Her Sporeness sat on her throne and watched the knight kneel on her floor. Spores fell from her rotting crown like slow snow. She had one goal left in her: find the hunter who wore her kin's caps on his belt, and end him. The knight said he wanted the same thing. She did not believe him yet. He had brought a gift to prove his claim. A small red castle, carved from mushroom flesh and set with quartz, sat between them on the stone. He said it was a map. He said the hunter's lodge lay at its tallest spire. Her Sporeness did not touch it. Around her throne, the rot had spread. Bone and crystal fused along the back wall, weeping red. Vines thick with blood-capped mushrooms climbed the pillars. One of her shambling kin stood by the door, eyes glowing pale, jaw hanging open. It watched the knight without blinking. She stood. Spores burst from her shoulders in a slow cloud. "Breathe," she said. The knight breathed. He did not cough. He did not fall. A true trophy-taker would have hidden his face behind cloth. He had not. She sat back down. "Rise," she told him. "You ride with me at dusk." The shambler by the door turned its head toward the carved castle, and Her Sporeness knew her quiet hunt was a quiet hunt no longer.