Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2DV5QRS5S0RMTRFBGYHYRK

The amber sky of Dymas hung low overhead, casting the world in the perpetual warmth of late afternoon. Rory blinked against it, her eyes adjusting to a light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The air smelled of honey and fermenting fruit, thick enough to taste on her tongue. She took a step forward and the grass beneath her boots gave way with a soft, wet crunch. Not grass, she realized, looking down. Something like moss, but studded with tiny crimson berries that burst under pressure, releasing a sticky sweet scent. She lifted her foot and found a purple smear on the leather. “Don’t eat anything,” Nyx said from behind her. Their voice emerged like dry leaves skittering across stone, even in this place. The Shade had taken a more solid form here, their silhouette darker against the amber glow, violet eyes scanning the horizon with a wariness that made Rory’s stomach tighten. “I wasn’t planning to,” she said. “Good. Because everything here will try to tempt you into doing exactly that.” The landscape opened before them like a fever dream. Rolling hills draped in vines heavy with grapes the size of her fist. Trees bent under the weight of golden fruit that seemed to glow from within. Rivers ran not with water but with something thicker—wine, she realized, catching the dark ruby glint of it as it churned between mossy banks. The sound of it was wrong, too liquid, too slow, like honey pouring from an eternal jar. Isolde had told her to come here. The half-Fae seer had pressed the moonsilver dagger into Rory’s palm in that hidden grove in Richmond Park, her pale lavender eyes holding a warning that her riddling words could not convey. *“The Heartstone will lead you where it must. Trust it. Trust nothing else.”* Rory touched the pendant beneath her shirt. It pulsed against her sternum, a steady warmth that beat in time with her own heart. Deep crimson light flickered through the fabric, casting a faint glow against her collarbone. The stone had grown hotter the moment they crossed through the rift in the Veil—a shimmering tear in reality that Nyx had found beneath the old Hungerford Bridge. “This way,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. They walked through the valley between two hills, past orchards where trees bore fruit that rotated through colors as she watched—green to gold to scarlet to black and back again. The branches swayed though there was no wind. Rory kept her hand on the hilt of the Fae blade at her hip, the cold metal a grounding presence against her palm. Nyx moved beside her, their shadow form rippling at the edges. “The vines are watching.” Rory froze. “What?” “They have eyes. Small ones, like beads. Hidden in the bark.” She looked closer at the nearest tree. The trunk was smooth, almost glassy, but when she stared long enough, she saw them. Tiny black specks that shifted in their sockets, tracking her movement. Her skin crawled. “Charming place,” she muttered. “Belphegor’s domain is meant to disarm before it devours,” Nyx said. “The beauty is the bait.” They crested the next hill and Rory stopped breathing. Below them lay a city of food. Not a metaphor. Entire buildings constructed of baked bread, their walls golden and crusted, roofs tiled with what looked like candied ginger. Streets paved with cobblestones of hardened sugar. Fountains spouting cream and honey and something that smelled of cinnamon and cloves. The architecture defied logic—turrets of spun sugar that should have collapsed, bridges of hardened caramel spanning canals of dark chocolate, domes made of meringue that caught the amber light and scattered it into rainbows. And the smells. Rory’s mouth flooded with saliva despite herself. Fresh bread. Roasting meat. Caramelized sugar. Garlic and herbs and butter and vanilla. Her stomach clenched with a hunger she hadn’t felt a moment ago, sudden and sharp as a blade. “Don’t.” Nyx’s hand closed around her wrist. Their touch was cold, almost painfully so, and it snapped her back to herself. She looked down at her hand. She had been reaching toward a low-hanging branch laden with pastries the size of dinner plates, each one glazed and glistening. “I didn’t even realize,” she said, her voice hollow. “The hunger here is a force of its own. It will find your weaknesses and exploit them before you know they exist.” Rory pulled her hand back, forcing her gaze away from the pastries. She focused on the pendant instead. It was pulsing faster now, a steady rhythm that felt like a heartbeat. She followed its pull down the hill, toward the heart of the city. The streets were not empty. Figures moved through the sugary thoroughfares, but they did not walk like people. They glided, their steps too smooth, too coordinated. Helbound souls, Rory realized. The dead who had sold themselves to the kitchens of Dymas, bound to eternal service as chefs, bakers, tasters. Their faces were serene, almost blissful, but their eyes were hollow. Empty glass orbs that reflected the amber sky without truly seeing it. One of them paused as she passed, turning its head to follow her. Its mouth opened, and a whisper emerged, soft and fragrant as a summer breeze. “Taste, traveler. Taste and be satisfied.” Rory’s feet stopped. The voice wrapped around her like warm honey, sinking into her bones, promising everything she had ever wanted. A home. Safety. The end of running. The end of fear. Just one bite, and all of it could be hers. The Fae blade sang as she drew it from its sheath, the moonsilver catching the light and throwing it back in cold, sharp fragments. The sound broke the spell. The helbound soul’s face flickered, its serene mask cracking to reveal something ravenous beneath, and then it turned and glided away, disappearing between buildings of bread and sugar. Nyx was watching her with those violet eyes. “You’re learning.” “I’m terrified,” Rory corrected. “There’s a difference.” “Sometimes they’re the same thing.” They pressed deeper into the city. The streets grew narrower, the buildings taller, leaning in until they formed a canopy overhead that blocked the amber sky. The air grew thick and hot, filled with steam from vents in the walls that smelled of roasting meat and bubbling sauces. The sounds of cooking echoed from every direction—the sizzle of fat, the chop of blades, the murmur of voices reciting recipes in languages older than human memory. The pendant grew so warm it was almost uncomfortable against her skin. Rory followed its pull down a side street, then another, until they reached a dead end. A wall of solidified honey, translucent and golden, barred their path. Inside it, suspended like insects in amber, hung objects she couldn’t quite make out. “There,” she said, touching the honey wall. It was warm and slightly yielding, like skin. “The pendant is pointing here.” Nyx approached, their shadow form pressing close to the surface. “The honey is infused with a preservation charm. It’s holding something—no, someone—inside.” Rory pressed her face closer, squinting through the golden distortion. Shapes emerged. A hand. An arm. A face, frozen in an expression of eternal surprise, skin translucent as the honey that encased it. She stumbled back, her heart hammering. “The chefs,” Nyx said quietly. “They keep their ingredients preserved. Waiting.” The pendant pulsed against her chest, insistent. Not pointing at the wall. Through it. “There’s a door,” Rory said, realizing. “Behind the body.” She stepped forward again, forcing herself to look past the preserved figure. Behind it, barely visible through the golden haze, was an archway carved into the honey wall. Dark beyond it. Waiting. The Fae blade hummed in her grip, eager. Rory took a breath, tasting honey and rot and something ancient. She looked at Nyx, whose violet eyes held no comfort, only the cold acknowledgment that the path ahead was inevitable. “Well,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Let’s see what Belphegor is having for dinner.”