Heavy Metal Therapy

(Gale's POV)

A hush fell over the crowd, thick and heavy with anticipation. It was a silence that crackled with unspoken energy, a void into which Harald stepped with an almost unnerving calm.

I watched him from my vantage point near the edge of the stage, my senses heightened by the stress of the situation we found ourselves in. Harald moved with a deliberate grace, his footsteps soundless on the moss-covered platform. In any other situation, I would have admired his poise. Now, it bordered on terrifying.

His body language was… too composed. His shoulders were relaxed, his head held high, his expression serene.

But the telepathic link we shared sang a different tune.

His true state of mind was a hurricane of suppressed fury. I could feel the barely contained tremors of his magic, the barely restrained pressure of his anger. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced from him. I realized with a jolt that I had never seen Harald angry before. What would a being of his level of power do when truly provoked? The thought of it made me recoil in instinctive fear.

Harald reached the center of the stage, the strange enchanted instrument — a guitar, he called it — gleaming in the soft light, and turned to face the assembled crowd. For a long moment, he simply stood there, his gaze slowly sweeping across the assembled fey, as well as the other competitors. Then, his fingers settled on the guitar's neck.

The first sound was a low, guttural growl from the instrument — making me think of some unholy cross of a violin and an enormous war horn. It was a sound that seemed to vibrate not just in the air, but in the very earth beneath our feet. It was a sound that promised power, a hint of the storm to come. Then, a rapid series of notes -- a thrill, fast yet steady, like a slowly rising tempest, plucked so fast the sounds blurred together -- ripped through the silence.

And then, my entire world began to tilt on its axis, for, while I thought I knew Harald's music from the couple demonstrations he had given us the day before…

…I now realized that I, in fact, knew nothing.

From Harald's back, two ghostly arms erupted, one hand gripping an identical, ethereal-looking guitar. The ghostly instrument shimmered with a faint, otherworldly light, its form shifting and swirling like captured starlight. There was a substance to the new instrument, a raw magical presence that defied explanation. I fancied myself something of an expert in the school of Illusion — and yet…

Harald had interrupted my thoughts by promptly conjuring another set of arms with a second ghostly guitar.

Then, yet another set of arms — with a third.

My breath hitched in my throat. Even I had never seen anything like this, and Mystra had shown me some… admittedly insane illusion magic in my time with her.

The true shock here wasn't the visual spectacle, it was the sound being produced.

The four guitars, played in a perfect, impossible synchronicity, wove together a tapestry of sound so complex, so intricate, that it defied comprehension. It was a harmony borne from an impossible complexity, each note a separate voice, yet blending together into a single, overwhelming whole. And Harald was producing that harmony by himself — playing his song on four instruments simultaneously, all while seamlessly casting wide-scale illusion magic… without an incantation, material components, or even gestures of any kind.

I heard a sharp, strangled gasp from the Judges' table, turning to see Verenestra sputtering in a most undignified manner, a stream of wine trickling down her chin from the goblet she had just dropped. Her usually serene face was a mask of shock and disbelief. I knew Verenestra by reputation. She was known, even among the Archfey, as an unparalleled illusionist — with the corresponding ability to see through any and all illusions, no matter how subtle or complex. The fact that she was so utterly stunned meant that she couldn't see through Harald's display.

And the sound… by Mystra, the sound!

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZuSaudKc68)

Imagine a blacksmith's hammer, not striking metal, but moonlight. Imagine a storm of pure energy, crackling and arcing with every note. Imagine the raw, untamed power of the Feywild itself, channeled through sound alone.

If you can imagine all of that… you may get halfway close to what I was hearing.

The melody was both exhilarating and terrifying, a whirlwind of emotions that left me breathless and disoriented. There were moments of delicate beauty, like moonlight filtering through a spider's web, followed by passages of raw, untamed power, like a dragon's roar echoing through a mountain pass. There were undercurrents of darkness and sorrow, a haunting melancholy that spoke of ancient secrets and forgotten tragedies — but the harmony made the experience far more grandiose than what any single instrument, however enchanted, could ever hope to produce.

I had never heard anything like it. Not in Elysium. Not on any plane I'd ever visited. Despite the fact that Harald had played a few songs for us earlier, nothing could have prepared me for this.

For most of the assembled Fey, who had likely rarely heard anything more complex than a single lute or a harp, it must have been an experience akin to suddenly being transported to an Outer Plane of Elemental Chaos. Their faces were a study in shock and awe. Some were weeping openly. Others were frozen in place, their eyes wide and unblinking. Yet others were laughing hysterically while clawing at their own faces, their expressions an unholy mix of ecstasy and dread.

It was a maelstrom of pure, untamed emotion.

And then, the Plane itself began to react to the music.

The moonlight overhead, instead of providing a soft and diffuse illumination, became bright and – somehow – impossibly sharp, bending and twisting in unnatural ways, focusing on Harald as if he were some heavenly general in control of their celestial energy. I felt the air palpably thicken with Magicka, becoming heavy and suffocating to my newly-attuned senses. The very ground beneath my feet resonated with the rhythm of the song, vibrating like a mystical heartbeat.

It was as if the music was a force of nature, reshaping the world around us, bending reality to its will.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

It was, honestly, the most impressive thing I had ever heard.

++

The final notes of the first piece faded, leaving a ringing silence in their wake. The assembled fey crowd seemed to hold its collective breath, suspended in awe.

Hyrsam was practically bouncing on his throne, his eyes wide with unrestrained glee. He had a wide, toothy grin splitting his face, and seemed to be having the time of his life, his earlier boredom utterly banished by this spectacle. He let out a whoop of pure, unadulterated joy, a sound that echoed across the clearing.

Verenestra, on the other hand, looked — for lack of a better pun — as if she had seen a ghost. Her face was pale, her usually impeccable composure shattered. Her hands trembled visibly, and her gaze darted around the stage, as if expecting yet more impossibilities to appear from thin air.

Titania and Oberon, the Summer Queen and her Consort, looked visibly uncomfortable. They shifted in their seats, their regal bearing momentarily forgotten. Their expressions were a mix of fascination and unease, as if they were witnessing something beautiful and profane at the same time. Oberon's usual swagger was gone, replaced by a wary look. Titania had a frown marring her perfect features, her eyes narrowed with apprehension.

Lliira, the Goddess of Joy, was openly weeping. Tears streamed down her face, but they weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of overwhelming emotion, of a joy so profound it bordered on pain. Her face was radiant, her expression a mixture of ecstasy and devastation. She clutched her chest, her sobs echoing softly in the stunned silence.

Then, Harald shouted.

…And the stage erupted with… multiplication.

This time, Harald didn't merely create extra arms. He created copies of himself.

Dozens of them.

One moment, there was Harald, standing alone in the center of the stage. The next, the massive stage platform became covered in Haralds, a ghostly army called forth to fight a battle of passion and sound. Each Harald clone held an instrument, some of which — like violins — I recognized, while many others were utterly alien to me: bizarre-looking contraptions of wood or metal that looked like they belonged in the workshop of a mad artificer more than on a bardic stage.

My mind reeled.

I had never seen anything like this before. Everyone knew that Bardic groups rarely exceeded four or five members, even in courtly performances. The idea of more than eighty musicians, all playing at once, was unprecedented. Revolutionary. It was a concept so audacious, so daring, that it defied comprehension.

And then, the Army of Haralds began to play again.

The resulting sound was… grandiose.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7f2SdZey-Y)

The new song was, somehow, both complex and deceptively simple, and was accompanied by a tidal wave of sheer sound that threatened to drown us all in its sheer magnificence.

The melody itself was hauntingly beautiful, a melancholic yet powerful theme that spoke of loss and longing, of a love that transcended even death. It was a melody that tugged at the heartstrings, that stirred deep emotions within me.

…

And then, Harald began to… sing?

…But it wasn't singing as I understood it. It wasn't the soaring tenor of the elf, or the melancholic baritone of the gnome.

This was… something else. Something primal. Something dark.

It was… a growl.

A scream.

A guttural roar that seemed to emanate not from Harald's throat, but from the very depths of his soul itself. It was a sound that, frankly, reminded me of Avernus — of the tortured screams of the damned, of the endless torment that echoed through the fiery plains of Hell we had recently escaped.

But… it wasn't quite the same.

There was a strange dissonance to it, a discord that shouldn'thave worked, that should have been jarring and unpleasant.

But, somehow, it wasn't.

When heard together with the harmony of eighty accompanying instruments, the song was instead… compelling. Hauntingly so.

The raw, visceral power of Harald's growl, combined with the ethereal beauty of the music, created an effect that was both unsettling and utterly mesmerizing. It felt like hearing an angel scream as it was being torn apart by internal grief, a sound that was both divine and demonic simultaneously. A paradox that defied logic and reason.

As I listened, I found myself considering, with a growing sense of wonder, if the lyrics could have been about Harald himself.

…

Long been complacent with the hand I've been dealt

Restless and weak from the life that I've built

So I'll journey afar, for there's glory to find

And I'll fill out my entry in the annals of time

Bid my farewell to the ones I love

Their grief but a fleeting feeling

For nature is calling, my heart compelled

Every branch, every leaf has a story to tell

…

As the music washed over me, the words began to resonate with me on a deeply personal level. I thought of my own ambitions, of my relentless pursuit of arcane mastery, of my own insatiable thirst for adventure, knowledge, and power.

…

Fear is swirling within me

A tightening grip on my heart

In a world where nothing is certain

The fear of failure looms large



Ǫ̴̖͍͕̣̦̻̖̪̞͐̒͛̓̈̀ͅO̵̧͖̞̻̩̗͚̻̊͑͆̓͆̎̏̆͘͜͝͝ͅÒ̶͍͐̆̉̐̆͂͊̃̾̓O̸̡͇̣͓͕̫͉͕̲̜̗̭̭͚͑̄͋̈́͋͑͛͌̄̄̐̈́͝À̷̢̙̣̮̇͑̽̀̀̄̽͘͘̚͝Ă̴͙̼͖̯̫̠̻̦̾͌̓͛͠ͅͅÀ̸̪̝͎̟̪̦̹̭̙̉̎̀̂̄̾̆̾͘̚͘A̶̧̲̞̫̥̞̿͗̈́̀̾̎̋̔̎͌A̸̧̖͂̍͑́͐́̃̇̉̾͑̿̉H̶̡͕̄̑̓̃̊̾̐̆͆̒͆̿̚͝͠H̴̢̜͎̥͔̪̝̙͎̜̦͍͑͊̓̑͘̕Ḣ̸̡̄̔̌́̚H̴̘͍̥̗̟̻͈͓͙̞̊̊̎̅́͗̓́͆̿̈́̒̂̕͘͜͝ͅH̸̘͉͋͌H̶͙̭͇̟͉̙̗̓̈́̄̽̈́̍̈̆́̓͘̕


No room for these doubts I'll cast them far away

And take up my father's sword

History favors the daring

Only the brave will receive the eternal reward,



A̸̡͎̳̯̞̟̙͕̖͉͐̅͘ͅA̶͉͖̥̪͓͐̃͗̀̃̚Ḁ̸̣͓͗̈̓̈́́̑̀̀A̷̡̨̝̼̠͇̻̞͔̙͎̘̩͌̎̓͐̏̚̕͝ͅĄ̵̹̬̩̤̳̭͔̖̳̤̝̫̜͗ͅẠ̸̠̫͇̦̦̤̹̇̊̋́͘͝ͅǍ̵̢͇̦Ȃ̵̢̧̨͉̲͓͓̻̙͉̜͉̦͆͒͆́̈́Ṛ̶̛̀͂͒͋̒͋̇͌̽̋̚̕͝R̷̝͆͂̃̿̒͑͊̄̓͑̄̿̈́͝͝͝Ŕ̶͕̙͈̖̈́̓̓͘͝ͅR̷̨̡̗͇̣̻̗̻̈́͌͊̍̕͠Ĝ̴̨̡͉͓̩̭̞̫̞̤͕̓̾̂͌́̉̆̊ͅG̶̻̹̫̪̲̩̣̘̜̿̇̎̿̀̀̕H̸̙̥̗̤̹̰͇̜̳̣͚̠͇̫̭̑͝H̷͎͇̠͚̮̒́́͘͘͜H̷̨̛̠̀̋͝H̷̛̳̅̋͐͗̾̿̈́̍̆H̷̡̢̪̰̬͖̘̙̳̏̓͌̉̓͛̆̔ͅ


What a powerful insight! I realized that I, too, had always been driven by a fear of mediocrity, a fear of failing to live up to my potential. I had pushed myself relentlessly, striving for greatness, convinced that only those who dared to reach for the stars would be remembered.

Will you be here ready to guide me?

When I must leave this dream behind me

A beacon of hope, but fading away I have to let that light die, let it die

Mother, father, sister I'm sorry for what I've done

But the man I've become Is no longer content with comfort and home




Ả̴͎̘̻̘͖̖̞̼̘͔̼̑̉̇́̒̃̀̓͗́̃͒̈͆̕À̶̧̛̝̫̲͓̼̪̻̩̭̈̿͋̈́̔́͘͠ͅA̴̡͎̭̮͕̘̫̐̉̒̚A̴̟͍̘̱̳̔Ŗ̸̛̟̙͈͇͕̦̬͎̜͔̇͐́̌̈́́̂̋͛̕͝͝R̸̡̡̛̘̗̯̫͇͎͈̰͙͔͇̗̱̾͂̾̈́̚͠R̴̨̺̫̠͚̬͌̅͛͒̎̐͠͝Ṛ̷̫̪̭͐̒̈̎́̒͊̉̂͂̈̀͑͆̓̕G̵̡̛̻̲̹̟̤̐̃͜G̴̡̢̹̣̪̖̜̟̳̪̗͆͋́͘̕Ḩ̸͔̯̮̘̼̼͔̤͌̐̑̍́̀͛͐̆̇͠H̷̜̫̮̱̫̞̺̤̙̲̻̲̆̄͛ͅH̶̢̨̝̥̲̣̣̲̺͉̹͚͖̺̫̉̂̓̈́̏͂̄͋H̷̞̻̫̗̘͎͇̭̹͂͋͂͜ͅ


Cold is the wind that chills me down to my bones

And cold is the knowledge that for this I abandoned my home

Cold is my sorrow, like a knife in my chest

And cold is the path that I chose

For what worth can be found in glory in the lands that I roam

Raise your eyes, case your gaze high, ah

And forget your sorrows


Cold is the wind that chills me down to my bones

And cold is the knowledge that for this I abandoned my home

Cold is my sorrow, like a knife in my chest

And cold is the path that I walk

But I carry those memories close to my heart

And remember them fondly when I gaze at

The sun, the moon, the stars

…

Had I been so focused on my own goals that I had neglected the simpler joys of life? I remembered my family. I had left them behind, chasing my dreams, convinced that my destiny lay elsewhere. Then, after I've been cursed by the Orb and after Mystra abandoned me, I had decided not to return, for fear of putting them in danger.

Had they grieved for me? Had my absence left a void in their lives? The thought filled me with a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. The lyrics had hit me like a physical blow, and I suddenly realized just how much I missed them all. My mother, with her gentle smile and unwavering support. My father, with his quiet strength and boundless wisdom. My Tressym familiar, Tara, with her infectious wit and unwavering loyalty.

I had left them all behind, chasing dreams that now seemed… hollow.

...

My musings were broken as the music — suddenly — turned truly ominous. Harald's voice — already alight with the Screams of the Damned — somehow gained an even more sinister edge that made a cold shiver run down my spine.

…

Hide with me from the light, my child

I'll show you another way

Burn away your sorrow

In the cleansing fire of power,


As he sang (or, rather, roared out?) the lines, Harald struck a sinister — and rather over-the-top villainous pose — his body language evoking the image of a mad mage or cultist of some long-forgotten entity. Yet, his theatrics seemingly had their intended effect: many fey physically recoiled, and even Sylvie hid her face in Karlach's arms, occasionally peeking at the performance — only to once again hide in Karlach's embrace after hearing a particularly sinister-sounding harmony.

The music steadily built up from a soft melody to a dramatic, thrusting crescendo, ultimately manifesting a wave of sound that physically vibrated the air itself.

…

Ba-dum

…

Ba-dum


The music now resembled a heartbeat; the very essence of the song was coalescing into a tangible force. Faster and faster the rhythm progressed until, as the final, soaring note reached its peak, Harald's entire body erupted in a blinding flash of light!

It wasn't a gentle glow, but a raw, untamed radiance, like looking directly into the heart of the Elemental Plane of Fire. Colors, unlike any I had ever seen, exploded outwards, a chaotic symphony of vibrant hues that danced and swirled around him. It was as if he had become some kind of demented sun, a being of twisted energy and light, radiating power in every direction. The light pulsed and throbbed, casting long, dancing shadows that writhed and twisted across the faces of the stunned onlookers.

Through all of that, Harald's relentless performance boldly continued.


…

Colors swirling around me

Shifting landscapes obey my every command

But still I don't possess the power to fill the emptiness!

Swallow and take what you thought you were meant to be

And reconcile it with who you are

Another lesson learned in time, but oh, you'll find

You don't know what you want until it's gone!





W̶̡̢̧̪̠̦̝͖͚͎̃͜H̷̢̢̯̪̲͈̬͈̩͈̹͓̥̙̯̃̒̏̌̀͂̎̔́̚̚͠͝͝ͅỌ̶̧̧̙̪͎̩͔̙͍̅̐̾O̴̤͉̥͎̩͇̗̹̭͆͐̀͗̈́̒̆̀̈̉Ò̶̡̩̟̳̖̮̥͖̟̻͚̄̄̀̒͐̂̈̃̀͑̐̕͜͠O̶̢̨̺̦̜̼͚̫͖͐̿̀̈́ͅA̴̛̖̮̯͍͕͔̻̭͓̩̍͋̑̂̀̅̈́̄̽́͒͛͠͝A̷͕̻̭̥͎̳̥͉̬̗͖̣̲͐̿̾̈͐͜Ā̸̛͖̦̯̮̈́A̷̛̖̰̞͌̀͌̑̏͗̈́̍̚͠Ả̵̗̥̱̙̭̺̤̖̙͇̙͙̩̤͖͙̓͑͐̆̍̈́͋̃͘A̷̢̡͓̣̬̤͓̝̳̳̥͈̭̤͙̖̒̋̋͂̄͂̓̑͒͒A̷̢̨͙̫̩̟͖̰̞̣̩̤̱͚̰̱͒͂̆̓̔͆͌̒̈́͋̓̚̚͝͠͝!̶̡̗͖̠̱̳̻̹̮̖̏̐͌́́͛͐͌͌̚



I hail to the Cosmic Masters

I walk the astral plane

And travel to distant worlds

Time like a river flows
The one thing I don't have the power to change

The only thing that matters

Mother, father, sister

I'm sorry for what I've done
For the man I've become

Finally knows the true power of home!


…


I had always believed that power was the ultimate goal, that arcane might was the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe. But now, listening to Harald's song, I wondered if I had been wrong. Was power truly worth the price of isolation? Was arcane mastery worth the loss of love?


...

A broken legacy

A tale of tragedy

Take heed my friends

The path of pain isn't always

The means to the end you seek

By moonlight and starlight

I turn my gaze to the sky

The sun, the moon, the stars

Shine less brightly with you so far I never knew sorrow

'Til you asked me to follow my heart

Oh for all the tales I've told

And these whispers of silver and gold I'd throw them all away

To gaze on your face once more

One more time

The sun, the moon, the stars

Shine less brightly with you so far (with his burning brand he split the skies)

I never knew sorrow

'Til you asked me to follow my heart (and plucked out the stars, one by one)

For all the tales I've told

And these whispers of silver and gold (with an aching heart he cursed his name)

I'd throw them all away

To gaze on your face once more (and nothing would shine as bright as her again)


...


The song ended, leaving me breathless and shaken.


It was more than just a performance.


It was a confession. A lament. A warning. And it had struck a chord deep within my soul, forcing me to confront truths I had long tried to ignore.


I realized, with a sudden, painful clarity, that I missed my family. I missed the warmth of their love, the comfort of their presence, the simple joys of home. I had been so focused on my own ambitions, so consumed by my pursuit of arcane mastery, that I had forgotten what truly mattered.


I could see clearly now. Power and arcane might weren't everything. They were tools, means to an end, but they weren't an end in and of themselves. The true treasures in life were the connections we forged, the love we shared, the moments of joy and sorrow that made us … people.


And I had almost lost sight of that.

++

(Shadowheart's POV)

As I watch Harald ascend the stage to perform, Lysander's theft of Alfira's song flashes through my mind, bringing a sharp pang of sympathy—one quickly smothered by my ingrained habits.

Yet, the image lingers stubbornly. The devastation in Alfira's eyes, the sheer horror dawning on her face as her precious creation was cruelly torn from her grasp, was almost palpable. Her expression crumbled slowly, hope fading like the last dying embers of a once-bright flame. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes dimming with the crushing realization of betrayal, robbed not only of her song but of her very future. Watching her, I felt a strange fluttering in my chest—uncomfortable, disquieting, a sensation that tightened around my heart, leaving me aching in altogether foreign ways.

"Lady Shar would not approve," I remind myself sharply. I serve the Goddess of Loss, after all. Lysander's act could be said to be favored in the Dark Lady's eyes. Holy, even, in a way—for he had tried to strip Alfira of hope itself!

And yet...

I remember as Harald stepped confidently forward, taking charge of the situation, seeking to rescue someone in need, as was his wont. I remember as Harald calmly reassured Alfira; as he volunteered to take the bard's place in the competition. An entirely different kind of fluttering surges within me then, warm and urgent, making my stomach twist in an unfamiliar and wholly unsettling way.

I shouldn't care about any of them. Not about Harald. Certainly not for Alfira. The only thing that should matter to me is the mission entrusted by Lady Shar. And yet, inexplicably, I find myself caring nonetheless, and far more deeply than I dare to openly admit. The realization leaves me feeling profoundly vulnerable and dangerously uncertain.

Then, Harald begins to play.

From the very first notes, my eyes flutter closed almost of their own accord, and my breath catches sharply in my throat. The music is so raw, so powerful, so utterly... different.

I do not possess many memories of listening to music—whether this is because those memories were taken away for the sake of the mission, or simply because I hadn't listened to much music in the cloister... I do not know. And yet, I know in my heart that Harald's music... is unlike anything I had ever experienced. It resonates deep within me, threading its way through my very soul. Each note is both delicate and fierce, a tempest contained within the eerie, beautiful tones of his... guitar.

My heart quickens inexplicably as the sound envelops me like a lover's caress, compelling me to feel emotions I'd long thought sealed away. The music conjures visions—fragments of memories tantalizingly close, yet elusive; a sense of déjà vu lingering just at the edge of consciousness. It feels like a word hovering just on the tip of my tongue; a strangely familiar scent one can't quite place; a fleeting taste reminiscent of something experienced in a half-forgotten dream.

Each note stirs within me exhilaration mixed with apprehension, for I know these memories had been locked away from me with deliberateintent. I know Shar had withheld them for good reason—and, one day soon, when I have completed my mission, My Lady will deem me worthy to have them returned. Yet now, under the spell of Harald's music, I find myself dangerously yearning for their release, despite knowing that such desires are perilously close to a betrayal of my faith. The music is beautiful in a way that leaves me trembling, and I am almost frightened by its power over me. I feel… strangely vulnerable, exposed by the raw intensity of the experience.

Then, something extraordinary happens. The moonlight itself shifts overhead, bending and refracting around Harald as if responding directly to his commands. The light dances around him like a living thing, silver beams weaving gracefully through the air in time with the melody, ethereal and enchanting.

I am utterly enthralled—caught in a moment of pure, unfiltered awe—before the realization strikes me hard and cold. This is moonlight, the domain of Selûne, the hated enemy of my faith.

Shame and revulsion surge violently through me, and I tear my gaze away, disgusted at myself for finding anything associated with the Moon Witch beautiful, much less enchanting. How could I have allowed myself, even for a moment, to be drawn in by such... heresy?

Yet, even as I berate myself fiercely, I feel the undeniable pull of Harald's music, relentless and irresistible, continuing to draw me in.

Then, to my astonishment, Harald multiplies himself, his image splitting into countless illusory clones filling the entire stage, each clone wielding an instrument. They begin to play together, weaving a slower, but more grandiose ballad that resonates deeply within me. The lyrics speak of a man who had left his family behind in pursuit of adventure, fame, and phenomenal cosmic power, only to ultimately find emptiness and sorrow awaiting him:

…

Mother, father, sister

I'm sorry for what I've done

But the man I've become

Is no longer content with comfort and home...

…

The song's mournful words slip into my awareness quietly yet profoundly, evoking a deep, inexplicable ache within my heart—as though I, too, had abandoned those closest to me.

But… how could that be?

I had always been alone, an orphan with no family, save the cloister itself. I had no ties to betray... Or... did I?

For some inexplicable reason, the song's sorrowful refrain of longing and regret for home and family feels painfully, intimatelypersonal.

I can't help but wonder if, perhaps, Harald himself is the subject of this tragic tale. He seems to understand its depths too well, performs it with such conviction and melancholy that it seems impossible not to believe the tale has some truth for him.

"What remarkable skill," I think to myself, "to be able to perform a Ballad with such profound emotion."

…

And yet, with Harald's next song, the convenient lies I had told myself are shattered with the subtlety of an angry Minotaur in a teahouse.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lHmVmiPQyN4

The first thing I hear is the melody – somehow even more ominous than the one I'd just heard. Then comes a curious rhythm of the drums – thrusting and energetic – while, in the background, I can hear unearthly harmonies: full of sadness and lament, and yet also… uplifting, somehow?

The dissonance is jarring – feeling like a puzzle that doesn't quite fit together.

Like a cracked piece of pottery that can't quite be made whole again.

…

Then, he sings the lyrics.

And I am not prepared.

…

I cannot dream with me,

I cannot laugh with me no more…

And my face in the mirror

Is too dark to see…

I can't breathe with me,

I can't see myself anymore…

…

The lyrics strike me – almost physically – like a blow of a Warhammer, shattering the walls built up inside my mind. I stagger back, my legs unsteady beneath me, the Revel's crowd spinning in a dizzying whirl of blurred colors. My chest heaves, each breath a struggle, and I press a hand to my heart, as I try to hold myself together by force of will alone.

…

Because my face in the mirror

Is too dark to see…

…

But the words coil around me, sinking into my very bones, their cadence a dirge that stirs something deep and unquiet within. I try to anchor myself in the present—to the fey faces around me, glowing with enchantment; to the scent of moss and wine… But the song is relentless. Each note tugs mercilessly at the frayed threads of my mind, unraveling the fragile tapestry that held it together.

My vision fades, the Revel dissolving into an indistinct haze… and then, I am no longer there, no longer present.

…
I am a child again, small and trembling, standing in a room that is both vast and suffocating. The air is cold, heavy with the scent of incense and something darker—blood, perhaps, or fear. My wrists burn, bound by coarse rope that bites into my skin as I twist against it. Figures loom behind me, their presence a weight I cannot shake, their faces lost to shadow.

I hear a voice: a whisper, soft, yet unyielding, a sound that chills me more than the cold stone beneath my bare feet.

"Look into the mirror, child. See what you must become."

But, I don't want to look!

I don't want to see!

The mirror before me is a slab of darkness, its surface – a void that drinks the light and gives nothing back.

I thrash, my small body straining against the ropes, my voice rising in a desperate plea that echoes unanswered. "No! Please, no!"

But their hands are on me, iron-hard, pressing me forward until my nose nearly brushes the surface.

I see nothing—no reflection, no face—just an emptiness that yawns like a grave. Terror claws at my throat, and I scream, but the sound is swallowed by the mirror's depths.

"You will forget," the voice intones, calm as death. "You will become what Lady Shar demands."

The mirror pulses, and pain explodes in my skull—blinding, hungry, a cold blade slicing through thought and memory alike. I scream again.

And again.

And again.

Each cry weaker than the last, as the agony carves away pieces of me.

In time, I feel the essence of my being, my very name, slip away like sand through my fingers, foreign and fleeting.

They force me to look, over and over, until I no longer know why I resist, until the tears dry and the begging fades, leaving only a hollow shell behind.

…

Those scars remind me how I made you cry

Your pain remains even if I die

…

Harald's voice drags me back to the present, a lifeline cast into the abyss. The Revel snaps back into focus—the fey swaying, entranced, their eyes gleaming like jewels—but the cold lingers, a frost that clings to my soul. My hands tremble, and I press them to my sides, willing them to still, but they defy me. The song presses on relentlessly, its words a mirror to the darkness I carry within.

Another memory surges, pulling me under brutally like a riptide.

…

I am older now, clad in the black robes of Shar's service, a temple initiate forged in shadow. Two figures lay before me, fully restrained, bound spread-eagle upon specially-designed tables; their faces are blurred in my mind as though I'm looking at a painting smeared by a careless artist's hand. The room is dim, lit only by flickering purple candles that cast long, twisted shadows across the walls.

The prisoners call out to me, their voices desperate and pleading.

"Jenevelle! Jenevelle, please! Don't do this!"

But that name stirs nothing within. There is no recognition. No pity. I am Shadowheart, an instrument of the Lady of Loss, and these are Selûnite scum: heretics who dare defy the Darkness.

"The night is young," I say, my voice a cold, steady thing, stripped of warmth or mercy.

"You will break, Selûnite. You will accept Lady Shar's judgment."

Gently, I lift the dagger, its acid-coated blade catching the candlelight in a wicked gleam. Their pleas grow frantic, a garbled chorus of fear, but I am unmoved. My hand does not falter as I carefully bring the blade down in long, shallow cuts—just as I had been taught. Once. Twice. Again and again, until their cries turn into hoarse whimpers and the air is slick with the smell of blood and their voided bladders.

I feel… nothing.

No remorse. No guilt. I am Shar's instrument, and thisis my purpose.

The faces remain indistinct, lost to the fog of my shattered mind, but the weight of their suffering settles on me like a mantle I cannot shed.

…

This is not the truth, this is not for real

I don't believe you 'cos you tell me lies

Everyone suffers and I am the cause (everyone suffers!)

Those closest to me are fading away

…

Have I ever been alive? (Not the truth!)

Have I ever been alive? (You tell me lies!)

Have I ever been alive? (Everyone suffers!)


Have I ever been alive?

The lyrics wash over me, but I am unresponsive; lost in the darkness of my thoughts.

After an unknown period of time that couldn't have been longer than a few minutes, I realize, with a jolt, that I am no longer standing. My knees had given way at some point, the soft moss of the Feywild cushioning my fall. My hands press against the ground, trembling, as the world tilts around me. Absently, I note that Harald blended the ending of his latest Ballad with some kind of soothing melody evoking the beauty of Elysium itself:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mxn9cBKghK4

…but the newly-uplifting harmonies can hardly quell the unease I now feel.

A wetness trickles from my nose, warm and sticky, and I touch my face, expecting blood. But, when I draw my fingers away, they are smeared with thick, black streaks—tar-like, heavy, dripping from my eyes and nose in rivulets that stain my skin. I stare at them, transfixed, as they glisten in the moonlight, only to hiss and evaporate into nothingness, leaving no trace but the lingering, searing pain in my soul.

Questions grip me; disturbing doubts that have no easy answers.

Who had I hurt?
Who had I lost?

My head throbs, a dull pulse that matches the rhythm of my heart, and I press my hands to my face, trying to stem the flow of those black tears. They come faster now, a flood of shadow that marks me, exposes me as the broken thing I had become.

I look up, my vision swimming, and see Harald on the stage. His fingers dance across the strings, while his eyes are distant, as though he too got lost in his music's depths. The fey watch him – and me – in rapt silence, their faces a gallery of awe and unease.

Just who was Jenevelle, I wonder? Why does that name ignite such reflexive… revulsion in me, even now, when I can barely grasp its meaning? I want to scream, to tear at my own mind until the fog lifted, but I am trapped—drowning in shadows and half-formed memories I have no context for.

Have I ever been alive?!?

The song's final question hangs unanswered, a question I cannot escape. It claws at me, relentless, as I rise to my feet, unsteady, the moss still clinging to my knees like a plea to stay down. My nose still bleeds: a slow trickle of black that mingles with the "tears" staining my cheeks, and my head pounds with the weight of all I had seen—or thought I had seen. The world feels distant, unreal, a haze of noise and exquisite harmonies I can't be bothered to care about at the moment.

One question cuts through it all, sharp and unyielding.

Had I ever truly been alive? The thought twists in my gut, a blade I can't pull free.

I now remember forgetting.

Not a single moment, but a litany of them—cold hands, dark rooms, the searing pain behind my eyes as pieces of me were forcibly and methodically carved away. As a child, I'd been made to forget -- repeatedly, mercilessly. I can still hear the echo of my own screams, small and helpless, swallowed by that void Shar demanded.

But… what if it didn't end there? What if the practice of forgetting stretched beyond those early years, threading through my entire life… like a silent poison? I'd always told myself that I'd grown into my current role, that I had chosen my path willingly. But now, standing here with that song still ringing in my ears, I am not so sure.

I was on a mission for Shar, wasn't I? A sacred task, my memories sacrificed as an act of faith, a shield for operational security. That's what they'd told me—what I'd told myself. I'd clung to that story like a lifeline, proof of my absolute devotion.

But what if it's a lie?

What if I hadn't given up those memories after all? What if they'd been taken from me—ripped from me by cloister mates, by the Mother Superior, by Shar herself – without my consent?

The thoughts are heresy of the highest order, but I can't stop myself from thinking them.

Possibilities slither in my mind like serpents, cold and venomous. If the Sharrans could forcibly take my past once, who is to say they couldn't do it again? If the Mother Superior had lied, if she was the one who shaped me into this—this persona called Shadowheart—would I ever know? Would I… even be able to tell the difference?

My breath hitches, the black tar dripping faster than ever as a new question swells: just how much of my life is a lie? I try to summon the faces of my past once more—but they waver like a mirage.

Have I ever been alive?

The words spin through me again, and the world tilts, dizziness crashing over me like a wave. To be alive… is to feel, to know, to choose. But, if my choices were pre-determined, my feelings forged, my memories a tapestry of lies—was I… even a real person?

The implications bear down on me, crushing, and I press my hands to my temples, trying, in vain, to hold my fracturing mind together.

I can't endure it. I can't continue to drift in this fog. There has to be a way out—a truth to seize.

My gaze snaps back to the Army of Haralds on the stage, his main body's silhouette sharp against the lights. He knows—I am certain of it now. The way he carries himself; the careful choice of his words – and music; the flicker of recognition in his eyes every time he looks at me—it all points to secrets he holds close. He knows about my past. About Shar. About… Jenevelle.

He has the answers, and I would have them. I will makehim reveal what he knows, tear the truth from him if I had to. The resolve flares within me, fierce and unyielding, a sudden spark in the void. I stand taller, the dizziness receding as purpose takes root. The moss on my knees falls away, the bleeding stops, and I wipe the remnants of black tears from my face with the pristine, unblemished skin of my trembling hand. Harald will not escape me again. I will confront him, demand the truth, and claw back whatever fragments of myself remain.

I will find out what he knows.

No matter what it costs me.