AI The Heartstone seared against Rory’s sternum, a second pulse racing beneath her ribs. She stumbled forward, trainers sinking into loam that smelled of fermenting grapes and something sweeter, cloying. Behind her, the tear in the Veil snapped shut with a wet tearing sound.
Nyx solidified from the shadow at her elbow, violet eyes flickering like candle flames in a draught. “Breathe,” they whispered. The words slithered across her skin, carried on a wind that tasted of copper and old pennies. “The air here is thick. Do not drink it too deeply.”
Isolde stepped through last, silver hair floating as if underwater despite the stillness. She pressed the Fae blade into Rory’s palm, the moonsilver cold enough to burn. “Cut the air if you must,” the seer murmured . “But remember, what hungers here has tasted ten thousand souls before yours.”
Rory looked up. The sky hung low, a bruised amber dome pressing down on endless rows of grapevines. The fruit gleamed, each cluster heavy and translucent, purple-black and glowing faintly from within. The vines twisted in tight spirals that hurt to follow, corkscrewing into the earth and back up again, carrying blossoms that opened and closed in slow, hypnotic rhythm. She counted seven rows before losing track, the pattern shifting when she blinked.
“Dymas,” Nyx said, their voice barely disturbing the air. “The realm of Gluttony. Prince Belphegor’s larder.”
“Pretty,” Rory said. Her boots scraped against soil that shifted beneath her weight , not quite solid, not quite liquid . The ground yielded like a stomach digesting a meal. “Deadly pretty.”
They walked. The ground rose gently, paved with mosaic tiles depicting endless feasts. Rory’s trainers stuck to the surface with each step, peeling away with a sound like wet paper. The tiles felt warm, feverish, as if the stone itself processed whatever walked upon it. She studied the patterns, searching for an exit, a weakness. Her mind raced through the geometry, calculating angles, looking for the seam where Earth ended and Hel began.
“These are Hel’s dinner plates,” Nyx said, crouching to press their palm against a tile . Their fingers passed through the surface, then solidified, testing the weight . “Solid enough to hold a thousand banquets, fragile enough to shatter under a single step of the right weight .”
Isolde drifted ahead, leaving no footprints. “The host sets a table for the hungry,” she said, her pale lavender eyes reflecting the amber sky. “But the chairs remain empty until the guests arrive. Will you sit, little mortal, or will you stand?”
“We’re not staying for dinner,” Rory said.
The vines rustled though no wind blew. Rory reached out, her fingers hovering over a glowing grape. It pulsed , slow and steady, like a heartbeat. She pulled back, remembering the stories. In Dymas, the fruit fed on memory. One bite, and you forgot your own name.
Beyond the vineyard, an orchard of impossible trees stretched toward the bruised sky. The branches bore fruit that chimed like bells when touched, though no wind blew. Apples of burnished gold, pears of tarnished silver, plums that dripped liquid shadow onto the warm earth. The scent hit Rory then, overwhelming, a symphony of roasted meats, exotic spices, and something darker, like burnt sugar and iron. Her mouth watered. Her stomach growled. She had not eaten since breakfast, hours ago or perhaps days ago. Time moved strangely here, minutes stretching into hours, the amber sky never changing its bruised hue.
The Heartstone blazed against her chest, crimson light seeping through her cotton shirt. Rory clutched the pendant, the heat grounding her. “We need to move. Now.”
“Too late,” Nyx whispered, their form rippling like disturbed water . “The Prince knows we are here.”
They found the kitchens. A structure of bone and gilt, arched like a ribcage, ribs of white marble supporting a roof of stained glass that filtered the amber light into shades of blood and honey. Inside, long tables groaned under platters of food that moved, slithering slightly as if alive. Roast birds turned themselves on iron spits, basting in juices that steamed and hissed against the hot stone. The perfection of it stole Rory’s breath, the culinary artistry beyond anything human, each dish a masterpiece of colour and form, too beautiful to eat, too tempting to resist.
Figures moved between the stoves. Helbound souls, Rory realised, their forms blurred and flickering, working with mechanical precision. They wore aprons of woven shadow, their faces smooth masks. They did not look up. They never looked up. Their hands moved in endless loops, chopping herbs that wept sap like tears, stirring pots that bubbled with liquids no earthly chef could name. One paused, head tilting, nostrils flaring. It caught Rory’s scent. Human. Fresh. The soul’s mask cracked, revealing something hungry beneath, and then the figure turned back to its spit, the moment passing.
Rory studied the layout, her eyes scanning for the kitchen’s heart, the hearth that must power this impossible place. Her fingers found the scar on her left wrist, the crescent moon from childhood, grounding her. She calculated angles, looking for the seam in the Veil, the way back. But the geometry here defied Euclid. The walls curved inward yet expanded outward, a Möbius strip of bone and gilt.
Nyx drifted closer to one of the flickering souls, their shadow merging with the blurred figure. For a moment, two shapes became one, and Rory saw a glimpse of a man in seventeenth-century robes, screaming silently, trapped. Then Nyx pulled back, violet eyes dimming. “They are the ingredients as much as the meal,” they whispered. “Consumed by the realm, forever stirring, forever tasting.”
Isolde stood before a platter of fruit that rearranged itself into the shape of a crown. “The Prince always reclines at the head of the table,” she said. “But the table is round. There is no head. There is only hunger, and hunger is a circle without end.”
“Magnificent,” Isolde breathed. Her voice echoed in the vast hall. “The art of consumption. To eat is to conquer. To be eaten is to be remembered. Which will you choose, Aurora Carter?”
Rory backed toward the entrance. The Fae blade in her hand grew heavier, the moonsilver humming against her palm. “We came through the Veil for a reason. We’re leaving. Through the vines, back the way we came.”
The vines shuddered. The blossoms that had opened and closed in hypnotic rhythm snapped shut, revealing thorns like broken teeth. The ground beneath them groaned, a sound like a stomach digesting. The mosaic tiles cracked. Not broke, opened. Eyes blinked up from the stone, amber and pupil-less, blinking in terrible unison. The vines screamed, a high, wet sound that tasted of rot and old wine.
Above them, the bruised amber sky split. Not torn, but opened like a mouth , and rows of crystalline teeth descended, dripping with honey that smoked and hissed when it struck the warm earth.