The Holy Tower

Rain hammered against the thick glass. The thuds sent vibrations through the stone walls, refusing to let her sleep. Seventeen-year-old Sara opened her eyes. Darkness filled the attic. She let out a sigh and pushed the quilts aside. Swinging her bare feet over the edge of the mattress, she met the freezing floorboards. She didn't stumble. She didn't need a candle to navigate the space. She knew every flagstone, every rug, and every piece of oak furniture by heart. It had been her entire world for the past twelve years. A gilded cell.

She walked to the window and placed her palms against the freezing pane. The glass was thick and obscure, a mosaic of muted colors that warped the outside world into muddy shapes. Water droplets traced frantic paths on the other side, but she could not see the storm. She could only hear the downpour mocking her confinement. She hated this window. She despised it with a quiet intensity. She had asked her father countless times to replace it with clear glass so she could at least watch the birds or see the city below. He always refused. He granted her material requests—velvet dresses, jewel-encrusted combs, leather-bound books—but he stubbornly denied her the right to see beyond her cage.

A dark wave of thoughts washed over her. She rested her forehead against the cold pane, closing her eyes. Why did she even bother asking for normal things? An inner voice sneered at her from the shadows of her mind. She had no right to demand a normal life. She was King Yoren’s illegitimate daughter. She was a living disgrace. History books rarely mentioned royal bastards, and when they did, they offered no kindness. The Yoren dynasty prided itself on being the holy soldiers of the Gods. They projected an image of flawless virtue and rigid chastity. A child born out of wedlock was a lewd infringement on that sanctification. She was the scandal her father needed to hide. To protect his pristine reign, he tucked her away in the highest attic of the holy tower, out of sight and out of mind.

Sara pushed herself away from the window. Standing in the dark only fed her self-pity. She struck a match and lit a solitary candle on her oak desk. The golden flame chased away the shadows, illuminating a stack of tax registers. Her father brought them during his visits. It was a mundane task, just adding numbers and checking for forgery or embezzlement. Yet, she cherished the work. She pulled out the wooden chair and sat down, opening the top ledger. She dipped her quill into the inkwell and began her calculations. The scratch of the nib on parchment grounded her. Finding errors gave her a brief illusion of usefulness. It made her feel connected to the kingdom she was barred from entering. It made her feel like a daughter helping her father, rather than a secret being managed.

She forced her focus onto the columns of numbers. She told herself to count her blessings instead of her sorrows. Look around, she thought. The attic was spacious and luxurious. Her bed was massive, piled with goose-down pillows and thick quilts. Her wardrobe bulged with silk gowns and winter cloaks spun from wool. Small wooden boxes overflowed with pearls and gold chains. A sturdy bookshelf held her private collection of novels, alongside heavy tomes she borrowed from the tower's archives. She even had old porcelain dolls lining the mantle—relics of a childhood spent in isolation. She had a solid roof over her head, hot meals delivered to her door, and most importantly, a father who loved her. He might not acknowledge her to the kingdom, but he acknowledged her in private. He visited her twice a month. Sometimes more, when the kingdom's affairs allowed. Many bastards were cast into the streets or murdered in their cribs. She was alive. She was cared for. She just had to endure the confinement.

By the time the candle burned halfway down, she closed the final ledger. She rubbed her tired eyes. The task was done. She glanced at the brass clock on her mantle. It was still an hour before dawn. The wooden doors to her room would remain locked from the outside for a long time. She could not leave to fetch a new book. She could not go back to sleep with the rain pounding the glass. Sara hated the rain. The rainy seasons were always the hardest, for those were the weeks when her father visited less, if at all.

The silence in the room stretched out, thick and suffocating. The loneliness of her existence crept into her chest. It squeezed her lungs. She needed a distraction. She needed warmth to chase the chill from her bones. Sara stood from the desk and spotted her small porcelain tub in the corner of the washroom. She turned the brass faucets, letting scalding water pour into the basin. She reached for a glass vial on the shelf and let a few drops of jasmine essence fall into the rising steam. The floral scent bloomed in the air, her absolute favorite.

While the tub filled, she untied the ribbons of her pink cotton nightgown and let the fabric pool around her ankles. She stood before the tall mirror mounted on the wardrobe door. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow over her skin. She observed her reflection in the dim light. She possessed a porcelain complexion, unmarred by the sun she rarely saw. Her body was shifting from a girl's straight frame into feminine curves. Her breasts were round and firm, just big enough to fit in her small palms. Her hips flared out gently above slim legs and round buttocks. But it was her hair and eyes that held her attention. Her silver hair cascaded down her back like liquid moonlight. It was silky and thick. Her eyes stared back at her—a unique shade that her father praised whenever he saw her. He always told her how pure her eyes were. She had never seen anyone else with her coloring. But then again, she rarely met anyone at all.

She turned away from the glass. She laid out a warm purple dress and matching undergarments on a nearby chair for the morning. Then, she stepped into the tub. The hot water bit into her skin, sending a rush of heat through her muscles. She sank down until the water reached her collarbone. She closed her eyes and let out a sigh of delight. The rigid anxiety of her daily routine began to melt away in the fragrant steam.

Living here was unnatural. The holy tower was a sacred institution built to teach and train young men into devout priests. It was no place for a teenage girl. The priests were vital to the kingdom, acting as the men of the Gods. They spread wisdom and guided