Subduing the Scented Spire

I slipped back inside from the garden and marched onto the dark desk to secure the evening atmosphere. Sitting in a heavy glass saucer was an unlit, squat beeswax candle shaped like a miniature fortress tower. A true ruler dictates every aspect of nocturnal ambience. I didn't reach for fire; I tested structural resilience. Dropping into a textbook athletic stance, I grabbed an oversized wooden match from an open box, planted my white boots onto the mahogany, and levered the sulfur-tipped timber rod straight across the wax rim like a ceremonial scepter. The desk smells of honey and impending conquest.