AI The vine tightened around Aurora’s ankle and yanked her off her feet.
She hit the golden path shoulder-first, skidded across warm stone, and lost the paper parcel of pork buns she had been carrying since London. The buns burst from their paper like pale little organs. One rolled to the edge of the path, where a fat crimson flower bent down, opened a mouth lined with sugar-glass teeth, and swallowed it whole.
“Rory.” Nyx flowed out of her shadow and caught the vine in both dark hands. Their violet eyes burned in the dim hollows of their face. “Do not let it taste blood.”
“Brilliant advice. Bit late on the timing.”
Aurora twisted, grabbed the Fae-Forged Blade from inside her jacket, and slashed.
The moonsilver dagger parted the vine without resistance. It recoiled with a wet shriek and spilled thick green sap that smelled of basil, copper, and overripe peaches. The stump thrashed against the path. More vines lifted from the orchard beyond, slow at first, then eager.
Isolde Varga stepped past Aurora without leaving a mark on the soft gold dust. Her silver hair drifted as if underwater. She raised one pale hand toward the orchard.
“The feast remembers teeth before it remembers guests.”
“Does that mean run?”
“It means keep your skin.”
“Same thing, then.”
Aurora scrambled upright. The Heartstone Pendant thudded against her breastbone, hot enough to sting through her shirt. Its deep crimson glow pulsed in a steady, hungry rhythm. Heat slid from it into her ribs, not painful, not kind. A warning, or an invitation. With Hel artefacts, she had learned, the two often wore the same coat.
Behind them, the tear in the Veil hung in the air like a wound cut through glass. London had vanished on the other side. No pavement, no traffic, no wet brick, no comforting stink of bins behind the Golden Empress. Only a wavering oval of grey light, shrinking by the second, with Richmond Park’s gnarled oaks fading behind it.
Ahead spread Dymas.
Aurora had expected fire. Screams. Black rock. The usual Sunday-school nonsense.
Instead, the path wound down into a valley so lush it looked indecent. Terraced vineyards climbed hills of amber soil. Orchards bowed under fruit in colours no human market would dare stock, blue pears veined with gold, black figs that shimmered like oil, oranges with translucent skin and tiny sparks moving inside them. Beyond the trees rose domes, towers, and open colonnades cut from cream stone and red marble . Steam drifted from copper chimneys. Music travelled across the valley, flutes, drums, laughter, the clatter of knives on plates.
The air tasted of honey, char, yeast, and something darker beneath it, like meat left too long in a silver dish.
Aurora swallowed and found her mouth watering.
“Don’t eat anything.”
Nyx’s voice brushed her ear though they stood several feet away.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“The realm heard the lie.”
A branch near Aurora’s head creaked. A glossy red apple swelled at its tip, skin splitting to reveal white flesh marbled with cinnamon. Juice dripped onto the path. The scent reached her and hooked behind her teeth.
Isolde glanced at the fruit. Her pale lavender eyes showed no reflection of it.
“Dymas is a hand set on the throat through the stomach .”
“Cheery place.”
“It prides itself on hospitality.”
The severed vine dragged itself back into the orchard, leaving a smear of sap across the path. The other vines lowered, but they did not retreat. They leaned. Watching.
Aurora wiped her dagger on the edge of her jacket and felt the cold of the moonsilver bite through the fabric. She had made a lot of poor choices since fleeing Cardiff. Moving to London with one suitcase and a cracked phone. Taking delivery shifts to stay afloat. Trusting a stranger who had left a glowing Hel pendant in a takeaway bag with her name written in neat black ink.
Walking through a portal into Gluttony probably deserved its own trophy.
A bronze sign rose beside the path. It had no post. It had grown from the ground, letters pushing out like blisters.
WELCOME, HONOURED APPETITES.
Below that, in smaller script:
UNLICENSED HUNGER WILL BE CARVED AND SERVED.
Aurora stared at it.
“Is that aimed at us?”
Nyx leaned close. Their outline blurred at the edges, the bright amber world showing through their ribs for a breath before their form hardened again.
“At everyone.”
“Useful.”
“The Princes dislike theft.”
“Good thing I left my big shoplifting coat at home.”
Isolde turned from the sign and began down the path.
“Belphegor’s kitchens have doors that open only for need, greed, or invitation. We have the first. The realm will supply the second. Pray we do not require the third.”
Aurora followed because the tear in the Veil had shrunk to the size of a mirror, and because the pendant now tugged against its chain, pulling her towards the city of feasts. Nyx drifted at her left, half-shadow in a world with too much gold.
The path curved between orchards. Each tree carried a different harvest. One bore clusters of tiny glazed birds, their pastry wings fluttering though their bodies stayed fixed to the branches. Another tree sagged with goblets instead of fruit, each brimming with dark wine. The cups chimed together as the group passed, making a thin, pleading music.
“Drink,” whispered one.
“Toast,” sighed another.
“Remember us,” sang a third in a child’s voice.
Aurora kept her eyes on the path.
A low hedge ran beside them, woven from rosemary and thorn. Beyond it, workers moved between the rows. At first she thought they were human. Then one turned.
His face looked ordinary enough, brown skin, greying beard, tired eyes. A chef’s white jacket strained across his shoulders. But his hands ended in long iron spoons instead of fingers, each bowl polished from use. He dug at the earth around a root vegetable shaped like a heart. It beat weakly as he lifted it.
Another worker, a woman in a stained apron, pruned a tree with shears grown from her wrists. She hummed something in French. Every cut made the tree sigh.
Aurora slowed.
“Helbound souls?”
Nyx’s violet gaze moved over the workers.
“Contracted. Bought. Lost. Some came for genius. Some for gold. Some for a final meal.”
The woman with shears for wrists looked up. Her eyes fixed on Aurora’s pendant. Her mouth opened.
“No guests walk the root road.”
A man farther down the row snapped his head around.
“She’s warm.”
The spoon-handed chef dropped the beating vegetable.
“Warm guest.”
“Keep moving,” Nyx whispered.
Aurora lengthened her stride.
The workers did not cross the hedge, but their bodies turned as one. Heads followed. Neck bones clicked. The orchard filled with the soft scrape of tools and the wet pulse of fruit ripening too fast.
“Isolde,” Aurora said, keeping her voice low, “if you’ve got one of your useful riddles, now would be a lovely time.”
“The mouth that praises the banquet escapes the butcher. The mouth that asks the price learns it.”
“So don’t ask questions.”
“I did not say that.”
“You never do.”
A smile touched Isolde’s lips, brief and sharp as a fishhook.
The orchard ended at a bridge made of braided sugar cane, lacquered until it shone. Below it ran a river of amber liquid. It moved thickly, not like water, but syrup. Round white shapes bobbed beneath the surface.
Aurora looked closer and wished she had not.
Bones. Knuckles, ribs, teeth. All polished clean.
The river gave off a sweet burnt smell that coated the back of her throat. Her stomach clenched, then growled loud enough for Nyx to turn.
“Not a word.”
“I have said nothing.”
“You have a smug silhouette.”
The bridge flexed beneath Aurora’s boots. Warmth seeped up through the soles, oddly pleasant, like standing near an oven. Halfway across, something rose from the syrup below. A fish, if a fish could have a grandmother’s face and a mouth full of silver pins.
It blinked at Aurora.
“First bite is free.”
She kept walking.
The fish swam with them beneath the bridge.
“First bite is mercy.”
Nyx’s shadow spread over the cane rail, long black fingers reaching down. The fish saw them and sank without a ripple.
On the far bank, the valley widened into cultivated madness.
They passed through a market that seemed to have no buyers, only stalls and sellers waiting with too much patience . A butcher with ivory horns polished a cleaver the size of a door. His display held cuts of meat labelled with gold tags: REGRET, DEVOTION, FIRSTBORN PROMISE, SAINT’S TONGUE. Across from him, a glass-eyed woman stirred a cauldron of soup that showed different rooms in its surface with each turn of her ladle. A nursery. A battlefield. A wedding table set for one.
A boy no older than twelve sold candied insects from a tray. Each insect had a tiny human face and recited poems as its sugar shell cracked in the heat.
“Fresh verse, miss?”
“No, thanks.”
“Bitter metre, sweet finish.”
“I’m all right.”
His gaze dropped to the pendant.
“You’re not.”
Nyx’s form sharpened. The boy lowered his tray and stepped back into the shade of an awning made from stitched recipe pages.
Aurora resisted the urge to touch the Heartstone. She could feel it well enough. It pulled harder now, drawing her past the market towards the grand city. The towers ahead looked less like buildings the closer she came. More like stacked cakes, iced bones, folded napkins, and banquet halls grown upward until they pierced the amber sky. Balconies overflowed with flowering herbs. Waterfalls of wine poured from lion mouths into basins where horned children splashed and bit each other.
Music swelled from the city gates. Not one tune. A hundred. A string quartet duelled with a drum circle. A choir sang in Latin beside a troupe of laughing demons who played flutes made from femurs. Beneath it all, knives chopped in perfect rhythm.
Tick-tock. Chop-chop. Tick-tock. Chop-chop.
Aurora’s pulse began matching the sound.
The gate itself stood open. Two enormous doors of dark carved wood rose on either side, their surfaces covered in scenes of feasts. Kings lifting cups. Mothers feeding babies. Wolves tearing into deer. Lovers sharing pomegranate seeds. Priests swallowing coins. The carvings moved when Aurora did not look at them straight on.
At the threshold, Isolde stopped.
Aurora almost walked into her.
“What?”
“The city has noticed your hunger.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Isolde looked at the market behind them, at the orchard, at the pendant, then at Aurora’s mouth.
Aurora ran her tongue over her teeth and tasted sugar.
A tiny gold crumb rested on her lower lip.
Her stomach dropped.
“I didn’t eat anything.”
Nyx moved close. Too close. Their shadow-hand lifted towards her face but did not touch.
“Open your mouth.”
“Excuse me?”
“Rory.”
The way they said her name cut through the market noise.
Aurora opened her mouth.
Nyx looked inside. Their violet eyes narrowed .
“A seed.”
Cold moved through Aurora’s arms.
“What seed?”
Isolde drew closer. For once, no riddle came first. Her expression turned still.
“Dymasian welcome-fruit. It travels by scent if the guest resists the bite.”
“That’s cheating.”
“The realm calls it seasoning.”
Aurora spat onto the golden road. A black seed hit the ground. It had tiny roots already, pale as worms. The moment it touched the path, the roots dug in.
The market went silent.
Every seller turned.
The butcher stopped polishing his cleaver. The soup woman lifted her ladle. The boy with candied insects smiled with all the solemn pity of a priest at a graveside.
From beneath the seed, a shoot burst upward. It grew fast, twining around itself, thickening into a stem. Leaves unfurled, broad and dark. A bud formed at the top, swelling from the size of a pea to the size of a fist.
Aurora backed away.
“Cut it,” Nyx said.
Aurora drew the Fae blade, but Isolde caught her wrist. Her fingers felt cool and weightless.
“Not yet.”
“You said keep my skin.”
“The fruit must name what it wants. Then we know which teeth gather.”
The bud split.
Inside hung a tiny crimson fruit shaped like a heart. Not heart-shaped in the cute Valentine sense. An actual heart, with little vessels and a wet shine. It beat once.
The pendant answered with a pulse of heat so sharp Aurora hissed.
The fruit beat again.
The city gates groaned.
A figure stepped from the shadow beneath the left gate tower.
He wore a long cream chef’s coat with gold buttons and a high collar that framed a narrow, ash-grey face. Two small black horns curved from his brow. His hair, sleek and white, fell to his shoulders. A chain of tasting spoons hung around his neck, each one engraved with a different name. His eyes looked human until they caught the Heartstone’s glow. Then they flashed amber, slit-pupilled and ravenous.
He clapped once.
The sound cracked across the road. The market breathed again, but softer now. Expectant.
“Well, well. A surface girl takes root before the first course.”
Aurora tightened her grip on the dagger.
“Is that a problem?”
“A problem?” He smiled. His teeth were square, clean, and made for grinding. “No. Problems spoil service. You, my dear, are an opportunity with shoes.”
Nyx shifted beside her, their body thinning into smoke.
The demon’s gaze slid to them.
“Shade.”
“Cook.”
“Still bitter?”
“Still over-salted.”
The chef laughed, but none of the market joined him.
Isolde inclined her head.
“Master Carouge.”
“Exiled starling.” His smile sharpened. “You shed prophecies in parks now? How the Courts must weep into their perfect little cups.”
“The cups fill either way.”
“And yet you bring me contraband.”
Aurora lifted the dagger a fraction.
“I’m standing right here.”
His attention returned to her with the full weight of a knife descending.
“Yes. You are. Aurora Carter. Rory to friends. Laila to those who needed you less traceable. Carter to debt collectors and men who thought a raised voice made them kings.”
Her fingers went numb around the dagger.
Nyx darkened.
The chef touched one spoon on his chain. It rang with a sweet, thin note.
“Dymas keeps records of appetite. Not only for food. Safety. Escape. Revenge. Love. The little hungers season the large ones.”
“Lovely speech. Do you rehearse in front of a mirror, or does the mirror beg you to stop?”
A few of the stallholders flinched. The boy with the tray bit down on a candied beetle to hide a grin.
Master Carouge’s eyes brightened.
“Bite in that one.”
“Get in line.”
Isolde’s hand tightened on Aurora’s wrist.
“Words are bread here. Do not feed him more than crumbs.”
Carouge spread his arms.
“Come now. We are civilised. Prince Belphegor’s table honours rare ingredients, and this one brings a Heartstone back to its cradle. Deep crimson, silver chain, thumbnail size. Warm near portals. Gifted by an unknown hand.” He inhaled. “Ah. Still smells of London grease and dragon-pepper sauce.”
Aurora’s skin prickled.
“You know who gave it to me.”
“I know who wants it opened.”
The pendant pulsed again. This time the tiny heart-fruit on the stalk burst. Red juice sprayed across the path in a neat circle around Aurora’s boots.
The gold stone beneath her feet softened.
Nyx lunged, but a ring of script flared in the juice. The symbols rose like steam and hardened into a cage of red light around Aurora, Isolde, and Nyx. When Nyx struck it, shadow hissed and peeled from their arm.
Aurora slashed with the Fae blade.
The cage split for half a breath.
Beyond it, the market erupted.
Stalls folded in on themselves. Awnings snapped shut like jaws. The butcher lifted his cleaver. The soup woman poured her cauldron into the street, and the liquid crawled forward, full of faces. The candied-insect boy vanished under his tray as if diving beneath water .
From the city gates came the chop-chop rhythm of a thousand knives.
Master Carouge stepped aside and bowed towards the open darkness of Dymas.
“Service begins.”
The golden road under Aurora’s feet opened like a mouth.