The rhythmic tremor intensified, a visceral drumbeat pounding through the very bones of the world. Dust sifted down from the ceiling of the sanctuary, a fine red powder matching the blood-soaked sky. The newly humbled Ziryan elves, still prostrate on the ground, whimpered, their faces pressed against the stones as if trying to burrow into the earth itself. Princess Tala clasped her trembling hands over her mouth, watching the churning crimson clouds with an uncharacteristic terror. Sir Dastan positioned himself before her, raising his heavy kite shield, though no physical barrier could repel such an atmospheric collapse. His grip on his pommel strained till his tendons stood rigid. He didn’t look at Barlas; he looked at the sky, a silent challenge in his gaze. He awaited his lord’s command, ready to face whatever came. Barlas, however, had no time for theatrics. The endless, booming thrum was grating on his nerves, and the sight of Tala’s fear curdled his stomach. He didn't care about the continent, the curses, or the sleeping goddesses. He cared that his people were scared. He cared that this incessant shaking was making it hard to think. He needed this noise to stop. He needed to find whatever was causing this racket and give it a piece of his mind. He strode to the edge of the courtyard, ignoring the frantic pleas of the elves who scrambled out of his path. “Lord Barlas, no! The Aetherial squall will tear you apart!” one wailed, but Barlas merely grunted, already measuring the distance. The very air above the Sunlit Plaza was a tempest of raw, swirling energy, a vortex of scarlet light and unseen forces that roared like a thousand tortured souls. Without a word, Barlas launched himself into the sky. He didn’t leap; he simply *was* in the air, a blur of motion that left a faint, shimmering afterimage. The crimson gale immediately assailed him, a crushing pressure that sought to rip him limb from limb. It was like being caught in the maw of a cosmic beast, all teeth and unseen claws. For a fleeting moment, as the howling gale closed around him, the familiar scent of lilac and frankincense—Zarmin’s perfume—hit him with physical force. It wasn’t the faint ghost of it from the ice shard; this was vibrant, overwhelming, as if she stood right beside him. And with it came a memory, sharp and unwelcome. *He was on the pavement, rain slicking the grimy alley behind the 'Crimson Lotus' tea house. The air was thick with the smell of wet concrete and cheap perfume. A frantic shout, a glint of metal in the flickering streetlamp. “No!” he’d yelled, pushing Zarmin behind him. The impact had been like a sledgehammer to the chest, a blinding flash of pain, then an unraveling darkness. He remembered seeing her face, contorted in a silent scream, her eyes wide with a terror that mirrored his own sudden, horrifying realization. He had never spoken the words aloud. He never got to tell her.* The memory shattered as Barlas slammed into the true core of the scarlet tempest. The pressure intensified a hundredfold, trying to flatten him, to unravel his very being. But Barlas merely flexed, annoyed. The storm groaned, a pained, deep sound, as if an immense, unseen hand was being crushed. [Divine Grace: Subjugation of the Vortex] Then, through the roiling tempest, a breach appeared. Not a tearing of the sky, but a parting, like curtains drawn back by an invisible hand. And there, revealed in the heart of the storm, was not a shadow, not a projection, but a face. It was Zarmin. Her features were etched in sorrow, magnified to continent-spanning proportions. Her eyes, those beautiful, almond-shaped eyes he remembered, were swollen and red, and from them poured not tears of water, but shimmering, destructive streams of raw magic that fed the crimson storm around them. Each teardrop was a miniature cataclysm, sparking eruptions of ice and fire across the distant peaks of the Qaf Mountains, shaking the very ground beneath his feet. She was weeping, not gently, but with a profound, earth-shattering grief that manifested as apocalyptic weather. Her lips moved, a silent, agonizing gasp that echoed through the psychic ether, a soundless scream of pure, unadulterated guilt. He watched her, suspended amidst the roaring squall, the phantom scent of lilac and frankincense thick in his throat. This wasn't a monster. This was *his* Zarmin, broken, weeping, and unknowingly tearing the world apart with her grief. He couldn’t punch this. He couldn’t scold this into submission. He couldn’t even *protect* her from this. She was protecting the entire realm *from herself*. He had to heal her. He had to reach that ravaged heart, scarred by his death. Another torrent of destructive tears streamed from her enormous eyes, each one a pang that reverberated through Barlas. He saw a flicker of the tea house, the glint of the knife, his body falling, her scream. It wasn't the pain of the wound that echoed, but the agony on her face, the way her world had crumbled around him. Then, a voice, amplified by the storm, thin and raw with unbearable anguish, echoed across the shattered sky: “I should have died instead of him.”

The Heartbeat of a Ghost