AI The Veil shimmered, a distortion like heat haze off asphalt, yet far more profound . Rory watched it, a tightness in her chest, the Heartstone pendant pulsing a steady, warm beat against her sternum. The crimson gem, usually a quiet ember, now flared with an inner glow that stained her skin faintly red. It wasn't the winter solstice, but Isolde had spoken of a weakening in the boundary, a tear born of desperation or desire , one that only beings attuned to such things could perceive.
Beside her, Nyx was a deeper patch of shadow in the already twilight-dim glade. Their form was unusually substantial tonight, a tall, lean silhouette with eyes that burned like twin facets of polished amethyst. Isolde, a silver-haired wisp of presence, stood before the shimmer, her pale lavender eyes fixed on *something * beyond. No footprints marred the moss at her feet, leaving only the faint indentations of Rory's worn boots.
"The passage parts," Isolde's voice was a whisper of dry leaves. "Where desire grows wild, and hunger knows no balm. Step lightly , mortal, lest the feast consume you."
Rory took a deep breath, the air in the Fae Grove cool on her lungs. The promise of Dymas. Gluttony. A place of excess. What could be so threatening about abundance? Evan’s manipulations had always started with honeyed words and lavish gifts, a veneer of perfection that hid something rotten. She gripped the cold, leaf-shaped hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip, the moonsilver hilt a stark contrast to the warming pendant.
The shimmering grew, twisting into a vortex of swirling colors only Rory seemed to fully register – the subtle blues and greens of Earth, bleeding into impossible golds and purples. It felt like walking through a dream. She stepped forward, her hand outstretched, testing the air. It wasn’t empty space. It was a tangible pressure, like pushing through thick water.
Then, the world bled through.
The humidity hit first, thick and cloying, smelling of overripe fruit and something sweet, like fermented wine. It was a physical presence, wrapping around Rory, making her feel heavy, almost drunk on the scent alone. Her eyes, used to the fading light of Earth, were overwhelmed.
The sky was a constant, warm amber, as if perpetual sunset had been captured and held fast. It glowed, not with the harsh brilliance of a sun, but with a diffuse, enveloping light that stained everything beneath it in rich, golden hues.
Before them, stretching into the hazy distance, lay Dymas.
Not a barren land, not a wasteland, but a garden beyond comprehension . Sprawling vineyards unfurled across rolling hills, their trellises lost in the amber light. The vines were impossibly thick, their leaves a deep, polished jade. And the grapes—Rory had never seen anything like them. They hung in clusters the size of a man's fist, shimmering with internal lights – ruby reds so deep they were almost black, emerald greens that glowed, royal purples that pulsed . Some seemed to shift color even as she watched, like liquid jewels.
"A generous welcome," Nyx's whisper drifted beside her, almost lost in the sudden, overwhelming hum that permeated the air. It was the sound of a thousand insects, the murmur of distant voices, the low thrum of some unseen mechanism, all woven into a vast, living symphony of indulgence.
Isolde merely smiled, a knowing, placid expression. "Where the ground weeps sweetness, and all thirst is quenched. But remember, a cup overfull is prone to spill."
Rory took a cautious step onto the path, a broad flagstone track that gleamed with an almost oily luster. It was perfectly smooth, reflecting the amber sky with a deep, dark sheen. The Heartstone in her chest thrummed with increasing intensity , a quick, almost frantic beat now.
They began to walk, deeper into Dymas.
The vineyards gave way to orchards where trees bent low, their limbs groaning under the weight of colossal fruits. Apples the size of human heads, glowing with internal luminescence. Pears with skins like spun gold. Oranges that split, just slightly , at their bases, revealing succulent, glistening flesh. The air grew thicker with the sweet, heady scent, so potent it almost burned Rory’s nostrils. Her stomach gave an involuntary rumble, a betrayal.
"It is... much," she muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. The constant warmth was beginning to feel oppressive .
Nyx solidified further, their shadowed hand reaching out, not quite touching, a monstrously large, purple-black fruit that hung from a low branch . "A feast for the senses, yes. And a trap for the unwary." Their voice held a note of dry amusement, but their glowing eyes scanned the horizon, ever vigilant.
Rory tried to pick out individual sounds in the cacophony . Distant laughter, high and clear. The occasional clang of what sounded like an enormous gong . Music, a stringed instrument with a deep, resonant tone, weaving in and out of the general hum. It was beautiful, captivating, yet it had a frantic edge, like a party that had gone on for too long, fuelled by desperation.
Through gaps in the orchards, Rory caught glimpses of structures: grand pavilions with silken fabrics fluttering in a breeze she couldn’t feel , their colors vibrant against the amber sky. Farther still, in the distance, a sprawling complex that looked like a palace built for giants, its spires piercing the glowing air.
They passed a fountain, its basin overflowing with a viscous, honey-colored liquid that smelled like nectar and spices . Figures moved gracefully around it, their forms human-like but subtly elongated, their skin gleaming under the amber light. They were too far to make out specific features, but they seemed to glide rather than walk, their movements fluid and unhurried as they dipped chalices into the rich liquid.
Rory’s scar on her left wrist, usually a pale crescent, now felt oddly sensitive, a faint tingling sensation. She pushed up her sleeve instinctively, but there was nothing to see. Only the familiar, almost forgotten mark.
"Do you feel it?" she asked Nyx quietly. "The... richness?"
"The *intent *," Nyx corrected, their gaze still sweeping the landscape . "This realm seeks to sate, to drown, to consume. It is a slow seduction."
Then, a discovery. Skirting a massive fig tree laden with fruits that pulsed with a soft, inner light, they came across a pathway leading deeper into a dense grove. Here, the gardens were less cultivated, wilder, though still bursting with unearthly flora. Flowers bloomed in hues that defied Earthly pigments: petals like spun glass, stamens that glowed with cold fire, blossoms that slowly unfurled and retracted, as if breathing .
A faint, sweet *singing * drifted from the grove. It wasn't human. It was higher, sweeter, full of a strange, melancholic joy.
"A siren's call, perhaps," Isolde mused, her silver hair shimmering, catching the faint glints of light from the glowing flowers. "Or just a song of sorrow, dressed up for the show."
Rory clutched the Fae-Forged Blade, its cold hilt a grounding force. "What's in there?"
"Only what you seek," Isolde replied, as always.
Pushing through a curtain of thick, velvety leaves that released a puff of scented pollen, they found a small, circular clearing. In the center, a pedestal of dark, polished stone held a single, magnificent fruit. It was unlike anything else they’d seen: roughly oblong, the size of a melon, with skin like opalescent mother-of-pearl, constantly shifting through a spectrum of soft pastels. A faint, almost imperceptible hum emanated from it.
But it was what surrounded the pedestal that caught Rory’s breath. Scattered around the base were dozens of tiny, intricate carvings, perhaps an inch or two tall, made from various fruits and vegetables. Miniature scenes of feasting, of dancing , of figures holding hands. They were ephemeral , beginning to dessicate, their colors fading, yet the artistry was undeniable. Each tiny piece was a testament to extraordinary skill, hinting at the "master chefs" Isolde had spoken of. But one of the carvings, half-rotted, almost invisible under a cluster of glowing moss, depicted a small, slumped figure with a look of utter, profound despair.
An artist, wasting away, creating beauty for someone else's unending hunger.
Unease truly settled in Rory's stomach now, not just from the cloying sweetness. This wasn't just indulgence; it was compulsion.
"The art of torment," Nyx whispered, their form darkening almost imperceptibly, as if absorbing the light around them . "To create perfection for the very entity that consumes you. A common bargain in this realm."
The fruit on the pedestal pulsed , brighter now, casting a gentle rainbow wash over the decaying carvings. Rory felt a pull, a deep, unsettling urge, to reach out and touch it, to taste it. To understand its perfection, to be filled by it. Her mouth watered, despite herself. She remembered the description of Dymas: "helbound souls contracted from Earth" often became master chefs here. Was this beautiful, tempting fruit a symbol of their artistry, or their eternal servitude?
The Heartstone thrummed a sharp, warning beat. It was reacting to the fruit itself, not just the realm.
Rory pulled her hand back, though she hadn't realized she’d extended it towards the opalescent fruit. The air in the clearing felt heavier, the sweet song from the depths of the grove suddenly sounding less joyful, more akin to a lament.
"This is not a land of simple feasts," she said, her voice tight . "It's a place where hunger swallows everything, even the hungry themselves."
Isolde's pale lavender eyes, for once, lost their usual knowing glint and softened with a touch of pity. "The greatest prison is often gilded, Aurora. And the sweetest chains are forged of desire ."
Rory imagined the grand feasts, the culinary competitions. All fuelled by the artistry and the pain of these *helbound * souls, endlessly creating perfection only to have it devoured. This beautiful, bounteous land was consuming itself, slowly , deliciously, with every impossible fruit and every intoxicating scent. This wasn't just Gluttony; it was a hungry, smiling maw . And she, Rory Carter, felt a chilling , deep-seated fear that she might just be one more tantalizing morsel.