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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.

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

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. Tucked into the roots of an ancient, twisted