Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTZ8EGBJGDHH6T60B7JRBX5

Rory’s bicycle clattered to a stop against the weathered oak post at the edge of Richmond Park’s overgrown northern fringe, the strap of her Golden Empress delivery bag digging harshly into her shoulder. The afternoon sun had dipped behind the park’s ancient beeches, painting the sky in soft pink and orange, but she’d tucked her delivery order of sweet and sour tofu into the bike’s rear basket, safe from the chill autumn breeze. She’d clocked out three hours early, chasing the faint, thrumming warmth of the Heartstone Pendant tucked under her cream sweater, the silver chain chafing the base of her throat. The crescent scar on her left wrist prickled, a familiar tingle that had started the day a stranger in a frayed black coat had left the velvet pouch containing the gem on her doormat, no note, no follow-up. She’d worn it every night since, waking from vivid dreams of amber skies and long tables heaped with food she couldn’t name, shadows moving where there should have been no light. It had been Nyx who’d put two and two together, a week prior, when the pendant had pulsed so violently it had burned through her sweater while she was restocking napkins at Silas’ bar downstairs from her flat. They’d manifested from the shadow of the beer cooler then, their tall, shadowy form solidifying until faint violet eyes glowed through the dark fabric of their thrifted black hoodie. “You’re being pulled,” they’d whispered, their voice like wind through a cracked window, the sound making her skin prickle even as she relaxed—she’d gotten used to their quiet, lulling tone, the way their shadow always seemed to linger just close enough to feel safe. “Follow the pulse. Take the blade Isolde gave you. It’ll keep the rifts from swallowing you whole.” She’d stuffed the slender moonsilver dagger into her jacket pocket then, its cold metal a steadying weight against her hip, and now, as she locked her bike, she ran a thumb over the scar on her wrist, a nervous habit. She’d spotted the circle of gnarled oaks ten feet ahead, their bark silver with lichen, twisted into a perfect ring she could have sworn wasn’t there that morning. She’d walked this path a dozen times, on delivery runs to the park’s older benches, never noticing a single standing stone, let alone a ring of ancient oaks. Her breath caught, and she reached up to tug the pendant out from under her sweater. The crimson gem glowed brighter than she’d ever seen it, thrumming against her sternum, warm enough to seep through her skin. “Come on,” she called over her shoulder, and a shift of shadow resolved into Nyx at her side, their form solidifying until she could see the faint outline of their sharp, angular features, the violet glow of their eyes cutting through the dim twilight. Despite having seen them a dozen times, the sight still made her chest tighten: they were tall, just over six feet, their body a living silhouette that shifted like smoke, their hoodie hanging loose on their frame, their hands long and shadowy with no visible fingers. “You sure this isn’t a bad idea?” “Bad ideas are what got you out of Cardiff in the first place,” Nyx whispered, and Rory huffed a laugh, even as her knees felt weak. She stepped over the threshold of the oak circle, her boot crunching on a bed of moss that smelled like jasmine and ripe blackberries—wildflowers, she realized, when her eyes landed on a patch of bluebells growing at the base of one oak, their petals glowing faint violet, even though late October in London should have left them long dead. The world shifted. One second she was standing in a damp, overgrown park patch, the air smelling like damp leaf mold and diesel fumes. The next, warm amber light wrapped around her, soft and golden, like sitting by a campfire on a summer night. The oak circle vanished, replaced by rows upon rows of iridescent grapevines, their leaves shifting between deep purple and burnished gold as they twisted up black iron trellises that curled like thorns. A stream glowed like liquid honey cut through with amethyst, winding between the vines, and fireflies the size of sparrows buzzed above the water, their lights flickering green. Rory let out a quiet gasp, and she couldn’t stop herself from stepping forward, her boots sinking into soft, green grass that felt like velvet underfoot. She’d never seen anything like it—wildflowers bloomed in every color, clustered at the base of every trellis, even as far as her eyes could see, and the air was so sweet it made her head spin a little, like she’d inhaled a whiff of something alcoholic. Nyx stepped beside her, their shadowy form trailing a little in the warm grass, their violet eyes scanning the distance, their shoulders tensed slightly. “This is Dymas,” they whispered. “The gluttony realm of Hel. Your pendant is leading you straight to the rift that brought us here.” Rory’s eyes widened, and she fumbled with the pendant, pressing a finger to the warm gem. “Hel? I thought that was just… stories. My dad rants about supernatural rifts on the news sometimes, but this is…” She trailed off, gesturing around her, and Nyx nodded. “Stories don’t usually include amber skies and honey streams,” they said. “This place is all excess, all indulgence. The feasts here last for centuries, and the staff are bound souls, sentenced to work here for their sins of gluttony or greed.” The distant sound of clinking glass and laughter grew louder with every step, polished and loud, like an upper-class wedding toast. Rory turned her head, and spotted a grand hall of dark black stone, its arches draped in ivy with leaves that glowed the same amber as the sky. Long tables stretched the length of the hall, heaped with food that made her stomach growl despite her unease: glistening roasted meats piled high on pewter plates, towers of fruit that glowed faint crimson, goblets filled with a liquid that shimmered bright blue. A line of figures in white aprons moved between the tables, carrying trays of goblets, their hands pale as bone, their eyes hollow, no irises or pupils. “Helbound souls,” Nyx murmured, following her gaze. “They can’t see us unless we make ourselves known. Stay close.” Rory’s fingers brushed the Fae-Forged Blade in her jacket pocket, the cold metal a steadying reminder. She pulled it out, holding it loosely in her palm, and was surprised to see it glow faint silver in the amber light, its slender leaf-shaped blade catching the glow of the firefly sprites. “Isolde was right,” she said, her voice quiet. “It’s glowing.” “Moonsilver always glows near Hel’s realms,” Nyx said, nodding at the blade. “Especially Dymas. This place feeds on desire, on the urge to eat and drink until you can’t anymore. The blade will ward off any demons or bound spirits that try to bind you here.” They walked further into the vineyard, the sound of the feast growing louder with every step. Rory spotted an orchard off to the side, its trees heavy with peaches that glowed bright red, their scent so strong it made her mouth water. She reached out to pluck one, but Nyx caught her wrist, their shadowy fingers cool against her skin. “Don’t,” they said. “The fruit here is grown with Hel’s magic. Eating it will tie you to this realm. You’ll never get back to your flat, your deliveries, your mom’s Welsh cakes, any of it.” Rory pulled her hand back quickly, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. “Right. Sorry. Habit, I guess. I haven’t had a proper day off since I moved to London.” They continued walking, their boots crunching on the velvet grass, the firefly sprites circling around their heads. Rory spotted a small shed off to the side of the vineyard, its door propped open, and she saw a stack of white aprons folded on a table inside, the same ones the helbound staff were wearing. She peered closer, and spotted a name tag pinned to one of them: *Evan*. Her breath caught in her throat. It was the same name as her ex, the one she’d fled from, the one who’d grabbed her wrist hard enough to leave that crescent scar, the one who’d screamed at her for trying to leave him. She stumbled back, her knee hitting a grapevine trellis, and the thorny tendrils twisted around her calf, cold and sharp. She froze, expecting the helbound staff to turn and see her, but none of them did. They just kept walking, their trays clinking, their hollow eyes fixed on the feast hall, their steps slow and mechanical. Nyx stepped over, and the tendrils around her calf dissolved into shadow, their voice a low whisper in her ear. “You okay? That name—did he hurt you?” “Yeah,” Rory said, her voice shaking, and she wiped at her eyes with her free hand, embarrassed to be crying in this alien place. “He grabbed my wrist when I tried to leave. Left this scar. I thought I’d left him behind in Cardiff.” “This place feeds on your fears, Rory,” Nyx said, their shadowy hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “It’s using your grief against you. Don’t let it.” Rory took a deep breath, and she pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the Heartstone thrumming faster now, as if pulling her toward the feast hall. The gem was so hot now that it burned through her sweater, against her skin, and she could feel a pull, like a magnet drawing her toward the stone walls of the hall. She looked up, and spotted a faint shimmering distortion in the wall, a faint, wavering line that only she could see, thanks to the pendant. The faint shiver of the Veil, the metaphysical barrier between worlds, thinning almost to breaking point this close to the winter solstice. “There,” she said, pointing at the rift. “That’s the Veil?” Nyx nodded, their form shifting a little, as if they were straining to see it. “The Veil between worlds. It’s thinner here than anywhere else, especially this time of year. That’s why the Heartstone pulled us through. The Wardens should be monitoring this rift, but… they’re not here.” Rory followed their gaze, and sure enough, there were no Wardens in sight, no figures in the crisp blue uniforms she’d seen in news clips about supernatural breaches. The feast hall was full of guests, all human-looking, their faces flushed with laughter, eating and drinking without a care in the world, oblivious to the rift tearing open in their wall. As they drew closer to the feast hall, Rory spotted a chef standing next to a giant cauldron by the entrance, stirring a stew that bubbled with blue steam, the scent so rich it made her stomach growl so loud she was sure Nyx could hear it. The chef’s hands were gnarled, their skin pale, and they were wearing a white coat stained with sauce, their apron labeled *Belphegor’s Head Chef*. Nyx whispered that the chef was a former CEO who’d embezzled millions from his company, forcing his employees to take pay cuts until they quit, so he’d been sentenced here to cook for the realm’s ruler, forever stirring the same stew, forever serving the gluttonous guests. Rory peered into the cauldron, and saw chunks of meat that glowed bright red, floating in a broth that shimmered blue. One of the guests at a nearby table took a bite of a peach, and juice dripped down their chin, glowing the same blue as the broth. They laughed, and wiped their chin with the back of their hand, their skin flushed with excess. Then she saw him. A man in a tailored black suit, his smile too wide, his eyes too bright, standing at the entrance of the feast hall, watching her. He was tall, with dark hair and a goatee, and he wore a ring on his finger that glowed bright crimson, matching the Heartstone in her palm. His voice carried across the vineyard, soft and honeyed, even from a hundred feet away: “Welcome, travelers. You’ve come far for a taste of Dymas.” Rory froze, her hand tightening around the Fae Blade, her breath catching in her throat. Nyx stepped in front of her, their shadowy form spreading a little, their violet eyes narrowing at the man in the black suit. “Who are you?” The man laughed, a low, rich sound, and he stepped forward, his boots clicking on the velvet grass. “They call me Belphegor,” he said, his smile growing wider. “Ruler of this realm. And you, my dear, are wearing my Heartstone.”