The rocky hillside is steep and treacherous, loose stones skittering beneath your feet as you climb. The orange glow grows steadily brighter, casting long, wavering shadows across the jagged terrain. A warm breeze carries the scent of woodsmoke and something sweet—like honeyed mead. You grip a gnarled root to steady yourself, your palms scraped raw, but the promise of light and warmth drives you onward.

At last you crest the hill, and the source of the glow reveals itself: a small cottage with a thatched roof and a single lit window, nestled in a shallow hollow. Smoke curls from a crooked chimney, and a rickety fence of woven branches encircles a small garden of wilted herbs. The door is ajar, spilling amber firelight onto the threshold, and from within comes the soft sound of a lullaby hummed in a language you almost recognize.