AI The pad thai Styrofoam container in Rory’s delivery bag had leaked, leaving a sticky brown stain across her thigh as she leaned her bike against the standing stones. She wiped her hands on her jeans, the crescent scar on her left wrist catching the last of the afternoon sun, and tugged the Heartstone pendant out from under her turtleneck. The crimson gem had been burning against her skin for twenty minutes straight, ever since she’d turned off the main road into Richmond Park.
“Pulse is consistent,” she said, holding the pendant up. It glowed brighter, the warmth spreading up her arm to her elbow.
Nyx pushed off the park bench they’d been perched on, their shadowy form solidifying just enough to show the faint violet glow of their eyes. A thread of wind whispered through their silver-streaked shadow, the only sound that sounded like their voice . “The Veil’s thin here. Thinner than I’ve seen it in months.”
Isolde stepped out from behind a row of holly bushes, her waist-length silver hair catching the sunlight, her bare feet leaving no mark on the mossy ground. She paused when she saw the Heartstone, her pale lavender eyes widening. “That’s the pendant you were given,” she said. “The one that tracks Hel portals.”
Rory nodded. She’d gotten the pendant two weeks prior, tucked into a delivery bag along with an order of dumplings, no note, no return address. She’d tried to ask around, but Yu-Fei had just shrugged and said the customer had paid cash, no name. Since then, the pendant had only pulsed a handful of times, always near spots that had felt off—abandoned buildings, dark alleyways, but never this strong.
“I tracked it here,” Rory said, nodding at the shimmering distortion just beyond the standing stones. It looked like heat haze off asphalt, but it didn’t move with the wind, and when she leaned closer, she could feel a faint pull on her chest, like someone was tugging on the Heartstone chain.
Isolde walked past her, her dress brushing the tops of the ferns growing at the base of the standing stones. “This is the hidden grove I told you about,” she said. “I haven’t felt a Hel rift this close to the mortal plane in decades. Not since the last time the Wardens missed a seal. Winter solstice is three days away, and the Veil’s stretched thinner than a thread of spider silk . The Wardens put up emergency seals a month ago, but they must have skipped this grove.”
Rory took a deep breath, and stepped over the threshold of the shimmering Veil. For a split second, her ears ringed, the sound of London traffic and bird calls replaced by a low, thrumming hum that vibrated in her bones. Then the noise hit her full force: the clink of hundreds of wine glasses, the murmur of dozens of overlapping voices, the rich, sweet smell of roasted meat and honeyed fruits wrapping around her like a blanket.
She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the warm amber sky overhead. The sun hung low, casting a golden glow over rolling vineyards stretching out as far as she could see. Rows of grapevines heavy with plump, purple fruit curved up gentle hills, and beyond them, orchards of trees laden with peaches, pomegranates, and fruits that looked like glowing orange lanterns . Grand stone halls with wrought iron balconies rose in the distance, strung with fairy lights that never dimmed, even though the sun was still high.
Nyx’s shadowy form flickered beside her, violet eyes scanning the horizon. A thread of wind whispered through their shadow. “Smells like excess. Like every feast you’ve ever been to, crammed into one place.”
Isolde’s hands lifted, fingers tracing the air as she listened to the thrumming hum of the rift. “This is Dymas,” she said, her voice sharp, quiet enough that only the three of them heard. “The Gluttony Realm. Prince Belphegor’s domain. The rift is here because someone forgot to reseal the temporary seal after the autumn harvest.”
Rory looked down at the Heartstone, which was glowing so bright it was almost hard to look at, the warmth spreading across her entire chest. She’d read about Dymas once, in an old charity shop book—pages filled with drawings of sprawling feasts, chefs from Earth forced to cook for Hel’s denizens, souls trapped in endless cycles of indulgence. She’d never thought she’d actually step foot in it.
They walked toward the nearest vineyard, boots crunching on dry, loamy soil. The grapevines were thicker than any she’d seen in Wales, their leaves large and lush, and when she reached out to touch a cluster of grapes, a small thorn pricked her finger. She pulled back, staring at the tiny drop of blood bead on her skin.
“Easy,” Nyx said, shadowy fingers curling around her wrist to pull her away. “These vines are bound souls, too. They’re not supposed to be here any more than the chefs. The thorns are their way of fighting back.”
Rory nodded, wiping the blood off on her jeans. She’d spotted the crescent scar on her own left wrist earlier, and she noticed a knot in the grapevine trunk that looked exactly like it. She shivered, turning away from the vineyard.
As they walked, they passed a long wooden table set with heaping plates of food: roasted turkey glistening with honey, bowls of bright red strawberries, loaves of crusty bread stacked high, and glasses of deep red wine that hadn’t been poured yet. No one sat at the table, but across the field, a group of figures in fine silks and velvet walked past, their plates heaped with food, laughing loudly. One of them turned to his companion, jabbing a finger at a stand of glowing orange fruit, and Rory noticed the faint gray tinge to his skin, the glassy, empty look in his eyes— the same look she’d seen on stray cats once, after they’d been hit by cars and waited to die.
“Helbound,” Isolde said, following her gaze. “They sold their souls for a lifetime of excess, and now they’re trapped here, eating until their bodies can’t take it, until they fade away.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. She’d left an abusive ex, spent months living on delivery shifts and cheap toast, had never thought someone would trade their freedom for endless feasts. She reached into her delivery bag, fingers closing around the cold metal of the Fae-Forged Blade tucked inside. The blade was always cold to the touch, exactly as Isolde had described it, and when she pulled it out, a faint silver sheen caught the firelight from a nearby feast tent.
They walked closer to the small cluster of wooden buildings, a large canvas tent set up in the middle of a clearing. The smell of garlic and rosemary wafted out, and they heard the clang of pots and pans inside. Rory peeked around the edge of the tent, and her breath caught.
Inside, a group of people in white chef’s coats moved with sharp, jerky motions, chopping vegetables, stirring large vats of stew, plating up plates of food. One of them, a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair, slouched against the counter, hands shaking as she tried to peel a carrot. A tall figure in a black uniform stepped over, hitting her across the back with a wooden rod. The young woman stiffened, then went back to peeling the carrot, movements mechanical , unthinking.
Rory’s fists clenched . She raised the Fae blade, running the edge along the iron padlock on the back door of the tent. The blade sliced through the metal like it was butter, the lock clicking open immediately, no resistance. She lifted the padlock, and it clattered to the dirt floor.
She pushed the door open, and the hum of the rift grew louder, thrumming in her skull. Behind the door, a small chamber stretched out, walls lined with glowing orange lanterns, and in the middle of the room, a large shimmering rift pulsed , the same warm amber glow as the sky outside. The Heartstone in her hand blazed bright, warmth flooding her chest, and she could feel the rift tugging at her, like it wanted to drag her back through to the mortal plane.
Nyx drifted toward the rift, their shadowy form spreading out across the floor. “I can feel the spaces between realms here,” they said, wind whispering through their shadow. “It’s like coming home, but not. This place is a prison for everyone who’s not native here.”
Isolde pulled a small deerskin pouch from her dress, spilling a handful of silver dust onto the ground around the rift. The dust glowed bright silver, and the rift pulsed once, then dimmed, the thrumming hum quieting to a low whisper . She turned to Rory, a faint smile on her face. “That’s Fae-forged dust. It will weaken the rift until the Wardens can find a permanent seal. We bought ourselves a few days.”