Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFD7F8MSK4P61YGGKGRHSQQ

Aurora Carter stumbled over the threshold of the rift, her scuffed black delivery boots sinking six inches into loam that reeked of turned earth and overripe figs. The Heartstone Pendant around her neck blazed, its crimson thumbnail-sized gem burning through the thin wool of her sweater to press a hot brand into her sternum. She choked on air that tasted like cinnamon and burnt sugar, thick enough to chew, and fumbled for the gnarled tree line ten feet away to catch herself. When she lifted her head, the sky stopped her breath. It was amber, warm and honeyed, no trace of the winter gray she’d left behind in London. No clouds, no sun, just a constant, glowing gold that painted every tree and vine in sight in melted butter. She glanced back over her shoulder. The rift hung behind them, a faint, shimmering tear in the air that she could only just make out, the edge of the Veil frayed thin enough to step through. Isolde had told her only those with supernatural sight could see the Veil’s distortion clearly; Rory, human, had to squint to trace its wavering edges. Nyx stepped through right behind her, and shifted from wispy shadow to solid form, their six-foot-two frame casting a stretch of inky darkness across the loam that didn’t match the amber light. Their violet eyes glowed, cutting through the haze, as they turned to scan the horizon. Isolde crossed next, her waist-length silver hair catching the amber light like spun glass. She was barefoot, and when Rory glanced down to check that the older woman hadn’t twisted an ankle on a root, she froze. Rory’s boots left deep, clear prints in the soft soil. Isolde’s feet never disturbed a single blade of grass. No smudges, no indentations, nothing. Rory rubbed the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a childhood accident she picked at when her nerves spiked, and pushed off the tree to stand straight. They had left Isolde’s grove in Richmond Park an hour prior, by their count. When Rory had pulled out her phone to check the time ten minutes before stepping through the rift, the lock screen had read December 25, three days past the winter solstice. The grove’s time had always warped, an hour inside stretching to days outside, but the reminder of how thin the Veil grew during the solstice, how easy it was to slip between realms, had sat heavy in her stomach ever since. The three of them moved west, deeper into the landscape that unfolded like a dream. First came the vineyards, rows and rows of gnarled vines that stretched as far as the eye could see, heavy with clusters of grapes that glowed pale indigo, their skins translucent enough to show the seeds pulsing inside. So many grapes fell from the overburdened vines that the soil between the rows was stained deep purple, thick wine seeping into the earth instead of water. Rory bent to pick up a whole grape that had rolled to her boot, its skin firm and warm under her fingers. She bit into it without thinking, and the flavor exploded across her tongue. It was her mother’s Welsh cakes, still warm from the griddle, the pork dumplings Yu-Fei let her take home after closing shifts at the Golden Empress, the hot chocolate she bought from the corner shop after locking up the flat above Silas’s bar, the strawberry ice cream she’d shared with Eva on their first trip to Barry Island as kids. It was every good thing she’d ever tasted, wrapped into one small, perfect fruit. She swallowed hard to keep from crying, the wonder of it wrapping around her tighter than any winter coat. The unease came ten minutes later, as they passed a cluster of stone troughs set back from the vineyard. A man hunched over one, his arms submerged to the elbows in greasy, soapy water, scrubbing at a stack of ceramic plates. His hands were raw, crisscrossed with blisters that oozed clear fluid, and his shirt hung in tatters off his shoulders, stained with wine and gravy. He never looked up, not even when a crate of fuzzy golden peaches tumbled from a passing cart and burst open at his feet, their sweet scent thick enough to choke. Rory stopped, her boot hovering over a loose stone, and nodded toward him. Who is that? Nyx’s voice came like a whisper carried on the wind, soft enough that Rory almost missed it over the distant clink of goblets. Helbound souls. Contracted from Earth. Most traded an eternity of work for one perfect meal, one night where they never felt hungry again. This is Dymas. No one leaves until their debt is paid, and the debt never runs out. Isolde moved past them, her bare feet silent, her lavender eyes fixed on the horizon. The trees bent out of her way as she walked, branches shifting to let her pass, and Rory hurried to catch up. Next came the orchard, trees with trunks as wide as London buses, their canopies heavy with fruit that looked like pomegranates at first glance. As they drew closer, Rory realized each fruit had a tiny, pulsing eye set into its skin. A gust of wind blew through the orchard, and hundreds of eyes blinked in unison, staring right at them. Rory’s hand flew to the pocket of her jacket, where Isolde’s Fae-forged blade rested, the moonsilver dagger growing so cold it burned through the fabric to press into her palm. She wrapped her fingers around the hilt, the leaf-shaped blade’s familiar weight a comfort. The fruits watch what is consumed, Isolde said, her voice clear over the rustle of leaves. Nothing here is given freely. Every bite adds a link to the chain that binds you. They crested a hill an hour later, and the full scope of Dymas spread out below them. Long wooden tables stretched for miles, packed with figures that shifted from human to monstrous, their forks clinking, their shouts carrying up the hill to where the three of them stood. Grand tents strung with glowing lanterns dotted the landscape, and in the exact center of the realm, a black marble palace rose, its spires piercing the amber sky, flags emblazoned with a fork and knife snapping in a wind Rory couldn’t feel. The Heartstone around her neck pulsed so hard it ached, its faint inner glow flaring bright enough to cast a red shadow over her hands. This was where they’d come to find the benefactor who had left the pendant on her doorstep three months prior, the stranger who had promised answers about the strange things that had started happening to her after she left Evan, after she fled Cardiff for London. A roar shook the ground under their feet, so loud it made Rory’s teeth rattle. Five miles out, one of the grand tents collapsed inward, flames shooting through the canvas, figures scattering like ants. Nyx stepped half into the shadow of the hill, their body turning wispy, only their head and shoulders solid as they tracked the chaos. Belphegor’s culinary competitions. The Prince of Dymas judges every feast. Losers feed the palace ovens. Rory drew the Fae-forged blade from her jacket, the moonsilver glowing faint silver in the amber light, its cold seeping into every bone in her hand. She turned to Isolde, her grip tight on the hilt, and nodded toward the palace. Does he know we’re here? Isolde smiled, her lavender eyes bright, and stepped to the edge of the hill, her bare feet hanging over the slope without leaving a mark. The prince has known you stepped across his threshold before your boot pressed into his soil. He has waited for the one who carries the stone stolen from his vault. Your wait ends here. His begins.