AI The air changed before the ground did.
Rory felt it in the back of her throat first, a sweetness so thick it made her think of overripe fruit left too long in a warm kitchen, then a rush of heat that pushed against her face like an opened oven. The path beneath her boots, hard-packed earth only a moment ago, had given way to pale stone veined with gold. She stopped short and looked back over her shoulder.
The way home was gone .
Not hidden. Not shrouded. Gone, as if someone had taken a knife to the world and stitched something else in its place.
Behind them stretched an avenue lined with black, cypress-like trees whose leaves shimmered bronze in the amber light. Ahead rose a terrace of white marble steps, broad enough to host a procession, leading toward a city that seemed less built than grown. Towers curled upward like spiraling stems. Bridges arched between them in elegant sweeps. Every surface caught the strange light and held it, glowing from within. The sky above was not sky at all, but a warm, luminous amber that made everything look suspended inside a lantern.
Rory drew in a careful breath. It smelled of figs, smoke, wine, and something richer—roasting meat maybe, but not the kind she knew from Earth, something deeper and sweeter at once, as if an entire market had been reduced to perfume.
“Keep close,” Isolde said.
Rory glanced at the half-Fae seer. Isolde stood barefoot on the stone, pale as moonlit ash, her silver hair falling down her back in a smooth sheet that didn’t move in the heatless air. The folds of her dress brushed around her ankles, and yet she left no footprints in the dust dusting the terrace. She never did. Rory still found that unnerving, even after everything she’d seen.
Nyx lingered a step behind, their form a dark, shifting silhouette with faint violet eyes burning in the shadow of a hood that wasn’t quite a hood . Here, in this place of amber light, they looked like a cut in the world’s fabric . They had been quieter than usual since Isolde led them through the boundary stone circle, and Rory couldn’t blame them. If she were made of living shadow, she might not love standing in a place that seemed designed to show off every edge and contour .
“What is this place?” Rory asked, though she already knew Isolde would not answer plainly.
Isolde tilted her head, listening to something Rory couldn’t hear. “A mouth that never learned mercy,” she said. “A garden fed by appetite. A court of hunger dressed in silk .”
Rory gave her a look . “That sounds reassuring.”
“Should it?”
Nyx’s whisper drifted past her ear, dry as leaves skittering over stone. “If the answer is yes, we are in the wrong realm.”
That earned the smallest tug at Isolde’s mouth, as close to amusement as Rory had ever seen. Then the seer started down the steps.
Rory followed.
The stone was warm under her shoes. Not sun-warm. Body-warm. The kind of warmth that made her think of skin. She resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her jeans. Her left wrist prickled where the small crescent scar sat beneath her sleeve, and her heart gave a strange, answering thump. On instinct, she touched the silver chain around her neck. The pendant resting there—deep crimson, thumbnail-sized—had been quiet for days. Now it stirred against her skin with a faint, steady pulse .
Nyx noticed immediately. Of course they did.
“You feel it,” they said.
Rory tucked the pendant under her shirt. “Feels like it’s trying to climb out of my chest.”
“Useful,” Isolde murmured. “The heart knows the road before the feet.”
“That is not comforting ,” Rory said.
“No prophecy is.”
The city opened before them as they reached the lower terraces.
Rory had expected buildings. Markets. Maybe some demon-made parody of a medieval city, all iron and fire and screaming. Instead she found orchards.
Not tidy rows like back home, but sprawling groves of trees heavy with fruit she couldn’t name . Some bore pears with skins the color of copper coins; others carried clusters of translucent berries that glowed faintly from within. Vines snaked up trellises carved with curling beasts and faces half-hidden in foliage. Beyond them, garden beds spilled over with herbs and flowers so vivid they looked painted. Crimson blossoms the size of dinner plates nodded beside feathery silver stalks. Blue leaves trembled under the breeze. The whole place seemed impossibly fertile, bursting at the seams with life and hunger alike.
A narrow canal threaded through the gardens, water so clear Rory could see gilded fish moving beneath the surface like living sparks. The canal fed into pools lined with mosaics of crushed shell and green stone. Steam rose from one of them, scented with rosemary and something meaty enough to make her stomach twist.
She was suddenly, sharply aware of how empty her own stomach was.
There were people moving among the paths, though at first she mistook them for statues. Tall figures in layered robes of saffron, plum, and white drifted between the trees carrying baskets and silver knives. Some had horns curling from their temples like carved ivory; others wore masks shaped like birds or foxes. A few were plainly human, though their eyes held that faraway , trapped look Rory had seen in certain restaurant kitchens when the heat got too close and no one dared stop working. Those people kept their heads down and their pace brisk. Nobody lingered.
One of the horned figures looked up as Rory passed and smiled with too many teeth.
She looked away fast.
“Dymas,” Isolde said, as if introducing a dangerous animal to a child who had already climbed into its pen . “It feeds on delight. On want. On the pleasure of too much.”
Rory swallowed. The city’s beauty had a pressure to it. Even the air felt indulgent, thick and rich, full enough to bite. A laugh floated from somewhere beyond the orchards, followed by the clang of metal on metal and a burst of applause. In the distance, she saw a coliseum-like structure with open arches and columns wrapped in vines. Smoke curled from its roof in lazy ribbons, carrying the smell of seared spices and caramelized sugar.
“A cooking arena?” she asked.
Nyx’s shadow shifted, their outline sharpening for a moment. “Of course it is.”
They moved deeper along the terrace road. The stone beneath Rory’s feet changed from pale marble to something darker, polished smooth by endless passing feet. Tiny flecks of amber flashed in it when light struck just right. She passed under an archway of living branches braided together and found herself staring at a market square unlike any she’d ever seen.
No stalls, no canvas awnings. Instead there were tables of carved stone and hammered gold, each arranged under separate canopies of flowering vine. The displays were obscene in their abundance. Platters of fruit lacquered in honey. Towers of sugared nuts. Bread braided with herbs and glittering crystals of salt. Trays of glazed meats shot through with herbs she recognized only by scent: thyme, mint, something peppery and hot enough to bring tears to her eyes from three feet away. Jars of preserves glowed jewel-bright in the shade. Wines in bottles with necks twisted like swans sat in neat rows beside bowls of grapes so plump they looked ready to burst.
At the center of the square, a fountain ran with what looked at first like water, then wine, then honey, then something darker and thicker, changing color every time Rory blinked. Copper bowls floated on the surface, turning slowly as though following an invisible current . A pair of children—at least Rory thought they were children—laughed as they reached in to catch the bowls, then recoiled when the liquid brushed their fingers and steamed.
Rory stared. “That is not safe.”
“Nor is crossing a street in Cardiff,” Nyx said. “Yet people manage.”
She shot them a look . “That is not remotely the same.”
“It is, in spirit.”
Rory wanted to argue, but something at the edge of the square had caught her attention. A doorway stood there, cut into a wall of pale stone and framed by blackened vines. No door hung in the opening, only a curtain of shimmering heat. Beyond it, she caught the flash of knives, firelight, and rows of people in aprons moving with frightening precision.
Her pendant pulsed hard against her chest.
Rory froze.
Isolde noticed at once. “Near to a road unseen,” she said softly .
Rory lifted a hand to her shirt. “That thing’s reacting.”
“Yes.”
“To what?”
The seer’s pale eyes turned toward the doorway, then beyond it, as though she could see through walls and miles and perhaps much worse. “To hunger wearing a familiar face.”
Rory’s skin went cold beneath the heat of the place. “You could say that in a less creepy way.”
“I could,” Isolde said. “I choose not to.”
A sudden shout rang from the square, and all three of them turned.
A cart had overturned near the fountain, spilling crates of fruit across the stone. Round red globes rolled in every direction, splitting open under careless feet to reveal pale, glistening flesh. A thin human man in a stained apron cursed and scrambled after them while a pair of attendants in white robes stooped to help. But Rory saw the man’s hands shaking too hard to catch anything. He was looking around like he expected someone to strike him.
Then a shadow fell over the square.
Not Nyx’s. Something larger, heavier.
The temperature seemed to change all at once. The sweet, choking scent of the markets sharpened to something metallic. People bowed their heads. Even the fountain quieted, its gurgle softening as though the water itself were listening .
At the far end of the square, atop a balcony of carved stone and trailing vines, a figure stepped into view. Rory couldn’t make out their face from this distance, only the silhouette wrapped in layers of dark gold and crimson. Servants immediately bowed lower. A ripple of murmured respect—or fear—moved through the crowd.
Nyx went still beside her.
Rory didn’t need to ask. Whoever that was, they mattered.
“Keep your eyes down,” Isolde murmured.
Rory, who had been staring, lowered her gaze a heartbeat too late.
The figure on the balcony turned, and though Rory could not see their eyes, she felt herself noticed all the same. It was not like being seen by a person. It was like being tasted by the air. A slow, appraising attention touched her, paused, and then slid away.
Her pulse hammered in her throat.
“What was that?” she whispered.
Isolde’s answer came after a long beat. “A door that does not open for free.”
Rory exhaled carefully . She became aware of every small thing at once: the sweat gathering at her spine beneath her jacket; the cold weight of the blade Isolde had given her, hidden beneath her coat and strapped close to her side; the pendant’s heat; Nyx’s shadow brushing the edge of her boot like a warning. They were too exposed here, too human in a place where everything seemed built for excess and appetite .
And still, she couldn’t deny the wonder of it.
The sky turned the tops of the orchards to fire. Bees, if they were bees, moved between the blossoms with wings that flashed like shards of amber. Somewhere a choir was singing—not words, exactly, but harmonies so lush they sounded almost edible. The canal reflected the whole city in trembling ribbons of gold and dark green. Every surface glowed. Every scent layered over the next. It was beautiful in a way that made her uneasy, as though beauty itself had grown teeth.
She turned slowly , taking it in.
Past the market square, a road led uphill toward the city’s center, where terraces climbed one above another in impossible stacks. Along the route, fountains spilled into hanging gardens. Lanterns shaped like pomegranates swayed from iron hooks. Open courtyards held tables set for feasts that had not yet begun, silver plates gleaming in anticipation . In one courtyard, a cook as broad as a wardrobe was carving into a roast the size of a child, his knife flashing. In another, a pair of musicians played strings so fast Rory could not follow the movement of their hands.
Everywhere there were signs of celebration. Everywhere there was consumption.
And beneath it all, hidden just under the sweetness, was the unmistakable sense of a machine running on something alive.
Rory crossed her arms tight over her chest. “I don’t like it.”
“Good,” Nyx said. “The places worth fearing rarely ask permission.”
Isolde resumed walking, and after a brief hesitation Rory followed. They left the square behind, passing under arches hung with clusters of glassy fruit and strings of dried herbs. The farther they went, the quieter the city became—not peaceful, exactly, but narrowed, as if the noise had been swallowed by stone . They came to a staircase descending into one of the lower terraces, where the air grew cooler and the amber light dimmed to copper.
There, half-hidden beneath overgrown vines, Rory saw the first sign that this place was not all abundance.
Bones.
Not scattered carelessly, but set into the walls as decoration . Small ones, likely animal, polished white and arranged in patterns like flowers. Larger bones formed the frame of a courtyard gate. The sight made her stomach clench. At the center of the courtyard sat a deep basin filled with dark liquid that reflected no light at all. Rory couldn’t see the bottom.
She stopped again.
The Heartstone beneath her shirt gave another faint pulse . Warm. Insistent.
Nyx’s voice dropped to a whisper carried on no wind at all. “That’s a threshold.”
Rory looked from the basin to the bones. “To what?”
Isolde’s silver hair stirred though the air remained still. “To deeper wanting.”
Before Rory could ask what that meant, the liquid in the basin rippled.
Something moved beneath the surface.
She stepped back instinctively, hand flying to the hidden hilt at her side. The Fae-forged blade was cold enough to bite through the fabric of her coat, a clean moonlit chill against her palm when she touched it. Beside her, Nyx’s shadow stretched longer than their body, spilling toward the courtyard in a way that made the dark seem thicker.
The surface of the basin bulged.
Rory held her breath.
Then, with a wet sound like silk tearing, a face rose from the dark water—pale, smooth, and wrong, with closed eyes and a mouth curved in a blissful smile. It opened its eyes in the same instant and stared straight at her.
Rory’s breath caught hard. Her body wanted to run. Her mind, annoyingly, had already begun cataloging the distance to the stairs, the angle of the shadows, the fact that if this thing came out of the basin she’d need to strike low and fast—
Isolde placed one hand lightly on Rory’s wrist.
The creature sank back beneath the surface as if it had never been there. The basin stilled.
Rory realized she was shaking .
“That,” she said, voice thin, “is not a kitchen decoration.”
“No,” Isolde said. “It is a warning.”
Nyx’s shadow folded inward again, their glow dim but steady. “Do we continue?”
Rory looked uphill at the glittering city, at the feasts being prepared , at the balconies and orchards and fountains and the impossible amber sky. Somewhere in that labyrinth of excess, something waited that her pendant recognized. Somewhere beneath the beauty, a door was opening or about to.
She tightened her grip on the dagger hilt until the cold bit into her skin.
“Yes,” she said.
The word came out steadier than she felt.
Isolde nodded once, as if she had expected nothing else. Then she turned toward the deeper terraces, where the city rose in shining layers toward its hidden heart.
Rory fell into step beside her, with Nyx on her other side like a movable piece of night. Together they climbed into the warm, perfumed air of Dymas, the place of gluttony, where everything beautiful seemed ready to consume them if they looked away for too long .