#draft graveyard

The towers of Sharn pierced the sky like needles through velvet, their peaks dissolving into a lattice of bridges and arcane lights. Below, the city stacked itself in defiance of nature. Stone, steel, and ambition compressed into a monument to mortal audacity, as if challenging the gods themselves.

Gale stood at the balcony's edge in the Upper Deck of the Sky Tournaments, inhaling air too thin and too perfumed for common lungs. The voices of spectators from below reached him as mere whispers, appropriate to their station. Sky-chariots cut through clouds, their elemental wakes painting temporary auroras across the evening sky.

He studied their engines with clinical detachment. Raw industrial magic—crude but effective, like a butcher's cleaver compared to a surgeon's scalpel. The innovation deserved acknowledgment, if not admiration.

"Your assessment of the southern district's stabilization efforts was brilliant, Magister," simpered a noble to his left.

"The Academy still speaks of your treatise on planar convergence," added a scholar to his right.

Gale nodded, offering the precise dose of attention their station warranted—neither so little as to offend nor so much as to encourage further intimacy. Their flattery formed a familiar waltz, one he'd witnessed in a hundred courts with a hundred different partners. He'd mastered the steps years ago.

His thoughts remained fixed on his true purpose: the Netherese tome Mystra had tasked him to recover. It lurked somewhere in this gilded gathering, hidden beneath layers of pomp and spectacle.

"'Scuse me! Mr. Chosen, Sir!"

The voice jarred against the cultured murmurs surrounding him. A gnome bulldozed through the crowd, trailing oil stains and enthusiasm in equal measure. Without preamble, he conjured a blueprint that hovered between them, runes pulsing with potential.

"You must see this enhancement to the city's levitation fields! We've realigned the sigilwork to respond to gravitational shifts. Entire districts stabilized!"

Despite his cultivated aloofness, Gale leaned forward. His fingers hovered over the glowing runes, not touching but tracing their contours in the air. "Clever," he murmured, academic hunger momentarily overwhelming practiced restraint. "You've adjusted the harmonic resonance against the planar flux. But wouldn't that destabilize under erratic Weave fluctuations?”

For a heartbeat, the persona slipped. No longer Mystra's Chosen performing dignity, but simply Gale, a scholar encountering innovation worthy of his intellect. The thrill of discovery sparked in his chest, bright and dangerous.

He caught himself reaching toward the blueprint and withdrew. What was he doing? Mystra's mission remained unfulfilled. This mortal sigilwork, however ingenious, was mere distraction.

Yet She wasn't here. No divine whisper reminded him of his station, his duty, his necessary distance from lesser magics.

Perhaps one brief indulgence.

Gale composed his features, subduing the earnest curiosity to something more appropriately measured. "Apologies, sir. I forget myself. What was your name?"

The gnome's face split with a grin too wide for its confines. "Tibbles Clockmort, Your Chosenness!"

"Gale of Waterdeep will suffice." He permitted himself a genuine smile, the rarity of it making it feel nearly illicit.

With a perfunctory glance at the nobles—their disappointment apparent but irrelevant—he guided Tibbles toward the balcony's edge. "If you'll allow me a moment, Gentlemen."

Leaning over the railing, Gale examined the floating blueprint properly. Questions flowed naturally, each answer spawning three more inquiries. The conversation deepened, excavating theoretical foundations and practical applications with equal fervor. For the first time since arriving in Sharn, Gale felt the joy of unguarded intellectual exchange.

Then—a flicker of movement below caught his eye. Not remarkable for its elegance but for its dissonance, like a wrong note in a familiar composition.

His explanation faltered mid-sentence. An old irritation resurfaced, immediate and visceral.

Among the churning crowds of the lower stands moved a human figure he recognized instantly. Sun-bleached brown hair, carelessly braided. Storm-gray eyes that missed nothing while appearing to notice nothing. She navigated the throng with the easy confidence of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere.

She made deals with a grin, laughed at whispered exchanges, touched shoulders as easily as she stole glances. She moved between people like shadow through candlelight.

That gait. That audacity.

The interloper from Elturel...

Chapter I.2.1 A Cage of Light

Elysium breathed with magic. Not the subtle whisper of mortal realms but a violent symphony that demanded submission. Power coursed through floating runes and crawled across Gale's skin like hungry insects. Even the marble beneath him pulsed with divine intention.

And then there was Her.

“You shape the Weave with such precision, My Chosen.”

Gale exhaled, letting Mystra’s words wash over him like the final note of a well-woven spell. Her praise lingered on his tongue, rich and heady as aged wine.

His hands framed his creation, arcane script suspended between them like a constellation bound by his will alone.

Intricate. Flawless. Divine-worthy.

She had not touched him. Not yet.

"Every thread I weave has purpose.” He stepped to Her side. The coolness that emanated from Her form prickled his skin. "I've devoted more to the art than most men give to love." His voice softened, teasing. "Though I'd like to believe I've offered you plenty of both."

Mystra's violet eyes flickered to his, ancient welts that reflected nothing back. Something unstable shimmered between them, possibility and disappointment hanging in perfect balance.

Her fingers barely brushed his spell, but it was no caress. The lattice shuddered, twisting inward like dying stars. Irreversibly altered.

Wrong.

Gale’s brow furrowed. No miscalculations. No imperfections. Yet it rejected him now.

Mystra smiled. “You recall Elturel, do you not?”

A test. Always tests.

“The planar disturbance.” He straightened, masking the tremor in his voice. “A nobleman’s arrogance nearly unstitched reality itself. I arrived in time to prevent catastrophe.”

“Did you?” Two simple words, a scalpel drawing blood.

Gale's fingers curled at his sides. "If you are referring to that bystander—"

Mystra watched him, letting silence stretch between them. The memory flickered unbidden.

The Weave, balanced on a razor's edge. His magic, controlled and calculated. Then suddenly—gone. Yanked out from under him like a drunkard flipping a board game.

A reckless woman with storm-gray eyes, redirecting energy without technique or reverence. The portal snapping shut with her at its epicenter.

No mastery. Just results.

Neat. Efficient. Effective.

A cheat.

"Why do you believe she got involved?" Mystra's voice pulled him back.

His jaw tightened. “Misplaced heroism.”

Mystra's lips curved with quiet knowing. She touched his chin, Her fingers cold as starlight, guiding him to face the altered construct. It hummed wrong notes, dissonant and beautiful.

"You dismiss it, My Chosen, but it reaches places your precision does not." The construct flickered, and he recognized the sensation now. Unstructured. Instinctive. "Even the finest spellbook cannot hold every incantation that exists."

Her touch lingered, clinical rather than loving. No reward. No reassurance. Rather than a lover caressing her beloved, She touched him like an artisan examining an old piece. Where once that touch had sparked divine fire, now it left only frost.

His heart constricted. He had given everything to Her—youth, devotion, brilliance—and still it wasn’t enough.

Gale forced his spine straighter. Precision and control. His defining virtues. What She had molded him to embody. What made him worthy.

As She drifted away, his gaze caught the empty space beside Her, a void he once thought he might fill.

He traced the Weave.

And this time, he forced himself to see the cracks.

Chapter I.2.2 The Stands Below

The Lower Deck devoured all who entered. Where the Upper Deck floated in perfumed refinement, this level throbbed like an exposed nerve. A seething, living thing as loud as the industrial magic that crackled through its steel bones. Flesh made of bodies pressed sweat-to-sweat. Rust and ale and smoke formed a physical presence, something you tasted more than smelled. Each surface held treachery: floors slick with spilled drink, tables scarred from brawls, shadows concealing predators and prey indistinguishable from one another.

A raw, unbridled cacophony that breathed in sparks and exhaled thunder.

Gale pushed through this wilderness with a discreet spell that bent attention away from him. Despite this precaution, his fine robes and straight-backed posture marked him as clearly as a torch in darkness. One hand hovered near his spellbook, both protection and comfort in this alien landscape.

Scholarly curiosity—at least, that’s what he told himself—had led him from the safety of the Upper Deck into this den of structured chaos. The truth was more elemental: he needed to see her again, the woman from Elturel who had unraveled his spell with intuition where he had built it with calculation.

It hadn’t taken long to spot her.

She commanded a gambling table like a general at a battlefield. Sleeves were rolled to expose forearms corded with lean muscle, a single hoop earring catching the lantern light as she laughed. A faint scar tracked along her wrist, visible as she flipped a coin into the growing pot.

"You've got to give it up, Viktor," she teased, her voice cutting through the ambient roar. "That grin's charming, but it's going to be a real problem when someone notices your teeth." She winked at the rough-hewn barbarian across from her, sparking a cascade of laughter that seemed disproportionate to the joke.

Then—there it was. Her fingers twitched, the Weave responding to her silent command. The dice wobbled in mid-throw, their trajectory altered. No incantation. No structured spellwork. Not even a proper cantrip.

Just like last time. Telekinesis? Perhaps the barest of components. A distorted variety.

His lips pressed into a thin line. She played the Weave like a weathered lute, rough and impulsive. A thief picking magic's pockets without a thought to the cost, to the discipline required. To the reverence magic deserved.

And yet… no one protested. No one even noticed. While he detected the disrespect to the Weave itself, her fellow gamblers saw only her charm, her wit, her carefully crafted distraction.

Before reason could intervene, he approached the table. "I'd be loath to let such an engaging game go unstudied. Might there be room for one more?"

Eyes assessed him with predatory calculation. How much could they relieve him of? How quickly?

But when she looked up, recognition flashed before being smoothed over with a grin, disproportionately familiar given their last encounter.

"Feel free." She gestured at an empty seat. "And you are..." Her eyes lingered on every landmark that set him apart—fine robes, enchanted jewelry, perfectly groomed brown locks. Her gaze weighed him with frank appraisal, neither impressed, nor dismissive.

Then she tilted her head. "Prince Charming?"

The table erupted in laughter, rough and genuine at his expense. Gale smiled thinly as he took a seat, refusing to give an inch. "Flattering, but just Gale. Though I can't fault you for assuming nobility."

She hummed, noncommittal. "All right, Gale."

She performed introductions with theatrical flair, ending with a hand settled on her chest, chin lifted in mock ceremony. "Lyanna."

Gale dropped his coin pouch onto the table, its weight punctuating his arrival. Its heft drew appreciative glances. "Pleasure."

The next few hands passed in a dance of mundane gambling, but Gale's attention never strayed from Lyanna's fingers. He watched for the telltale shimmer in the Weave, the disrespectful tug at magic's threads. When the Tabaxi woman rolled the dice, he caught it—Lyanna's casual touch of magic, ready to tip fate's scales.

With surgical precision, Gale countered. A whisper of his own magic nullified hers, leaving a faint shimmer of purple-blue energy that only a trained eye might catch. The dice fell naturally. The Tabaxi squealed with delight at her unexpected win, oblivious to the magic simmering beneath perception.

Lyanna's eyes snapped to him. One finger against the wood, thoughtful. She raised her ale, amusement ghosted across her lips.

"Someone's paying attention," she murmured, her storm-gray eyes meeting his over the rim of her mug.

Gale inclined his head, an unspoken challenge.

The starting buzzer of the tournament blared, sky-chariots roaring, eyes drawn skyward. Lyanna leaned forward, slamming her mug down with a decisive thud.

With each round, their contest deepened, transcending the mundane games around them. The air buzzed with overlapping deals and thunderous cheers, but Gale and Lyanna remained locked in their private contest. Their magic wove through the ordinary gambling like silver threads through base cloth.

Every nullification he performed was technical perfection. Every counter she devised was infuriatingly novel, slipping past defenses like water through cracked stone.

"Lucky," she remarked when his perfectly controlled spell yielded a winning roll.

"Fortune favors the skilled,” he replied with the same scholarly condescension that had earned him both admiration and exasperation from students back in Blackstaff.

Her fingers brushed the table's edge. When she tossed her dice, they wobbled mid-air a heartbeat too long. The Weave bent to her will, careless and unbounded. The dice landed perfectly.

Gale exhaled through his nose.

"Jealous?" she asked.

"For a fluke? Hardly."

As their magical duel intensified, something tugged at Gale’s awareness, a pattern emerging from what he’d assumed was chaos.

When Lyanna manipulated the dwarf's roll, ensuring the dwarf stayed in the game despite poor odds, Gale didn't interfere. He watched as she clasped the dwarf's shoulder, her laughter genuine as she teased him about his vices.

Understanding dawned like a slow sunrise. His gaze swept across the table, seeing the larger design for the first time.

The dwarf, still in the game by a thread. The barbarian, leading just enough to feed his bravado. The Tabaxi, engaged in flirtatious rivalry that had nothing to do with the game. The half-orc, locked in heated competition with the barbarian, their bets climbing higher with each round.

She wasn't chasing victory. She was orchestrating an experience. Shaping the game to maximize engagement, to keep everyone invested emotionally as well as financially. Like feeding kindling to a fire.

The realization unsettled something in him. Magic had its plethora of uses, that he knew. Yet, while his set him apart in a league all his own, hers drew people in. A truth he’d been trained to dismiss as frivolous.

Her eyes met his across the table, a knowing quirk of her brow. As if, for a fleeting moment, he'd glimpsed the real game beneath it all—neither dice nor magic. But rather, she played to their desires, their rivalries, their needs all balanced in a delicate social alchemy.

"Relax, Charming," she said. "It's just a game."

The words stung more than they should have. Perhaps they were only intended as surface-level banter, but they felt like a dismissal of everything he stood for, everything he’d dedicated his life to perfecting. This wasn’t “just a game”, but the very architecture of reality itself.

On the final round, Gale doubled down. Whatever social experiment she conducted, his purpose remained clear. To demonstrate proper control, to teach through example.

He gripped the dice, infusing them with magic of absolute precision. A guaranteed, undetectable victory. The dice tumbled, the Weave humming between them like a plucked string.

Lyanna watched, her head tilted with something like disappointment. Then, just as the dice were about to land, the Weave shimmered. Not opposition, not a counterspell, but a whispered augmentation that made his magic blindingly obvious to everyone present.

The table erupted before the dice settled. Scoffs. Jeers. The barbarian let out a long, unimpressed whistle.

"A shame," Lyanna said, rising with fluid grace. Her expression held none of the triumph he expected, only a flickering regret. As she passed behind him, she leaned close enough that her breath warmed his ear.

"You wouldn't have liked winning like that anyway."

The hem of her coat lifted as she moved to leave, revealing the worn leather of a belt fitted with more pouches than one might expect. Her hand grazed his shoulder—a brief, thoughtless touch that left an inexplicable warmth.

"Try not to let it ruin your night, Upper Crust," she called over her shoulder. Then she exhaled, smoothing a hand over the back of her neck as she melted into the crowd. As if the game had only ever been a momentary diversion.

Gale barely registered the murmurs of disdain from the table, his mind still replaying that final move. She'd caught him in a trap of his own making. Not by opposing his magic, but by revealing it. Why? To teach him some lesson? To humiliate him?