AI The shimmering distortion of the Veil snapped shut behind them with the sound of a plucked bowstring.
Rory stumbled forward, her boots sinking ankle-deep into plush, violet moss. She caught her balance, blinking against a sudden, overwhelming wash of warm amber light. Above them, the sky stretched out in an unbroken dome of liquid gold, devoid of sun or clouds, yet radiating a heavy, drowsy heat that smelled of caramelized sugar and crushed cloves.
Against her collarbone, the Heartstone Pendant gave a final, fading throb of heat before settling into a dull crimson ember against its silver chain. Her left hand dropped to her hip, fingers brushing the hilt of the moonsilver blade. Even through the leather sheath, the Fae weapon radiated a sharp, wintery chill , a stark anchor against the syrupy warmth of the air.
"Breathe shallowly, little bird. The air itself is fermented."
Nyx’s voice drifted like dry leaves scraping across pavement. The Shade towered beside her, six feet of condensed midnight refusing to yield to the amber glow. Where the golden light hit their shoulders, the edges of their humanoid form frayed into wisps of black smoke, curling and snapping back into place. Faint violet eyes narrowed as Nyx scanned the horizon.
"Fermented?" Rory wiped a slick film of humidity from her forehead, the small crescent scar on her left wrist catching the strange light. "It smells like my boss's kitchen during the Lunar New Year rush, just... sweeter. Where are the brimstone pits?"
Isolde glided past them, her waist-length silver hair catching the amber radiance like spun glass. The Half-Fae’s bare feet brushed the thick moss, yet the violet fronds did not bend beneath her weight . She left no tracks. Her pale lavender eyes dilated, drinking in the sprawling landscape.
"A cage does not need iron bars when the lock is forged from appetite." Isolde tilted her head toward a ridge of twisted, bronze-barked trees. "Welcome to the first table."
They moved past the ridge, and the true scale of Dymas unfolded below them.
Rory stopped dead.
Sprawling vineyards carpeted the rolling hills in geometric perfection, but the vines were thick as pythons, pulsing with a rhythmic , vascular movement. Translucent globes of fruit, some the size of human heads, hung heavy from the boughs. Inside the taut skins of the fruit, luminescent liquids swirled in shades of magenta and gold. Further down the valley, an orchard of bone-white trees wept thick, amber sap into carved alabaster troughs that snaked through the terrain like an irrigation system of pure honey.
"It's moving," Rory whispered. She pointed toward the nearest trellis.
A vine uncoiled from its wooden post, slithering through the dirt to wrap around a fallen, overripe gourd. Thorns as long as her fingers punctured the rind. Within seconds, the gourd shriveled, sucked dry by the parent plant, which then swelled and blossomed with three new, iridescent flowers. The petals opened with a wet, sighing sound that raised the hairs on Rory’s arms.
"Nothing goes to waste in the Prince's larder." Nyx drifted over a patch of turf where the soil looked suspiciously like dark, moist cake crumb. Their shadow-stuff rippled, pulling tight against their frame to avoid touching a cluster of pale, gill-less mushrooms that exhaled puffs of glittering spores. "The ground hungers as much as the guests."
Rory stepped carefully , keeping to the flat, grey flagstones of a path that wound deeper into the orchard. The silence of the place pressed against her eardrums, broken only by the low, ubiquitous hum of unseen insects and the occasional wet plop of bursting fruit. Yet, beneath the silence, a low vibration resonated through the soles of her boots. Distant laughter. The clinking of thousands of glasses.
"Look at the roots," Rory said, crouching beside one of the bone-white sap trees.
She drew the leaf-shaped dagger. The moonsilver gleamed with a faint, stubborn luminescence, rejecting the amber sky. Using the flat of the cold blade, she parted a curtain of weeping moss at the base of the trunk.
The bark wasn't wood. Up close, the pale surface showed pores and the faint, bluish trace of veins. Where the sap bled into the alabaster trough, the bark puckered like a healing wound.
"Is this...?" Rory swallowed hard, her stomach turning against the rich scent of roasted meats and vanilla that suddenly wafted on the breeze.
"The earth remembers those who broke their fast and never stopped," Isolde murmured, drifting to a halt beside Rory. She did not look down at the root. Instead, she plucked a single, crystalline leaf from an overhanging branch. The leaf dissolved on her fingertips into a fine white powder that smelled of salt and copper. "They signed the parchment in London, in Paris, in Rome. Now they feed the roots, or they stir the pots."
Nyx solidified, their towering form blocking the amber glare as they leaned over the alabaster trough. Violet eyes reflected in the slow-moving river of golden sap. "Soul-grafted flora. Belphegor’s botanists have grown bold since the seventeenth century. Touch nothing to your lips, Aurora. A single drop of that sap will rewrite your tongue to crave only ash."
Rory sheathed the Fae blade, wiping her palm on her jeans even though she hadn't touched the tree. She stood, her bright blue eyes scanning the winding path ahead. The orchard gave way to a manicured garden of staggering proportions. Topiaries shaped like roaring chimeras and weeping angels towered thirty feet high, their leaves dark crimson. Between them, fountains of dark, bubbling wine splashed into basins of green marble .
A figure knelt beside one of the fountains.
Rory dropped into a crouch behind a bush of bloated, black roses. Nyx melted into the shadow of a chimera topiary, vanishing entirely save for two pinpricks of violet light. Isolde simply stood still in the center of the path, her ethereal form blending into the golden haze like a mirage.
The figure at the fountain wore the crisp, white double-breasted jacket of a head chef, though the fabric was stained up to the elbows in violet juice. He held a silver ladle, skimming foam from the wine basin with frantic, jerky movements. A heavy iron chain ran from a collar around his neck, disappearing into the marble base of the fountain.
"Needs salt," the chef muttered, his voice cracked and raw . He dipped a finger into the wine, tasted it, and spat onto the moss. "Too sweet. The marrow isn't rendering. If the third course fails, he takes my hands. Needs salt..."
He reached into his apron, pulled out a coarse block of pink crystal , and began grating it into the fountain with a rasp that set Rory’s teeth on edge. He wasn't using a grater; he was scraping the salt block against the raw, calloused palm of his own hand, letting skin and crystal fall together into the dark wine.
Rory’s fingers tightened on the moonsilver hilt. She took a half-step forward.
A tendril of pure darkness lashed out from the topiary, wrapping around her scarred wrist. The contact was freezing, like plunging her arm into black ice.
"Look closer at his eyes," Nyx’s wind-whisper voice hissed right beside her ear.
Rory froze, squinting through the crimson leaves. The chef turned his head as he reached for a basket of pale, squirming tubers. His eyes were entirely solid gold, devoid of pupil or sclera. A wide, grotesque smile stretched across his face, completely at odds with his frantic muttering and bleeding palm. He hummed a jaunty tavern tune between complaints, thoroughly lost in the ecstasy of his own torment.
"Contracted," Nyx breathed, releasing her wrist. The Shade reformed beside her, towering and tense. "His mortal shell is long dead. That is a helbound shade, drunk on the perfection of his craft. Cut his chain, and he will carve you into fillets for interrupting his reduction."
"The banquet halls lie beyond the hedge," Isolde said, her voice carrying clearly, though the chef didn't even twitch at the sound. She pointed a pale finger toward an archway woven from living, thorny briars at the far end of the garden. Through the arch, terraced pavilions of black glass and gold filigree rose against the amber sky, teeming with silhouettes. "The music grows loud. The gluttons gather."
Rory looked from the bleeding chef to the towering pavilions, the constant, sweet pressure of the realm's air making her temples ache. She adjusted her grip on her dagger, kept her boots squarely on the grey stones, and stepped toward the briar arch.