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.
Inside, the air smelled of dried lavender and rain. An old man, his beard woven with silver thread and tiny dried flowers, didn't look up from his cauldron. "You're late for the root, child," he murmured, his voice like grinding stones. "But the fog is patient. Sit. The tea is already poured." Download 0368cbb0ad7a55d1462158cc3f52c5e1 jpg
He pointed to a mismatched ceramic mug on a stump-table. Beside it lay a bundle of glowing, sapphire-tinted roots. Elara realized then that in the Hollow, you don't find what you're looking for—it finds you, provided you're brave enough to follow the light through the mist. Just as the last of the purple twilight