AI The silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant bit into Rory’s neck as she stumbled through the shimmering distortion. One moment, the damp, earthy scent of Richmond Park filled her lungs; the next, a cloying sweetness thick enough to coat her tongue forced a cough from her throat. She hit the ground on all fours, her palms sinking into grass that felt like damp velvet .
"Keep your feet, child. The soil here has a predatory habit of swallowing the slow."
Isolde Varga stood a few paces ahead, her silver hair shimmering like a beacon against a horizon of bruised gold. She didn't look back to see if Rory followed. The Half-Fae simply drifted forward, her feet leaving no indentation in the lush, sponge-like moss.
"My feet are fine." Rory pushed herself up, brushing dark, sticky pollen from her jeans. "My stomach , however, is currently trying to exit through my throat."
"A common side-effect of tearing the Veil. The soul dislikes being stretched like saltwater taffy."
A silhouette of living shadow bled out from the darkness beneath a nearby tree. Nyx solidified, their violet eyes glowing with a faint, rhythmic pulse . The Shade didn't breathe, yet they seemed to expand and contract in time with the shifting light of this new realm.
"Dymas," Nyx whispered, the sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. "The air tastes of vintage rot. It has not improved since the last century."
Rory straightened her jacket, her hand instinctively flying to the hilt of the moonsilver dagger tucked into her belt. The leaf-shaped blade remained cold, a stark contrast to the thrumming warmth of the Heartstone Pendant against her chest.
They stood at the edge of a sprawling orchard that defied every law of botany Rory had ever studied. To her left, trees with bark the colour of polished obsidian bore fruit that looked like oversized rubies . To her right, vines of braided gold wire climbed up trellises made of bleached bone, heavy with translucent grapes that shimmered with an inner, liquid light.
"It’s beautiful," Rory murmured, stepping toward a low-hanging branch.
"Do not touch."
Isolde’s voice cut through the air like a whip. She hadn't turned around, but her hand was raised in a silent command.
"The fruit of Dymas provides more than just flavour. It provides memories. Regrets. You eat a plum, and you might spend a decade reliving the day your heart first broke, unable to look away while your spirit withers into a husk for the Prince's table."
Rory pulled her hand back as if the branch had turned into a viper. "Noted. No snacks."
They moved deeper into the grove. The further they walked, the more the world began to pulse with a sickly, rhythmic thrum. It wasn't a sound, but a vibration felt in the marrow. A heavy, aromatic scent of roasting meat and caramelised sugar wafted through the air, so intense it made Rory’s head spin.
A garden path appeared, paved not with stone, but with thousands of tiny, ivory-coloured tiles . As Rory stepped on them, a faint, discordant chime echoed through the trees.
"Are these... teeth?"
Rory knelt, squinting at the path. The tiles were indeed molars and incisors, polished to a high sheen and set into a mortar of dark, hardened resin.
"The leftovers of those who couldn't stop eating," Nyx said, drifting over the path without touching it. "Prince Belphegor is nothing if not a proponent of recycling. Waste is the only sin not permitted in the realm of Gluttony."
"That’s comforting ." Rory stood up, her jaw tight . "How much further to the kitchens?"
"The heart of the excess lies just beyond the Ridge of Sighs," Isolde replied, pointing toward a rising slope where the amber sky met a range of hills that looked suspiciously like piles of discarded pomegranate seeds.
As they ascended the ridge, the landscape shifted. The lush greenery gave way to a more industrialised opulence. Below them, a valley opened up, dominated by a gargantuan pavilion made of stretched silk the colour of wine. Around it, dozens of fires roared in pits lined with copper, manned by figures that moved with too many limbs and not enough joints.
The sound reached them then. A cacophony of clattering pans, the rhythmic chopping of heavy cleavers, and a low, guttural chanting that set Rory’s teeth on edge.
"The Master Chefs," Isolde whispered. "Souls who traded their eternity for the chance to cook the perfect meal. They are quite literally consumed by their work."
Rory pulled the Fae-forged blade from its sheath. The moonsilver glowed with a pale, steady light, casting long shadows across the ivory path. "We’re not here for a recipe. Where’s the rift?"
"The Veil is thinnest where the hunger is greatest," Nyx said, their form flickering as if caught in a high wind . "Inside the pavilion. Beneath the Great Table."
They descended the slope, sticks and dry husks snapping under Rory’s boots with a series of sharp, rhythmic cracks. The closer they got to the pavilion, the more the air shimmered with heat. The smell of the food was no longer pleasant; it was aggressive, an olfactory assault of spices that burned the nostrils and fat that coated the back of the throat.
A group of three demons, each nearly seven feet tall with skin the texture of scorched leather, stood guard at the silk entrance. They didn't carry swords. Instead, they held long, serrated hooks used for dragging carcasses.
"Isolde, can you talk us past them?" Rory whispered.
"I can mislead, but I cannot hide the scent of a living mortal in a realm built on consumption. You smell like a fresh loaf of bread in a kennel of starving hounds, Aurora."
"Great. So much for the subtle approach."
Nyx didn't wait for a plan. The Shade dissolved into a pool of ink, racing across the ground with terrifying speed. Before the guards could react, the shadows rose up behind them, forming jagged, ethereal blades. One guard fell silently, his neck severed by a whisper . The other two roared, a sound like grinding stones, and swung their hooks into the empty air where Nyx had been a second before.
"Go!" Isolde hissed.
Rory bolted. She didn't run towards the guards, but towards the side of the pavilion, her eyes scanning for a tear in the silk . She found a loose seam and drove the Fae-forged blade into the fabric. The moonsilver sliced through the magical warding like hot wire through butter.
She stepped inside and froze.
The pavilion was a cathedral of excess. A single table, carved from a prehistoric redwood that bled sap the colour of rubies, stretched for a hundred yards. It was piled high with dishes that defied logic: whole roasted beasts that still twitched, towers of shimmering jellies that contained preserved eyes, and fountains of liquid gold that smelled of melted honey and sulfur.
Hundreds of guests sat at the table. Some were human-shaped, though their skin was translucent and their stomachs grotesquely distended. Others were monstrosities of skin and hunger, shoving handfuls of gore into maws that never seemed to close.
At the far end of the table, seated on a throne of gilded ribs, was a figure draped in robes of heavy, embroidered velvet . He didn't eat. He simply watched, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat on the table.
The Heartstone Pendant against Rory’s chest didn't just pulse ; it screamed with heat.
"The rift," she gasped, looking toward the floor beneath the throne. A shimmering, jagged tear in reality pulsed there, vomiting a sickly violet light that clashed with the amber sky outside.
"Stay behind me," Nyx’s voice echoed from the shadows of the ceiling.
But it was too late. The figure on the throne stopped tapping. He turned his head, his eyes two bottomless pits of obsidian, and fixed his gaze directly on Rory.
"A new ingredient," the Prince said, his voice a rich, vibrating baritone that made the wine in the glasses ripple. "And a blade of the Fae Courts to carve it with."
He stood, his massive frame unfurling like a rising storm. The guests at the table went silent, their chewing stopping in a synchronised, horrific pause.
"Isolde!" Rory yelled, backing away as the Prince stepped off his throne.
The Half-Fae entered through the tear in the silk , her expression grimmer than Rory had ever seen it. "The bargain is forfeit. Run, Aurora!"
The Prince snapped his fingers. The floor beneath Rory’s feet began to soften, turning from solid wood into a thick, bubbling pool of hot, liquid sugar. She tried to pull her leg free, but the substance acted like quicksand, dragging her down.
"I have lacked a proper centerpiece for this evening’s gala," the Prince said, strolling toward her with a predatory grace. "A mortal girl, seasoned with the spice of the Fae and the shadow of a Shade. You shall be delicious."
Rory swung her dagger, the moonsilver cutting through the air, but the Prince simply caught her wrist. His grip didn't feel like skin; it felt like a closing iron vice .
From the corners of the pavilion, the multi-limbed chefs began to emerge, their long, serrated cleavers glinting in the amber light. They didn't look at the Prince. They looked at Rory.
"Prepare the spit," the Prince commanded.
The heat from the Heartstone Pendant became unbearable, a searing white light beginning to bleed through the fabric of Rory’s shirt as the first chef reached for her hair.