Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTZT6N5B8YW8KMP5G78MMHP

The rain slanted into Rory’s collar as she slung her damp Golden Empress delivery bag over her shoulder, her boots squelching on the rain-slicked paving stones of the old disused rail arch. It was half past midnight, the last delivery of a frigid November Friday, and her straight, shoulder-length black hair stuck to the back of her neck in sticky clumps. She fumbled for her flat keys, then remembered the silver chain tucked inside her jacket pocket— the Heartstone pendant, the thumb-sized crimson gem the anonymous benefactor had left on her doorstep three weeks prior. It pressed warm against her sternum, a steady, thrumming beat that only flared sharp when a Hel rift was within a mile. Her fingers brushed the wrapped moonsilver dagger next, the Fae blade Isolde had pressed into her hands a week before, warning her that she would need it sooner than she thought. She’d tucked it in the delivery bag’s inner pocket, wrapped in a greasy napkin from last night’s sesame chicken. A soft whisper curled around her ear, thin and wind-driven, and she smiled without turning around. “Took you long enough,” she said. The shadow detaching from the arch’s brick wall solidified into Nyx: six and a half feet of humanoid silhouette, their form shifting like smoke caught in a breeze, faint violet eyes glowing like embers against the amber dim of their solidified shape. Their voice was exactly as she remembered, a whisper carried on a gust of cool air that didn’t mix with the rain’s damp chill. “You called. Felt the rift too. Veil’s fraying worse than the seer warned—winter solstice is three days off, remember?” Rory nodded, rubbing the crescent scar on her left wrist without thinking, a nervous habit she’d had since she was seven and fell through a skatepark ramp. She followed the thread of Nyx’s shadow down the rail arch, past the rusted railings and broken glass, until she spotted it: a shimmering, heat-hazed distortion at the arch’s far end, too faint for anyone without supernatural sight to pick out, but bright as a neon sign to her and Nyx. The Heartstone pulsed faster, thrumming against her chest like a tiny bird’s heart. “Lead the way,” Nyx said, their form flickering at the edges as they drifted ahead. Rory took a deep breath, grabbed the Fae blade from her delivery bag, and stepped through the rift first. The rain vanished instantly. The smell of diesel and river mud was replaced by the warm, sweet tang of ripe starfruit and roasted honeyed nuts, so sharp it made her nose prickle. She stumbled onto soft, mossy ground, not rain-soaked stone, and blinked hard. Above her, the sky was a deep, warm amber, the sun a low, glowing disk that painted everything in honeyed gold and rust. There was no gray London sky, no distant traffic noise, just the soft rustle of leaves and the distant clink of glassware. Nyx solidified beside her, their shadowy form solid enough that she could see the faint outline of their slouching shoulders, the way their violet eyes glowed against the amber light. “Well,” they said, their voice a little thinner than usual, “this is Dymas. Prince Belphegor’s realm of excess. Isolde mentioned it once, when we talked about rifts.” Rory looked around, her eyes wide. Rows of vines strung with tiny glowing blue flowers stretched as far as the eye could see, their leaves a deep purple that shimmered like oil on water. Beneath them, the moss was dotted with wild, iridescent flowers, petals shifting from pink to green to gold as she watched. Her phone slipped out of her pocket as she bent to pluck one of the flowers, and it died instantly when it hit the ground—no signal, no battery life, just a black screen. She plucked a grape from the vine beside her, its skin smooth and cool to the touch, glinting like polished garnet. She popped it in her mouth, and her eyes widened: it tasted like honey and chili pepper, sweet and spicy, like nothing she’d ever tasted. Nyx plucked one too, holding it up to their glowing eyes before taking a bite. “That’s why the helbound souls are here,” they said, nodding towards a group of figures in white aprons moving between the vines, carrying wicker baskets overflowing with fruit. “They grow the ingredients for the feasts. Look at their hands.” Rory squinted, and her stomach twisted. The figures had pale, almost translucent skin, their eyes blank and unblinking, their fingers twisted at odd angles, like they’d been broken and reset a hundred times. They moved in perfect sync, their baskets clinking softly as they walked, not a sound out of place. None of them looked up at Rory and Nyx. “They don’t see us?” she asked, clutching the Fae blade tighter. It was cold against her palm, and it hums softly, a faint, high-pitched sound that only she could hear. “Not unless we draw attention to themselves,” Nyx corrected, drifting over to one of the baskets. They plucked a single cherry the size of a golf ball, its skin glowing with a soft red light. “Isolde always said that the people of Dymas don’t bother with strangers unless they steal too much food. A single cherry won’t matter.” They took a bite, and the cherry oozes clear, vanilla-scented sap down their shadowy fingers. Rory followed their lead, plucking a cherry and popping it in her mouth. It was even sweeter than the grape, with a hint of something minty that made her tongue tingle. She rubbed her crescent scar again, her nerves spiking—this was real, this was another realm, exactly what she’d been running from when she left Evan in Cardiff. She followed Nyx as they walked down the row of vines, past the helbound harvesters, until they rounded a bend and stumbled onto a grand stone courtyard. Long wooden tables stretched across the courtyard, heaped with platters of roasted meats glazed in amber sauce, piles of glowing green fruit, bowls of something that looked like liquid gold. A group of figures in fine silk robes sat at the tables, laughing softly, their voices melodic but empty, like they were repeating a script they’d heard a thousand times. The Heartstone pulsed brighter, thrumming against her chest as she stepped closer to the courtyard. A marble pillar stood at the far end, carved with swirling patterns that she couldn’t recognize, and a small plaque beneath it—when she leaned in, she could read the words, even though she’d never seen the language before: *Feast of the Gluttons, Dymas, Realm of Excess*. “See?” Nyx whispered, drifting over to the pillar. Their form melted into the shadow cast by the tablecloth, a wisp of shadow curling around the pillar’s base. “This is exactly what Isolde described. A place where you can eat all you want, but you’re never full—because the food is just a trap for the helbound souls.” Rory nodded, her eyes scanning the courtyard. One of the robed figures lifted a goblet of something glowing blue, and the clink of glass filled the air. A chef carrying a giant platter of pastries walked past her, their apron stained with amber sauce, their blank eyes staring straight ahead. She stepped back, tripping over a stone, and the chef’s head turned towards her. Her blood ran cold. The chef’s blank eyes focused directly on her, and they paused, their hand still holding the platter. Rory fumbled for the Fae blade, pulling it out of her delivery bag, its moonsilver surface glinting in the amber light. It hummed louder, a warning, and she held it out in front of her, ready to strike. Then, a soft voice spoke behind her, light as clover: “Put the blade down, little one. They are only confused by your heartbeat.” Rory turned, her hand still clutching the dagger, and her breath caught. Standing a few feet away was a woman with silver hair reaching her waist, her eyes pale lavender, her gown made of something that looked like woven moonlight. It was Isolde, the seer who’d given her the Fae blade, the woman who’d warned her that Hel rifts were opening up across London. She hadn’t worn shoes, and when she stepped forward, Rory noticed that she left no footprints on the mossy ground, just a faint shimmer in the air where she’d walked. “Isolde!” Rory said, letting out a shaky breath. She lowered the Fae blade, and the chef turned back to their platter, continuing on their way. “What are you doing here?” Isolde smiled, her lips curved in a gentle, knowing way. “I told you that you would need guidance when you followed the Heartstone’s pulse. I knew the rift would open here, three days before the solstice.” Her voice was soft, laced with the riddles that Rory had come to know. “The Veil frays at the solstice, yes, but it frays faster when a soul seeks to escape their own shadow.” Rory rubbed her crescent scar again, her cheeks heating up. She’d been running from Evan for three months, but she’d never thought that running would lead her to another realm. “I didn’t mean to bring Nyx with me,” she said, nodding towards the shadow that was still curled around the marble pillar. Nyx slipped out of the shadow, solidifying beside Isolde, their violet eyes glinting in the amber light. “She didn’t have a choice,” they said, their voice a little stronger now. “The rift pulled us both through.” Isolde nodded, her silver hair blowing in a soft wind that carried the scent of wild clover, not starfruit and honeyed nuts. The wind swept past a small fountain tucked between two trees nearby, its basin heaped with liquid gold that shimmered in the amber sky. Droplets of gold fell from the spout, catching the light like tiny scattered stars, and a soft, melodic music drifted from the water, like a lullaby Rory had forgotten she’d heard. “That’s the Fountain of Temptation,” Isolde said, nodding toward it. “It sings the songs of your deepest cravings. Don’t listen too long, little one. It will trap you if you do.” Rory pulled her hand back from the fountain’s edge, her cheeks flushing—she’d been craving a break from Evan, from her delivery shifts, from the weight of every mistake she’d ever made, and the fountain had known. “The rift doesn’t discriminate between those who seek it and those who stumble into it,” Isolde continued. “Now, you must be careful. Dymas feeds on excess, on the things you crave most. If you stay too long, it will trap you here, forcing you to indulge until your soul is empty.” Nyx flickered at the edges of their form, their shadowy hands clutching at their chest. “I can’t stay solid much longer,” they said, their voice thinner than before. “The mortal plane is the only place I can hold a solid form for long. If I stay here, I’ll fade back into the shadows, trapped between realms until someone pulls me out.” Rory’s stomach twisted. She’d grown used to Nyx being there, a soft whisper in her ear, a shadow that kept her company when she was alone in her flat above Silas’ bar. She couldn’t let them fade. “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing Nyx’s shadowy hand (or what passed for a hand) and starting toward the edge of the courtyard. Isolde fell in step beside her, her silver gown glowing against the amber light. As they walked, Rory noticed more details that she’d missed before: the trees in the nearby orchard had fruits that looked like giant eyes, their pupils following her as she passed; the torches lining the path burned with blue flame that didn’t produce smoke; the air was so warm it felt like she was wrapped in a blanket, even though the November air in London had been freezing. The Heartstone pulsed slower now, as they moved away from the feast hall, but it still thrummmed against her chest, a reminder that they were in Hel, a realm that was supposed to be full of pain and suffering, but instead was full of excess and temptation. They reached a small clearing at the orchard’s heart, and Rory spotted the rift: a shimmering distortion in the air, exactly like the one they’d stepped through earlier, but this one was smaller, fainter. The Heartstone pulsed bright, warm against her chest, and she knew that this was the portal back to London. Isolde placed a hand on her shoulder, her touch light as a feather. “The blade that cuts through shadows will keep the teeth of excess at bay,” she said, her voice soft with lidded meaning. “Keep it close, little one. The Veil will fray more as the solstice approaches, and more rifts will open. You will need it.” She pressed a small leather pouch into Rory’s hand, and when Rory opened it, she saw a handful of the glowing blue grapes from the vineyard. “These will keep you grounded, when the realm’s temptations get too strong.” Nyx flickered again, their form fading a little at the edges. “We have to go now,” they whispered. Rory nodded, squeezing Nyx’s hand. She stepped towards the rift first, then turned back to Isolde. “Thank you,” she said. Isolde smiled, her lavender eyes soft. “You will see me again, little one. When the veil is at its thinnest.” Then she vanished, leaving only a faint trail of silver moonlight in her place, not a single footprint left behind on the mossy ground. Rory stepped through the rift first, and the smell of rain and diesel hit her instantly, the gray London sky closing in around her. Nyx followed behind her, their shadowy form solidifying for a second before they faded into the shadow of a nearby lamppost. Rory pulled the pouch of grapes from her pocket, then looked down at her left wrist, rubbing the crescent scar one more time. She’d stepped into another realm, faced with helbound souls and the temptations of excess, and she’d made it out. But she knew that this wasn’t the last time she’d have to step through a rift. The Heartstone pulsed once, soft and warm against her chest, and she slipped it back into her jacket pocket, ready for whatever came next.