In autumn, she wandered the fading woods. She was the last of her house, a relic of a faded age, like these trees.
Her servants flitted about, gathering goblin fruit. They filled panniers with spice-apples and honey-berries, cultivars that had been piled in silver dishes in her father’s house. She reached up and plucked one from a branch.
She took a bite and grimaced. It was over-ripe and cloying, with a hint of rot already forming. It was full of the memories of a tyrannical empire fallen.
The last princess returned to the hut she’d traded for the world, resolute.

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