AI The ground under Rory’s boots shifted, not with earth, but with a sudden, lurching emptiness . One moment, the damp, cool air of the Fae Grove clung to her skin, the next, a dry, oppressive heat smothered her. A gasp caught in her throat. The Heartstone Pendant throbbed against her sternum, a deep crimson warmth spreading through her tunic, mirroring the sharp pulse in her own veins. Her fingers instinctively wrapped around the hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade. The moonsilver felt like a shard of ice against her palm, a frigid anchor in the sudden, cloying warmth .
A low, resonant hum pulsed through the air, vibrating against her teeth, a sound like a thousand distant, contented sighs. Rory’s eyes, bright blue and wide, swept across the alien vista. Above, the sky poured a thick, warm amber light over everything, not a uniform wash, but like honey slowly bleeding down across a canvas . Clouds, swollen and indistinct, drifted through the syrupy expanse, staining patches of the horizon with bruised violet and deep plum.
“This is Dymas,” Rory murmured, the name feeling foreign on her tongue. Her breath caught on the heavy fragrance saturating the air—a dizzying perfume of overripe fruit, dark spices, and something vaguely metallic. The mixture tickled her nose, dense and almost intoxicating.
Nyx materialized beside her, a wavering column of shadow deepening to solid form. Their violet eyes, faintly glowing, took in the scene.
“The air tastes of indulgences,” Nyx’s voice whispered, a current of wind through dry leaves, barely audible above the pervasive hum. “Sweetness clings to it like a shroud.”
The ground beneath them felt soft, spongy. It was not grass, but a luxuriant moss, the colour of aged Bordeaux, yielding underfoot. Sparkling threads of what looked like spun sugar or crystallized nectar crisscrossed the moss, catching the amber light and scattering it in blinding, sugary glints.
Isolde stood a few feet away, entirely still. Her silver hair, long as a waterfall, brushed the sparkling moss. Her pale lavender eyes seemed to see beyond the immediate, fixed on a point in the dizzying distance. No footprints marked her presence on the yielding ground.
“Here, hunger’s gnawing maw finds false solace ,” Isolde’s voice chimed, delicate as bells, yet resonating with an undercurrent of something vast and ancient. “Beauty here is but a gilded cage, built of yearning fulfilled.”
Rory pushed forward, the Fae-Forged Blade a steady weight . Towering structures of vegetation rose before them, impossibly green and vibrant. Vines, thicker than old tree trunks, coiled upward, their smooth skin iridescent, shifting from emerald to jade with every subtle pulse of the amber light. Their leaves, flat and wide as serving platters, shimmered with a dewy sheen. From these vines hung clusters of fruit, grotesque in their perfection. Some were spheres the size of small pumpkins, their skins a rich, mottled purple, glowing with an internal luminescence. Others dangled like swollen teardrops, striped crimson and gold, exuding a persistent, sweet aroma that made Rory’s stomach clench with an unfamiliar longing.
She reached out, hesitant, to touch one of the enormous purple orbs. The skin felt cool, smooth, surprisingly firm. A faint vibration hummed beneath her fingertips, a quiet, sustained *thrum *.
“Do not partake, mortal,” Nyx’s voice warned from behind her. “The fruits of Dymas entrap as much as they nourish.”
Rory pulled her hand back, a prickle of unease surfacing. The beauty here felt predatory, a lure. She noticed that the moss beneath her foot was not just red; in places, it pulsed with a fainter, deeper crimson, as if it had absorbed something rich and dark. Tiny, iridescent insects, their wings like stained glass, hovered around the fruit, drunk on the heady scents. Some lay unmoving, tiny husks on the moss, spent.
They moved deeper into this living, edible landscape. The air grew thicker, hotter still. The distant hum resolved into a cacophony of sound: faint, syrupy music, the chime of bells, the distant clatter of what might have been cutlery, and laughter, full and throaty, carried on waves of cloying sweetness.
A river, wide and sluggish, appeared through a parting in the gigantic vines. It flowed with a liquid that was not water, but a viscous, ruby-red current, swirling with a rich, fermented fragrance. Dark, glossy petals, large as dinner plates, drifted languidly on its surface, stirring faint ripples of shimmering crimson. On the opposite bank, colossal structures, carved from polished obsidian and something that gleamed like crystallized sugar, glittered under the amber sky. They were not human-built, their angles strange, their proportions overwhelming.
“Feasts unending, yet no true satisfaction,” Isolde observed, her gaze following the river’s lazy flow . “The soul hungers here, but grows only fatter with empty fare.”
Rory paused at the river’s edge, leaning closer. The ruby liquid felt warm, almost hot, even from a few feet away. A faint steam rose from its surface, carrying the scent of plums and dark wine. She felt a strange pull, a desire to touch it, to taste it, despite Nyx’s warning. The sheer *abundance * of Dymas pressed in on her, a physical weight . Every sense screamed with overstimulation.
Beyond the river, through a vast, arching entryway in one of the sugar-crystal structures, Rory glimpsed a procession. Figures moved, indistinct in the distance, draped in flowing garments that shimmered . They carried aloft platters piled high with glistening delicacies, moving with a ponderous, almost dreamlike slowness.
“Those are the Dymasian acolytes,” Nyx explained, their form rippling, becoming more ethereal in the deeper gloom cast by the colossal buildings. “Bound in service, their existence a perpetual indulgence.”
The path ahead opened into a vast garden, more ordered than the wild tangle of vines they had navigated . Here, trees with silver bark bore fruits like enormous, ripe peaches, their fuzz catching the light like soft down. Bushes dripped with berries that resembled clusters of polished emeralds and sapphires. Statues, carved from what looked like pure chocolate, stood amid the foliage, their forms voluptuous and serene, melting ever so slightly in the pervasive warmth .
A sound, a low guttural moan, echoed from deeper within the garden. It was not one of pain, but of profound , unadulterated pleasure. Rory instinctively tightened her grip on the Fae-Forged Blade. Its cold presence offered a small, reassuring counterpoint to the oppressive heat and sweetness. She felt a shiver, not of cold, but of a deep disquiet. This place, for all its beauty, vibrated with an unsettling excess, a profound , consuming appetite.
Each step deeper plunged them into a more profound wonderland. The very air changed, taking on a heavier floral note, mixed with an undertone of something richer, almost musky. Bees, impossibly large, their bodies fuzzy and striped in crimson and gold, buzzed lethargic, their legs heavy with brilliant orange pollen, as thick as flour. They moved slowly from blossom to blossom, on flowers the size of cartwheels, their petals unfurling in brilliant displays of fuchsia, indigo, and chartreuse.
Rory felt a dull ache in her temples, a dizzying effect from the overwhelming sensory input . She focused on the cold weight of the blade in her hand, the thin scar on her left wrist a small, sharp reminder of Earth.
“Is this… all there is?” Rory asked, the question escaping her lips almost without conscious thought . “Just… food?”
Isolde turned her head, her lavender eyes distant, yet piercing.
“The hunter deems the prey ‘all there is’ until the trap is sprung,” Isolde spoke, her voice light, like glass chimes. “A sweet banquet hides a sharper hunger, child. Here, souls become ingredients, and the feast, unending.”
A sudden gust of warm, spiced air buffeted them, carrying a wave of music now clearer – a deep, resonating organ, accompanied by ethereal, sustained singing. A colossal archway, formed entirely of what appeared to be interlinked, glowing white bone, stood ahead. Through it, a great golden light pulsed , beckoning.