Run: 2026-07-07-01KWZ5JCN3TCWAAF1W3S9SGBVR

Rory stepped through the portal and her world turned amber. The air hit her first—warm as bathwater, thick with the scent of sugar and spice, the kind of heat that wrapped around her like a blanket fresh from the dryer. She blinked against the sudden change, her sneakers settling on soil that felt almost uncomfortably soft, like tilled earth in a greenhouse after the spring rains. The sky wasn't a sky at all, not in any way she understood. It hung above her like stained glass held to flame, a dome of burning amber that shifted in slow currents, veins of deep gold crawling across its surface like slow lightning trapped in honey. Behind her, Nyx stepped through the shimmering tear in the Veil. The Shade made no sound on the earth, their silhouette wavering at the edges, faint violet eyes scanning the horizon with the wariness of something that had walked between realms before and knew better than to trust the welcome. "This is Dymas," Nyx said, their voice barely a breath against her ear. "Gluttony's seat." Rory pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the Heartstone Pendant pulse against her skin. It was warm—hotter than it had ever been, a steady thrum like a second heartbeat that seemed almost eager. She pulled the pendant free of her collar and studied it. The deep crimson gemstone glowed with an inner fire, casting faint red light across her fingers. "It's been going crazy since we stepped through." "The Veil is thin here," Nyx said. "Thin enough that the heat of Hel bleeds through. The pendant is attuned to those thresholds. It will quiet once you grow accustomed to the realm." Rory doubted that. She slid the pendant back beneath her shirt and took stock of their surroundings. They stood at the edge of a vineyard, though the word felt laughably small for what stretched before her. The vines grew taller than she was, their trunks thick as ancient oaks, laden with clusters of grapes that caught the amber light and glowed like polished garnets. Beyond them, the land rolled in gentle waves—low hills covered in orchards where trees bent under the weight of fruit so heavy it seemed impossible. Golden apples, plums the color of bruises, peaches that smelled so sweet Rory's mouth watered without her permission. She could taste that scent on her tongue, syrupy and thick, and she realized with a start that she hadn't eaten in hours. "Don't." Nyx's hand—or what passed for it, shifting shadow that coalesced into fingers—touched her wrist. Their violet eyes were fixed on the nearest tree, a squat thing with branches bowed under what looked like pomegranates split open to reveal seeds like liquid fire. "The fruit here is a temptation, not a gift." "I'm not going to—" "Your body hasn't registered hunger. The realm is doing that." Nyx's voice carried a weight of old certainty. "Gluttony doesn't force you to consume. It makes you want to. The longing is part of the design." Rory pulled her gaze from the fruit and forced herself to breathe through her mouth, cutting off the scent. It helped, a little. "How do you know this place?" "I remember it," Nyx said, and something flickered in those violet eyes—a shadow of a shadow, deeper than their usual depth. "From before." The sorcerer Aldric, Rory reminded herself. The one who failed the summoning and got trapped between realms. He must have seen places like this in his research, maybe visited in spirit form before he became what he was now. She didn't push. A path wound through the vineyards, paved with cobblestones that had been worn smooth by countless feet. They followed it, ducking beneath trellises heavy with flowers Rory couldn't name, blooms that shimmered in shades that shouldn't exist in nature—a blue so deep it looked wet, a red that seemed to pulse like animal blood, iridescent petals that caught the amber light and scattered it in prisms. The air grew heavier as they walked, the perfumes layering on top of each other until the sweetness was almost suffocating. And then they heard the feast. At first it was a murmur, the low hum of many voices speaking at once. Then distinct sounds separated themselves: the clink of goblets, the scrape of cutlery on platters, the wet sound of eating—not chewing, but the desperate hungry sounds of people who hadn't stopped consuming and couldn't bring themselves to. Laughter bubbled beneath it, high and manic, the kind of sound that came from somewhere other than genuine amusement. The path opened into a courtyard that sprawled across the heart of the valley. Tables stretched in every direction, laden with dishes that steamed and glistened and overflowed. Whole roasted animals glazed in honey and spice, towers of bread that rose higher than Rory's head, bowls of sauces in colors she couldn't name and probably didn't want to. At the center of it all, a fountain carved from black marble spouted wine—not clear, but a thick, ruby-red stream that splashed into a basin where guests dipped their cups, their hands, their faces. The guests. Rory's stomach turned. They were human. Mostly. Some still wore the clothes they must have died in—a woman in a floral dress stained with something dark at the collar, a man in a business suit with a silk tie undone. But their bodies had begun to change. Their cheeks were too full, their bellies distended beneath fine fabrics, their fingers swollen where rings had grown tight. They ate without stopping, without seeming to taste, shoveling food into mouths that never filled, never closed. And they smiled as they did it, wide and glassy, eyes fixed on nothing. "Helbound," Nyx said softly. "Souls brought here to feed the appetites of the realm. They are chefs now. They prepare the meals that tempt the living." Rory's hand drifted to the Fae-Forged Blade at her hip. The moonsilver hilt was cold even through the warmth of the realm, the slender leaf-shaped dagger a promise of something sharp. "They look like they're enjoying it." "Gluttony offers pleasure at first. It always does. The pain comes later, when the pleasure becomes compulsion, and the compulsion becomes the only thing they know." Nyx inclined their head toward a man in chef's whites who stood over a massive cauldron, stirring something that bubbled and hissed. "That one has been here for two hundred years. He has prepared the same dish every day without remembering he ever made anything else." Rory looked away. "We need to find the rift point. Where the Veil is weakest." "It lies at the heart of the realm. Prince Belphegor's seat." "Of course it does." They pressed on, leaving the courtyard of feast behind. The path narrowed, leading between hedges trimmed into shapes of animals—lions with jaws agape, serpents coiled to strike, beasts that had no earthly name. The hedges rustled as they passed, as though something moved within them, watching. The Heartstone pulsed against Rory's chest, steady and warm. A guiding heat, not the urgent burn of an open portal. They were close. The hedges opened onto a garden unlike anything she had seen before. Massive oak standing stones ringed a clearing of wildflowers that bloomed in defiance of the amber sky, their colors too vivid to be natural. At the center of the circle, the air shimmered—a distortion like heat rising off asphalt, but wrong. The edges of reality seemed to blur there, folding and refolding like fabric too thin in the light. "A rift," Nyx murmured. "Not a portal. A tear. The Veil here is growing thin enough to fray." Rory stepped toward it, the pendant burning against her chest. The air around the rift felt different—charged, electric, the hairs on her arms rising. She reached out, fingers hovering inches from the shimmer, and felt the cold wash of air from the other side. London. She could smell concrete and rain and exhaust fumes, the ordinary grime of the mortal world. "This is how they bring souls through," she said. "This tear." "Yes." Nyx's voice held a strange note. Regret, maybe. "And if it widens, the Fae Courts will take notice. The Wardens are already spread thin. A tear this large will draw attention—but not the kind we want." Rory drew the Fae-Forged Blade. The moonsilver caught the amber light and turned it silver-pale, the blade gleaming with a cold that rejected the warmth of Dymas. She pressed it against the shimmering edge of the rift, and the Veil hissed, recoiling from the contact. A voice like honey and broken glass whispered from behind them. "Visitors. How delightful." Rory turned, blade raised, and found herself facing a figure that seemed carved from the garden itself. He was tall, too tall, his skin the color of ripe wheat and his eyes the warm gold of a furnace. Prince Belphegor wore robes of deep crimson that pooled around him like spilled wine, and he smiled with teeth that were just slightly too white, too even, too many. "You carry Fae steel," he said, and his voice was a purr. "And a Heartstone from my own realm. Curious. I wonder which of my brothers sent you." Rory didn't lower the blade. "Neither." "No?" Belphegor's smile widened. "Then you are either very brave, or very foolish. Tell me, little visitor—which course would you prefer served first?" The Heartstone blazed against her chest, and somewhere beyond the rift, a gate began to hum. The feast continued in the distance, the sounds of chewing and laughter carrying across the amber fields like a prayer that had been answered too many times. Rory held the blade steady, and wondered if she had made a terrible mistake.