Before the riders wake, there is a quieter hour.
I know that hour well.

This realm was built there —
in the stretch of night when sleep would not come
and the mind refused to rest.

The tower rose first.
Not as a fortress — as an anchor.

The heart was kept in candlelight.
Maps open. Ground steady.

The rooted one remembers seasons.
The wanderer carries a blue flame for crossings.

These were not invented for spectacle.
They arrived because long nights create space —
and space demands structure.

Before dragons. Before banners.
There must be keepers.

Someone has to hold the heart until morning.