Run: 2026-05-01-01KQHRCKGNBW6MF46D2TKWQKY9

Rory stepped through the rift first. The heartstone pendant flared hot against her collarbone and pulled her forward like an anchor chain yanked taut. One foot left the damp grass of Richmond Park. The next landed on soil so rich it gave under her boots like fresh bread. An amber sky stretched overhead, heavy and glowing as if the air itself had soaked up every sunset that ever was. Warmth pressed against her face. It carried scents of crushed mint, roasting garlic, and sugar melting to caramel. Nyx slid through behind her, their shadow form rippling like ink dropped in water. They solidified into a tall silhouette, violet eyes bright against the new light. Isolde came last. Her silver hair brushed the backs of her knees yet never tangled in the vines that reached out as though curious. The half-fae left the earth untouched, her steps silent where Rory’s crushed herbs released fresh bursts of fragrance. The three stood at the edge of sprawling vineyards. Rows of thick green vines marched into the distance, heavy with grapes the size of fists. Each cluster shimmered, deep purple skin stretched so tight that light from the amber sky shone straight through and painted the ground beneath in royal hues. Rory reached out. Her fingers brushed a bunch. The grapes pulsed, warm as living hearts. These are too perfect. She pulled her hand back and rubbed her wrist where the small crescent scar itched like a fresh burn. Nyx drifted closer to a neighboring orchard. Trees bore fruit Rory had no name for, oblong things covered in soft gold fur that sang faint notes when the breeze stirred them. The melody wove between the branches, lonely and sweet, the kind of tune that made her think of rainy Cardiff afternoons and her mother’s off-key humming. Hunger gnawed at her suddenly, sharp and demanding. She had eaten lunch only an hour ago back on Earth. Or had it been hours? The light here refused to give clues. Isolde tilted her head, listening to something the others could not hear. The grove we left behind moves at its own pace. This realm devours time differently. She walked ahead, voice soft. Follow the pull of your pendant, Aurora Carter. It knows this soil. It was born here. Rory fell into step beside her. The ground grew softer. Each footprint filled with tiny white flowers that bloomed the instant her boot left them, only to wilt and sink away when Nyx passed. The shade made no mark at all. Their form flickered at the edges, drinking in the strange sunlight, growing denser, stronger. Rory noticed and felt a flicker of relief. At least one of them belonged a little. They moved deeper. The vineyards opened into wider gardens where herbs grew tall as hedges. Leaves the color of fresh blood brushed her shoulders and left streaks of scented oil on her jacket. She wiped at them. The smell clung, rich and savory, making her stomach tighten again. Ahead, long tables appeared under open pavilions woven from living branches. Platters covered every surface. Roasted birds with skin crisp and glistening. Piles of fruits cut into shapes that told stories if she stared too long. One arrangement showed a tiny ship sailing across a sea of blue jelly that actually rippled. Her mouth flooded with saliva. Rory swallowed hard and looked away. This is gluttony. It wants you to want. Keep walking. Nyx stopped at the nearest table. Their whisper curled around the group like smoke from an unseen fire. Mortals have died for less than what sits here. See the souls who serve. Rory followed their gaze. Figures moved between the tables, once human, now heavy with flesh that spilled over once-fine clothing. Their eyes stayed bright with desperate joy even as their hands trembled under the weight of new platters. One soul, a woman with flour dusting her cheeks, set down a cake layered so high it required a ladder. She cut a slice for a guest whose belly strained the buttons of his vest. The guest ate. Crumbs fell. The cake refilled itself before the knife lifted away. Isolde watched without blinking. Prince Belphegor rewards those who feed his realm. He punishes them with the same hand. Her words carried no judgment, only the flat truth her fae blood forced her to offer. A burst of laughter rolled from a farther pavilion. Rory turned toward it. The sound tugged at her legs, inviting her to join, to sit, to taste just one berry. She gripped the pendant through her shirt. Its faint inner glow pushed back the urge. The crimson stone felt warmer here than it ever had near the Veil on Earth. It pointed like a compass toward a distant hall where the sky seemed thickest with amber light. They pressed on. The path narrowed between two orchards whose trees grew so close their branches intertwined overhead. Golden fruit hung low enough to brush Rory’s hair. Each one whispered as she passed. One bite and your father’s disapproval vanishes. Another promised the permanent silence of Evan’s voice in her nightmares. She quickened her pace. The whispers followed, growing louder, more intimate, until she slapped her hands over her ears. Nyx placed a cool shadow-hand on her shoulder. The touch grounded her. Their form blocked the nearest tree from view. These promises are hollow. I made one once. It trapped me between worlds. Do not listen. Rory dropped her hands. Her bright blue eyes met the violet glow in Nyx’s. Thanks. I felt it trying to crawl inside my head. Like the delivery routes back home when traffic jams and every shortcut looks good until it dumps you in an alley. She managed a crooked smile that did not reach her eyes. Isolde had moved ahead without waiting. She stood at the crest of a small hill where the gardens gave way to a vast kitchen yard. Massive fires crackled under spits longer than city buses. Creatures turned on them, bodies scaled and feathered at once, basted in sauces that dripped and sizzled into the flames. Chefs shouted orders in languages that tasted like spice on the tongue even from a distance. Their knives flashed, carving garnishes into living sculptures that danced across plates before being devoured. Rory joined Isolde. The heat from the fires brushed her face, pleasant at first, then too much, like standing too close to Yu-Fei’s ovens at the Golden Empress during rush hour. She shielded her eyes. This is beautiful in a stomach-turning way. Look at that chef. He just made a castle out of pastry and it’s defending itself with tiny candy knights. The castle on the nearest platter did exactly that. Miniature sugar soldiers marched along battlements while a diner laughed and speared one with a fork. The sugar knight melted on his tongue. The diner’s laughter died a moment later, replaced by a look of bottomless need. He reached for the platter again. Unease coiled tighter in Rory’s chest. She felt the realm pressing against her will, promising that one plate, one taste, one endless meal would quiet every doubt she carried from her old life. The law degree she never wanted. The flat above Silas’s bar that still smelled of Evan’s last angry visit. The scar on her wrist that ached whenever she remembered the night her father’s temper shattered a glass. Nyx spoke from behind her. Your mind drifts. Stay here with us. I’m here. Rory shook herself. The amber sky had deepened to burnt orange. How long have we walked? It feels like minutes. It feels like days. Isolde lifted one hand and let a drifting petal land on her palm. Time is a hungry guest in Dymas. It consumes hours and belches out heartbeats. We must reach the hall before the prince notices new flavors at his table. She lowered her voice to a riddle. Newcomers are spices he has not yet ground between his teeth. They continued deeper. The kitchen yard opened into a colonnade of pillars carved from pale stone that looked like solidified fat. Each column bore reliefs of feasts stretching back centuries. Rory traced one scene with her fingertip. The stone felt slick, almost greasy. The carving showed a king growing larger and larger until his own court roasted him on a spit. She yanked her hand away. Nyx paused beside a pillar. Their shadow stretched across the stone and the carved figures seemed to bow toward the shade. Old stories. My kind once slipped through cracks like these to feed on the excess. We learned the hard way that gluttony devours shadows too. Rory glanced at Isolde. The half-fae’s expression stayed serene, but her fingers twisted a strand of silver hair in a gesture that might have been nerves. Even she felt the weight. The realization steadied Rory somehow. If the ancient seer could be unsettled, then the fear churning in her own stomach was honest at least. Another discovery waited around the next bend. A fountain bubbled not with water but with dark wine that smelled of blackberries and regret. Revellers dipped golden cups and drank without pause. Their cheeks flushed. Their bellies swelled. None of them stopped. Rory watched one man drop his cup, only for the fountain to extend a tendril of wine, refill the vessel, and press it back into his hand. The man wept even as he drank. She turned away. The pendant flared hotter. Its glow lit the underside of her chin. We’re close. Whatever it wants me to find is that way. Past the fountain. Toward the big hall with the flags that look like napkins. Nyx drifted forward, blocking the fountain from her sight. Then we keep moving. No tasting. No resting. No listening to the fruit or the wine or the laughter that wants to crawl inside your ribs and make a home. Isolde fell in beside Rory once more. Her bare feet made no sound on the flagstones that had begun to replace the soft earth. Riddles bloom best in quiet soil. Ask the right question when we reach the prince and perhaps the answer will not devour us all. Rory nodded. The group pressed onward. The amber sky pressed lower. The scents grew thicker, sweeter, more insistent. Her scar burned. Her mouth watered. Wonder and unease twisted together so tightly she could no longer tell which emotion powered her next step. The hall loomed larger with every stride, its doors carved like open mouths waiting to be fed.