Run: 2026-05-22-01KS87EZWN3AM84VZZJJTCRX5S

Rory pushed through the shimmering distortion of the Veil. It felt like walking through a wall of cold gelatin. The metaphysical barrier parted with a sound like tearing silk, and she stumbled forward onto soft, mossy ground. The air changed instantly. The biting chill of the London winter was replaced by a heavy, perfumed warmth that clung to her skin. She stopped and looked up. The sky above was a bruised, warm amber, lacking a sun but radiating a diffuse, golden light that cast long, strange shadows. Towering trees with bark like twisted bronze stretched upward, their branches heavy with fruits the size of human heads. The scent was overwhelming, a cloying, intoxicating blend of fermented sugar, crushed orchids, and rich, turned earth. Rory touched the silver chain at her throat. The Heartstone pendant, a deep crimson gem roughly the size of her thumbnail, pulsed with a faint, rhythmic warmth against her collarbone. It was reacting to the proximity of the Hel portal they had just stepped through, beating in time with her own heart. Nyx materialized beside her. The Shade stood six feet tall in their solid form, a humanoid silhouette of living shadow that seemed to drink the ambient light. Faintly glowing violet eyes blinked in the amber glow. The air around them dropped in temperature, offering a brief respite from the stifling heat. The air tastes of old wine and forgotten promises, Nyx whispered. Their voice sounded like dry leaves skittering across pavement, a whisper carried on the wind. Isolde stepped through the rift next. The Half-Fae seer did not disturb the thick carpet of violet moss beneath her boots. She left no footprints, gliding over the ground as if she weighed nothing at all. Her silver hair, reaching her waist, caught the golden light, and her pale lavender eyes scanned the sprawling orchard with an ageless, ethereal calm. The roots drink deep where the soil is fed by want, Isolde said, her voice melodic but distant. Tread lightly, little bird. The garden hungers. Rory adjusted the strap of her jacket, feeling the reassuring, icy weight of the Fae-forged blade sheathed at her hip. The moonsilver dagger was always cold to the touch, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the realm. She rubbed the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a grounding habit she had kept since childhood, and stepped forward. Keep close, Rory said, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart. We do not know what kind of wildlife Belphegor keeps in his vineyards. They moved deeper into the ancient orchard. The flora was alien and wondrous. Ferns with translucent, veined leaves unfurled as they passed, releasing puffs of golden spores that hung in the air like suspended dust motes. Vines thick as a man's torso coiled around the bronze-barked trees, bearing clusters of dark, glistening grapes that seemed to throb with an inner light. Rory reached out to touch a hanging vine, but Nyx's shadowy hand caught her wrist. The Shade's grip was incorporeal but carried a distinct, chilling pressure that made her gasp. Do not partake, Nyx whispered, their violet eyes narrowing. The flesh of this realm binds the soul to the soil. Rory pulled her hand back, nodding her thanks. Right. Rule number one of the underworld. Do not eat the food. The deeper they walked, the more the landscape shifted from wild orchard to cultivated excess. The trees grew more orderly, forming grand, vaulted archways of interwoven branches. The ground transitioned from moss to smooth, polished stones inlaid with veins of gold. The silence of the woods was replaced by a low, distant hum, like the sound of a thousand voices murmuring in a grand dining hall, layered beneath the clinking of phantom glass and the scraping of silver on porcelain. It was Dymas. The realm of Gluttony. Rory felt a strange pulling sensation in her chest, a sudden, sharp pang of hunger that made her mouth water. The scent of roasting meats and spiced honey drifted on the warm breeze, though no fires burned nearby. Her stomach gave a violent twist, and her head swam with a sudden rush of endorphins. It is trying to lure us, Rory said, pressing a hand to her abdomen. She forced her mind to focus on the cold logic of her pre-law training, compartmentalizing the unnatural urge. It is a psychological trap. The realm feeds on desire. Desire is the seed, consumption the harvest, Isolde murmured, gliding over the golden-inlaid stones. She paused by a massive, tiered fountain carved from pale pink marble. Instead of water, a thick, crimson liquid flowed from the mouths of sculpted beasts, pooling in the basins before overflowing onto the stones. The prince of this domain weeps for those who can never be full. Rory peered into the fountain. The liquid was not blood, but a rich, heavy wine that smelled of dark cherries and iron. She looked at Isolde. Can you drink it? Isolde smiled, a sad, ethereal expression. I cannot lie, Aurora. If I drink, I will thirst forever. They rounded a towering hedge of blooming nightshade and stopped. Before them lay a sunken amphitheater of staggering proportions. Terraced seating carved from obsidian descended toward a central stage, but the stage was not meant for plays. It was a massive, circular dining table, easily a hundred feet across, carved from a single piece of dark wood. The table was laden with a feast of impossible scale. Roasted beasts with gilded horns, mountains of exotic fruits that glowed in hues of neon blue and vibrant magenta, and towering cakes spun from crystallized sugar. But there were no diners. Instead, the chairs, massive, thronelike structures of wrought iron and velvet, were occupied by statues. Or what Rory first thought were statues. As they crept closer, the unease settled deep in her bones. The figures were humanoid, but their skin had hardened into a bark-like texture, their fingers fused to the silver goblets and golden platters they held. They were petrified, frozen in eternal acts of consumption, their faces locked in expressions of agonizing ecstasy and profound despair. Helbound souls, Rory whispered, her bright blue eyes wide as she took in the horrific display. Contracted from Earth. They ate until they became part of the table. They sought the banquet, Nyx whispered, their shadowy form flickering as they drifted closer to the edge of the sunken floor. The Shade's voice carried a rare note of sorrow, the wind-rustle dropping to a somber breeze. They found only the cage. Rory's hand drifted to the hilt of her Fae-forged blade. The moonsilver was freezing against her palm, anchoring her to reality. She looked at the petrified souls, then up at the amber sky, which seemed to press down on them like a heavy, gilded lid. Where is Belphegor? Rory asked, keeping her voice low. Isolde turned, her lavender eyes reflecting the unnatural glow of the neon fruits. The host is never far from the meal. He waits in the spaces between the bites. A sudden, sharp sound echoed across the amphitheater. The clinking of a silver knife against a porcelain plate. Rory drew her blade. The slender, leaf-shaped dagger slid from its sheath with a soft hiss, casting a faint, luminescent glow in the heavy amber air. She stepped in front of Isolde, her mind racing through exit strategies, her cool-headed facade locking firmly into place. Nyx, Rory said, her voice tight and commanding. Keep to the shadows. If anything moves, you blind it. Isolde, stay behind me. The Shade melted into the darkness cast by the obsidian terraces, becoming nothing more than a trick of the light, while the whisper of their voice brushed against Rory's ear. I am the dark behind the feast. Rory gripped the cold moonsilver, her eyes scanning the massive, groaning table. The feast of Dymas was laid out before them, beautiful and terrible, and the host was finally ready to serve.