AI The air shimmered, twisting like heat from a desert road, then tore open. Not a violent rip, but a silent unzipping, revealing a chasm of impossible colours . Rory’s breath caught, a cold knot tightening in her chest. The Heartstone Pendant, a deep crimson pulse on her breast, throbbed against her ribs, a drumbeat of anticipation .
They stepped through the tear, a transition less like walking and more like falling into a denser, sweeter atmosphere. The moment their boots touched the foreign ground, the portal stitched itself shut behind them, leaving them stranded.
Light, the colour of aged brandy, spilled from a sky that held no sun. Instead, vast, slow-moving eddies of amber cloud drifted through the zenith, painting the world below in a perpetual twilight glow. The air, thick and opulent, clung to Rory’s tongue, tasting of fermented fruit and exotic spices, too rich, too sweet. It coated her lungs, a sensation of eating the very air itself.
Beneath her, the ground offered no firm resistance. It felt like walking on a carpet of moss and crushed petals, each step sinking slightly into a springy, fragrant loam. Giant, swollen grapevines, their trunks thicker than old oak trees, twisted skyward, laden with clusters of fruit the size of apples. Each grape shimmered with an inner luminescence, their skins a riot of purples, emeralds, and golds. The sheer abundance overwhelmed her senses, a visual cacophony of growth pushing against itself.
“Dymas,” Rory breathed, the name a whisper swallowed by the vibrant stillness. Her hand instinctively found the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip, its cold moonsilver a stark contrast to the cloying warmth around her. The crescent scar on her wrist thrummed, a forgotten pulse of ancient memory returning to life.
Nyx, a deeper shadow against the amber light, stood motionless beside her, violet eyes scanning the horizon. Not a blink, not a twitch. A faint breeze, heavy with the scent of flowering nectarines and roasting meats, stirred the edges of their ethereal form, but they remained a silent sentinel .
Isolde moved with the grace of wind, her silver hair catching the strange light. She stood a few paces away, her pale lavender eyes fixed on a cluster of blossoming trees that spilled petals like liquid sunbeams onto a path woven from woven vines. She left no prints in the soft ground.
“A feast for the eyes,” Isolde’s voice, a soft chime, hung in the heavy air. “And a burden for the soul.”
Rory picked a grape, its skin cool and firm beneath her fingers. The fruit burst in her mouth, a torrent of syrup and alcohol, sharp and sweet, almost too much to bear. She swallowed, feeling the heat bloom in her stomach , a dizzying jolt.
“No wonder it’s Gluttony,” Rory cleared her throat, the words sounding guttural after the refined explosion in her mouth. “It’s like the whole place is trying to make you eat it.”
Nyx turned its head, the movement fluid and silent.
“The bounty is boundless,” a whisper echoed , not from Nyx’s lips directly, but seeming to emanate from the shadowed presence itself . “Yet what it demands is more.”
They followed a winding path carpeted with crimson and gold leaves, deeper into the sprawling landscape. Here, the grapevines gave way to orchards where trees bore fruit no artist could conjure. Pomegranates grew alongside glistening , impossibly blue berries, and pale, fragrant melons split open on branches, offering glimpses of amber flesh and jewel-like seeds. Everything dripped with ripeness, with juice, with the promise of more.
Deep, throaty rumblings echoed from unseen distances, interspersed with the high-pitched trill of some unseen creature. It sounded like distant laughter, or perhaps the contented sigh of a satiated beast.
Rory spotted what looked like a colossal silver pumpkin nestled among the roots of a colossal, sprawling tree with leaves like velvet . Its skin, reflecting the amber sky, pulsed with a subtle luminescence. She knelt, tracing a finger over its cool, smooth surface. No stem, no visible attachment – it simply rested there, perfectly formed, a testament to an alien cultivation.
“It holds no purpose here but to exist,” Isolde said, her voice soft, as if she read Rory’s thought . “A beauty born of pure excess.”
A sudden gust of wind, laden with the thick, cloying smell of honey and roasted meat, swept through the grove. The leaves rustled with a sound like dry bones scattering. Rory looked up, peering through the dense canopy. She spotted a structure in the distance, partially obscured by the intertwining foliage: a tower, its bricks glowing with a faint warmth , rising from the heart of the forest. It seemed to be constructed from stacked, luminous geodes.
“That’s new,” Rory commented, pushing through a curtain of silver leaves that felt like woven silk . They resisted her touch, then parted, revealing a wider vista.
Before them stretched a valley, a breathtaking spectacle of agricultural art. Terraced gardens, each level a different colour, cascaded down the gentle slopes. Rivers of what looked like liquid honey flowed through sculpted channels, feeding beds of gigantic, crimson-tipped mushrooms and fields of iridescent grains that shimmered like scattered diamonds. In the immediate foreground, peculiar, round creatures with multi-faceted eyes, resembling inflated armadillos, grazed contentedly on clumps of glowing moss, their movements slow and deliberate.
A low hum, a resonant thrum, vibrated through the ground beneath Rory’s feet. It was the sound of countless tiny processes, of life thriving and growing and consuming, all at once. The Heartstone beat a steady rhythm, warm against her skin, a counterpoint to the distant, indistinct clamour.
“The air carries the weight of a thousand kitchens,” Nyx observed, a whisper of a breeze . Its spectral form seemed to stretch, subtly, as if absorbing some invisible current from the overwhelming environment . “A tapestry woven of desire and fulfilment.”
A cascade of brilliant blue flowers, their petals tasting faintly of ginger and mint, grew by the honey river. Rory ran her hand over them, feeling a cool tingle.
“This place…it’s not just growing food, is it?” Rory asked, looking toward the distant geodesic tower, now more clearly visible. It glowed with a soft, pulsing light. “It feels like it’s *breathing *.”
Isolde’s eyes, pale lavender, seemed to pierce the opulent landscape, seeing something beyond the visible.
“What is sown in abundance, often starves the spirit,” the seer murmured, her voice carrying a resonance that cut through the richness of the air. “Such gardens grow only at a bitter cost.”
The armadillo-like creatures, aware of their presence, lifted their segmented heads, their multi-faceted eyes reflecting the amber sky and the intruders. They did not flee, nor did they show aggression, but merely continued their slow, rhythmic chewing. Their breath, expelled in tiny puffs, smelled faintly of sweet hay and damp earth. Rory sensed no malice, only placid contentment.
As they moved closer to the honey river, the hum grew louder, revealing itself as the combined sound of countless iridescent insects, like fat, glittering bees, buzzing around the water’s edge. They were harvesting the liquid, their small bodies collecting the glistening gold.
Rory knelt by the river, dipping her finger into the thick, warm current. It had the consistency of warm syrup, and a taste that was pure, rich honey with an elusive, floral aftertaste. Too much of it, she knew, would be sickly sweet.
“No trace of suffering,” Rory observed, withdrawing her finger, wiping it on her trousers. “No sweat, no toil. It just…is.” She gestured around at the effortless bounty.
Nyx’s shadow-head tilted slightly , its violet eyes fixed on the distant tower. Its form wavered , a subtle ripple in the fabric of dark.
“Suffering whispers in the silences between the feasts,” Nyx’s voice was barely audible now, a breath on the wind. “A silent prayer for an emptiness to feel anew.”
Rory felt a prickle of unease. The beauty here was absolute, the abundance overwhelming. But behind Nyx’s words, she sensed the underlying truth of this place. Gluttony wasn’t just about food; it was about insatiable desire , a constant craving for more, regardless of the consequences. The effortless plenty was a mask, hiding something darker.
A small, emerald-feathered bird, its beak long and curved like a sickle, landed on a branch above them, its throat swelling as it emitted a series of rapid, echoing calls. The sound was melodic, almost musical, yet carried a strange undertone of longing. The amber sun seemed to pulse with each note.
Rory looked back at the serpentine path they had followed, then to the imposing tower that glimmered in the distance, a beacon of otherworldly power. The Fae-Forged Blade felt heavier at her side, a solid, cold anchor in this world of sensory excess. The air grew thicker with the scent of spices, not just fruit, but notes of cardamom and saffron. Perhaps a true feast awaited them, one that involved more than just passive indulgence. Perhaps one that demanded participation.