The offering bowl before him stirs. A burst of sparks surges from the flames within. A burst of bright golden motes that lift like fireflies. One arcs toward him, and he lifts his hand as if catching a snowflake. The spark settles into his palm. Grief shakes his shoulders as he presses it to his chest.
He inhales, and his spine straightens, eyes wide with a look caught between joy and wonder. A long, shaking exhale leaks out of him, and the sound carries the words like an offering: “Thank you.”
The man looks unmade and rebuilt at once. Whatever had been broken stitched back together by the Tower’s light.
One after another, the stories continue. People bare their truths. Some speak softly, their voices thin as thread. Others shout, raw and shaking. And each time, the Tower responds. Its flames consume their confessions and return light in exchange. A quiet kind of healing.
A deep ache breaks open and spreads through my chest as I watch them. This Tower, this circle, this truth is what healing is meant to be. Real and messy and unpolished. Spoken aloud with cracked voices and red-rimmed eyes. People shaped by grief and guilt and the desperate hope that they are deserving of grace after the truth is known.
I’ve spoken so many words about healing, but I’ve never done this: Been soul searingly honest. Let myself burn. Trusted I’d still be whole on the other side.
I wrap my arms around myself, fingertips digging into my sides, trying to hold the ache in place.
I’m glad Declan’s gaze is fixed on the memory playing out in flames. Glad there’s a wall of heat and smoke between us. If he looked at me right now, I don’t know if I could hold myself together.
Flaming grains of sand overtake the image—piece by piece at first, then in great, flaming gusts. They devour the oasis, stripping away the trees, the orchards, filling the rivers and canals. The ring of honest confessions fades like smoke on the wind, swallowed by the rising hiss of dust and heat.
What remains is a husk of what came before. A barren encampment bleached by sun and silence.
This burnt-out echo is the present. The kingdom we fell into.
Guards march through the camp in rigid lines, theirarmor sculpted from flame. Villagers drift between tents—flickering shapes caught in the firelight—but something is off. Their joy is too bright. Their smiles too wide. They move like dancers performing steps they don’t dare stop. Costumes shimmer into place. Silk spills down their limbs in ripples of flames. Flaming jewels burn along their cheeks like frozen tears.
The vision shifts again.
The stage takes its place as Wands’ new heart, rising from the sand like a crown. On it, performers bow and twirl, movements perfect, rehearsed to each breath. They dance instead of speak. They spit fire instead of share truth.
Pain becomes performance. Confession becomes monologue. Applause replaces connection. And behind every perfect bow and beaming grin—they are silently breaking.
It’s in the tightness of their shoulders. In the tremble of their hands before they clap. In the flicker of panic in their eyes as they scan the shadows, hoping no one saw the moment their mask slipped.
In a kingdom built on performance, silence is safer than truth.
The flames flicker and morph as the next vision rises, conjured in coils of orange and gold.
My heart lurches in my chest, and I suck in a breath. “It’s me.”
The fire draws me in arcs of light—shifting, flickering, uncomfortably precise. She lifts her arms and lights candles, arranges crystals and herbs with meticulous care. Each movement is smooth and practiced.
Her head tilts.
She smiles. A carefully measured upturn of her lips, perfectly angled toward the glowing outline of her phone.
“I invite you to breathe. To trust the process. To be gentle with yourself.” Her voice,myvoice, flows out in streams of fire and smoke, slow and honeyed. Overly rehearsed. “And, of course, you must remember that healing is a journey, not a destination. Be kind to yourself as you go down this path.”
But I know the truth.
She hasn’t been kind to herself in years. This woman doesn’t know the meaning ofhealing.
She posts. The caption glows. It’s soft and lyrical and clean. I want to think this version of me mirrored in flame believes what she’s writing, but I know better.
The fire shifts, and the performance sloughs off like melting wax.
I watch her fold in on herself. The fire turns to smoke around her, and the only glow is the one from the screen in her hands.
She scrolls. Scrolls. Scrolls.
Searching for validation. Proof from others that she matters.
