Run: 2026-10-07-01M4ATVRMBFJA39YM7XE7YWYKG

The air shifted before they even stepped through. A breath of warmth, thick with the scent of overripe fruit and something darker, earthier—like damp soil after rain. Rory hesitated at the threshold, her fingers tightening around the Heartstone pendant. It pulsed once, a slow, steady thrum against her palm. Nyx didn’t hesitate. Their form rippled, shadows stretching long and thin before snapping back into the shape of a man—tall, indistinct, but solid enough to brush past her. The moment they crossed, the world folded. Rory followed. The first thing that hit her was the light. Amber, golden, like the last hour of sunset stretched into eternity. It bathed everything in a honeyed glow, turning the leaves of the towering vines into gilded lace. The trees here were monstrous things, their trunks wide as houses, their branches heavy with fruit that glowed faintly from within—pears like molten gold, apples that shimmered like rubies. The air hummed, thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the distant, rhythmic clatter of something like pots and pans. “This is Dymas,” Nyx murmured, their voice a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. “Gluttony’s domain.” Rory’s boots sank slightly into the ground. The earth was soft, almost spongy, as if the soil itself were saturated with something rich and sweet. She crouched, pressing her fingers into it. The dirt clung to her skin, warm and damp. When she brought her hand to her nose, the scent was intoxicating—cinnamon, cloves, something fermented and deep. “Don’t eat anything,” Nyx said, though their tone lacked urgency. “Not unless you fancy being here forever.” Rory stood, wiping her hand on her jeans. “Noted.” A path wound ahead, paved with smooth, dark stones that looked almost like polished obsidian. It cut through the orchards, leading toward a distant structure—something vast and sprawling, its roofline jagged with spires and chimneys. Smoke curled from a dozen vents, carrying the sharp, savoury tang of roasting meat. The deeper they walked, the more the air thickened. Not just with scent, but with sound. Laughter, now—deep, rolling chuckles and high, trilling giggles. The clink of glasses. The sizzle of fat hitting flame. Rory’s stomach growled, traitorous, and she clenched her jaw. “Hungry?” Nyx’s silhouette flickered, their edges blurring as if the light itself couldn’t decide how to touch them. “No,” she lied. The path opened into a clearing, and Rory stopped dead. A feast stretched before them, laid out on a table that groaned under its own weight. Whole roasted boars, their skin crackling and golden. Towers of pastries, their layers flaking like the pages of an old book. Bowls of stew so thick the spoons stood upright in them. And the colours—vibrant, almost painful in their intensity. The reds of the berries were deeper than any she’d seen, the greens of the herbs so bright they seemed to vibrate. But it wasn’t just the food. The people—or what had once been people—milled around the table, their movements sluggish, their faces slack with satisfaction. Some were human, or had been. Others were… less so. A man with the antlers of a stag lifted a goblet to his lips, the liquid inside shimmering like liquid silver. A woman with skin like bark tore into a leg of lamb with her teeth, juice dripping down her chin. Rory’s throat went dry. “They’re not prisoners,” Nyx said, as if reading her thoughts. “They chose this.” “Chose to be… what, exactly?” “Full. Forever.” A figure detached from the crowd—a man, or the shape of one, his belly round as a barrel, his cheeks flushed with wine. He wore an apron stained with grease and what looked like berry juice. His eyes, when they landed on Rory, were sharp, assessing. “Ah,” he boomed, his voice rich as butter. “Newcomers.” Nyx’s form shifted, their edges sharpening into something more defined. “We’re passing through.” The man’s grin widened. “Passing through? In Dymas? My dear shadow, once you taste, you’ll never want to leave.” Rory’s hand went to the Fae blade at her belt. The cold of the moonsilver seeped through the fabric of her shirt, a grounding contrast to the heat pressing in around her. The chef’s gaze flicked to the movement. “Ah, a guest with manners. Or perhaps just good sense.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “I am Chef Orlan. And you are?” “Not hungry,” Rory said. Orlan laughed, the sound rolling through the clearing like a wave. “Everyone’s hungry here, girl. It’s just a matter of what they’re willing to eat.” Nyx stepped between them, their voice dropping to a whisper that carried like a blade. “We’re not here for your hospitality.” Orlan’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes darkened, just for a second. “Pity. The prince would be most interested to meet fresh faces.” Rory’s pulse spiked. “Prince?” “The ruler of this fine realm.” Orlan gestured grandly toward the distant structure—the palace, Rory realised now, its windows glowing like embers. “Prince Belphegor. A most… generous host.” Nyx’s form rippled, their edges bleeding into the shadows at their feet. “We’ll take our chances with the path.” Orlan shrugged, his jowls wobbling. “Suit yourselves. But the forest has teeth, little shadow. And the prince does so love to feed his guests.” Rory didn’t wait for more. She turned, her boots crunching on the obsidian path as she strode away from the feast, from the laughter, from the weight of eyes on her back. The air grew cooler the farther they walked, the scent of food fading into something greener, sharper. The trees here were different. Their bark was dark, almost black, and their leaves were broad and waxy, catching the amber light like stained glass. The fruit hanging from their branches was less inviting now—some of it split open, revealing pulp that writhed with maggots the size of her thumb. The buzzing of insects grew louder, more insistent. Nyx materialised beside her, their form solid once more. “This way.” They veered off the path, cutting through the undergrowth. The plants here were lush, almost aggressive, their vines curling around her ankles like greedy fingers. Rory slashed at them with the Fae blade, the moonsilver parting the foliage with ease. The blade hummed faintly, as if pleased. A sound cut through the rustling—a wet, tearing noise, followed by a low, guttural groan. Rory froze. Nyx’s head tilted, their violet eyes narrowing. “Not alone out here.” She didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. The groan came again, closer this time, and then the snap of a branch. Something was moving toward them, slow and heavy. Then she saw it. A figure emerged from the trees, its body a grotesque parody of human. Its stomach was distended, the skin stretched so thin she could see the pulse of something moving beneath. Its mouth was a lipless gash, dripping with saliva, and its eyes— Its eyes were hollow. It lurched forward, its arms outstretched, fingers ending in blackened, curved claws. The stench hit her next—rotting meat and something sickly sweet, like spoiled wine. Rory’s grip tightened on the blade. “What the hell is that?” “A glutton,” Nyx said, their voice eerily calm. “One who ate too much of the wrong thing.” The creature let out a wet, rattling breath and lunged. Rory moved on instinct. She sidestepped, the Fae blade flashing in the amber light. It sliced through the creature’s arm like it was nothing, the limb hitting the ground with a wet thud. Black ichor sprayed, sizzling where it touched the leaves. The glutton didn’t seem to notice. It kept coming, its remaining arm swiping at her. She ducked, rolling to the side, and came up slashing. The blade bit deep into its side, and this time, the creature screamed—a sound like tearing fabric. Nyx didn’t watch. Their form dissolved into shadow, reforming behind the glutton. A tendril of darkness lashed out, wrapping around its throat. The creature thrashed, its claws tearing at the shadow, but Nyx yanked hard. The glutton’s neck snapped with a sound like a rotten branch breaking. It collapsed, its body twitching once before going still. Rory didn’t lower the blade. Her breath came fast, her heart hammering. The ichor on the ground hissed, eating into the earth like acid. Nyx’s form solidified beside her. “There’ll be more.” She swallowed. “Lovely.” The trees ahead thinned, revealing a river—wide and slow-moving, its surface the colour of dark honey. A bridge arched over it, constructed from what looked like bone, its surface smooth and yellowed with age. And beyond it, the palace loomed, its spires clawing at the amber sky. Rory exhaled, her grip on the blade steady. “Let’s keep moving.”