
"Isolde, you said the Prince contracts souls," Aurora said, her eyes scanning the dense foliage . "Where are they?"
The Half-Fae stopped at the edge of a clearing. In the centre sat a long table made of a single slab of white marble . It was piled high with silver platters, crystal carafes, and bowls of steaming delicacies that shouldn't have stayed hot in the open air. Around the table, a dozen figures sat in high-backed chairs. They didn't speak. They didn't look up. They moved with a mechanical , frantic grace, shovelling handfuls of dark, glistening grains and meat into their mouths.
Their clothes were fine—velvets and silks that would have cost a fortune in London—but they were stained and tattered. One man, his face gaunt despite the grease on his chin, reached for a bottle. His hands shook.
"They are the guests who forgot how to leave," Isolde whispered.
The man at the table suddenly froze. He turned his head, his eyes widening. They weren't the eyes of a mortal; they were dull, the colour of curdled milk.
"Fresh salt," the man croaked, his voice cracking from disuse .
He stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the marble floor. The other diners followed suit, their movements synchronised and jerky. They didn't look like monsters, but the way they stared at Aurora’s throat made her skin crawl.
"They aren't eating because they're hungry," Aurora realised, stepping back and raising the Fae blade.
"They eat to fill the void where their souls used to be," Nyx replied, drifting forward to stand between Aurora and the table. "And they are always looking for a new seasoning."
One of the diners, a woman in a shredded Regency-style gown, lunged. She didn't use a weapon; she reached out with fingers tipped in jagged, unkempt nails, her mouth hanging open to reveal teeth filed to sharp points.
Aurora didn't wait. She pivoted, the moonsilver blade cutting a shimmering arc through the amber light. The metal didn't just slice; it hissed as it met the woman’s skin, leaving a trail of frost in its wake. The diner shrieked, the sound more like a teakettle than a human cry, and recoiled, clutching a hand that was now blackened and smoking.
"The blade bites deep in Dymas," Isolde noted, her expression impassive as she watched the other diners begin to circle. "The cold of the Fae is anathema to the heat of the Prince's greed."
"Great, so I’m a walking ice cube in an oven," Aurora muttered, her grip tightening on the hilt . "How do we get past without becoming the main course?"
The Heartstone Pendant suddenly jerked in her other hand. It wasn't just pulsing ; it was pulling . The silver chain strained against her neck as the gem pointed toward a heavy, arched door at the base of the bone-and-copper cathedral.
"The pendant wants the cellar," Aurora said, her blue eyes darting between the encroaching diners . "If we're going, we go now."
Nyx didn't answer with words. They expanded, their shadow-form billowing outward like an ink cloud in water. The violet glow of their eyes stretched into long, jagged streaks. The clearing plunged into a temporary, artificial night, the amber sky blotted out by Nyx’s sheer presence.
The diners wailed, stumbling back from the sudden cold and the terrifying absence of light.
"Run, Laila," the Shade’s voice boomed from the darkness, using the name only their closest allies knew.
Aurora didn't hesitate. She bolted toward the cathedral, her boots pounding the soft, perfumed earth. Isolde was a silver blur beside her, her movements effortless even as the ground turned to a chaotic tangle of roots and discarded bones.
They reached the door—a massive slab of dark wood reinforced with bands of rusted iron. Aurora slammed her shoulder into it, but it didn't budge.
"It’s warded!" she shouted, the heat of the Heartstone now blistering against her chest .
Isolde stepped forward, her pale hand hovering over the iron bands.
"A lock of hunger requires a key of sacrifice," the Seer murmured.
She took Aurora’s hand, the one holding the moonsilver dagger, and guided the tip toward the centre of the door.
"The blade cuts the magic, Rory. But the intent must be yours. Give the door a taste of the cold it fears."
Aurora pressed the tip of the dagger into the dark wood. The Moonsilver flared blue, a brilliant, freezing light that raced through the iron bands. The wood groaned, then shrivelled, turning to grey ash where the magical frost touched it. With a heavy thud, the door swung inward.
A blast of cold air hit them—not the magical cold of the blade, but the damp, earthy chill of a deep cellar . The scent of sugar vanished, replaced by the sharp, acidic tang of fermenting grapes and old stone.
"Inside," Aurora commanded, glancing back.
Nyx was retreating , their shadow-form shrinking as the amber light of Dymas fought back. The diners were recovery, their pale eyes fixed on the open doorway.
They scrambled into the darkness, and Aurora hauled the heavy door shut. She slid a bolt home, its iron teeth snapping into place with a finality that echoed through the subterranean chamber.
For a moment, they stood in total darkness. Then, the Heartstone Pendant began to glow, casting a steady, crimson light over their surroundings.
They weren't in a simple cellar. The room was vast, the ceiling supported by pillars carved to look like weeping willow trees. Rows upon rows of giant oak barrels lined the walls, each one taller than a man. But it wasn't wine inside the barrels. A faint, musical humming vibrated through the wood—a thousand different voices singing in a low, mournful harmony.
"The Grand Reserve," Isolde said, her voice sounding small in the enormous space .
Aurora walked to the nearest barrel. A brass plaque was bolted to the front. It didn't list a year or a grape variety. It simply read: *Regret. London, 1892.*
"They’re bottling emotions," Aurora whispered, her hand hovering near the wood . She could feel the vibration of the voices against her skin. "Belphegor isn't just feeding souls. He’s distilling them."
"The most exquisite flavours are those of lost potential ," Nyx said, their form solidifying back into the silhouette of a man . "A vintage of sorrow is far more intoxicating than any juice."
The Heartstone pulsed again, its light flickering toward the back of the chamber where a smaller, more ornate door stood partially ajar. Unlike the others, this door was made of clear glass, etched with patterns of vines and thorns.
Aurora moved toward it, her heart hammering. The closer she got, the more the pendant reacted, the crimson glow turning almost white.
"Whatever we came for," Aurora said, stepping over a pile of broken glass, "it’s behind that door."
She pushed it open.
The room beyond was a perfect cube, the walls lined with mirrors. In the centre, suspended by silver wires from the ceiling, was a single, crystal decanter. It held a liquid that shifted between every colour of the spectrum, swirling with a life of its own.
As they entered, the mirrors didn't reflect the room. Instead, they showed different versions of Aurora. In one, she was back in Cardiff, wearing a barrister's robes. In another, she was at the Golden Empress, laughing with Yu-Fei. In a third, she was standing over the body of a man she didn't recognise, the moonsilver blade dripping with dark blood.
"Ignore the glass," Isolde warned, her voice sharp . "The mirrors of Dymas show you what you crave, not what is real."
Aurora kept her eyes fixed on the decanter. She reached out, her fingers trembling. The Heartstone was so hot now she could smell the faint scent of scorched cotton from her jacket.
"The Essence of Longing," Nyx whispered. "The Prince’s most guarded prize."
"Why did the Heartstone lead me here?" Aurora asked, her hand inches from the crystal .
"Because it was carved from the same mountain as the vessel," Isolde replied. "Like calls to like. But be warned, Aurora. To take the Essence is to declare war on the Prince of Gluttony. He does not take kindly to those who steal from his table."
Aurora looked at her reflection in the nearest mirror. The version of her in the barrister's robes was crying . The version with the bloody blade was smiling.
She closed her eyes, took a breath of the cold, damp air, and gripped the decanter.
The moment her skin touched the crystal , the entire cathedral above them shook. A roar, deep and resonant as an earthquake, tore through the floorboards.
"The Prince is awake," Nyx said, their violet eyes widening .
The amber light from the vineyards began to leak through the cracks in the ceiling, no longer warm and inviting, but searing and fierce. The liquid in the decanter flared, turning a violent, angry red.
Aurora tucked the vessel under her arm, her knuckles white.
"Then I guess we're skipping dessert," she said.