Tala gasped, a small, frightened sound that Barlas barely heard over the rising clamor from the city. He saw her flinch, her small hands clutching at the thick quilt he’d wrapped her in. That infernal, icy finger was pointed right at *his* responsibility. He didn’t care about the landmass. He cared that this spectral nuisance was making his follower tremble. The nerve.
“Oh, for the love of—” Barlas muttered, taking a protective half-step in front of Tala. He squinted at the massive projection, as if trying to discern the identity of the rude person behind it. “Are you quite finished with your dramatics? You’re disturbing the peace. And frankly, you’re making the princess nervous.”
Before the weeping visage could respond, a new commotion erupted at the sun-drenched archway leading into the Terrace. A procession of figures, tall and slender, with skin like polished ivory and hair the color of fresh snow, swept into the courtyard. Their robes, woven with silver thread, rustled like crisp winter leaves. They hailed from the northern groves, known for spellcraft and haughty lineage.
At their head strode an imperious aristocrat. His features were sharp, chiseled, and currently twisted in a sneer toward Barlas and Tala. A dozen retainers, each carrying a pole carved from dark, twisted wood, fanned out behind him.
“The demands of the Sleeping Goddess are absolute!” the noble called out, his voice sharp. Ignoring Barlas, he pinned Tala beneath his gaze. “Princess Tala, daughter of Firouz, your blood is required to preserve the balance. It is an honor, a duty bequeathed by your ancestors. Yield yourself to the cold, and save us all.”
He took a step toward Tala, his hand outstretched, a predatory glint in his pale eyes. The surrounding citizens recoiled from the newcomers, murmuring in fear.
Barlas noted the reaching hand and Tala's retreat. His temper, already hot from the giant weeping projection and the earlier frost, rose higher. These arrogant stick-figures were going to *take* her? After all his effort to keep her from catching a chill? He had just gotten her properly bundled! This was unacceptable.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Barlas demanded, his voice low, a dangerous rumble that nevertheless everyone heard. The elf paused, surprised that someone in a plain tunic dared address him. “You think you can just march in here and start demanding my… my *guest* be handed over? She’s under my protection. You want to talk about ‘sacrifices,’ how about you sacrifice that ridiculous expression on your face?”
The elf drew back his lips. “This is a matter of mortal preservation! Do not interfere with divine will!”
“Divine will, my foot,” Barlas scoffed. He moved with a speed that blurred, a single step bringing him directly in front of Aerion. Before the elven lord could react, Barlas reached out, not with a fist, but with a surprisingly gentle grip. He pinched Aerion’s pointed ear between his thumb and forefinger, giving it a sharp, paternal tug.
The noble yelped, a high, squeaking sound. Though a head taller, he bent double, cheek level with Barlas's glare. His retainers froze, rods raised, dumbfounded.
“Now listen here, you overgrown sapling,” Barlas scolded, his voice resonating with an aggressive tenderness that only he seemed capable of. He gave the ear a firm tug. “You don’t just walk into someone’s home and threaten their people. You certainly don’t try to drag them off to some icy abyss without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ Do you know how much trouble it is to keep someone healthy these days? The princess is frail, and she’s already been through enough. She needs a warm blanket and a quiet place, not… whatever nonsense you’re spouting. Have you no manners? No common sense?”
The elf sputtered, trying to pull away, but Barlas held firm. His face, usually serene, was blotchy with humiliation and fury. “Let go, brute! This insults the Ziryan Enclave! You will regret this impudence!”
“Impudence?” Barlas huffed, releasing the ear and shoving him back two full paces. “You’re the rude one. Bargaining away a child’s life like a sack of dates. Pathetic.”
The lord straightened, neck flushed scarlet. His pale eyes blazed with a murderous light. “You defy the old covenants? Very well! You will be bound and forced to witness our true power!” He barked a command. “Ancestral Binding! Now!”
The dozen elves behind him sprang into action. They slammed the butt-ends of their dark staves into the flags, chanting in a guttural cadence. Runes of crackling violet energy erupted around Barlas, forming a glowing cage of pure force. The air grew heavy, crackling with raw magic. The energy pulsed, attempting to crush and restrain him.
Barlas merely frowned. He felt a vague pressure, like a tight shirt. It caused no true hindrance, barely noticeable, but intensely irritating. He stretched his neck, then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he simply rotated his shoulders, attempting to ease the phantom stiffness. He felt a slight pop in his back.
[Divine Grace: Shattering of Hubris]
With a sharp crack like split timber, every carved rod snapped in half. The violet runes flickered, sputtered, and vanished. The air cleared. The elves stared at their splintered wood, then at Barlas, horrified. Their sacred implements lay cracked by a simple flex of muscle.
Before the lord could process the mishap, Dastan stepped forward, chin high. He drew his gleaming sabre, its polished surface reflecting the sunlight. He was no longer the dazed knight. He was the unwavering shield.
“Lord Barlas,” Dastan declared, his voice ringing with fierce devotion, “permit me to handle these… these buzzing gnats. They have dared to raise their paltry magic against the very sun itself. They have insulted your boundless generosity and threatened your ward! This Dastan, and the Holy Guard of Firouz, shall ensure no such insolence stains your blessed sanctuary again!” He gestured to the surrounding citizens, a surprising number of whom had picked up whatever improvised weapons they could find – brooms, gardening tools, even a child’s wooden sword – and were now glaring at the elves with righteous anger. The Holy Guard, though unofficial, had found its feet.
The elves, their weapons splintered and spell evaporated, looked between Barlas, Dastan, and the armed crowd. The lord blanched, dropping to his knees as his broken wood clattered against stone. His retinue followed suit, pride drained away.
“Forgive us, oh Temperer of Frost, oh Breaker of Spells!” the elf cried, pressing his forehead to the stones. “We are but fools! We mistook your boundless might for… for mere mortal strength! We beg for your mercy! Let us join your sanctuary! Let us serve and learn humility at your feet!”
Barlas sighed, rubbing his temples. Now he had a bunch of sniveling elves to deal with. Just what he needed. The sky, as if mirroring his irritation, began to shift. Not merely twisting into shadows now, but bleeding. A deep, violent crimson seeped across the sky, painting the land in the hue of fresh blood. A low thrum began, vibrating through the ground, growing steadily in intensity. The Sunlit Terrace, along with the surrounding valleys, shuddered in a rhythmic tremor. It was the frantic, quickening heartbeat of the Sleeping Goddess.