Elara approached tentatively. There was no sound of owls or wind here, only the low, rhythmic hum of the earth itself. When she knocked on the heavy cedar door, it didn't creak; it sighed open.

Tucked into the roots of an ancient, twisted oak sat a cottage so small it looked grown rather than built. Its thatched roof was thick with glowing moss, and from its single round window, a warm light spilled onto the leaf-littered floor.

Just as the last of the purple twilight vanished, Elara saw it—a soft, amber pulse through the grey veil. It wasn't the fungus. It was a window.