Barlas wanted to demand why this familiar sorrow had been flung across worlds, but a sharp, rhythmic clang of steel on stone broke into his fury. A figure burst through the outer gates of the flagstone yard, not walking, but charging. He was a man-mountain of polished bronze armor, a flowing crimson cape billowing behind him like a predatory banner. His face, visible beneath the flared sides of his ornate helm, was a mask of rigid fury, eyes narrowed on Barlas. “Witchcraft!” the warrior bellowed, his voice ringing through the newly tranquil air. “What dark arts did you unleash, peasant, to fell the Miasma Gale? And what abomination have you called forth into our skies?” Barlas turned slowly, his patience thin after the apparition's ache and the girl's endless bowing. He regarded the man, who leveled a two-handed blade bearing a lion insignia straight at Barlas’s ribs. The man's balance was firm, honed by relentless drilling. “Witchcraft?” Barlas repeated, his voice dangerously low. “Boy, I just sneezed. Do you want me to sneeze you into next week?” Tala, still kneeling, gasped. “Sir Dastan! You dare accuse the Sun-Blessed One of dark magic? He saved us from the Breath of the World-Ender!” Dastan’s gaze snapped to the girl, then back to Barlas, suspicion hardening his brow. “Highness! Have your senses abandoned you? This charlatan manipulates the very fabric of our reality! Look at the sky! Look at this destruction!” He gestured wildly at the still-crumbling walls of the adjacent dwelling, reduced to rubble by Barlas’s sneeze. Barlas sighed. The sun was already dipping below the highest minarets of Firouz, painting the sky in shades of bruised plum and burning orange. The air, though no longer choked with dust, carried a new, unsettling chill. He had a familiar ache in his lower back, the one that meant he’d spent too long standing around after a minor inconvenience. He rubbed his temples. “Look, I don’t know what you think you saw, but I just cleared the air. And you,” he jabbed a finger at Dastan, who flinched, instinctively raising his sword in a defensive arc, “are going to catch your death of cold standing around in that flimsy metal costume. You’ll regret it when your bones ache.” “My armor is enchanted! I am Sir Dastan of the Sun-Lion Guard! I serve the Crown of Firouz!” Dastan roared, taking a step forward, ready to strike. “Prepare to face justice, demon!” Barlas merely flicked a finger. A small, almost lazy motion, aimed at the space just above Dastan’s prominent brow. It was meant to be a light tap, a 'get out of my way' nudge, like swatting a particularly annoying fly. [Divine Grace: Subjugation of the Arrogant] The effect was anything but light. Sir Dastan seemed to compress into himself for an instant, a crack like thunder erupting from his polished bronze cuirass. He shot backwards, an absurd projectile rocketing across the enclosure. He cleaved through the crumbling remains of the outer wall, then through the stone wall of a granary, and finally, with a dull thud, embedded himself in the thick, mud-brick wall of a stable beyond. Three walls, one after the other, splintered and burst into dust. Silence dropped across the stones. Tala lowered her folded palms inch by inch. From the stable beyond, a faint groan drifted out. Barlas stared at the gaping holes. “Now look what you made me do,” he muttered, exasperated. “That’s going to be a nightmare to fix. And he’s definitely going to get a chill now.” He stomped towards the series of impromptu tunnels Dastan had created. He found the soldier sprawled amidst splintered beams and scattered straw, bronze plates stove in and helm knocked crooked. Dastan blinked, fighting to focus as blood seeped from his nose. His sword lay several feet away, its lion-head pommel chipped. “Are you out of your mind?!” Barlas thundered, more irritated than concerned. “Standing out here in the evening air after being tossed around like a rag doll! You’re going to get pneumonia! Do you have any idea how much trouble it is to nurse someone back from pneumonia? You’ll be coughing up a lung for weeks! Honestly, where’s your common sense?” He pivoted toward the compound. “Tala! Go find some blankets! The thickest ones you have! And make it snappy! We can’t have him shivering into a fever.” Tala, still dazed, scrambled to obey. She returned moments later, her arms laden with several heavy, intricately woven quilts, their patterns depicting stylized suns and crescent moons, traditionally used in the deepest winter months. Barlas snatched the fabrics and wrapped Dastan, who struggled to prop himself onto an elbow. Barlas jerked the corners taut, swaddling the burly officer like an enormous bundle of linen. Dastan yelped as a particularly forceful tug exacerbated a bruise on his ribs. “Stop wriggling, you fool!” Barlas snapped, tucking the last corner under Dastan’s chin. “And you,” he pointed at Tala, “you were kneeling on that dirty ground for ages! No wonder you’re shaking. Come here.” He pulled her closer, bundling her into another thick quilt, patting her head with a gruff, insistent hand. “Honestly, everyone here is built like a twig. No wonder this place invites disaster. You all need to eat more, layer up, and stop working so hard to freeze yourselves to death.” [Divine Grace: Mantle of the Sun] A warm, golden light shimmered around Barlas, then flowed outwards, bathing Dastan and Tala in its gentle glow. Dastan, struggling to process the bewildering turn of events—the impossible flick, the scolding, the sudden, overwhelming warmth of the quilts—found his mind strangely clear. He felt no pain, only a profound sense of peace. The world, previously a chaotic mess of dark magic and accusations, now seemed to possess a crystalline clarity. This man, this… entity, had shattered him with a gesture, then bundled him in warmth and concern, scolding him like a child, yet the act felt like the highest honor. He stared up at Barlas, who was now grumbling about the logistics of patching up three walls. A sudden, undeniable realization crashed over Dastan. This wasn’t a demon. This wasn’t a charlatan. This was something far, far greater. This display wasn't cruelty, but raw protective fervor. The scolding wasn't petty anger; it was fierce, sacred care. “My Lord!” Dastan croaked, his voice thick with emotion. He struggled with his swaddling, trying to free his arms. “My Lord, forgive my blindness! I, Dastan, Knight of the Sun-Lion Guard, swear eternal fealty! My sword, my life, my honor are yours! Command me, and I shall gather the finest warriors, the most devout hearts, to form your Sacred Bulwark! A Holy Guard dedicated to your divine will!” Barlas stopped grumbling about the walls. He looked down at the officer, who openly wept, ducking his chin inside the mound of wool. “Sacred… what now? Just don't go getting hurt again, you oversized lump. And eat some soup. You look too thin.” Tala watched Dastan’s abrupt submission with glistening adoration. While Barlas turned to calculate repairs to his shattered yard, she quietly gathered fallen bricks, sliding them into the folds of her skirt. These were not mere stones; they were sacred fragments, blessed by the wrath of their new deity. A grand shrine would be needed, something worthy of such merciful, protective power. She would start collecting materials immediately. Just as the last vestiges of twilight faded, plunging the Sunlit Terrace into a new, uneasy darkness, a piercing shriek echoed across the city. A figure, wreathed in shimmering frost, stumbled past the broken portal, dropping flat in the open center. Its clothes were stiff with rime, its skin a ghastly blue. It looked up, eyes wide with terror. “The Ziryan Enclave… it’s been breached! The Goddess… she opened one eye!”

The Blankets of Divine Wrath