Run: 2026-05-01-01KQHR0NGGASS4864M0FEKDV3C

Rory pushed through the rift, boots sinking into soil thick with fallen fruit. The Heartstone Pendant flared against her chest, its crimson glow cutting through air heavy with the scents of roasted spices and overripe berries. An amber sky stretched overhead without clouds or sun, bathing everything in warm gold that made the vines shimmer like they breathed. Nyx coalesced from a thread of darkness at her side, violet eyes scanning the rolling hills covered in vineyards that extended farther than sight allowed. Their form settled into solid shape, tall and edged in shifting shadow. We stand in Dymas. Rory brushed damp hair from her face, the sudden heat sticking her clothes to her skin. She pulled the Fae-forged blade free, its moonsilver edge cold enough to sting her palm. This is what the pendant dragged us toward. Feels like stepping into someone else's feast. She advanced through the nearest row of vines. Clusters of sapphire fruit dangled heavy, their skins splitting to release steam that smelled of honeyed wine. One bunch twisted toward her as she passed. She slashed at it on instinct. The blade severed the stem clean, and the vine recoiled with a wet hiss that echoed like a sigh. Nyx drifted ahead, passing straight through a thicker barrier of growth before reforming. The plants sense intruders. They reach for anything with a pulse. Rory gripped the pendant, its warmth syncing with the rapid beat under her ribs. The small scar on her wrist itched in response, a sharp reminder of scraped pavement and childhood blood from years ago in Cardiff. She ignored it and followed, feet crushing pulp that burst fragrant with every step. Everything wants to pull you in. Those grapes look ready to burst, but I swear one had seams like a mouth. Nyx paused at a bend where the vineyard opened into an orchard of trees with bark swirled like caramel. Golden pears dripped syrup that hardened into glossy spirals on the ground. The shade's whisper carried on the breeze that wasn't there. Gluttony twists what grows here. Souls from Earth tend these orchards under Belphegor's rule. One bite binds you to the harvest forever. Rory's stomach growled despite the warning that tightened her shoulders. The aromas wrapped around her thoughts, conjuring memories of her mother's kitchen, fresh bread pulled from the oven in their old Welsh home. She shook her head hard. I feel it crawling inside my head. Like the realm knows my favorite meals and dangles them just out of reach. She crouched beside a low branch, blade poised. The fruit above pulsed soft, inner light matching the pendant's rhythm. When she exhaled, the nearest pear swelled as if drawing breath from her lungs. Unease prickled along her arms. She stood and backed away slow. We keep moving. No tasting. No touching unless we have to. They pressed deeper. The orchard thinned into gardens where herbs grew in spirals that formed patterns resembling faces mid-chew. Wildflowers bloomed in every season at once, petals unfurling to reveal centers filled with tiny glittering seeds that sang in high pitches. The tune promised flavors beyond anything found in London markets or the takeout from Golden Empress. Rory covered one ear, the other still catching notes that made her tongue ache. Hear that? The flowers are singing actual recipes. Basil and thyme wrapped in some kind of spell. Nyx solidified enough to block a cluster of blooms that leaned her direction. Their violet gaze flickered. The chefs compete with these in grand halls farther on. Ingredients here crave consumption as much as the eaters do. Prince Belphegor rewards the best with endless tables. The rest become the next course. A group of helbound souls shuffled into view between the garden rows, bodies thin as reeds yet carrying baskets overflowing with produce. Their eyes stayed fixed on the ground, mouths moving in constant silent chewing motions. One dropped a tomato that hit the dirt, split open, then sprouted legs and crawled back into the basket on its own. Rory's breath stalled in her throat. She gripped Nyx's arm, fingers sinking into shadow that yielded like cold smoke. That tomato just walked. The whole place watches us, waits for one slip. The souls continued past without noticing, their footsteps squelching through puddles of spilled nectar. Rory released her hold and rubbed her wrist where the scar burned hotter. The pendant tugged her forward like an invisible string, its inner glow bright enough to cast her shadow long across the alien flora. This way. The pull gets stronger near those stones up ahead. Ancient standing stones rose from the garden's edge, carved with scenes of tables groaning under platters and figures locked in perpetual bites. Unlike the oak markers in Isolde's grove, these hummed with a deeper vibration that traveled up through Rory's soles. Time thickened around them. What felt like minutes stretched, the amber sky deepening to burnt tones without any clear shift. Nyx circled one stone, form flickering as if the vibration disrupted their hold on solidity. These mark old boundaries from before the sins claimed their thrones. The Veil tears easily here. Your blade could seal one if we find the right spot. Rory traced a carving of a chef raising a flaming pan. The stone warmed under her fingers, releasing a puff of scent like seared steak and garlic butter. Her mouth filled with saliva. She yanked her hand back and wiped it on her jeans. Even the rocks tempt. I keep thinking about Eva's old flat dinners, the ones where we'd stuff ourselves on cheap curry and laugh until dawn. This realm pulls those thoughts out like threads. They moved past the stones into a valley where long banquet tables stretched in endless lines. Remnants of meals littered the surfaces, roasted beasts with bites missing yet regenerating before her eyes. Steam rose in lazy curls that formed shapes of hands offering forks. Laughter rolled from beyond the next hill, manic and layered with groans of stomachs pushed past capacity. Rory's steps slowed. Wonder rooted her in place as a goblet on the nearest table refilled itself with dark liquid that swirled with edible pearls. The unease followed close, a heaviness in her gut like she'd already overeaten. Look at it all reforming. No waste. No end. It's beautiful until you notice the figures slumped at the far tables. They don't look like they're enjoying anymore. Nyx hovered close, voice dropping to a bare thread of sound. Many contracted for one taste. Now they feast without satisfaction. That is Dymas at its core. Excess that devours the self. Rory drew a circle in the air with the blade, its cold luminescence cutting faint trails in the amber light. The motion cleared her head enough to step around the table instead of toward it. A river of broth cut across their path next, steaming with chunks of vegetables that bobbed like they swam. Sugar-scaled fish leaped from the liquid, offering themselves on golden hooks. She leaped across the narrowest section, landing in soil that felt greasy underfoot. Nyx simply flowed over the water and reformed on the opposite bank. These fish. They jump like they want to be eaten. Part of me wonders what they taste like, all sweet and crisp. The rest of me wants to run before the thought sticks. Deeper into the valley the ground rose again toward competition arenas carved from what looked like hardened sugar. Chefs in vibrant robes tossed ingredients skyward, flames leaping to cook them midair. Helbound assistants rushed platters to judges whose bodies had swelled from constant tasting. One dish floated past on its own power, garnished with petals from the singing flowers. The aroma alone made Rory's knees buckle. She crouched behind a candy-striped tree, breath coming short. The blade stayed clenched in her fist, its chill the only anchor against the pull. They're creating masterpieces. One chef just spun sugar into a dragon that breathed actual spice vapor. I could watch this for hours if it wasn't so wrong. Nyx knelt beside her, their silhouette blending with the tree's shadows. Belphegor hosts these daily. Winners gain favor. Losers feed the next round. We skirt this area. The pendant points toward a thicker rift beyond the arenas. They slipped from cover and continued, Rory's heart pounding against the pendant with every new discovery. Hills of cheese rose in the distance, caves melted into their sides where smaller creatures nibbled eternal samples. Loaf-bearing trees dropped fresh bread at their feet, crusts cracking open to release clouds of steam scented with rosemary. Rory kicked one loaf aside, refusing to let it tempt her further. The bread rolled uphill instead of down, rejoining its tree with a soft plop. Even the gravity serves the hunger here. My head spins from it all. The wonder keeps hitting first, then the twist in my stomach when I see what it costs. Nyx gestured toward a cluster of ruins half swallowed by vines that whispered constant menu ideas. Their eyes glowed brighter against the deepening amber. We explore those next. Old temples to forgotten chefs. The Veil weakens inside their walls. Rory adjusted her grip on the blade and followed, feet carrying her farther from the banquets and deeper into the living excess that pulsed around them like a heartbeat made of appetite and regret. The pendant burned hotter with each stride, its light syncing with the songs from distant gardens and the clatter of endless plates. She wiped sweat from her eyes and pressed on, the alien realm unfolding new layers with every turn. Vines curled in fresh patterns, fruits swelled with hidden lights, and the air grew thicker with promises that clawed at her resolve. Nyx stayed close, their presence a shield against the worst of the calls. Together they descended a slope into ground where the soil itself tasted sweet on the tongue when disturbed, revealing more tables set for feasts that no one finished and more wonders that hid their teeth behind every smile.