Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTXW93J5ZW6A5D5MXKK2ZDQ

The iridescent gravel crunches under Rory’s scuffed delivery shoes, sharp and cool against her soles. One second she’s kneeling in the shadow of a gnarled oak in Richmond Park, fingers pressed to the Heartstone pendant thrumming warm against her throat; the next, the park’s dewy pine scent is replaced by burnt sugar and salted caramel, and the gray winter sky bleeds into honeyed amber. She yanks her foot back, nearly tripping over Nyx’s solidified shadow form. They stand just a pace away, their humanoid silhouette rippling like disturbed water, faintly glowing violet eyes fixed on the horizon. “This is Dymas,” their voice carries on a soft breeze, a whisper threaded through wind. “The realm of gluttony, bound to Hel.” Rory’s gaze flickers to the silver chain around her neck. The crimson gem pulses so bright now it seeps through her wool sweater, casting a faint pink glow over her hands. She’d felt the pendant hum that morning, a quiet thrum she’d learned to recognize as a rift in the Veil—thin, now, with the winter solstice less than a week away. She’d texted Nyx, knowing only a shade could slip between the cracks of the mortal plane, and they’d met here behind the ancient oak, the one Isolde had once pointed out as a focal point for fae magic. She reaches down to her delivery belt, fingers brushing the cool metal of the Fae-Forged Blade tucked against her hip. The moonsilver dagger glows faintly, a pale silver cutting through the amber haze, even though whatever passes for a sun here hangs low and molten in the sky. A group of figures passes by, gliding between rows of black iron trellises heavy with indigo and gold grapes, their sleeves rolled up to show arms crusted with dried sauce. “Helbound souls,” Nyx murmurs, their gaze drifting to the trellises. “Contracted here to work the feasts, to satisfy the hunger that never ends.” Rory follows their gaze, and her stomach growls despite herself. The trellises stretch as far as the eye can see, curling around orchards where trees bear fruit that looks like melted cheese oozing bright red syrup, and baskets stacked high with glowing blue berries that drip dewdrops that glow like tiny embers. A row of wooden stalls lines the path ahead, strung with lanterns made from hollowed citrus rinds, each filled with floating gold dust that casts warm light over tables set with plates polished to a high shine. A heavyset man behind one stall holds up a skewer of wriggling purple snails, their shells dotted with white spots. “Try the shadow snails,” he booms, his voice shaking the lanterns above his stall. “A delicacy from the depths of Hel—crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside!” A customer at a nearby bench shovels a handful of the snails into their mouth, cheeks bulging, and juice drips down their chin, but they don’t wipe it away. They just stare blankly ahead, like they’re lost in a trance. Unease twists in Rory’s chest. She’s seen people get carried away at holiday feasts, but this is different. The people here don’t look like they’re enjoying themselves—they look like they’re being pulled by something, their movements jerky, their eyes glassy. A man at a nearby table piles three roasted turkeys onto his plate, even though the first two are already half-eaten, the meat black and rotting around the edges. He shovels a bite of the black turkey into his mouth, and his face contorts, but he keeps eating, like he can’t stop. Isolde steps out from behind the shadow snail stall, her silver waist-length hair catching the amber light, her dress made of woven wildflowers that bloom year-round, their petals glowing pale pink in the honeyed sky. Her pale lavender eyes are bright, and she glides across the gravel, leaving no footprints, just a faint shimmer in the air where she steps. “The gem pulses bright, the blade glows cold,” she says, her voice soft like wind through grass, a riddle that makes Rory’s head tilt. “You came to mend the fold that’s grown too bold.” Rory’s left wrist, where the crescent scar curls over her skin, tingles. She’d forgotten that day, the day she’d fallen off her bike and cut her wrist, when she’d seen a shadowy figure standing at the edge of the woods, a figure that looked exactly like Nyx. She’d told Eva about it, but her parents had said it was just a trick of the light, and she’d pushed the memory down until a year ago, when she’d fled Evan and moved to London. “You knew this rift would open,” Rory says, her voice sharp, but not unkind. She’s not upset, exactly—she’s just relieved someone had been waiting for them, instead of stumbling into this alien realm alone. Isolde’s lips curve into a faint smile, and she gestures to a path that winds past the stalls, toward a sprawling stone building with a roof made of glass that glows like molten gold. “The rift will close by sundown,” she says, and here’s no riddle in her voice now, just quiet urgency. “You have two hours, at most, to find what you’re looking for, and to close the tear before it draws more helbound souls through.” Rory follows her gaze to the feast hall, and her breath catches. The building’s doors are flung open, and inside she can see tables stacked high with food so tall it touches the ceiling—roasted meats glistening with honey, pastries that drip with every flavor imaginable, towers of cake that glow with inner light. Chefs in white aprons carry trays of food between the tables, their hands moving so fast they’re a blur, and a group of people sit at a long table in the center, competing to see who can eat the most, their faces red with exertion. But that’s not what makes her breath catch. Taped to the front of the feast hall’s doors is a small, crumpled note, written in the same looping script as her mother’s Welsh cakes recipe. She’d recognize that tiny flourish on the letter C, the way she dotted her I’s with little hearts, anywhere. Her mother had died two years ago, from a sudden heart attack, and Rory had never gotten the chance to say goodbye. She steps forward, her boots crunching on the gravel, and Isolde and Nyx follow close behind. The closer they get to the feast hall, the stronger the smell of her mother’s pastries hits her, sweet and buttery, exactly the way she used to bake them for Sunday mornings. A vendor passes by carrying a tray of golden Welsh cakes, dusted with sugar, and Rory’s stomach growls so loud it echoes over the clinking of plates and the cheers of the competitive eaters. “Wait.” Nyx’s whisper grabs her arm before she can take another step, their shadowy fingers cold against her skin, even through her sweater. They nod toward the tray of cakes, their violet eyes narrowed. “Don’t touch the food here. Everything here is cursed. It looks like what you want, but it’s just a trick to lure you into staying, to make you forget why you came.” Rory freezes, her hand outstretched toward the tray of Welsh cakes. She looks at the cakes, and for a second she can almost taste them, warm and buttery, melting on her tongue. But then she notices the tiny, glowing shards of glass that make up the sugar coating, and the thick black syrup oozing from between the layers, and she steps back, her stomach churning. She grips the Fae-Forged Blade tighter, the cold metal grounding her, and she shakes off the fog of memory and longing. The doors to the feast hall swing open automatically as they approach, and the cheering hits them like a wave, so loud it drowns out the sound of the wind outside. The tables are packed so tight together that Rory has to squeeze between them, her boots stepping on crumbs and dropped pieces of cake that stick to the soles of her shoes. A woman sitting at a nearby table shovels a handful of roasted chestnuts into her mouth, her cheeks puffed out so far they look like they’re going to burst, and she doesn’t even notice when a piece of chestnut falls into her lap. Rory’s gaze drifts to a small table off to the side, set with a single plate of golden Welsh cakes, dusted with sugar, exactly the way her mother used to bake them. The smell hits her again, sweet and buttery, and she stumbles a little, her mouth watering. Isolde places a hand on her shoulder, her fingers warm through her sweater, and Rory blinks, shaking off the urge to walk over to the table. “That cake isn’t real,” Isolde says, her voice soft. “It’s a projection of your deepest longing, woven from the same energy that traps the helbound souls here. It will make you forget everything you came here for, trap you in this hall forever, eating and eating until you waste away.” Rory looks at the cake again, and she sees it for what it is: a shimmering, glowing thing, not the warm, homemade treat she remembers. The sugar coating is made of tiny, sharp shards of glass, and the cake itself oozes thick, black syrup that smells like rot. She steps back, her heart hammering in her chest, and she focuses on the Heartstone pendant at her throat, which pulses warm and steady, leading her toward the front of the hall. By now, the competitive eaters at the front of the hall have noticed them. A burly man with a face red with exertion stands up, his mouth full of roasted turkey, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of sauce on his cheek. “Intruders!” he booms, pointing at them. “Stop them! They’re here to ruin our feast!” The crowd around them turns, their glassy eyes fixed on Rory, Isolde, and Nyx. A group of young men push through the tables, their hands outstretched, their mouths full of half-chewed food, and they start to move toward the trio. Nyx solidifies, their shadowy form spreading out to block the path, and they wave a hand, sending a pool of shadow wrapping around the ankles of the leading young men. They trip and fall to the ground, their plates clattering to the floor, and they start to cry, their faces red with frustration, because they can’t keep eating, can’t satisfy the hunger that never ends. Rory keeps moving toward the front of the hall, following the pulse of the Heartstone. The shimmering tear in the Veil is there, glowing bright pink in the center of the room, its light spreading across the floor like a stain. Pieces of food float through the tear, vanishing into the other side—slices of cake, roasted turkey legs, even a whole roasted pig, which disappears with a soft pop. She can hear the faint sound of the park outside, the rustle of oak leaves, the distant bark of a dog, and she knows that if they don’t close the tear soon, more helbound souls will come through, more people will be trapped here. She stops in front of the tear, and she pulls the Fae-Forged Blade from her belt, holding it up high. The moonsilver dagger glows bright, its light cutting through the pink haze of the rift, and the tear flinches, shrinking a little. She takes a deep breath, and she swings the blade at the shimmering veil, slicing through the pink light. The tear lets out a high-pitched whine, like an animal in pain, and it shrinks rapidly, until it’s just a small, flickering point of light in the center of the hall. The cheering stops, and the crowd around them stares, their glassy eyes fixed on Rory. One by one, the competitive eaters slump forward in their chairs, their bodies going limp, and the vendors outside the hall pause, their hands hovering over their trays of food.