Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95CXRDHPZ9SNCEMZGFEMFS

The silver chain of the Heartstone pendant bit into the back of Rory’s neck, a sharp reminder of the weight she carried. Against her chest, the thumbnail-sized crimson gem thrummed, a rhythmic heat that matched the quickening pace of her own pulse. She reached up, her thumb grazing the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—a nervous habit that had followed her from the courtrooms of Cardiff to the rain-slicked streets of London, and now, to the boundary of worlds. Beside her, Isolde Varga moved with a grace that bordered on the offensive. The Half-Fae’s silver hair cascaded to her waist like a frozen waterfall, undisturbed by the breeze that rattled the ancient oaks of Richmond Park. As they approached the shimmering distortion in the air, Rory noticed that Isolde’s boots made no sound on the dry leaves. More unsettlingly, she left no footprints. "The threshold is a hungry thing," Isolde said, her pale lavender eyes fixed on the empty space between two standing stones. "It asks for the breath you hold and returns the sigh you owe." "Can’t you just say 'watch your step' once?" Rory muttered, though she tightened her grip on the hilt of the Fae-forged blade sheathed at her hip. The moonsilver pommel was ice-cold, a stark contrast to the burning Heartstone. A flicker of violet light pulsed to Rory’s left. Nyx, a silhouette of living shadow, drifted through the trunk of a tree as if the wood were nothing more than dark water. Their form was vaguely humanoid, standing over six feet tall, but the edges of their silhouette blurred and drifted like smoke. "The Veil is thin here, little mortal," Nyx’s voice arrived not as a sound, but as a whisper carried on a wind that wasn't blowing. "I can taste the amber on the other side. It smells of rot and honey." "Let’s get it over with," Rory said. She stepped forward, bracing for resistance. Instead, she felt a sensation of being turned inside out, a momentary vertigo that made her stomach lurch. The damp, chilly air of London vanished. In its place came a heat so thick and cloying it felt like a physical weight on her skin. Rory stumbled, her boots sinking into soil that felt as soft and fine as crushed velvet. She squinted against the sudden, overwhelming light. Above them, the sky was not blue or grey, but a vast, radiant expanse of warm amber, as if they were standing inside a jar of molten honey. There were no clouds, only swirled streaks of deeper gold that suggested a slow, atmospheric churn. "Dymas," Isolde whispered. "The land where the belly is king and the throat is a temple." Rory took a cautious breath. The air tasted of overripe peaches, cinnamon, and the metallic tang of old wine. It was intoxicating, a sensory assault that made her head swim. To her left, Nyx solidified, their violet eyes glowing with a faint, predatory light. The Shade seemed more substantial here, the darkness of their form sharper against the golden atmosphere. They stood at the edge of a gentle slope. Below them stretched a landscape of impossible fertility. Sprawling vineyards rolled toward the horizon, the vines heavy with clusters of grapes the size of plums, glowing with an inner luminescence. Orchards of trees with crystalline leaves shook in the heavy air, their branches sagging under the weight of fruits Rory didn't recognize—orbs of deep indigo, spiked gourds of neon orange, and translucent spheres that pulsed like beating hearts. "Is it always this... much?" Rory asked, her hand hovering near her dagger. "Excess is the only law here," Nyx replied, drifting slightly ahead. "Be wary of the beauty, Rory. In the realm of Gluttony, everything wants to be consumed, and everything wants to consume you." As they descended the slope, the scale of the world became clearer. The "bushes" lining the path were actually brambles of wild berries, each one the size of a fist and weeping a thick, iridescent nectar that stained the velvet soil. The sound of the place was a low, constant throb—the hum of millions of insects, perhaps, or the collective vibration of a world that was perpetually growing, ripening, and decaying all at once. In the distance, Rory spotted movement in the vineyards. She froze, signaling the others to stop. Humanoid figures moved among the vines, their motions slow and rhythmic. From this distance, they looked like ordinary laborers, but as the group drew closer, the illusion of normalcy shattered. The workers were thin—harrowed, skeletal forms that contrasted sharply with the obscene bounty of the land. They wore tattered remains of modern clothing—business suits, aprons, high-street fashion—now reduced to rags. They worked with a frantic, desperate intensity, plucking the oversized fruit and placing it into silver baskets. "Helbound," Isolde said, her voice devoid of its usual riddling tone. "Mortals who traded their souls for a taste of something they couldn't name. Now they harvest the feast they are never permitted to join." One of the workers, a man who might have been thirty but looked a hundred, turned toward them. His eyes were hollow, filled with a terrible, starving heat. He didn't speak; he simply watched them with a longing so profound it made Rory’s skin crawl. She looked away, her chest tightening. This wasn't just a garden; it was a gilded cage, a place where the concept of 'enough' had been scrubbed from existence. "Keep moving," Nyx hissed, their shadow stretching long and jagged across the golden grass. "The Prince’s overseers do not care for tourists." They pushed deeper into the groves. The humidity rose, and with it, the scent of the air changed. The sweetness became fermenting, alcoholic. Rory felt a strange lethargy creeping into her limbs, a desire to sit beneath one of the indigo-fruited trees and simply... rest. Her stomach gave a sharp, demanding growl, though she had eaten before they left. "The environment is a lure," Isolde warned, sensing Rory’s hesitation. "The air itself is a banquet. To breathe is to begin the meal. Focus on the cold, Aurora. Focus on the blade." Rory gripped the moonsilver hilt. The biting cold of the Fae metal cleared the fog in her mind. She looked at the Heartstone pendant; it was glowing fiercely now, the crimson light cutting through the amber haze like a bloody eye. It was pointing them toward a structure rising in the distance—a palace of white marble and gold that seemed to grow out of the very earth, surrounded by waterfalls of what looked like pale cream or silver oil. As they skirted a grove of trees whose bark resembled toasted almond, a sound broke through the hum of the realm. It wasn't the wind or the insects. it was the sound of silver clashing against porcelain, and a low, resonant laughter that felt like it was vibrating in Rory’s marrow. "A competition," Nyx whispered, their violet eyes flickering. "Prince Belphegor’s master chefs are at their work. We are close to the heart of the Gluttony." Rory stepped over a root that bled thick red sap, her eyes fixed on the palace. The wonder of the place was rapidly being eclipsed by a cold, sharp unease. Here, the colors were too bright, the scents too heavy, and the hunger too real. She was a delivery girl from Cardiff who had spent her nights weaving through London traffic to bring people tepid noodles. Now, she was walking through a living nightmare of indulgence where the very ground beneath her feet felt like it was waiting for her to fall. She adjusted the strap of her bag and kept her hand on her dagger. This wasn't a world of law and logic. It was a world of appetite. And as she looked at the skeletal figures in the fields and the shimmering, amber sky above, Rory realized that in Dymas, the only thing more dangerous than being hungry was being the meal.