Run: 2026-05-22-01KS860A74W3DKHA2M51FVT7MW

The air tore open with the sound of ripping silk. Aurora Carter stared at the shimmering distortion hanging in the center of the clearing, her bright blue eyes reflecting the fractured light of the Veil. She stood in the hidden grove of Richmond Park, the ancient oak standing stones marking the boundary behind her. Against her collarbone, the Heartstone pendant pulsed with a sudden, feverish warmth, its deep crimson surface glowing faintly through her cotton shirt. She tightened her grip on the Fae-forged blade. The moonsilver dagger was leaf-shaped and brutally cold, a stark contrast to the humid, heavy air bleeding through the rift. Step through, a voice whispered. It sounded like dry leaves skittering across pavement. Nyx materialized from the shade of an ancient oak, their six-foot-two silhouette coalescing into a solid, humanoid shape. Faintly glowing violet eyes fixed on the tear in the Boundary. The Shade tilted their head. The harvest waits. Isolde drifted past them. The Half-Fae seer did not walk so much as glide, her waist-length silver hair catching the strange light. When she passed over the damp earth of the grove, she left no footprints. The soil remained undisturbed, the year-round wildflowers unbruised beneath her bare feet. She paused at the threshold, her pale lavender eyes unblinking. The roots drink deep where the soil is sweet, she said, her voice a melodic hum that offered no actual comfort. Rory rubbed the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a nervous habit she had never quite managed to break since childhood. Right, she said, keeping her voice level. Into the oven we go. She stepped through the Veil. The transition was instantaneous but violent. The crisp chill of the London evening vanished, replaced by a wall of cloying, suffocating heat. Rory stumbled, her boots sinking into ground that felt less like dirt and more like bruised flesh. She caught her balance and looked up. There was no sun, yet the sky was a brilliant, bruised amber, radiating a heavy, golden light that cast long, strange shadows. The air tasted of overripe plums, roasted marrow, and spun sugar, so thick it coated the back of her throat. She coughed, pulling the collar of her jacket up over her nose. Nyx flowed through the rift behind her, their form rippling like smoke before solidifying. The Shade did not breathe, but they tilted their face toward the amber sky. A banquet of dust and nectar, they whispered, the sound brushing against Rory's ear like a cold draft. Isolde followed, serene and untouched by the oppressive humidity. The orchard begins, she murmured, gesturing with a slender, ageless hand. Rory blinked, her eyes adjusting to the bizarre landscape. They stood at the edge of a sprawling vineyard, but the vines were monstrous. Thick, ropy stalks the color of dried blood twisted up wooden trellises that stretched fifty feet into the air. Hanging from the vines were clusters of fruit the size of human skulls. Their skins were translucent, revealing pulsing, vein-like structures beneath, glowing with a faint, bioluminescent pink. Keep your hands to yourselves, Rory said, sliding the moonsilver dagger into the belt loop of her jeans. She did not sheathe it entirely. The cold metal against her hip was a grounding anchor. This place was Dymas, the realm of Gluttony. Her delivery routes through London had taught her to read streets and alleys, to spot the subtle signs of danger in a darkened doorway. But here, the danger was buried under a grotesque abundance. They moved deeper into the orchard. The spongy ground yielded with a wet squelch beneath Rory's boots. To her left, a grove of trees bore weeping branches draped in heavy, golden pods. As she passed, one of the pods split open with a soft tearing sound. A thick, amber syrup oozed from the fissure, dripping onto the moss below. The smell of caramelized honey and copper hit her all at once, making her stomach lurch. It is beautiful, in a terrible way, Nyx whispered. The Shade drifted closer to a massive, weeping tree. They reached out a hand of living shadow, their incorporeal fingers passing through the golden bark. The tree shivers. It knows we are here. Do not touch the sap, Isolde warned, her pale eyes fixed on the path ahead. The sweetest wine leaves the bitterest dregs. Rory shot the seer a look. You could just say it is poisonous, Isolde. Isolde turned her head, a faint, ethereal smile touching her lips. I cannot speak a falsehood, Aurora. The sap is not poison. It is merely a hunger that cannot be sated. Rory frowned, stepping carefully around a puddle of the amber syrup. The Fae compulsion to never lie was a useful trait in an oracle, but it made getting a straight answer exhausting. She looked down at her chest. The Heartstone pendant was still pulsing, a steady, rhythmic thump against her skin. It was reacting to the ambient magic of Hel, a built-in compass for the rift points. The path widened, opening into a vast, circular clearing paved with smooth, obsidian stones. In the center sat a long banquet table carved from a single, massive piece of pale wood. It was laden with a feast that defied logic. Platters of roasted meats that still steamed, towers of crystallized fruits, and goblets overflowing with dark, ruby liquid. The sheer scale of it was dizzying. The table stretched for at least a hundred yards, set with tarnished silver and gold plate. But there were no chairs. And no guests. Rory approached the edge of the table, her boots clicking softly on the obsidian. The heat radiating from the food was intense. She leaned in to inspect a platter of what looked like pomegranates, but as she got closer, she realized the seeds were moving. They writhed and clicked against each other, tiny, jewel-toned insects masquerading as fruit. She recoiled, her hand dropping to the hilt of the Fae blade. The moonsilver was freezing against her palm. An illusion, Nyx murmured, gliding over the table. Their violet eyes scanned the endless spread. Or a trap. The meat is ash. The wine is dust. The Shadow reached down and passed a hand through a steaming haunch of venison. The meat dissolved into a cloud of grey soot at their touch, revealing the rotting, blackened bone beneath. Prince Belphegor's hospitality, Rory muttered, her mind racing. If the food was fake, or rotten, what was the point of the endless feast? She looked around the clearing, her cool-headed nature taking over. Her eyes tracked the layout, the sightlines, the shadows cast by the towering, monstrous trees at the edge of the clearing. It was a staging ground. A lure. The hungry do not see the snare, Isolde said softly. She stood at the far end of the table, her silver hair glowing in the ambient amber light. She was looking at something on the ground. Rory jogged over, her heart rate picking up. She stopped beside the seer and looked down. Half-buried in the soft, spongy moss at the edge of the obsidian paving was a rusted iron collar, attached to a heavy, broken chain. Beside it lay a tattered, grease-stained apron. A helbound soul, Nyx whispered, materializing beside them. The Shade's voice dropped an octave, the wind-sound turning into a low, mournful hum. Contracted from Earth. Brought here to cook the banquets of the damned. Rory stared at the apron. It was a standard, white cotton bib apron, the kind worn by line cooks in a hundred different London kitchens. She thought of Yu-Fei Cheung's Golden Empress, of the long hours she spent delivering noodles and dumplings to tired, overworked people. Then her mind drifted to Evan, to the way he used to corner her in the kitchen of their old flat in Cardiff, his voice low and threatening when she tried to leave. The thought of someone being dragged across the Veil, trapped and forced to toil in this sweltering, grotesque paradise for eternity, made her blood run cold. She knew what it was like to be trapped by someone else's appetite for control. They were taken, Rory said, her voice tight. They wandered, Isolde corrected gently. The Veil weakens in the winter. The frost bites, and the lost seek warmth. They found the amber sky, and they did not look back until the chains were locked. Rory rubbed her scar again, the crescent ridge of tissue rough against her fingertips. She looked up at the sprawling, unnatural orchard, the heavy air suddenly feeling less like a warm embrace and more like the inside of a stomach. The wondrous, alien beauty of Dymas was just a veneer. Beneath the glowing fruit and the amber sky, it was a machine of consumption. We need to find the rift point, Rory said, squaring her shoulders. She pulled the Fae blade from her belt, the leaf-shaped dagger glowing faintly in the dimming light as the amber sky began to shift toward a deep, bruised purple. The Heartstone pulsed faster now, a frantic rhythm against her skin. The pendant was leading them deeper, toward the heart of the vineyards. Nyx shifted, their form blurring at the edges as they prepared to scout ahead. The shadows grow long, little bird. The feast is ending, and the guests will soon arrive to claim the scraps. Let them come, Rory said, gripping the cold moonsilver tight. She stepped past the rotting banquet table, her eyes fixed on the dark, twisting path ahead. I have had enough of people who take what is not theirs.