Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ951NCSETWTG365H06FJS7T

The air in Richmond Park had grown unnaturally still. Even the distant drone of London traffic had been swallowed by the dense, ancient trees that ringed the clearing. Isolde Varga had led them here, deeper than Aurora had ever ventured, to a place where the world felt fragile, worn thin. A shimmering tear, no wider than Rory’s outstretched arm, had bloomed into existence with a silent exhalation of impossible colours. Aurora Carter’s Heartstone Pendant, normally cool against her skin, pulsed a frantic, warm thrum, a beacon against the nascent dread. Isolde, her silver hair a cascade that seemed to absorb the very light around it, stepped forward. Her pale lavender eyes, ancient and unfathomable, fixed on the anomaly. "The thread frays," she murmured, her voice a delicate chime. "A door cracks open where none should be." Nyx, a humanoid silhouette of living shadow, remained poised beside Rory. Their form, usually a fluid ripple, seemed to solidify, a dark contrast to the ethereal tear. Faintly glowing violet eyes scanned the distortion. "The air tastes like old secrets," they whispered, their voice like wind rustling through dry leaves. "And hunger." A shiver traced Rory’s spine, unrelated to the crisp autumn air. This was far beyond the hurried deliveries and cramped London flat she called life. Aurora instinctively touched her left wrist, tracing the faint, crescent-shaped scar, a tangible anchor in the face of the intangible. Her pendant throbbed against her sternum, a frantic heartbeat accelerating with each passing moment. She felt its faint inner glow intensify, a tiny warmth pushing back against the unsettling chill that seemed to seep from the portal. "We go through," Isolde declared, not as a question, but a statement of inevitability. With a grace that defied gravity, she stepped into the shimmering vortex. She left no footprints on the damp earth, not even a displaced leaf. Rory exchanged a glance with Nyx. The Shade simply inclined their head, a silent acknowledgement. Taking a deep breath, Rory followed, her hand instinctively going to the pommel of the Fae-Forged Blade sheathed at her hip. The moonsilver was always cold, a constant reminder of its otherworldly origin, a power that could cut through more than just flesh. The transition was not violent, but a disorienting dissolve. One moment, the familiar scent of damp earth and decaying leaves; the next, an overwhelming wave of richness that hit Rory like a physical blow. The ground beneath her feet yielded with a soft crunch, like walking on a carpet of crushed amber. It wasn't earth, nor stone, but something that glittered faintly. She blinked, her bright blue eyes wide, trying to process the impossible landscape. Colossal trees, impossibly tall, clawed at a sky painted in hues of warm amber. Their leaves were not green, but intricate filigree of what looked like beaten gold and silver, tinkling with a soft, melodious chime in a breeze that carried no discernible scent of life, only overwhelming perfume and ripeness. The light here emanated not from a sun, but from the very air, a perpetual, soft sunset that illuminated vast, alien orchards where fruits pulsed with inner luminescence, swollen to the size of boulders. "Where are we?" Rory whispered, the sound swallowed by the ambient hum of the realm. "A place where satiety is the only sermon," Isolde replied, her silver hair drifting as if tethered to an unseen underwater current. "Where dreams are harvested, and feasts are eternal." Rory’s pendant pulsed harder, a sharp, warm note against her ribs. Hel. The codex had described Dymas, the realm of Gluttony, ruled by Prince Belphegor, as a place of excess and indulgence. Sprawling vineyards, orchards, gardens, exotic ingredients, master chefs… It was all here, amplified to an incomprehensible degree. "Dymas?" she ventured, the name feeling heavy on her tongue. Her pendant gave a definitive, resonant pulse, a confirmation that settled cold dread in her stomach. They moved deeper into the domain. The crystal-ground gave way to broad flagstones inlaid with veins of what appeared to be solidified wine, swirling with deep ruby and liquid gold. The air grew thicker still, a heady perfume of overripe nectar, exotic spices that clawed at the throat, and underlying it all, a faint, metallic coppery tang that made Rory’s senses prickle. From beyond a grove of trees whose fruits glowed like captured stars, the sound of distant revelry drifted – a cacophony of laughter that held an edge of desperation, music played with impossible, intoxicating rhythms, and the clatter of unseen dishes. Nyx phased slightly, their shadowy form momentarily rippling. "The shadows here are different," they murmured, appearing beside Rory, their violet eyes aglow. "They cling, like silk. And they listen." They pointed a shadowy digit towards a massive, curving structure that seemed carved from dark, polished wood, studded with gem-like fruits. "The architecture… it breathes. The stone, the amber light… it's a collective exhale. And the desires it feeds… they echo." Rory felt a strange inertia creeping into her limbs, a pleasant lethargy that begged her to simply stop, to bask in the overwhelming sensory richness. Her focus, usually sharp, felt dulled by the sheer opulence, by the pervasive atmosphere of decadent indulgence. She consciously gripped the Fae-Forged Blade’s hilt again, its eternal cold a welcome counterpoint, a sharp reminder of consequence in a place that seemed to have forgotten it. The crescent scar on her wrist felt warm, as if remembering a deep ache that this place sought to soothe, and in doing so, to exploit. As they approached the wooden structure, a colossal archway that smelled strongly of dark chocolate, they saw the denizens of Dymas. Shapes of unimaginable variety moved with languid grace or frenzied joy. Some were vaguely humanoid, draped in silks that shifted hue with every movement, gorging themselves on food presented by a procession of small, pallid figures. Others were monstrous, scaled or feathered, their eyes burning with fervent delight. A spindly creature with skin like dried parchment and eyes like black currants glided past. It offered them a floating silver tray bearing impossibly delicate spun-sugar sculptures that seemed to writhe slightly when observed too closely. Rory recoiled, a knot forming in her stomach. Nyx, however, extended a shadowy tendril. As it touched one of the sculptures, the spun sugar dissolved into swirling mist. "Ephemeral," Nyx stated, their voice a soft exhalation. "A fleeting joy. Fitting for this place." "All pleasures here are designed to consume," Isolde said, her gaze distant, fixed on a structure that glittered like a thousand diamonds. "And to be consumed. They believe they are masters of all that is delectable," she mused, her fathomless eyes tracing the opulent displays. "But they are but servants to their own appetites. A gilded cage, where the bars are made of sugar and regret." Rory’s gaze fell upon the pallid figures serving the ecstatic crowds. They wore drab, grey tunics and moved with almost robotic efficiency, bearing platters, refilling goblets, their eyes vacant. They passed through the revelers like ghosts, unnoticed or deliberately ignored. The contrast between their somber presence and the rampant joy was stark. The codex mentioned helbound souls contracted from Earth. These had to be them. "The chefs," Rory said, nodding towards a group of figures in exaggerated, impossibly tall chefs’ hats, directing the servers with sharp gesticulations. "Are they… are they the helbound?" Isolde nodded, a shadow of a smile touching her lips. "Some are. Others are ambitious mortals, drawn by the promise of immortal recipes, unwilling to see the price demanded for such forbidden knowledge." She turned her clear, pale lavender gaze to Rory. "A lesson in all realms, perhaps. The hunger for power, or for pleasure, always has a cost." The Heartstone Pendant pulsed again, a warm vibration that felt like a warning bell against the sweet seduction of Dymas. It was a piece of her past, given by an unknown benefactor, meant to guide her towards Hel – or perhaps, away from its darkest corners. She touched it, its faint inner glow a small, steady light against the overwhelming amber. The crescent scar on her wrist ached with a phantom cold, a strange counterpoint to the pervasive warmth. "We're not here to eat," Rory said, her voice firm, cutting through the ambient revelry. She looked from Isolde to Nyx, her bright blue eyes finding focus in the chaos. "What do we need to find?" Isolde turned fully towards Rory, her ancient eyes reflecting the alien amber light. "You must look past the sweetness, Aurora Carter," she advised, her compunction to speak truth compelling her words, though their meaning remained elusive. "For in Dymas, the most delicious fruits often hide the bitterest seeds. And the greatest hunger is not for food. It is for the soul."