AI The shimmer clung to Rory’s hair for three steps after she pushed through the tear. Thin silvery threads that dissolved when she flicked her wrist, leaving only the faint tang of ozone on her fingertips. She’d grabbed the Fae-Forged Blade from her jacket pocket before crossing, its cold moonsilver metal a bite against her palm through the thick wool. Even across the distance of the Veil, she’d felt the pull of this place—warm, hungry, thrumming under her skin like a live wire.
Her boots hit packed earth that didn’t crunch like the damp London mud she’d tramped through all morning. It hummed, low and steady, like a beehive left undisturbed. She blinked, wiping stinging grit from her bright blue eyes, and took in the sky. No sun, just a wash of warm amber, mild enough that it did not glare but bright enough to paint everything in honeyed light. Behind her, Isolde’s silver waist-length hair caught the glow, strands shifting like polished moonbeams. Nyx solidified at her elbow, their shadowy form stretching to just over six feet tall, faintly glowing violet eyes cutting through the amber haze.
“Easy.” Isolde kicked at a cluster of tiny glowing fungi clustered at the base of a nearby tree. The caps pulsed pale green, rising and falling in time with the earth’s hum. Rory knelt, leaning in, and breathed in the scent—pine, and something sweet, like overripe blackberries left in the sun. A vine wrapped around the tree trunk, thick as her wrist, dripping clear sap that sparkled when it hit the ground.
Rory’s fingers brushed the silver chain around her neck, the Heartstone pendant warm against her chest. It had been pulsing nonstop since they stepped through, a steady thrum that matched the earth under her feet. She’d gotten it six months prior, from an unknown benefactor, and only learned its use when Isolde had tracked the stone’s signal to a rift in Richmond Park. Back then, the pulse had been faint, barely noticeable. Now it burned, like a brand pressed to her skin.
Nyx drifted ahead, their shadowy form slipping into a crack in the tree’s bark, reappearing a moment later. Their voice came as a whisper carried on the wind, no louder than a breath. Helbound souls. Working the vines. They don’t see living flesh unless you wave a blade at them.
Rory stood, tucking the Fae blade back into her pocket. A row of grapevines stretched out before her, their leaves iridescent, shifting from deep purple to gold as the wind blew through them. The grapes hung in clusters, plump and deep crimson, glowing faint red from within. She reached out, her fingers hovering over a cluster, and Isolde’s hand brushed her wrist. Not for eating. She spoke without turning, her eyes fixed on the vines. The earth here claims what you take. It gives gifts only to those who ask.
Rory pulled her hand back, rubbing the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist without thinking. It was a habit she’d picked up after the accident behind the campus library, after Evan had cornered her and she’d broken a bottle over his head. The scar was small, easy to miss, but it always ached when she was nervous .
She followed Nyx past the vineyard, the hum of the earth growing louder, mixed with the distant clink of plates and a soft, oily laugh that echoed over the rows. When she turned to look, all she saw was the glowing fungi and the iridescent leaves. No source for the noise. Just the warm amber glow bathing everything.
They reached a stone archway, carved from black basalt, twisted with vines that dripped the same sweet sap as the trees. The carvings covered every inch: people leaning over overflowing plates, wine flowing in rivers, their faces slack with hunger, never full. Rory paused, her breath catching. The Heartstone pulsed so hard now it almost pulled against the chain, almost slipped over her head.
Dymas. Isolde’s voice was soft, steady. The realm of excess. Prince Belphegor’s domain.
Rory had heard the name once, when Nyx had talked about the spaces between realms. Hel’s seven sins, each with their own realm. Gluttony was one of them. She’d never imagined stepping foot inside one.
They passed through the archway, and the noise grew louder. Hundreds of voices, all hungry, all begging. Tables stretched out for as far as the eye could see, covered in mountains of food—roasted meats, fruits she’d never seen, loaves of bread steaming with heat. But the people sitting at the tables were translucent, their skin pale, their eyes hollow. They picked at the food, shoveling it into their mouths, but their plates always refilled the moment they set their forks down.
One of them reached out, his fingers brushing Rory’s sleeve. She flinched, pulling back, and his hand passed right through her, like she was a ghost. He didn’t even seem to notice. Hungry. He mumbled the word over and over, shoveling a pile of berries into his mouth.
Nyx stepped in front of her, their shadowy form flaring slightly . Stay close. Their whisper was thin, carried on the wind. These souls are trapped here. They’ll eat you if they can, but only if you let them.
Rory nodded, her grip tight on the Fae blade in her pocket. She could feel the weight of the unspoken thing behind her eyes— the fear that she’d end up like them, trapped forever, never full, never free. She rubbed her scar again, harder this time.
Ahead, a stream cut through the feast hall. It wasn’t water flowing through it, but a thick, golden liquid that shimmered like honey. The air around it smelled like vanilla, and when Rory knelt and dipped her finger in, it was warm, like liquid sunlight. She pulled her finger out, and a tiny bead of the golden liquid clung to her skin, dissolving into her palm within seconds. The grease and dirt from her morning delivery shifts vanished, leaving her hands soft and clean, like she’d just washed them with the best soap money could buy.
Isolde laughed, a soft, clear sound that cut through the hum of the feast hall. The rivers of Dymas give what the taker does not know they need.
Before Rory could ask what she meant, Nyx’s form tensed. Their violet eyes flicked to the east, and their voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper . Guards. Coming fast.
Rory stood, yanking the Fae blade out of her pocket and holding it behind her back, out of sight. Isolde folded her hands behind her back, her silver hair shifting in the breeze, and didn’t move a muscle. Five shadowy figures rounded the corner of the feast hall, their forms like Nyx’s but darker, their eyes glowing bright red. They wore black armor plated with basalt, and carried swords forged from the same black stone as the archway. Their boots thudded against the packed earth, loud enough to drown out the hum of the feast hall for a moment.
They marched past the group, their heads turning from side to side, but they didn’t spot Rory, Isolde, or Nyx. Nyx had slipped into a crack in the stone wall, their shadow merging with the darkness until they were almost invisible. Isolde stood perfectly still, her feet not leaving a single print in the earth. Rory held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest, until the guards were out of sight around another corner of the feast hall.
When the noise of the guards’ boots faded, Nyx reappeared, their form solidifying next to Isolde. The prince’s hunting party. They patrol the outer feast halls. We need to move deeper.
Rory nodded, tucking the Fae blade back into her pocket. She followed Nyx past the feast hall, toward a line of trees that glowed with soft purple light. Beyond the trees, she could see a grand stage, raised high above the ground, with a long table covered in dishes she’d never seen before. A chef stood at the center of the stage, stirring a cauldron that glowed with crimson fire. His hands were steady, even though the cauldron bubbled with a liquid that smoked and sparkled.
The chef plated a dish, using the glowing grapes from the vineyard, a drizzle of the golden river water, and slices of a fruit that looked like a cross between a peach and a pomegranate. The dish looked perfect , like something out of a luxury restaurant back in London. Rory leaned in, her curiosity getting the better of her, and Isolde stepped beside her. The champion of the culinary games. He has won every competition for a century. He serves the prince’s personal table.
The chef looked up, his eyes locking onto Rory’s. He smiled, and his teeth were sharp, like a wolf’s. Rory froze, her hand tightening around the Heartstone pendant, which pulsed so hard now it almost burned through her shirt.