AI The silver chain of the Heartstone pendant bit into the back of Rory’s neck, but it was the searing heat against her collarbone that commanded her attention. The deep crimson gem, no larger than her thumbnail, pulsed with a frantic, rhythmic warmth against her skin. It was waking up.
The boundary thins, Isolde murmured. The Half-Fae seer stood at the edge of the clearing, her waist-length silver hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid moonlight. Her pale lavender eyes fixed on a patch of empty air where the world seemed to warp and ripple. The Veil. To Rory’s mundane sight, it was little more than a heat haze, a faint shimmering distortion above the damp London pavement, but the pendant’s burning confirmation left no room for doubt. The winter solstice had weakened the barrier, just as the old texts claimed, tearing a hole straight into Hel.
Rory adjusted her grip on the Fae-forged blade. The moonsilver dagger was slender and leaf-shaped, perpetually cold against her palm. Its chill was a grounding anchor against the rising tide of her anxiety. She brushed a strand of straight, shoulder-length black hair out of her bright blue eyes and rubbed the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist with her thumb. It was a nervous habit she had not managed to break since her childhood in Cardiff, but the familiar friction centered her. She nodded to the towering figure at her right.
Nyx did not nod back. The Shade simply flowed forward, a six-foot-two humanoid silhouette of living, undulating shadow. They stepped into the shimmering distortion, their form rippling as they crossed the threshold. When Nyx spoke, the sound bypassed Rory’s ears entirely, manifesting as a whisper carried on a sudden, icy wind. The maw opens. Step lightly , little bird. There was a faint, archaic cadence to the whisper , a ghost of the mortal sorcerer they had been in the seventeenth century before the failed ritual trapped them between realms.
I am not a bird, Rory muttered, though she kept her voice steady. She glanced at Isolde, who offered a serene, ageless smile, and together they stepped through the tear in the Veil.
The transition was violent in its subtlety. One moment, Rory was breathing the damp, exhaust-choked air of a London alley; the next, her lungs filled with a heavy, intoxicating atmosphere that tasted of crushed orchids and overripe plums.
She blinked against a sudden, blinding brilliance. There was no sun, yet the sky above was a vast, unbroken canopy of warm amber. It bathed the landscape in a rich, honeyed light that made the shadows stretch long and deep.
Gods above, Rory breathed, lowering the dagger an inch.
They stood at the crest of a gentle hill overlooking a valley of impossible scale. Sprawling vineyards cascaded down the slopes in perfect , geometric rows, but the vines were monstrous. Thick as a man’s thigh, the gnarled wood twisted upward to support clusters of fruit the size of human heads. The grapes were a deep, bruised purple, their skins taut and glistening with a sugary dew. Beyond the vineyards, orchards of towering trees with bark like polished mahogany stretched toward the horizon, their branches bowing under the weight of exotic, jewel-toned fruits.
It was breathtaking. It was deeply, fundamentally wrong.
The air was thick, almost syrupy, carrying the cloying stench of fermentation beneath the perfume of blooming jasmine. It was the scent of excess pushed to the point of rot. Dymas. The realm of Gluttony.
Isolde glided past Rory, her bare feet touching the rich, dark loam. Rory watched, a prickle of unease crawling up her spine, as the seer left absolutely no footprints in the soft earth. The grass and soil remained perfectly undisturbed beneath her, as if she were merely a projection cast by the amber light.
The vine weeps for the wine it will never pour, Isolde said, her voice a melodic lilt that seemed to harmonize with the rustling leaves. She paused beside a massive vine, reaching out to trace a grape with a slender, pale finger. The root drinks deep, yet the soil remains forever parched.
Meaning we should not eat anything, Rory translated, her cool-headed pragmatism cutting through the awe. She sheathed the Fae blade in the leather loop at her belt, though she kept her hand hovering near the hilt. Rule number one of the underworld. Do not consume the local cuisine.
A wise restraint, Nyx whispered, the sound brushing against the shell of Rory’s ear like dry leaves scraping across stone. The Shade had drifted to the edge of the nearest vine, their incorporeal form blending seamlessly with the deep shadows cast by the massive leaves. Only their eyes remained distinct, two faintly glowing violet orbs hovering in the darkness. The flesh of this realm binds the soul to the soil. To taste is to belong.
I will stick to meal deals from the Golden Empress, thanks, Rory said. She began to walk down the slope, her boots crunching loudly on the gravel path that wound through the vineyard. The noise was jarring , a harsh mortal intrusion into the eerie, perfect silence of the realm.
As they moved deeper into the valley, the wondrous architecture of the flora gave way to unsettling details. The vines were not just large; they were parasitic. Rory noticed thin, translucent tendrils snaking out from the main trunks, wrapping around the smaller, weaker plants and draining them of color. The ground beneath the grandest trees was completely barren, stripped of all nutrients to feed the towering canopy above. The beauty of Dymas was a facade for a ruthless, all-consuming hunger.
They reached a wide, circular clearing paved with smooth, pale stones. In the center sat a massive banquet table carved from a single piece of dark wood. It was laden with a feast that defied reason. Platters of roasted meats glistened with rich glazes, mountains of spiced fruits steamed in the cool air, and golden goblets overflowed with dark, ruby-red wine. The aroma was intoxicating , a concentrated burst of savory and sweet that made Rory’s mouth water instantly, her stomach giving a treacherous , hollow rumble.
She took a step toward the table, her hand drifting unconsciously toward a silver platter. The smell of rosemary and roasted fat was overwhelming, clouding her thoughts with a sudden, ravenous need.
A hand of solid, freezing shadow clamped over her wrist.
Rory gasped, snapping back to reality. She looked up into Nyx’s glowing violet eyes. The Shade had materialized their arm into a solid gauntlet of darkness, the grip bruising and ice-cold.
Look closer, Aurora, the wind whispered, the use of her full name sending a shiver down her spine .
Rory blinked, forcing her eyes to adjust, pushing past the supernatural allure of the feast. The glamour fractured . The roasted meats were crawling with pale, translucent maggots. The spiced fruits were hollowed -out husks filled with black ash. The ruby wine in the golden goblets was thick, coagulated blood, swarming with flies.
She recoiled, ripping her arm from Nyx’s grip, her heart hammering against her ribs. Illusion, she breathed, wiping her sweaty palm on her jeans. It is a trap.
The eye sees what the belly desires, Isolde said softly . She stood on the opposite side of the rotting table, her pale lavender eyes reflecting the amber sky. She had not touched the food, bound by her Fae nature to never speak a falsehood, yet perfectly capable of letting a mortal deceive themselves. The hunger of the realm seeps into the mind. It promises a banquet, but serves only the void.
Rory touched the Heartstone pendant beneath her shirt. The crimson gem was still pulsing , but the frantic heat had settled into a steady, warning thrum. She looked at the crescent scar on her wrist, a reminder of pain that had been real, not a gilded illusion. She had fled one trap in London, escaping Evan’s suffocating control and the bruises he had left behind; she refused to be caught in another in Hel.
Where do we go from here? Rory asked, her voice hardening, the initial shock replaced by a grim determination. She drew the Fae-forged blade again. In the ambient light of Dymas, the moonsilver did not glow, but the metal seemed to drink the amber rays, appearing as a sliver of pure, cold night. We need to find the Warden's outpost, or whatever passes for a guide in this place.
Nyx dissolved back into a silhouette of shifting smoke, drifting toward the edge of the clearing where the orchard began anew. The trees remember the feet of the bound. Follow the roots that bleed.
Isolde turned, her silver hair catching the strange light as she began to walk toward the dense thicket of mahogany-barked trees. The path is hidden in the orchard of the insatiable. Seek the fruit that does not rot, and you shall find the gate.
Rory let out a long, slow breath, the heavy, sweet air burning her lungs. She tightened her grip on the cold dagger, stepped over a line of writhing, parasitic vines, and followed the seer and the shadow deeper into the beautiful, starving dark.