AI The air in the alleyway warped, rippling like heat rising off summer tarmac, though the London December chill bit through Rory’s jacket. She pressed her fingers to the base of her throat. Beneath the fabric, the Heartstone pendant pulsed against her skin, a steady, rhythmic warmth that defied the freezing wind. The deep crimson gem, barely the size of her thumbnail on its silver chain, cast a faint inner glow through her scarf, beating in time with her own heart.
The barrier thins, a voice whispered, carrying the dry, rustling cadence of wind through dead leaves.
Rory turned her head. Nyx stood at the edge of the alley, a towering silhouette of living shadow. They were roughly six feet and two inches of shifting, incorporeal darkness, anchored to the mortal plane by sheer will. Faintly glowing violet eyes blinked in the gloom , the only solid feature in a form that constantly bled into the surrounding night. At five-foot-six, Rory had to tilt her chin up to meet their gaze.
It is the winter solstice, Rory said, keeping her voice level. She rubbed the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a grounded, physical habit to keep her focus sharp. The Veil is at its weakest. We just need to find the tear.
Beside her, Isolde stepped forward. The Half-Fae seer moved with an ethereal, gliding grace that made Rory’s stomach do a mild flip. Isolde’s silver hair cascaded all the way to her waist, catching the dim streetlamp light, and her pale lavender eyes were fixed on the shimmering distortion in the brickwork. As Isolde walked over the frost-slicked pavement, Rory looked down. The thin layer of ice remained perfectly unbroken. The seer left no footprints.
The threshold opens to the hungry dark, Isolde said, her voice melodic and distant. Where the vine chokes the stone, and the sweet wine drowns the sorrow. Step lightly , for the earth remembers every spilled drop.
Rory processed the riddle, her mind automatically stripping away the poetry to find the practical core. Isolde could not lie, bound by the ancient compulsions of the Fae Courts, but she had a maddening habit of wrapping the truth in metaphors. So the ground is unstable, and the flora is aggressive, Rory summarized. Watch our step, do not eat anything. Standard procedure.
Nyx let out a sound that might have been a laugh, a soft exhale of static. Your pragmatism is a shield, Aurora Carter. But shields crack in the courts of Hel.
Then I will make sure not to get hit, Rory replied. She reached beneath her coat and wrapped her hand around the hilt of the Fae-forged blade resting in her belt. The moonsilver dagger was slender and leaf-shaped, and it was always ice-cold to the touch. The biting chill of the metal grounded her, a stark contrast to the warming pendant at her neck. Isolde had given it to her, a rare artifact capable of slicing through magical wards and demon flesh alike. Rory was not planning on fighting, but surviving her twenties had taught her that hoping for the best was a poor strategy.
Together, Isolde murmured, raising a slender hand toward the rippling air.
Rory nodded, brushed her straight, shoulder-length black hair out of her face, tightened her grip on the cold dagger, and stepped into the distortion.
The transition was not a physical movement but a sudden, violent shift in reality . The biting cold of London vanished, replaced instantly by a heavy, suffocating humidity. The ambient noise of distant traffic and sirens was snuffed out, swallowed by a deep, resonant silence that pressed against her eardrums.
Rory opened her bright blue eyes and stopped breathing for a second.
They stood on a ridge overlooking a sprawling, impossibly vast valley. Above them, the sky was a bruised, warm amber, devoid of a sun but radiating a heavy, golden light that bathed the landscape in perpetual twilight. There were no clouds, only thick ribbons of ochre mist drifting lazily through the upper atmosphere.
Dymas, Nyx whispered, their shadowy form solidifying as they stepped up beside her. The violet glow of their eyes seemed dimmer against the overwhelming amber sky. The realm of Gluttony.
Rory took in the sheer scale of the place. The valley floor was a chaotic , sprawling tapestry of vineyards and orchards, but the proportions were entirely wrong. The grapevines were monstrous, their trunks as thick as ancient oaks, twisting and braiding over trellises made of pale, porous bone. The leaves were the size of riot shields, a deep, glossy purple, and they drooped under the weight of fruit that looked more like swollen, translucent melons than grapes. Dark, sticky nectar wept from the rinds, pooling on the spongy, moss-covered earth below.
The air was thick with a cloying, intoxicating perfume. It smelled of fermented sugar, roasted cinnamon, overripe peaches, and something sharper underneath, a metallic tang like old copper. It was the scent of excess, of indulgence pushed past the point of pleasure and into rot.
It is beautiful, Rory said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Beauty is the bait, Isolde said softly . The seer stood perfectly still, her pale eyes reflecting the amber sky. The trap is the swallow.
Rory shook her head, clearing the strange, lethargic fog that was trying to settle over her thoughts. The sweet air was making her dizzy, making her mouth water with a sudden, ferocious hunger. She had not eaten since her delivery shift at the Golden Empress ended twelve hours ago, and the scent of the roasting spices in the air was violently activating her empty stomach . She forced herself to swallow the saliva and focused on the cold moonsilver blade in her hand.
We need to keep moving, Rory said, her voice tight. Where are we heading?
The grand pavilion lies beyond the weeping orchards, Nyx said, pointing a shadowy, elongated finger toward a distant cluster of towering trees with silver bark. Prince Belphegor holds his feasts there. If the rift we seek is anywhere, it will be near the center of his excess.
They began the descent into the vineyard. The ground beneath Rory’s boots was unnervingly soft, yielding like a waterbed with every step. Thick, fibrous roots pulsed just beneath the surface of the moss, throbbing with a slow, rhythmic heartbeat. Rory kept her eyes scanning the shadows between the massive vines. Her mind, usually so quick to categorize and solve, was struggling to process the alien geometry of the plants. The vines did not just grow; they seemed to writhe in slow motion, shifting their heavy leaves to track the group's movement.
As they moved deeper, the amber light caught on something pale half-buried in a tangle of roots. Rory held up a hand, signaling the others to stop. She approached cautiously, the Fae blade raised.
It was a statue. Or at least, she thought it was a statue until she saw the face.
It was a man, or what used to be a man. He was encased entirely in a shell of hardened, translucent amber sap. His mouth was stretched impossibly wide, locked in a silent scream, and thick, thorny vines were threaded through his open jaw, disappearing down his throat. His eyes were wide and glassy, frozen in an expression of absolute, terrified ecstasy.
Rory’s stomach lurched . She stepped back, her boot sinking into the soft moss. She looked closer at the vines feeding into the man’s mouth. They were pulsing . The dark nectar was being pumped into him, while a faint, glowing mist was being drawn out of his chest, traveling up the vines and into the canopy above.
A helbound soul, Nyx murmured, drifting closer. Their incorporeal form rippled as they examined the trapped figure. Contracted from Earth. They come for the endless feasts, blind to the price of the meal. The realm does not just feed them. It feeds on them.
Rory looked away, her jaw clenched . She thought of Evan, of the way her ex had slowly consumed her confidence, her independence, feeding on her until she had to flee to London just to breathe. The parallel made her skin crawl. This entire realm was a predator , dressed up in the vibrant, intoxicating colors of a paradise.
The root drinks deep, but the branch bears the rot, Isolde said, her voice barely carrying over the heavy, humid air. She was looking at the canopy, where the glowing mist from the trapped soul was being absorbed by the massive, purple leaves. Do not let the vines taste your sorrow, Aurora. They find grief exceptionally sweet.
Rory tightened her grip on the dagger, the freezing moonsilver biting into her palm. She looked at the sprawling, alien vineyard, the amber sky pressing down on them like a physical weight . The wonder of the otherworldly landscape was entirely gone now, replaced by a cold, sharp unease.
I am not giving them anything, Rory said, her voice steady, her eyes hard. Let us find the pavilion. And if anything tries to take a bite out of us, I will show them what I am made of.
Nyx’s violet eyes flared in the gloom , and the shadow shifted, drawing a long, dark blade from the ether. Lead the way, Rory.
Rory took a breath of the cloying, copper-scented air, stepped over the pulsing roots, and marched deeper into the beautiful, hungry dark.