AI Rory adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, her thumb brushing against her left wrist where the small, crescent-shaped scar sat cold against her pulse . Beside her, the ancient oak standing stones of Richmond Park seemed to lean inward, forming an archway that defied the overcast London sky. Step through, Isolde had said. Do not look back, and do not step off the path.
She took the step.
The dreary drizzle vanished instantly, replaced by air that tasted of spun sugar, rich turned earth, and crushed velvet . Rory stumbled, her boots sinking into grass so thick and vibrant green it looked painted. Above her, the grey clouds of October had dissolved into a warm, amber sky, bathed in a perpetual golden hour that cast long, honey-colored shadows across the landscape.
"This isn't Richmond," Rory murmured. Her bright blue eyes widened as she took in the vista stretching before them.
Sprawling vineyards covered rolling hillsides, the vines heavy with grapes the size of plums that glowed with a faint, inner light. Orchards of trees she couldn’t name bore fruit that smelled simultaneously of ripe peaches and roasted dark coffee. In the distance, grand stone pavilions with open-air kitchens sent plumes of violet and silver smoke curling toward the amber vault above.
"No," a voice rustled beside her, like dry autumn leaves scraping across flagstones. Nyx coalesced from the shadow of an towering fern, their humanoid silhouette shifting and settling into a solid, dark form six feet tall. Faintly glowing violet eyes flickered in the featureless void of their face. "We have crossed the threshold of Dymas. Prince Belphegor’s domain."
Rory reached instinctively for her chest, her fingers closing over the thumb-sized Heartstone Pendant resting against her collarbone. Through her thin jacket, the deep crimson gemstone pulsed with a sudden, rhythmic warmth , humming in resonance with the realm around them. Beneath her jacket's hem, the cold weight of the leaf-shaped Fae blade—moonsilver and freezing against her hip—provided a stark , grounding counterpoint.
"Isolde said the path would lead us to the boundary," Rory said, looking back . The standing stones were gone . In their place stood a trellised arch overflowing with night-blooming jasmine, though the sunless golden light showed no sign of setting. "She didn't mention it would drop us straight into the lap of Gluttony."
"The Seer cannot lie," Nyx whispered, their voice carrying a breeze that smelled faintly of ozone and old parchment. "But she delights in letting mortals walk into cages of their own choosing. The Veil is thin here, Aurora. Look with your heart, not just your eyes."
Rory focused, letting her gaze soften. There, shimmering in the ambient warmth , was the faint, oily distortion of the Veil. It hung over the orchard like a web of spun glass, fractured and thin. The upcoming solstice was weakening it, just as the Wardens had feared.
"We keep moving," Rory said, her cool head prevailing over the rising prickle of unease. "The kitchen vaults should be past those terraces."
They picking their way down a winding gravel path where the stones clinked like crystal beads. The air grew heavier, thick with the overwhelming aroma of a thousand simultaneous feasts. Rory’s mouth watered uncontrollably, her stomach giving a sharp, betrayed rumble.
"Do not yield to the hunger," Nyx warned, flowing alongside her like ink dropping through water, their boots making no sound against the singing gravel. "The soil of Dymas feeds on desire . Eat the fruit, and your soul will sign its own lease before the third bite."
Rory drew her hand back from a low-hanging branch where a pear, translucent as yellow glass, hung heavy and weeping sweet nectar. "I'll stick to cold chips from Silas' bar, thanks."
As they descended deeper into the valley, the wonder of the place began to curdle at the edges. Between the lush rows of the vineyard, figures moved. At first, Rory thought they were mere farmhands, but as they drew closer, the truth made her breath hitch.
The workers were human, dressed in high-collared white tunics stained with juice and grease. They moved with a terrifying, mechanical precision, harvesting fruit, chopping herbs on marble blocks set directly into the turf, and stirring massive copper cauldrons resting over white-hot braziers. But their eyes were vacant, glassy stared, completely hollow.
"Hellbound souls," Nyx murmured, their violet eyes dimming slightly in sympathy or recognition . "Master chefs, vintners, bakers from the mortal plane who traded their eternal rest for one more taste of perfection. Now they cook for the Prince’s court, forever famished, forever serving."
One of the cooks—a woman who couldn't have been older than Rory, with flour dusted across her hollow cheeks—turned as they passed. She lifted a silver spoon dripping with a dark, glittering reduction, offering it toward Rory with trembling hands. Her lips moved, forming silent, desperate words: *Help me.*
Rory reached toward her, her heart aching, but Nyx caught her wrist. The Shade's touch was like a wrap of cold silk .
"You cannot break a Dymasian contract with pity, Rory," Nyx whispered softly . "And if you disturb the Prince’s brigade, we will not leave this valley."
Rory swallowed hard, tearing her gaze away from the woman. She looked down at her left wrist, where Nyx’s shadow-glove rested just above her childhood scar. She forced her lungs to expand, pushing down the panic, relying on the cold, logical detachment that had saved her so many times in Cardiff, and later in London.
"Right," Rory said, her voice steady once more . "Focus on the target."
They turned a bend in the path where the vineyard gave way to an ancient, sunken amphitheater carved entirely from white vein-marbled stone. At the center stood a structure that defied mortal architecture—a grand pavilion unsupported by pillars, its roof composed of living, interwoven fig branches that bent and flexed like ribs as if the building itself were breathing .
In the center of the pavilion rested a massive slab of dark obsidian, polished to a mirror shine. Suspended above it, hovering in mid-air, was a tear in the fabric of the realm—a rift in the Veil. It bled a pale, iridescent light, flickering like dying candlelight.
Rory stepped down into the amphitheater, the Heartstone Pendant against her chest growing uncomfortably hot, throbbing in time with the rift's erratic pulse . The Fae blade at her hip hummed a faint, frosty note, its moonsilver surface glowing softly in the shadow of the fig-leaf canopy.
"It's open," Rory whispered, stepping toward the obsidian altar. The air here was freezing , a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the orchards. "Someone ripped it open from this side."
"Not someone," Nyx said, their form stretching and billowing as the shadows in the amphitheater reached out to greet them. "A warden's key was used. Look at the edges."
Rory leaned in, her bright blue eyes scanning the jagged lip of the rift. Crisp, mathematical runes were burned into the air around the tear—golden, glowing ciphers that were slowly unraveling .
"Human magic," Rory noted, her Pre-Law training kicking in as she analyzed the precise, structured nature of the spellwork. "Structured, binding, legalistic. Someone made a deal to open a gate between London and Gluttony."
Before Nyx could reply, the amber sky above the pavilion darkened. The sweet scent of peaches and wine turned sharp and metallic, tainted by the stench of burning iron. The hellbound cooks in the distance stopped their work in unison, dropping their knives and spoons with a clattering chorus that echoed through the valley.
Rory drew the leaf-shaped Fae blade from her belt. The moonsilver metal flared bright, cutting through the sudden gloom .
"We aren't alone anymore," she said.