4 min read
The Girl in the Tower
October 5, 2017
As the sun dipped below the horizon, darkness enveloped her world—only to be broken hours later by the roaring blaze that consumed everything in its path.
Flames licked hungrily at the castle walls as she gazed out her window, watching as fire and smoke overtook the grounds below. The screams from every direction wove together into an ominous chorus, underscored by the oppressive weight of the blood-red moon hanging overhead, staining the sky a burnt umber.
The dark stone walls of her tower seemed to close in on her, the dusty blue fabric of her dress almost merging with the shadows. Golden-brown hair cascaded down her back, beads of sweat glistening on her skin in the oppressive heat. Framed by the inferno outside, her silhouette stood motionless, a figure at the center of chaos. Yet her demeanor remained unnervingly calm — complacent, almost resigned to the fate unfolding before her. She hummed softly, her voice barely audible amidst the crackling of the flames and the cries of those below, as if trying to find solace in the storm.
And then...
Flames licked hungrily at the castle walls as she gazed out her window, watching as fire and smoke overtook the grounds below. The screams from every direction wove together into an ominous chorus, underscored by the oppressive weight of the blood-red moon hanging overhead, staining the sky a burnt umber.
The dark stone walls of her tower seemed to close in on her, the dusty blue fabric of her dress almost merging with the shadows. Golden-brown hair cascaded down her back, beads of sweat glistening on her skin in the oppressive heat. Framed by the inferno outside, her silhouette stood motionless, a figure at the center of chaos. Yet her demeanor remained unnervingly calm — complacent, almost resigned to the fate unfolding before her. She hummed softly, her voice barely audible amidst the crackling of the flames and the cries of those below, as if trying to find solace in the storm.
And then...
…he awoke.
Ryder opened his eyes to darkness, broken only by the dim red numbers of his clock reading 3:13. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, the remnants of the dream lingering like smoke in his mind. It wasn’t unusual for him to dream, but this one had felt different. Vivid. More than a nightmare, it seemed almost tangible, as if he had stood in that burning tower himself.
Restless, Ryder sat up and glanced over at his desk, where Renard slept peacefully on his bed, undisturbed by his creator’s unrest. The raevan took out a blank sheet of paper and closed his eyes, letting the memory of the dream flow through him. He imagined the words “The Tower” at the top in an elegant font. As his freckles glowed faintly gold, the title materialized on the page, the letters shifting from a glowing gold to solid black ink.
Breathing deeply, Ryder visualized the scene again—the woman standing at the window, calm and composed as flames climbed higher, the anguished screams reverberating through the air, and the haunting blood moon casting its eerie glow over everything. He focused on capturing these details, pulling the fragments together into a cohesive image in his mind.
Opening his eyes, he imagined a brief synopsis forming on the paper beneath the title. Once again, his freckles glimmered, and a golden light traced the outline of each word before fading to leave behind a clear, what looked to be, handwritten paragraph recounting the dream’s events.
Ryder had done this many times before, using his magic to transfer his imagination onto paper. He knew from experience that this magical ink had a fleeting quality — it held his thoughts and stories for a time, but as days passed and memories dimmed, the words would slowly fade until the pages were blank once more unless he put forth more effort to reimagine them. It frustrated him, knowing his ideas were at risk of disappearing into nothingness. He lacked the patience to write with a pencil, and even if he tried, his thoughts often raced too fast for him to keep up. This was the only way he could capture them in the moment, before they slipped away.
Sighing, Ryder lay back down in bed, staring at the ceiling as exhaustion settled in.
“The Tower...by Ryder Rothmore,” he murmured to the empty room. The silence returned, but this time he felt a small thrill of excitement. A grin tugged at his lips as the words sank in. This dream — this nightmare — could be the start of something great, a story to be proud of.
And with that thought, he closed his eyes, the vision of the burning tower flickering like an ember in his mind, waiting to ignite into something more.
Ryder opened his eyes to darkness, broken only by the dim red numbers of his clock reading 3:13. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, the remnants of the dream lingering like smoke in his mind. It wasn’t unusual for him to dream, but this one had felt different. Vivid. More than a nightmare, it seemed almost tangible, as if he had stood in that burning tower himself.
Restless, Ryder sat up and glanced over at his desk, where Renard slept peacefully on his bed, undisturbed by his creator’s unrest. The raevan took out a blank sheet of paper and closed his eyes, letting the memory of the dream flow through him. He imagined the words “The Tower” at the top in an elegant font. As his freckles glowed faintly gold, the title materialized on the page, the letters shifting from a glowing gold to solid black ink.
Breathing deeply, Ryder visualized the scene again—the woman standing at the window, calm and composed as flames climbed higher, the anguished screams reverberating through the air, and the haunting blood moon casting its eerie glow over everything. He focused on capturing these details, pulling the fragments together into a cohesive image in his mind.
Opening his eyes, he imagined a brief synopsis forming on the paper beneath the title. Once again, his freckles glimmered, and a golden light traced the outline of each word before fading to leave behind a clear, what looked to be, handwritten paragraph recounting the dream’s events.
Ryder had done this many times before, using his magic to transfer his imagination onto paper. He knew from experience that this magical ink had a fleeting quality — it held his thoughts and stories for a time, but as days passed and memories dimmed, the words would slowly fade until the pages were blank once more unless he put forth more effort to reimagine them. It frustrated him, knowing his ideas were at risk of disappearing into nothingness. He lacked the patience to write with a pencil, and even if he tried, his thoughts often raced too fast for him to keep up. This was the only way he could capture them in the moment, before they slipped away.
Sighing, Ryder lay back down in bed, staring at the ceiling as exhaustion settled in.
“The Tower...by Ryder Rothmore,” he murmured to the empty room. The silence returned, but this time he felt a small thrill of excitement. A grin tugged at his lips as the words sank in. This dream — this nightmare — could be the start of something great, a story to be proud of.
And with that thought, he closed his eyes, the vision of the burning tower flickering like an ember in his mind, waiting to ignite into something more.