Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTYJCWMCEMC3CY48EGSNN68

The October night air bit at Rory’s ears as she wiped the last of the grease from the back entryway of Silas’ bar, her scuffed work boots planted on damp cobblestones that glistened with rain leftover from the afternoon downpour. She’d just finished a delivery of egg fried rice to a flat two blocks over, and the hem of her Golden Empress delivery apron still smelled like soy sauce and toasted sesame. Tucked under her cropped wool sweater, the silver chain of her Heartstone Pendant burned against her sternum—sudden, sharp, a pulse that thrummed in time with the beat of her racing heart. She froze, yanking the chain out from under her shirt. The deep crimson gem glowed faintly, its light pulsing warm against her palm, exactly as the vague memory of the oddity shop keeper had warned her when she’d stumbled on the stone in a box of junk last month. She’d never told anyone but Nyx about the pendant—how it had showed up on her doorstep three weeks prior, wrapped in brown paper with no note, how it had sat on her kitchen counter for three days before she’d dared put it on. Now it screamed at her, a beacon in the dark London alley. “Rift,” a soft whisper brushed her ear, and she turned to find Nyx leaning against a rusted dumpster, their form a shifting shadow with faint violet eyes glowing through the darkness. They’d solidified tonight, their height towering over her—she stood five foot six, and they easily topped six feet—their voice the familiar whisper of wind through empty narrow streets. “Strong one. This way.” Rory followed their gaze, and for a heartbeat, she thought she was seeing a trick of the streetlamp light— a patch of air that warped like heat haze over asphalt, but instead of the sickly gold of summer pavement, it shimmered with honeyed amber and deep purple. The air around the rift grew warm, even through the chill of the night, and a sweet, spicy scent drifted through the alley, so foreign it made her stomach growl despite the full delivery bag slung over her shoulder. She’d never smelled anything like it: roasted pine, spiced honey, ripe figs, and something sharp and earthy that tasted like victory when she breathed it in. She took a step forward, her boot hovering an inch from the shimmering air, and the Heartstone pulsed again, softer now, like it was urging her on. What was hiding behind that rift? She’d seen the weird things since she’d left Evan— the shadow that followed her home some nights, the silver-haired woman who’d appeared at her door last week, holding a dagger that had felt cold even through her coat. This was just another step, right? “Wait,” Nyx said, their shadowy hand reaching out to rest on her shoulder, warm despite their form. “You don’t have to rush this. We don’t know what’s on the other side.” But the Heartstone was pulling her, a gentle but unyielding force. She thought of the note that had come with the pendant, the single line scrawled in ink that looked like it had been written in blood: *He’s here*. Evan. Her abusive ex, the man she’d fled six months prior, the one who’d vanished without a trace two weeks after she’d moved to London. She’d thought he’d left her for good, but maybe— maybe he hadn’t left at all. She stepped forward, her boot sinking through the shimmering air, and the London rain and grease and noise vanished instantly. The warm air wrapped around her like a blanket, drying the damp hem of her apron in seconds, and she gasped as the soft breeze tousled her straight shoulder-length black hair, carrying the scent of baked bread and spiced wine. The sky was an uninterrupted sheet of warm amber, no sun, no moon, just a soft, glowing light that turned every surface golden. Rows upon rows of grapevines stretched as far as the eye could see, their leaves shimmering with a faint silver edge, loaded with grapes that were both deep purple and honeyed gold, so plump they looked ready to burst. The grass under her boots was soft as moss, a vivid green that didn’t fade even in the endless amber glow, and a light breeze carried the scent of baked bread and spiced wine, mixed with the sweet tang of wild berries she’d never seen on any London market stall. A flute of golden, glowing liquid appeared in her hand out of nowhere, and she stared at it, startled, before Nyx’s whisper cut through her wonder: “Put it down. Gluttony’s realm doesn’t give free drinks.” She dropped the flute, and it vanished into thin air before it hit the ground, leaving no trace. She turned her gaze further out, past the vineyards, and saw a grand open-air pavilion strung with fairy lights that glowed like fireflies, long tables heaped with food: roast boar slathered in honey glaze, stacks of flaky pastries oozing with cream, bowls of bright red berries that glowed faintly, trays of cheese that looked like they’d been aged in liquid starlight. Figures in crisp white chef’s coats moved between the tables, their faces blank, their hands calloused, carrying platters of food from the kitchen tents set up at the edge of the pavilion. Some of them had faint crescent scars on their wrists, just like hers—workers stolen from Earth, bound to serve here, Rory realized, her stomach twisting. A group of figures sat at a table near the pavilion, laughing loudly as they shoveled food into their mouths, their skin pale gray, their eyes glowing faint crimson. One of them looked up, and his gaze locked onto Rory, and she froze, her hands going to the delivery bag at her shoulder. But Nyx stepped in front of her, their shadowy form wrapping around her like a cloak, hiding her from the gluttons. “They feed on desire,” they whispered. “Especially hunger. You’re not a meal, but your wonder could draw them.” Rory nodded, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and she peeked around Nyx’s shoulder to see another man sitting alone at a table, a mountain of food piled in front of him. He shoveled forkfuls of roasted potatoes into his mouth, his jaw working furiously, but his belly was sunken, his skin gaunt, like he was starving even as he gorged himself. The cost of this realm, she realized, without Nyx having to say it: endless indulgence, but never satisfaction, a slow wasting away even as you consumed everything in sight. She looked down at her Heartstone, which was now pulsing softly again, pointing towards a narrow path between the grapevines that wound deeper into the distance. She slipped out from behind Nyx, following the direction the pendant tugged at her chest, her boots sinking into the soft mossy grass. The path was lined with wildflowers that bloomed in every color she could imagine, from bright blue to deep purple, their petals glowing faintly in the amber light. An iridescent bird flew overhead, its wings shifting from blue to green to gold, its song a soft, flute-like trill that made her smile despite her nerves. Nyx caught up to her, their form flickering as they moved through the shadows of the grapevines. “This realm is built on desire,” they said, their voice softer now. “Every sight, every sound, every scent is tailored to feed your hungers. Don’t give in.” She nodded, gripping the strap of her delivery bag tighter, and then she reached into it, pulling out the slender, leaf-shaped dagger that Isolde had given her last month. The blade was moonsilver, cold to the touch even through her wool glove, and it glowed faintly silver against the amber glow of the sky. Isolde had told her it would cut through magical wards, that it was particularly effective against demons, and she slipped it into her apron pocket, its cold weight a comfort against her warm skin. They walked for what felt like an hour, though the sky never changed, never grew dim, and then the Heartstone pulsed again, harder this time, and the path opened up into a small clearing. In the center of the clearing was a single stone plinth, and tied to a wooden chair in front of it was a man—gaunt, pale, his hair matted, his eyes sunken. But it was Evan. “Rory?” he whispered, his voice rough and tired, and her knees gave out for a second, she leaned against a grapevine to keep from falling. Evan looked up, and his eyes locked onto her left wrist, where the small crescent scar peeked out from her sweater sleeve. “I knew you’d come,” he said, his voice breaking. “I saw the scar on your wrist—you got that when you fell off your bike when we were sixteen, right? I thought you’d never forget me.” He’d made a bad deal, he told her through chattering teeth—promised to work odd jobs for a stranger to pay off back rent, only to be dragged through a rift and forced to slave in Dymas’ kitchens, made to eat until his body rebelled even as the realm’s endless feasts called to him. Rory stepped forward, her hands shaking, and she reached out to cut the ropes binding him to the chair, but Nyx stopped her. “Wait,” they said. “The ropes are magic. You need the blade.” She pulled the moonsilver dagger from her apron pocket, and the blade glowed brighter in the amber light as she sliced through the ropes, the silver cutting through the enchanted twine like they were butter. Evan slumped forward, his body weak, and Rory helped him to his feet, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. “I’m here,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “I’m going to get you out of here.” But as she helped him towards the rift, which she could see glowing in the distance behind the grapevines, the ground began to shake, and the sound of loud, angry laughter echoed across the vineyards. A group of the gray-skinned gluttons was approaching, their eyes glowing brighter now, their hands outstretched towards Evan. “Another worker,” one of them snarled, his voice a guttural growl. “We need him in the kitchens.” Rory held up the moonsilver blade, and the gluttons hesitated, then backed away, hissing, as the silver glow cut through the amber light. Isolde’s gift had done exactly what she’d promised it would. “Hurry,” Nyx said, their shadowy form stepping between Rory and the gluttons, wrapping around the attackers to hold them back. “Get him to the rift.” She dragged Evan through the grass, her boots slipping on the mossy ground, and they stumbled towards the shimmering portal, the sound of the gluttons’ snarls fading behind them. When they reached the rift, Rory shoved Evan through first, and he tumbled back into the damp London alley, the amber sky and vineyards vanishing behind him. She followed a second later, the cold London rain hitting her face, the smell of soy sauce and grease replacing the sweet scents of Dymas. The Heartstone was cold against her chest, no longer pulsing, and she knelt beside Evan, who was gasping for air, his color starting to return. She pulled her phone out of her pocket to call an ambulance, but then she felt a shadow wrap around her, and Nyx stepped through the rift right behind her, their form solid again, their violet eyes glowing in the streetlamp light. “You did good,” they whispered, and Rory smiled, despite the chaos of the night, as the distant wail of an ambulance siren grew closer.