First come the spiders. A thousand little feet upon the roots, upon the stones, upon the silver bridges stretched between the sleeping trees. They carry no torches. They need none. For moonlight gathers in their webs and shines from their backs like frost upon a grave. Behind them come the moths, white-winged and silent, bearing flowers that have never seen the sun. They drift in pairs through the blackwood, and wherever they pass, the flowers bow. Then come the bells. Small bells. Buried bells. Bells of iron and bone that ring beneath the earth with every measured step. Hush now. Hush now. The Queen is coming. The goblins follow, thin as roots and crooked as old branches, their faces hidden beneath masks of bark. They play their fiddles with bows of horsehair, slow and mournful, and the tune is older than the forest. Behind them walk the knights. Eight-legged knights in coats of midnight velvet, their armor lacquered black, their spears tipped with silver. They do not speak. They do not look aside. They march in perfect measure through the fern and fog, and their long shadows crawl before them. Then come the ladies of the court. Pale fairy women with spider silk trailing from their fingers, their hair tangled with thorns, their crowns made from fly wings and tiny human teeth. They carry bowls of dark honey. They carry roses without petals. They carry the names of those who came before. And then— the forest falls silent. Even the bells cease. Even the moon seems to wait. For through the trees comes the Queen. She is taller than any mortal woman. Her gown is black silk, but no loom made it. It hangs from her shoulders in endless layers of web, each thread bright with dew, each strand trembling with something alive. Her crown is a great silver spider, its legs spreading across her brow. Eight eyes gleam beneath it. Eight pale stars. She walks barefoot upon the moss. Where her feet touch, spiders gather. Where her shadow falls, flowers close. And wherever she passes, the webs begin to grow. Across the branches. Across the stones. Across the path behind her. Until the procession itself is sealed within a shining cathedral of silk. The Queen raises one white hand. The court kneels. The fiddles begin again. Slowly. Softly. And the spiders descend from the branches upon threads of silver, turning in the moonlight as the Queen passes beneath them. Behold the Queen. Behold the Widow of the Wood. Behold she who spins the night, she who binds the moon, she who keeps beneath her web all beautiful and doomed. And onward they go— deeper into the forest, past the last warm cottage, past the last human road, past the stones where old offerings lie, until there is nothing left but darkness, silver thread, and the sound of a thousand tiny feet marching toward the heart of the night.
