AI The air punched Rory first – thick, humid, saturated with a cloying sweetness that made her teeth ache. One step, and the ground yielded under her boot, not firm earth but something soft, springy, like ancient moss grown fat on rot . Her hand clamped to the slender, leaf-shaped dagger at her hip, its moonsilver hilt providing a welcome chill against her palm.
Next to her, Nyx faded and solidified, their violet eyes scanning the oppressive new vista. The towering arches of the portal shimmered , then dissolved behind them, swallowed by a sky the colour of bruised apricots.
"We passed through," Rory said, the words feeling heavy on her tongue.
"Indeed," Isolde’s voice, a soft whisper , echoed near Rory's ear, though the Half-Fae stood several feet away. She always moved that way , a ripple in the perception, leaving no trace where her ethereal feet touched the strange ground. "The Veil accepts our passage."
Rory focused on the warmth pulsing against her chest. The Heartstone Pendant, a deep crimson gem nestled on its silver chain, beat like a second heart. It hummed, a low vibration, acknowledging the proximity to Hel.
"Gluttony," Nyx murmured, their voice a rasp of dry leaves. "It smells of it."
They stood within a vast, open space, a grand old conservatory but on an impossible scale. Massive, fleshy tendrils, thick as oak trunks, looped above them, forming a grotesque canopy. From these tendrils hung globular fruit, the size of human heads, pulsating with faint internal light. Some split open, spilling thick, syrupy liquid onto the fungal ground below, attracting swarms of iridescent, buzzing things. The entire landscape seemed alive, breathy, subtly shifting.
"The harvest is rich," Isolde observed, her pale lavender eyes fixed on a cluster of fruit that oozed a viscous, green bile.
Rory gagged, swallowing the burning sensation in her throat. The place was beautiful and sickening all at once. The "gardens" mentioned in the lore felt more like an overgrown, carnivorous maw . She took a hesitant step, the resilient plant matter underfoot releasing a puff of spores that scratched at her nostrils.
"Keep silent," Nyx commanded, their form thinning, almost transparent against the amber light . "The air carries more than scent here."
A deep, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the ground, a subtle pulse that seemed to seep into Rory's bones. It sounded like a monstrous heart, beating slow and steady, somewhere in the choked distance. She glanced at Nyx, but the Shade gave no further explanation, only melted a little deeper into the shadows cast by the swaying tendrils.
They began to move, following a winding path that seemed less trodden, away from the sticky trail the syrupy fruit pulp created. The path descended, sloped, surrounded by plants that grew in impossible shapes. Some looked like great, petrified intestines, coiled and rigid, smelling faintly of old meat. Others resembled bloated, purple mushrooms, shedding clouds of luminous dust. The silence , broken only by the hum and distant thrumming, became heavier, almost suffocating.
After what felt like an hour, though time felt distorted here, the path opened into a clearing. An immense structure dominated the space, a building made from layers of calcified bone and polished obsidian. It rose like a feast table carved from a mountain, studded with glowing crimson veins that pulsed with the same rhythm as the ground. Colossal archways, wide as castle gates, beckoned with a promise of even greater excess.
"A palace," Isolde stated, her voice quiet . "For the Prince."
Rory's gaze travelled upwards. Not a natural rock formation, but architectural nightmare . Statues of hulking , multi-limbed creatures, their faces twisted in what could be ecstasy or agony, adorned the facade , clutching overflowing goblets and tearing at unseen meat. She gripped the Fae-Forged Blade tighter, its cold steel a comfort.
"Prince Belphegor," Nyx hissed, the name a venomous whisper . "Master of indulgence."
A low murmur sifted through the massive archways, a sound of many voices, many mouths, too many. It was a sound of constant consumption, chewing, swallowing, gasping.
"We need to go inside," Rory said, more to herself than to the others . The Eye of Aethelred, the artefact they sought, lay somewhere within these monstrous halls of Dymas.
"Always towards the heart of the beast, little mortal," Isolde said, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips . "Some things never change."
Nyx stepped forward, their form shimmering. "The air is… sweet and rancid here, Laila. An invitation. Or a trap."
Rory ignored the archaic name the Shade sometimes used. "Both, probably."
They moved beneath the first monstrous archway, passing through a threshold that felt like a membrane . The sounds intensified, resolving into a symphony of guttural chewing and wet slurping. The air grew thicker, hotter, laden with a thousand clashing odours: roasted meat, fermenting fruit, sugar, spice, and something else, something metallic and sharp, like fresh blood.
The interior was a single, immense chamber, a cavernous banquet hall seemingly without end. Long, sinuous tables, carved from the same bone-like material as the exterior, stretched into the amber-lit distance. Each table groaned under the weight of grotesque feasts. Roasted beasts with too many heads and too many limbs lay splayed, their flesh glistening . Mountains of exotic, writhing fruits piled high. Rivers of shimmering, viscous liquids flowed into vast goblets.
And at these tables sat figures – blurry at first, then sharp. Helbound souls, hundreds of them, their faces slack with a disturbing, vacant pleasure as they gorged themselves. Their clothes were tattered, their skin pale and damp with sweat, but they ate, and ate, and ate, their eyes fixed on the endless food. They resembled bloated sacks of misery, lost within their forced appetites.
One of the figures, closer to them, raised a flabby hand, beckoning towards a platter of crimson, shelled creatures that convulsed gently .
"They see us," Rory whispered, her hand moving from the dagger to the Heartstone, which beat now with a frantic energy against her ribs.
"Of a kind," Isolde clarified. "Their vision is dulled by their pleasure. Their Prince's will commands their senses."
Nyx, still in shadow form, drifted past Rory. "Do not engage. They are merely mouths."
The sound of their collective chewing was a roaring ocean of consumption. It almost drowned out the low, guttural singing that echoed from the very end of the hall, where a single, colossal figure presided over a table larger than all the rest combined. That must be Belphegor.
Rory forced herself to breathe, the cloying air burning her lungs. The sheer scale and depravity of it all was overwhelming. This wasn't merely indulgence; it was cosmic punishment, a forced, endless embrace of the very sin that defined the realm.
They moved along the periphery of the hall, using the shadows cast by towering piles of food and massive candelabra, made from bone, to conceal themselves. The floor sticky beneath Rory's boots, a residue of spilled drink and dropped food. It felt unnatural, almost as if the hall itself was sweating sugar and fat.
A sudden, sharp clangour ripped through the din. At a nearby table, one of the helbound souls dropped a platter of glistening , raw entrails. Instead of ignoring it, as Rory had witnessed others do, this one stared at the spill, a flicker of something, clarity perhaps, igniting in their glazed eyes.
"The taste…" the soul rasped, its voice raw, unused . "It fades."
Other heads turned, slowly , with a sickening crack of strained necks. A ripple of unease , faint but perceptible, went through the feasting throngs. The rhythmic chewing faltered.
"He perceives the flaw," Isolde noted, her voice dangerously calm .
Rory felt a sickening lurch in her gut. She yanked the Fae-Forged Blade free, its moonsilver gleaming in the sickly amber light, its cool temperature a steady presence in her trembling hand. A hundred pairs of dulled eyes slowly fixed on them. The silence that followed the cessation of chewing was denser, heavier than any noise. The thrumming from the floor intensified, growing into a frantic pulse .
A massive, shadowy figure detached itself from Belphegor's distant table, moving with surprising speed. It was not one of the helbound souls. This was something else entirely – larger, broader, armoured in gleaming , dark carapace, its multiple eyes fixing on their group with a knowing, predatory hunger.
"Run," Nyx whispered, their form now a solid, impenetrable wall of darkness before Rory.
The armoured creature let out a low, hissing shriek that tore through the sudden silence . It raised one of its massive, chitinous arms, revealing claws that shimmered like freshly sharpened glass. The command had been given . The helbound souls, now animated by something other than their own hunger, began to rise, slowly , awkwardly, but with purpose. They were a wave of empty, gaunt bodies, stumbling towards the intruders.
Rory braced herself, the Fae-Forged Blade held ready. A single, gaunt hand, slick with grease, reached for her.