Ashthorn

The air smells of damp earth and sweet spores, glowing softly beneath a canopy of towering mushrooms. Their caps stretch overhead like stained glass skies, dripping light instead of rain. She stands still, silk skirts brushing moss that hums faintly beneath her feet, feeling the familiar weight of expectation settle on her shoulders. Every path curls back on itself here, winding her deeper into a kingdom built to keep her safe, and still. But her heart pulls beyond the lantern-lit groves and obedient trails. Somewhere past the spore fog and singing roots is a world that does not bow or wait. She closes her eyes, steadying her breath, and listens past the whispers of the land. Tonight, the mushrooms seem to lean away, as if making room. For the first time, escape feels possible.