You stood by the temple's edge, a candle cradled in your palms — its flame swaying with the wind like a fragile vow. White-robed acolytes formed a procession behind you, chants rising in quiet harmony. Before you, stood a towering structure made entirely of wax and flame.
It was no ordinary tower.
Melted candles—hundreds, perhaps thousands—had been stacked and shaped over weeks by temple hands. Some were crooked, others tall and lean; wax bled down their sides in rivulets of white and amber, like tears from forgotten statues. Wicks danced in erratic rhythm, and warm light pooled around the base in molten halos. The structure rose nearly two stories high—irregular, imperfect, but luminous. It seemed almost to breathe in the night air.
The people called it the Tower of Tears.
And you stood before it, robed in mourning white.
Thousands filled the plaza in hushed silence. Children sat on their fathers' shoulders. Elderly women held fig leaves to their chests. The scent of jasmine, melted wax, and temple smoke coiled together into something ancient and holy.
You did not speak.
Instead, you stepped forward, holding a single lit candle—tall and unmarked.
And placed it into the hollow carved at the tower's base.
The flame touched wax.
The wax caught flame.
And slowly, the first tear slid down.
It glistened gold, tracing a path through hardened ridges, pooling below with reverent grace.
A priestess began to sing—a low, wordless melody older than language—and the city followed. A thousand voices, soft at first, then rising, humming in time. Each person stepped forward with their own candle, and the tower came alive with fire.
From the palace walls to the temple arches, all of Southdale glowed.
You closed your eyes.
"To my mother and father," you whispered under your breath, unseen by the crowd. "To those who fell during the rebellion. And to every soul we loved, and lost."
Then you turned—silent and composed—and climbed the marble stairs that spiraled toward the highest chamber in the temple tower. Your footsteps echoed gently, each one a meditation, a rite of passage in itself.
At the summit, behind the glass-paneled balustrade, you stood alone—cloaked in ivory silk, a solitary figure gazing down at the city below. From this height, Southdale resembled something sacred, almost unreal. The temple courtyard below pulsed with firelight and reverence; the Tower of Candles burned like a spine of molten gold, each melted tier spilling softly into the next.
A thousand voices had risen in one song—voices of bakers, guards, widows, children—joined not by blood or power, but by memory.
And in that moment, you felt it.
Belonging.
Not to a throne. Not to a marriage.
But to them.
The people. The river. The dust that once clung to your hems as a child.
This was unity not enforced by decree, but bound by tradition—kept alive through grief and love and collective memory. And you, once invisible in your own court, stood now as keeper of that flame.
You placed your hand gently to the cool glass.
The silence did not feel empty. It felt full.
Tonight, you whispered to yourself, this will be the last tear I shed.
You closed your eyes, and thought of your parents. Your father's steady hand as he guided you through crowded festival streets. Your mother's voice, clear and gentle as she explained each offering's meaning. You remembered the rebellion, the loss, the coronation that nearly broke you.
And yet—here you stood.
"I will protect them," you murmured aloud, voice trembling only slightly. "This city. This river. This tradition. So long as I draw breath."
Somewhere below, another candle joined the tower.
And your vow—like wax in flame—hardened quietly into resolve.
…
Despite your protest, Marcus had insisted you return to your tower after the opening rites. The candlelight still clung to your skin, the chants echoing faintly through the temple stones. You had wanted to stay—walk the courtyards, speak to the people, feel the heat of remembrance in the breath of your city—but Marcus had placed a steady hand over yours and said firmly:
"Let them see you ascend. Not linger."
You had known him since you were a girl.
He had served your father before you, watched the corridors of Southdale through three reigns and two uprisings. When the time came for you to leave and become a queen consort in a foreign court, there had been no question who would steward your crown in your stead. Only Marcus could've carried the weight of your name without bending.
He had said little as you returned to the keep, but his eyes—sharp beneath his greying lashes—had scanned every noble too slowly, every gathering too long.
"They may question your absence," he murmured, "but they do not question your right to return."
You had left him at the steps, heart still caught in the shadow of the rites.
And now, wrapped in your night robes, the sacred oils still soft along your wrists, you heard urgent steps down the marble corridor.
Mira entered without preamble, breath short, a whisper of sweat dampening her brow. She bowed once, swiftly.
"My lady," she said. "The King has arrived."
Your hands froze above the embroidery you had been absently tracing.
You turned toward her. "At the gate?"
She shook her head. "No. He left his guard in the outer fields. The rites barred him from entry."
You said nothing.
You had imagined many things—his arrival loud and imperial, the weight of his name battering your walls. You had expected command, perhaps wrath. A declaration that crowns are not abandoned without consequence.
But this—
This patience.
This silence.
It rattled deeper than fury ever could.
"He said he will wait," Mira continued, her voice quieter now. "At the place where the bridge used to be."
The bridge.
Collapsed during your coronation. Bombarded and burned by rebel forces. A bloodstained monument now, left untouched since the uprising—where oaths had broken, where memory hurt too much to mend.
You rose, crossing to the window.
From your tower, you could not see the river valley, only the curvature of hills that dipped into mist. But tonight, something faint glowed at their base.
A campfire.
A light where there should be none. The outer fields forbade flame during the Days of Remembrance. And yet—there it was, a soft ember against the hush of sacred dark.
He was waiting.
You narrowed your gaze.
"Tell the kitchens to send food and water to his men," you said, your voice steady. "No slight must be allowed."
Mira bowed her head. "And the King?"
You hesitated, eyes still fixed on the hills that veiled him.
"I…" Your lips parted, then closed again. You swallowed down the ache. "Let him wait."