AI Aurora hit the ground on one knee as the portal spat her out, and something with too many teeth screamed into her face.
She slashed on instinct. The Fae-forged blade hissed through the air, cold moonsilver biting a clean line across the creature’s snout. It recoiled into a hedge heavy with purple fruit, knocking loose a shower of glossy globes that burst against the path and filled the air with the smell of roasted plums and blood.
“Don’t kill the welcoming committee,” Isolde said behind her . “The hungry remember insults longer than names.”
Aurora pushed herself upright, blade raised. Her left wrist throbbed beneath the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant, the small crescent scar there flashing pale as the crimson gem pulsed against her chest.
“Next time, tell the welcoming committee not to open with a dental exam.”
Nyx unfolded from the shadow of a crooked archway, violet eyes burning in their faceless silhouette. Their edges streamed like smoke in water.
“The gate has shut.”
Aurora glanced back.
The slice she had cut through the Veil had vanished. One heartbeat ago, Richmond Park had stood behind them, ancient oak standing stones, wildflowers blooming out of season, Isolde’s grove breathing old Fae secrets through the grass. Now a wall of amber glass rose where the portal had been, veined with gold and deep red, slick as melted sugar. Beyond it, nothing. No London. No grove. No way back.
“Brilliant.”
The thing in the hedge chattered at her. It had the body of a fox, the neck of a swan, and a face like a carved festival mask stretched over a skull. Its teeth clicked, tick-tock, tick-tock, in a rhythm that set Aurora’s nerves on edge.
Isolde stepped past without leaving so much as a bent blade of grass. Her waist-length silver hair floated around her as though the air had fingers. Pale lavender eyes fixed on the creature, and she bent her head in greeting.
“A little mouth guards a large table.”
The creature snapped its jaws once, then sprang away through the hedge.
“Was that an answer or a threat?” Aurora asked.
“With enough seasoning, all answers become threats.”
“Comforting.”
Nyx turned their head. The movement stretched their shadow across the ground, though no clear source of light cast it.
“Dymas welcomes appetite. It resents restraint.”
Aurora took in the path ahead.
They stood at the edge of an impossible orchard. Trees rose in tiers, each one older than any London church, their bark black and furrowed like burnt pastry. Some bore fruit shaped like hearts, red and wet under translucent skin. Others hung with pale gourds that breathed in and out, swelling gently on the branch. Vines looped overhead in thick green ropes, threaded with copper bells that chimed without wind. The sound wandered through the grove, light and pretty at first, then sour beneath the note, like cutlery scraping bone.
Far beyond the trees, terraces climbed towards a city of domes and long banquet halls. Amber light soaked everything, rich and warm, turning the distant rooftops to honey. Smoke rose from a hundred chimneys, each plume tinted with spice, saffron yellow, pepper black, cinnamon brown. Somewhere deep in the realm, drums beat beneath the clatter of plates.
Aurora touched the Heartstone. The gem burned with a steady warmth .
“Dymas,” she said. “Gluttony.”
“Prince Belphegor’s garden-mouth,” Isolde said. “A realm that feeds and feeds upon feeding.”
“Less riddle, more map.”
Isolde smiled, and it failed to soften her face.
“The map ate itself before you arrived.”
Aurora stared at her.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I cannot lie.”
“That wasn’t a denial.”
“No.”
Nyx drifted ahead, then stopped at the first bend in the path. Their shadow-hand passed through a hanging bell. It chimed low, and the orchard answered.
Every tree leaned towards them.
Aurora gripped the dagger tighter.
“Not fond of that.”
The path under her boots looked like stone at first . Then she noticed the fine blue patterning, tiny painted fish, cranes, flowers, all running beneath the dust. Broken porcelain plates formed the road, their edges fitted so neatly that no gap showed between them. Some pieces bore names in delicate script. Not maker’s marks. Human names. Dates. Prices.
She crouched beside one shard and brushed away dark soil.
MARA HOLLOWAY, sous-chef, London, 1987.
Seven years of genius for one perfect taste.
Her stomach tightened.
“Contracts?”
Nyx’s voice brushed the back of her neck.
“Hel loves ink. Dymas prefers menus.”
Aurora rose. The orchard smell thickened as they walked, fruit, butter, wine, hot sugar, charred meat. It should have made her hungry. Instead, saliva gathered under her tongue with a sharp, sick edge.
They passed a fountain carved from green-black stone. No water flowed from its tiers. A clear golden liquid spilled over the lips of stone cherubs with distended bellies, pooling in a basin where silver cups bobbed like drowned moons.
A woman knelt beside it.
Aurora stopped.
The woman wore a chef’s jacket stained at the cuffs, her hair tucked beneath a paper cap browned by age. She dipped a finger into the fountain and touched it to her tongue. A shudder ran through her.
“Madam?”
The woman’s head snapped round. Her eyes had gone milky, but her hands were steady.
“Not yours,” she rasped. “Find your own.”
“We don’t want it.”
“Everyone wants it.”
Aurora kept her blade low.
“Are you from Earth?”
The woman laughed, and the sound cracked halfway through.
“Earth. Earth has fridges. Earth has rent. Earth has men who send back soup because sorrow tastes of onion.”
She plunged a cup into the fountain and drank. Gold ran down her chin.
Isolde’s gaze slipped to the woman’s jacket. Embroidery curled over the breast pocket, not thread but fine black script that shifted as Aurora looked at it.
“What did you bargain?” Aurora asked.
The woman’s mouth trembled around a grin.
“My tongue. My hands. My hunger. Same as everyone clever enough to think cleverness pays.”
The porcelain path gave a faint clink beneath Aurora’s boot. A nearby shard, fresh and white, bore no name yet.
Nyx leaned close to Aurora.
“Do not ask her what she tastes.”
“Why?”
The woman’s milky eyes fixed on Aurora’s face.
“Little blue-eyed thing. You brought a warm heart through a cold cut. Someone will smell you before the second gate.”
Aurora’s fingers closed over the Heartstone.
“Who?”
The woman raised one dripping hand and pointed past the orchard.
At first Aurora saw only terraces and feast halls. Then something moved between the distant domes, huge and slow. A procession crossed a bridge strung between two towers. Figures in red lacquered masks carried a covered platter the size of a lorry. The cloth over it shifted from within.
Beneath the bridge, thousands of people sat at tables that curved away into the haze. Some ate. Some served. Some stared at empty plates, mouths working as if chewing memories.
Isolde touched Aurora’s elbow.
“A name called too loudly becomes a collar.”
The chef woman barked a laugh.
“The silver liar brought manners. That’s rich.”
Isolde did not blink.
“I cannot lie.”
“No. You just plate poison with flowers.”
The bells in the vines rang again. Closer now. Not wind. Movement.
Nyx’s form tightened into something more solid, long fingers flexing.
“Walk.”
Aurora needed no argument.
They followed the porcelain road deeper into Dymas. The orchard changed as they moved. Trees gave way to trellised avenues, each arch woven from vines as thick as a man’s torso. Fat white blossoms opened at their approach, revealing teeth where petals should have been. They sang in small, sweet voices, notes that brushed the skin and sank inward.
Aurora clamped her jaw shut as one blossom breathed against her cheek.
“Marmalade,” it crooned in a child’s voice. “Toast. Salted butter. Cardiff kitchen. Come back, little breakfast.”
Her foot faltered.
The scent hit next. Burnt toast. Strong tea. Her mother’s lemon washing-up liquid. A warm plate pushed into her hands before school. The blossom widened, eager and wet.
Nyx’s shadow arm slid between Aurora and the flower.
“Memory nectar. Sweet hooks.”
Aurora stepped back, pulse sharp in her throat.
“Right. Evil flowers. Noted.”
Isolde plucked a petal. The blossom shrieked and withdrew into the vine.
“Not evil. Fed.”
“That distinction matters to the flower, does it?”
“It matters to those who cut without asking.”
Aurora looked at the moonsilver blade in her hand.
“You gave me a knife.”
“I gave you a question with an edge.”
“Of course you did.”
The trellis opened into a market square.
Aurora stopped dead.
The square spread beneath a vaulted canopy of woven branches and stained glass leaves. Stalls stood in concentric rings around a central pit where blue flames licked the underside of a suspended cauldron. Vendors called out in languages Aurora recognised and others that made her teeth ache. Bowls of steaming noodles crawled across counters on tiny crab legs. Loaves of bread split themselves open to display red jam beating like muscle. A butcher with four arms carved strips from a side of meat that kept growing back, each slice sealing over before the next knife fell.
Demons moved among the stalls in silks, skins, armour, jewels, feathers. Some looked almost human if one ignored the horns, the double pupils, the mouths in their palms. Others dragged long bellies along the ground or floated in cages of their own ribs. Servants with blank eyes carried trays stacked high with sugared bones.
No one rushed. No one shouted without purpose. Desire ruled the place with courtly grace.
Aurora had delivered enough late-night takeaway through London to know hungry crowds. Football crowds. Drunks in Soho. Office workers who treated rice like a human right. This was different. This hunger wore perfume and signed contracts.
A demon with a peacock tail and a gentleman’s waistcoat turned his head towards her. His nostrils flared.
Then another.
And another.
The square’s noise thinned.
Nyx’s voice slid low.
“They scent the Heartstone.”
Aurora tucked the pendant beneath her shirt, but warmth still pulsed against her skin.
“Bit late.”
Isolde moved to Aurora’s left, bare feet clean on the dusty porcelain .
“Do not eat. Do not drink. Do not accept a price spoken in compliments.”
A squat vendor with skin the colour of old dough leaned over his stall. Rows of black olives blinked up from shallow bowls, each one an eye.
“First taste free for the mortal. A courtesy from the House of Overflowing Mercy.”
Aurora kept walking.
“I’ve seen London landlords offer better mercy.”
The vendor’s smile slid too wide.
“London taught us half our tricks.”
A slender demoness stepped into their path, wearing a gown made from layered menus. Each page rustled with tiny gold script. Her horns curved back like polished mahogany, and her lips shone berry-dark.
“Such haste. Such poor digestion.”
Aurora angled the blade so the demoness could see it.
“Move.”
The demoness looked at the Fae-forged dagger, and her smile sharpened.
“Moonsilver at my table. How quaint. Did the Courts start arming strays?”
Isolde’s expression remained smooth, but every nearby vine drew back from her.
“The Courts arm themselves with boredom. This one carries consequence.”
The demoness laughed.
“Isolde Varga. Still selling riddles to creatures with short lives.”
“Still selling hunger to creatures with no end.”
The market held its breath.
Aurora shifted her weight , measuring exits. Three alleys led out of the square. One climbed towards the banquet city. One sank into a tunnel lined with copper pots. One disappeared behind curtains of hanging sausages, each link twitching.
Nyx melted into the shadow of a stall. Only their violet eyes remained.
The demoness noticed and clicked her tongue.
“Shade. Fae cast-off. Mortal spark. What a poor stew.”
Aurora lifted her chin.
“Glad you’re not cooking.”
“Oh, little Carter.” The demoness savoured the name.
Aurora’s hand tightened around the dagger.
Nyx’s eyes flared.
“She should not know that.”
The demoness drew a folded card from her sleeve. Cream paper. Red wax seal. Aurora recognised the mark pressed into it, a small heart split by a forked tongue.
The Heartstone burned hot enough to make her gasp.
“Invitation,” the demoness said. “Long delayed, but still warm.”
“Who sent it?”
“A benefactor with excellent taste.”
“Name.”
“Names cost.”
Aurora stepped closer. The moonsilver blade hummed, a pale note that made the demoness’s pupils narrow.
“I’m low on cash.”
“You came wearing payment.”
Isolde’s hand closed around Aurora’s wrist before she could strike.
“Blood answers faster than steel here.”
The demoness held out the card.
“Prince Belphegor hosts a tasting in the Third Hall. The mortal bearer of the Heartstone has a reserved place.”
“Hard pass.”
The market stirred at that. A ripple of amusement passed through mouths, gills, beaks, and slits.
The demoness tilted her head.
“You crossed the Veil into Dymas, carried a prince-marked stone, drew a Fae blade in a market under his licence, and refuse hospitality.”
Aurora glanced at Isolde.
“That bad?”
Isolde’s lavender eyes fixed on the folded card.
“A door refused can become a mouth.”
The ground clinked.
Porcelain plates shifted under Aurora’s boots. Blue-painted cranes twisted their necks. Fish flicked tails. Names blurred and reformed. The road no longer led back to the orchard. It curled, plate by plate, into the shape of an open jaw.
Nyx rose from the stall’s shadow, taller now, less human. Their voice carried a cold scrape.
“Wardens marked this rift dead.”
The demoness’s smile faltered for the first time.
“Wardens mark what they survive.”
A brass bell tolled from somewhere above the market.
Once.
Every vendor bowed their head.
Twice.
Every demon turned towards the city.
Three times.
The suspended cauldron in the centre of the square boiled over. Blue flame roared up, and the liquid inside rose in a thick column, shaping itself into a face with cheeks like sagging dough and eyes of molten gold.
Aurora staggered as the Heartstone dragged against its chain, tugging towards the cauldron.
The face opened its vast mouth.
“Bring her to the table.”
The market erupted.
Silk sleeves snapped into wings. Stalls overturned. The butcher’s growing meat lashed across the square like a red rope and caught Nyx around the torso. Isolde flung a handful of silver seeds that became thorns mid-air, pinning three lunging demons to a rack of candied ribs.
Aurora ducked as the peacock-tailed gentleman swept a hooked knife at her throat. She drove the Fae blade up through his waistcoat. Moonsilver met flesh with a burst of sour green sparks. He screamed, feathers igniting one by one.
“Rory,” Nyx hissed.
She looked over.
The red meat binding Nyx smoked where it touched their shadow, but more strips slithered from the butcher’s block, wrapping around their arms, their throat, their violet eyes.
Aurora lunged, but the porcelain jaw beneath her feet snapped shut.
The plates rose around her in jagged white walls, names flashing across them, Mara Holloway, Thomas Reed, Anika Saanvi, Brendan Carter.
Her father’s name hit harder than a fist.
The wall surged higher.
Isolde’s voice cut through the chaos.
“Do not read what hungers for being read.”
Too late.
The porcelain under Aurora’s right foot softened into wet clay. Fingers pressed up from beneath, gripping her boot, her ankle, her calf. Each hand bore a small crescent scar on the left wrist.
The cauldron-face laughed, and the sound rolled through Dymas like a banquet hall full of breaking bones.
A new voice spoke from directly behind Aurora, warm, amused, and close enough to stir the hair at her neck.
“Little Heartstone. You kept me waiting.”