The God and the accolyte

Whose death is still greatly mourned or remembered in your world?

When the Light of the Tiger Faded

A Myth of Argentum and Queen Raelithe

They say the world did not break the night Argentum faded.

It simply… stopped breathing.

In every kingdom, priests looked skyward as the Tiger’s constellation dimmed, strip by golden strip, until even the youngest star winked out. The silence that followed was not the quiet of night, but the absence of something vast — a heartbeat the world had grown too accustomed to hearing. No thunder, no wind, no divine roar echoed from the heavens. Only stillness.

Across Crystalline, lanterns guttered. Fires burned strangely low. Children woke trembling, unable to explain why they felt suddenly alone.

But in Clier, the nation Argentum had favored with his brightest blessings, the silence took on the shape of grief.

For among his acolytes was Raelithe, the Emerald Flame — a queen whose devotion to the Tiger Eternus had guided both her rule and her people. Those who knew her said the light of Argentum lived in her eyes, and when she prayed, the palace crystals thrummed in answer.

On the first night after his constellation vanished, she stood upon the balcony of the Selin Palace, her hands pressed to the railing as though feeling for a pulse through stone. Ministers whispered around her, desperate for reassurance she could not give.

On the second night, the palace lights dimmed without explanation.

By the third, the high priests of Clier came to her bearing ancient texts, each claiming a different omen. Some spoke of ascension. Some of divine withdrawal. Some of a test only the faithful could pass.

Raelithe read every word and found no comfort.

On the seventh night, she rose before dawn. Wrapped in a cloak of emerald and gold, she descended alone into the cavern-temple beneath the Selin Peaks — the sacred place where she had first sworn her vow to Argentum.

The guards at the entrance offered to escort her, but she refused gently.

“This is not a path walked with others,” she said.

The cavern was lit by a single living crystal vein, pulsing with faint inner light. Once, it had glowed in answer to Argentum’s presence, vibrant as a sunbeam. Now the glow flickered, as though unsure whether to persist.

Raelithe approached it with bowed head.

Witnesses claimed she knelt at the base of the crystal and pressed her hands to its warm surface. Some said they heard her whisper a vow — that she would not abandon her god, even if he had been called beyond mortal sight. Others insisted no words were spoken at all, that her silence was her answer.

What happened next became legend.

The crystal brightened, sudden and sharp. Light wrapped around Raelithe like silk, lifting her spines, illuminating the tear tracks on her cheeks. For a heartbeat she remained whole, outlined in gold.

Then she dissolved.

Not into shadow, nor flame, nor smoke — but into pure radiance, threads of light that wove themselves into the crystal before fading like embers drifting into the dark.

When the guards rushed in, the cavern was empty save for the trembling glow of tiger-striped patterns rippling along the walls. The pulse of the vein endured until sunrise… then fell still.

The Council of Peaks declared seven days of mourning. In the palace, Prince Caelion — barely past childhood — was placed under their protection. Clier nearly fractured under the weight of its grief.

Faiths divided.

The Faithful of the Flame proclaimed Raelithe had ascended beside Argentum, chosen to protect his essence in the Celestial Veil.

The Order of the Vein argued she had crossed a hidden threshold, following him into realms unseen, and would return when balance was restored.

Scholars of the southern covenants insisted her devotion had anchored the last spark of Argentum’s presence — that without her sacrifice, the memory of the Tiger Eternus would already be lost.

None could prove the others wrong. None wished to. Loss rarely leaves only one story behind.

But among the people, the mourning transformed into ritual.

Each year, on the night that commemorated Argentum’s fading, Clier dimmed its lights. Lanterns were turned inward, illuminating walls instead of windows — a gesture of introspection, not spectacle. From dusk until dawn, no prayers were spoken. Children learned early to whisper their questions, to keep silence with reverence rather than fear.

At sunrise, the reigning monarch recited the Vow of the Vein, their voice the first sound permitted after the long stillness:

“We guard the light that remains.”

Far along the Sapphire Coast, stonemasons carved tall white pillars etched with tiger-stripe sigils. At dawn they caught the sun’s first rays and scattered them into the sea — an offering to both god and queen, carried by waves across the world.

Even the forges of Aska fell silent for seven nights. No hammer struck metal. No flames roared. The smiths said even divine fire deserved rest.

Generations passed, but the legend endured.

Raelithe’s descendants still rule Clier, and each one inherits a shard of Veinheart crystal from the Selin Peaks. Some mornings, the shard pulses faintly with a soft golden light — never long, never bright, but enough to stir hope in those who witness it.

And beneath the mountains, deep in the quiet places where crystal veins hum like distant song, travelers sometimes swear they hear a voice. A gentle one. A vigilant one.

Some say it is the queen, keeping watch.

Others say it is the Tiger, remembering.

But all agree on one truth:

When the Tiger’s roar fell silent, her heart became its echo.

And the world still listens.