The Autumn Sovereign

She does not walk the forest. The forest walks with her.

Every fallen leaf is a subject, every drifting maple a banner. The ancient wood of her crown remembers centuries of wind and rain, yet it bows to her now—living branches crowned with ember-red gems and the last fire of the season. 

When she passes, the path softens. Roots rise to cushion her bare feet. Moss climbs her gown of woven bark and silk. Even the light leans closer, golden and reverent, as if the sun itself has come to pay homage.

They call her queen, but the trees have a simpler name for her.

They call her home.

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