Shrine of Fey echoes

Forward, through the gnarled cypress and drooping moss, the fey magic called. A shimmering, ethereal light pulsed faintly ahead, a beacon in the suffocating gloom. The air grew heavy, smelling of damp earth and something else—something sweet and intoxicating, like blooming night-jasmine and forgotten power. She pushed through a final curtain of weeping vines, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The very air thrummed with a quiet, powerful energy, and she felt the cost of her journey begin to settle in her soul.