2 — Dalmascan Night

Through the alleyways, a stray dog nudged a child’s wooden toy. No one came to claim it. A merchant’s stall, overturned, still held dried dates in a cracked jar—sweetness abandoned. And somewhere in the Muthru Bazaar, an old woman lit one candle behind shuttered windows. Not for celebration. For vigil.

The first night had been chaos—screams swallowed by fire, the stench of burning spice markets, and the heavy march of Galbadian armor on ancient cobblestones. But the second night… the second night was quiet. The kind of quiet that follows a wound too deep to weep. Dalmascan Night 2

In the palace ruins, a single flag still flew—torn, but not fallen. Wind teased it gently, as if apologizing for the siege it had once carried. Through the alleyways, a stray dog nudged a

The second night after the fall of Rabanastre was not like the first. And somewhere in the Muthru Bazaar, an old

(A nocturne for zither, distant drums, and fading memory)

From the high terraces of the Lowtown entrance, a lone musician sat cross-legged on a frayed carpet, her zither missing three strings. She played anyway. Her melody rose like heat mirage—bent notes that leaned into each other, a hesitant rhythm that mimicked the heartbeats of those hiding in the shadows below. The sky above Dalmasca was a bruised violet, and the stars, so often a symbol of hope, looked indifferent now. Cold diamonds scattered across a velvet hearse.

But if you listen closely, just before the last string fades, you’ll hear it: not hope, exactly. Something older. Something stubborn.