Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KAAHT1A53JQJ6GA4CVMJFV

The pendant had grown warm against Rory’s chest. Not the gentle heat of skin or the stray sun through a window, but a pulsing, insistent throb that matched her heartbeat—or perhaps commanded it. She pressed her palm to the silver chain, feeling the deep crimson gemstone buzz beneath her fingers like a trapped bee. “We’re close,” Nyx whispered. The shadow at her side flickered, its humanoid silhouette rippling as it drifted through the underbrush of Richmond Park. Even at dusk, the trees here bent in ways that made Rory’s eyes ache. The oaks twisted skyward and then curved back down, their branches kissing the earth, forming arches and doorways that led nowhere—or everywhere. Rory tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and kept walking. Her delivery uniform chafed at the collar, the bright orange of the Golden Chef logo clashing against the deepening purple twilight. She hadn’t planned on supernatural excursions after her shift. She never did. “You’re certain this is the right path?” Isolde’s voice carried a musical lilt, ancient and young at once. The half-Fae moved without sound, her silver hair catching the last light like strands of moonlight spun into silk. She wore robes that seemed to shift between green and grey, and she left no footprints in the damp earth. “The Veil is thin here.” “It’s not a question of certainty,” Nyx replied, their voice like wind through dry leaves. “The Heartstone knows.” Rory tugged the pendant free of her shirt, holding it up. The gem glowed now, a deep, hungry crimson that painted her calloused fingers in bloodlight. It pulled. Not hard—just a constant, gentle insistence, like a child tugging at a parent’s sleeve, asking to be led somewhere important. “Then let’s follow it,” she said. The trees parted. Not literally—there was no sound of splintering wood or shifting branches. But the space between two massive oaks shimmered, and the world beyond the park’s familiar paths began to change. The grass beneath their feet transitioned from London’s manicured green to something wilder, richer, dotted with flowers that bloomed in colors Rory had never seen before. Blue so deep it was almost black. Red like fresh-spilled wine. Gold that seemed to glow from within. “This is new,” Nyx said. Their form solidified slightly, taking on the appearance of a tall figure in a dark cloak, though their features remained indistinct, like a painting left out in the rain. Isolde paused at the threshold. Her pale lavender eyes scanned the landscape, and for a moment, a flicker of something—concern? memory?—crossed her ageless face. “This is not the Fae realm.” “No shit,” Rory muttered. The air smelled wrong. Not bad, exactly, but wrong in the way that a familiar song played in a different key felt wrong. Sweet and heavy, thick with the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread and something like cinnamon, but deeper, richer, more decadent than any spice she’d ever encountered. Her stomach rumbled despite herself. “Hungry?” Nyx asked. “Always,” Rory said. “That’s not the problem.” The problem was the landscape itself. They stood on a hillside overlooking a valley that stretched impossibly far, further than the park’s boundaries should have allowed. And at the center of that valley lay a city—a sprawling, chaotic metropolis of spires and domes and towers that defied gravity and logic in equal measure. Some buildings were carved from what appeared to be solid chocolate. Others gleamed like they were made of polished amber or crystallized honey. Rivers of what might have been mead wound through the streets, and the whole place sparkled with a warm, golden light. “Dymas,” Isolde breathed. “The Realm of Gluttony.” Rory’s hand went to the small of her back, where the Fae-forged blade sat sheathed against her spine. The slender, leaf-shaped dagger was cold even through her jacket, its moonsilver surface drinking in the amber light. “This isn’t where we wanted to end up.” “The Heartstone brought us here.” Nyx drifted forward, their shadowy form casting no reflection in the strange light. “Perhaps this is where we need to be.” “Or perhaps we’re being led into a trap.” Isolde’s voice held a warning edge. “Belphegor’s domain is not kind to mortals, Rory. You must be careful. Everything here will tempt you. Everything here will try to make you stay.” Rory swallowed hard, her throat dry despite the honey-sweet air. She thought of her tiny flat above Silas’s bar. The leaky faucet in the bathroom. The stack of unopened bills on her kitchen table. She thought of her mother, back in Cardiff, who still called every Sunday to ask when she was coming home. “I have nothing they’d want,” she said. “I’m just a delivery girl.” Isolde’s laugh was like wind chimes in a storm. “Child, the Princes of Sin want everyone. That’s what makes them princes.” They descended into the valley. The path was paved in stones that looked like candied almonds, and each step released a faint, sweet fragrance. The sounds of the city grew louder as they approached—laughter, music, the clinking of glasses, the sizzle of things cooking. But beneath it all ran a current that made Rory’s skin crawl. A rhythm. A heartbeat. Something vast and patient and endlessly hungry. “Listen,” Nyx said, pausing at what appeared to be an outer gate. It wasn’t made of iron or wood or stone—it was made of bread. A colossal loaf, crusty and golden, arching over the road. Steam rose from it, carrying the scent of fresh-baked sourdough. “That’s…” Rory started. “Edible insults are common here.” Isolde examined the structure with a mixture of fascination and distaste. “Belphegor delights in turning sustenance into architecture. He believes it is the ultimate irony—creating permanence from that which is made to be consumed.” Rory ran her fingers along the surface. It was warm. Soft. She could feel the give of the crust beneath her touch, and for a moment, she was seized with the irrational urge to tear off a piece. Just a taste. Just to know— She yanked her hand back. The pendant burned against her sternum. Warning. “Careful, little mortal.” Nyx’s voice was unusually tight. “This place feeds on desire. It amplifies what you already want.” “And what do I want?” Rory asked, her voice coming out rougher than she intended. The shadow was silent for a long moment. Then: “You want to be somewhere. You want to belong. You want home.” Rory’s throat tightened. She didn’t ask how Nyx knew. She didn’t want to know. The city’s streets opened before them like a feast spread on a giant table. Buildings rose on either side, their windows glowing warm and golden. Every doorway seemed to invite her in. Every window displayed something delightful—cakes frosted with impossible precision, flags of meat and cheese, sculpted marzipan figures cavorting in sugar snow. Creatures walked these streets. Some were recognizably human, or had been once. Others were things she couldn’t name, beings that shifted and flowed and wore their hunger like clothing. A being made entirely of smoke and embers paused to watch them pass, its coal-black eyes tracking Rory’s movement with predatory interest. “Don’t meet their eyes,” Isolde murmured. “Don’t speak unless spoken to. And for the gods’ sake, don’t eat anything.” “Even if they offer?” Rory asked. “Especially if they offer.” At the city’s heart, past market squares and feasting halls and streets paved with what looked suspiciously like hardened sugar, they found the palace. It rose from the ground like a fungus—no, like a cake, layered and ornate, with spires that looked like dripping frosting and walls that seemed to pulse with soft, warm light. The main entrance was a massive archway shaped like an open mouth. “Charming,” Rory said. “Belphegor has a sense of humor,” Isolde replied. “Dark, twisted, and immense.” The approaching bells began to toll—but they didn’t sound like bells. They sounded like dinner chimes. Elegant. Precise. Calling all souls to the table. The pendant on Rory’s chest pulsed so hard she felt it against her ribs like a second heart. She looked down at the crimson gem, watching it glow, watching the light beat in time with the chimes. “Well,” she said, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel. “When in Dymas, I suppose.” Nyx’s shadow shifted, forming what might have been a smile. “Precisely.” She stepped through the archway, and the mouth closed behind her.