Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95FESE2DRHAZWVMQMTS9HA

The pressure of the Veil didn’t snap; it stretched, clinging to Aurora’s skin like wet silk before finally yielding. One moment she was standing in the humid, moss-thick air of Richmond Park, and the next, the oxygen changed. It became heavy, saturated with a cloying sweetness that coated the back of her throat. Aurora stumbled, her boots sinking into soil that felt less like dirt and more like damp cake crumbs. She caught her balance, her fingers instinctively brushing the silver chain around her neck. Beneath her shirt, the Heartstone Pendant thrummed with a steady, rhythmic heat against her collarbone—a warning and a beacon. "Welcome to Dymas," a voice whispered, sounding like dry leaves skittering across stone. Aurora turned. Nyx was a jagged tear in the light, a humanoid silhouette of deepest obsidian that seemed to absorb the environment's radiance rather than reflect it. Their violet eyes glowed with a faint, predatory luminescence, flickering as they shifted between a solid form and a hazy, incorporeal mist. Beside them, Isolde Varga stood as she always did—perfectly composed, her silver hair spilling down her back like a frozen waterfall. Aurora glanced down at the ground near the seer’s feet. The dark, loamy earth was undisturbed. Isolde left no footprints, her presence in this realm as ethereal as a dream. "It’s... gold," Aurora said, squinting. The sky was a vast, bruised expanse of warm amber, devoid of a sun but radiating a constant, stifling heat. It cast the landscape in the hues of a permanent sunset. Before them lay a valley that defied every law of nature Aurora had studied in her brief, reluctant stint at Cardiff University. Sprawling vineyards climbed the jagged obsidian cliffs that ringed the horizon, but the vines were thick as ship’s ropes, heaving with clusters of grapes the size of grapefruit. To their left, an orchard of trees with bark like polished copper groaned under the weight of fruit that glowed with internal light—vibrant teals, pulsing oranges, and deep, matte purples. "The Prince of Gluttony does not believe in moderation," Isolde said, her lavender eyes fixed on something far in the distance. She began to walk, her hem brushing against wildflowers that looked like open mouths, their petals veined with something that pulsed like a heartbeat. "To enter Dymas is to be invited to consume. But remember, little bird: the meal that costs nothing often demands the soul as a tip." Aurora followed, keeping close to Nyx. She reached into the sheath at her hip, the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade providing a sharp, cold comfort against her palm. The moonsilver dagger was a stark contrast to the oppressive warmth of the realm; it felt like a shard of winter held in her hand. They moved deeper into the orchard. The air was thick with the scent of fermenting peaches and exotic spices—cinnamon, star anise, and something sharper, like searing fat on a grill. Every breath felt like a caloric intake. Rory felt a strange, hollow ache in her stomach, a sudden, Ravenous hunger that made her mouth water. "Don't," Nyx hissed, their shadow stretching unnaturally long to wrap around Aurora’s shadow, anchoring her. "The air itself is a lure. It seduces the senses. Focus on the cold, mortal. Focus on the steel." Rory gripped the dagger tighter. "I'm fine. Just... it's a lot to take in." "It is a realm of excess," Nyx replied, their form flickering as they stepped over a stream. Instead of water, the liquid flowing between the banks was a viscous, translucent violet, bubbling softly with the aroma of aged wine. "Belphegor builds his paradise on the appetites of the lost. Every leaf, every drop, is a contract signed in sugar." They reached a grove where the trees were arranged in a perfect, terrifyingly symmetrical circle. In the center stood a table carved from a single block of white marble, stretching thirty feet long. It wasn't set with food, but with silver platters that caught the amber light. Aurora’s eyes were drawn to a single piece of fruit sitting on a pedestal at the head of the table. It looked like a pomegranate, but its skin was translucent, revealing hundreds of seeds that shimmered like rubies. The smell was transcendental—it smelled like her mother’s kitchen on a Sunday morning, like the crisp London air after a rainstorm, like everything she had ever lost and everything she had ever wanted. She found herself stepping toward it. Her hand reached out, her fingers trembling. The small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, an old childhood reminder of her own clumsiness, felt suddenly itchy. "Aurora." Isolde’s voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the haze like a bell. Rory stopped, her hand inches from the fruit. "The Seer views the path, but the traveler must walk it," Isolde said, her expression unreadable. "Visions are rarely found at the bottom of a bowl, and the belly of a demon is a lonely place to spend eternity." Aurora blinked, the spell breaking. She pulled her hand back, tucking it into the pocket of her jacket. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. "I wasn't going to eat it. I was just... looking." "Dymas makes looking a dangerous act," Nyx murmured. They drifted toward the marble table, their shadowy hand passing through the surface of a silver platter. "The Wardens monitor the rifts, but they rarely come here. Even the strongest of them eventually succumb to the weight of the feast." Rory turned away from the table, focusing on the horizon. The amber sky seemed to be darkening, the warmth turning heavy and suffocating. "The Heartstone is pulsing harder," she said, pulling the pendant out to show them. The deep crimson gemstone was glowing with a frantic, internal light. "Whatever we’re looking for, it’s further in. Toward the center of the valley." "The Great Kitchens," Isolde whispered. "Where the helbound souls toil to satisfy a hunger that has no end. That is where the Veil is thinnest, and where the Prince keeps his most precious ingredients." As they moved past the grove, the landscape shifted. The lush, overripe beauty of the orchards gave way to something more industrial, though no less alien. Towering structures of bronze and bone rose from the earth like giant chimneys, belching clouds of fragrant, golden smoke into the amber sky. The sound reached them then—a low, rhythmic thumping, like a massive drum, accompanied by the clatter of a thousand knives against stone. Rory felt a chill that had nothing to do with her Fae blade. The wonder of the place was curdling into unease. The "excess" wasn't just about food; it was about the consumption of everything. The very ground seemed to groan under the weight of the bounty. They crested a ridge and looked down into a vast bowl in the earth. Tens of thousands of souls moved in synchronized patterns, harvesting, chopping, and stirring in vats the size of cathedrals. There was no talking, no laughter—only the mechanical precision of a workforce driven by an insatiable master. And above it all, floating on a terrace of shimmering glass, sat a palace that looked like it had been spun from sugar and gold. "Is that where Belphegor is?" Aurora asked, her voice small. "He is everywhere in Dymas," Nyx said, their violet eyes narrowed. "He is the hunger in your gut and the sweetness on your tongue. We are in the belly of the beast now, Rory. Try not to get digested." Isolde stepped forward, her silver hair catching the golden smoke. She looked back at Rory, her lavender eyes bright with a warning she couldn't speak plainly. "The path through the feast is narrow, and the guests are never allowed to leave until the plates are licked clean. Keep your blade cold and your heart stone-still." Aurora nodded, her jaw set. She reached down and felt the cold moonsilver of the dagger, then the warmth of the Heartstone. She was a delivery girl from Cardiff, a law school dropout who had fled an abusive ex to find herself in a city of shadows. She had dealt with demanding customers and the cold streets of London. This was just another job, she told herself, even if the stakes were her very soul. "Let's move," she said, her voice steady. "I’m not staying for dessert." They began the descent into the heart of Gluttony, three shadows slipping through a world of golden light, moving toward a kitchen that never slept and a Prince who was always, always hungry.