AI The last thing Rory saw of the mortal plane was the gnarled oak standing stones of Isolde’s grove, frost crusting their bark, the Richmond Park wind biting through her thrifted wool coat. She’d been clutching the Heartstone pendant around her neck, its crimson gem thrumming so hard it had dug a faint indent into her palm, when Isolde’s silver light had ripped a hole in the air between them. The Veil, the seer had called it, thin as cigarette paper on the winter solstice. One step forward, and the cold vanished.
Warm air wrapped around her, thick with the scent of sourdough, ripe starfruit, and burnt cinnamon, like she’d stepped inside the Golden Empress restaurant’s oven after a full Saturday lunch rush. She stumbled, her scuffed delivery boots sinking into grass that was soft as lamb’s wool, deep enough to brush her ankles. When she looked up, the sky hit her first: not the flat grey of London winter, not even the bright blue of a summer’s day, but a warm, glowing amber, streaked with faint gold that shifted like liquid honey. No sun, no moon, just that endless, soft glow that painted every tree and vine in shades of burnt orange and rose.
The crescent scar on her left wrist itched. She rubbed it, her gaze darting to the two figures who’d stepped through the rift behind her. Nyx loomed a foot above her, their shadowy form rippling at the edges, the faint violet glow of their eyes brightening as they scanned the horizon. Isolde’s silver hair, waist-length and fine as silk , stirred in a wind that didn’t touch Rory’s coat. The seer’s lavender eyes were fixed on the sprawl of land that stretched out before them: vineyards that rolled for miles, their grapes iridescent, shifting from sapphire to topaz when the breeze brushed the leaves, orchards heavy with fruits that glowed like tiny lanterns strung from the branches. Wildflowers bloomed between the rows, colours Rory had never seen, neon pink and electric green, their scent thick enough to make her head spin.
Rory’s hand flew to the sheath at her hip, where the Fae-forged blade Isolde had given her rested. The moonsilver dagger bit cold through the leather, and the fog that had started to creep into her thoughts, sharp with a hunger she couldn’t place, cleared for a second. She’d never felt that hungry, not even after a 12-hour shift delivering noodles across London, her last meal a cold spring roll at 2 a.m. This hunger ached, gnawed at her ribs, made her eyes lock on a glowing pomegranate hanging from a tree ten feet away. That fruit would taste like nothing I’ve ever eaten.
A shadow wrapped around her wrist before she could take a step toward it. Nyx’s hand, solid enough to feel, cold as the shadow of a tall building on a summer day, tightened just enough to stop her. Their voice, a whisper that carried on the wind like it was born from it, wrapped around her.
Don’t touch it. Anything you consume here binds you to this realm. You’ll never leave.
Rory froze, yanking her hand back. She stared at the pomegranate, its glow seeming to taunt her, and the hunger faded to a low thrum. Isolde stepped past them, her boots not leaving a single print in the soft grass—Rory had noticed that quirk days earlier, how the seer moved over frost and mud without marking it, like she was a ghost herself. Isolde paused at the edge of the vineyard, her head tilted, and spoke, her voice soft but sharp, the riddles she always used that never failed to set Rory’s teeth on edge.
The bite that sweetens the tongue ties the feet to the ground. The feast that never ends eats the eater whole.
Rory slid her hand back into her coat, her fingers closing around the Heartstone. It pulsed, steady, under her touch. She’d woken up with the necklace on her pillow three weeks earlier, no note, no clue who’d left it, just the small crimson gem on a silver chain, warm to the touch. Isolde had told her it would lead them to the rift core, the tear in the Veil her ex Evan had opened, sacrificing three strangers in a London basement to fuel the ritual. Evan had wanted power, had thought selling London to Belphegor, the ruler of Dymas, would earn him a place at the prince’s side. Rory had spent six months running from him, and now she was in the realm he’d worshipped, here to seal his mistake before Belphegor’s hordes flooded into Camden, turning every mortal into a bound soul working his vineyards and feasts.
They moved deeper, the distant sounds of the realm growing louder the further they walked. At first it was just birdsong, strange trills that didn’t match any bird Rory had ever heard, then it was laughter, the clink of ceramic plates, a choir of voices singing in a language that curled around her bones, stoking that hunger again. She drew the Fae blade once, just to feel its cold, and the singing faded to a murmur. Nyx walked at her side, their shadow form stretching out to cover the ground around them, sensing anything that moved. They’d told her, back in the grove, that they’d only crossed into a Hel realm once before, in 1643, when the ritual that turned them into a shade had first bound them to the mortal plane. They knew the rules of these places, the traps, the way the land itself tried to consume anyone who didn’t belong.
Half an hour into their walk, they found a wicker basket half-buried in long grass, its sides split open, spilling fruit across the ground. One pear-shaped fruit oozed golden nectar that seeped into the grass, and Rory watched, stunned, as the grass grew six inches taller in ten seconds, the blades thickening, reaching for the juice. She leaned down, this time keeping her hands to herself, and picked up a cracked clay bowl that had been hidden under the basket, its sides painted with scenes of feasts, people eating until their bodies melted into the soil.
These are the souls who took the bite. Nyx nodded at the bowl, their violet eyes dim. Belphegor contracts them, brings them here to work his lands, cook his feasts. They eat his food, they can never leave. Some spend centuries working the vineyards, until they’re too weak to stand, and they get added to the soil, feed the next crop of grapes.
Rory set the bowl down, her stomach rolling. The wonder she’d felt when she first stepped through the rift, the awe at the amber sky and the glowing fruits, curdled into unease. This place was beautiful, but it was a trap. Every pretty thing hid a tooth, ready to snap down on anyone who let their guard down. She looked up, and spotted a figure bending over a vine row a hundred yards away, picking the iridescent grapes. When they straightened, Rory saw their eyes were solid gold, their skin translucent, like they were already fading . The figure waved, then went back to work, as if seeing intruders was nothing out of the ordinary .
Isolde stopped, her head tilting again, and the Heartstone around Rory’s neck suddenly flared hot, so hot she yelped, yanking her hand away from it. The crimson gem glowed bright enough to light up the grass at her feet, pulsing so fast it looked like it was beating , like a real heart.
We are close. Isolde’s voice was quiet, her lavender eyes fixed on the line of hills ahead of them. The core waits beyond those slopes. But the guardian waits with it.
Rory stepped in line with her, squinting at the hills. They crested the slope ten minutes later, and the city of Dymas spread out below them. Spires made of glazed sugar glinted in the amber sky, their surfaces swirling with pink and blue icing, aqueducts that carried red wine instead of water snaking through the streets, sluicing into fountains that overflowed, the wine soaking into the ground. Every square had a feast set out, long tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats, fruits, pies that steamed, hundreds of people crowding around them, eating, drinking, laughing. Rory’s gaze locked on one man, sitting alone at a table, shoveling food into his mouth so fast his cheeks bulged, until his body started to melt, dripping into the stone under his chair, merging with the ground until nothing was left but a pile of crumbs. The people next to him didn’t even glance over. They just kept eating.
A roar cut through her shock. A giant figure, ten feet tall, horns twisted like oak branches, its skin the colour of burnt toast, broke away from the city gates and started charging up the hill toward them. Its hooves thudded against the grass, and it carried an iron club that glowed with black magic.
Intruders! It roared, its voice like stones grinding together. Belphegor knew you’d come. That rift’s his. He’s gonna flood your little London with all the feasts you can eat, turn every last mortal into a vine worker. That ex of yours, Evan, he gave us the key. You can’t stop him.
Rory drew the Fae blade, the moonsilver flaring bright white, cutting through the amber glow. The cold of the blade traveled up her arm, clearing the fog of hunger that had swelled back up the second she saw the feasts in the city. Nyx shifted, their shadow form stretching out, turning incorporeal, and they shot toward the demon, wrapping around its legs. The demon stumbled, roaring , swinging its club at the shadow, but the club passed right through Nyx, slamming into the ground and sending dirt flying.
Isolde lifted a hand, silver light gathering in her palm, and her voice rang out, clear over the demon’s roars.
The gate that opens for the greedy closes for the greedy. You tend his ovens, yet you will be the first to burn in them.
The silver light shot from her hand, slamming into the demon’s chest. It screamed, a high, horrible sound, and its body dissolved, turning into a pile of rotting figs and mouldy bread that oozed into the grass, the turf turning brown and dead under the rot.
Rory stood there, her chest heaving, the blade still in her hand. She looked down at the city, at the sugar spires glinting , at the feasts going on like nothing had happened. The Heartstone around her neck pulsed , steady, leading her deeper. Nyx shifted back to solid form, their violet eyes dimmed, their shadow body a little less substantial than it had been an hour earlier.
The core is three miles past the central feast hall. Nyx’s whisper wrapped around her, sharp with warning. Belphegor knows we’re here now. He won’t send one guard next time.