A Snap-Fiction Story
By Micah Siemens
In the hill-kingdom of Aereth, there stood a watchtower higher than any keep. From its crown, one could see the whole valley at once: trade roads winding like pale ribbons, fields ripening or failing, rivers flashing warnings in the sun. Those who ruled the kingdom trusted the tower more than treaties, more than armies.
For whoever watched the valley first could rule it best.
The task of the Watcher was simple.
Look.
Those chosen for the tower were trained from childhood to sharpen the eye—to read smoke before fire, posture before intent, shadow before storm. A good Watcher could save cities. A poor one could lose them.
For many years, Elion was the finest Watcher Aereth had known.
He saw raiders before they crossed the hills. He saw drought hiding in green fields weeks before the wells fell low. He saw falsehood in the way envoys turned their faces from the light. Because of him, the kingdom prospered. Storehouses filled. Borders held. The king slept soundly.
Elion was praised for his sight.
Yet the higher he climbed, the smaller his world became.
From the tower, people thinned into patterns. Villages became vulnerabilities. Merchants became margins. Soldiers became sums. Elion learned to trust what could be measured, named, prepared for. He kept his confidence stored high and guarded, like treasure sealed against loss.
The kingdom depended on him.
Or so he believed.
One evening, as the sun slid low and painted the valley in copper and ash, an old traveler climbed the tower steps. No guard challenged him. No signal horn sounded. Elion did not notice the man until he stood beside him at the parapet.
“You see much,” the traveler said.
“I see what matters,” Elion replied without turning.
The traveler’s voice was calm, neither impressed nor offended. “Then tell me—what is it your eye is fixed upon?”
Elion gestured outward, toward the roads and fields. “The kingdom. Its safety. Its abundance.”
The traveler nodded slowly. “And does the kingdom belong to you?”
Elion hesitated. “It depends on me.”
The traveler was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You cannot serve both the kingdom and what the kingdom gives you.”
Below them, a caravan lay broken along the eastern road. A wagon wheel had split. Oil bled into the dust. Families knelt in the road, trying to salvage what they could before night fell.
Elion saw it instantly—the cost, the delay, the risk. Aid would slow troop movement. Supplies would thin reserves.
“What do you see?” the traveler asked.
“A loss,” Elion said.
The traveler shook his head. “Your eye is bright, but it is not whole.”
Elion turned sharply. “My sight has filled our storehouses.”
“Yes,” the traveler said gently. “But you have stored your treasure where fear can reach it.”
The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched long across the valley, touching even the tower’s base.
“If your eye were sound,” the traveler continued, “your whole self would be filled with light. But when the eye serves fear, even light becomes darkness. And how deep that darkness runs.”
Elion felt something tighten in his chest, then loosen—like a rope drawn too long at last released. He realized he had been holding his breath.
“What would you have me do?” he asked quietly.
The traveler did not point outward, toward threats or horizons. He pointed downward, toward the road.
“Look there,” he said. “Not to measure. To care.”
Elion descended the tower.
He did not calculate. He did not weigh outcomes or preserve margins. He ordered aid sent. Food opened. Guards dispatched—not to protect wealth, but people.
From the tower above, the valley looked less manageable.
From the road below, it looked alive.
When Elion returned to the watchtower at dawn, the traveler was gone. The tower still stood. The kingdom still needed watching.
But Elion no longer believed it rested on him.
And when he looked now, the light did not strain or burn.
It rested.
Leave a comment