Gale has always understood the danger of gods.

It is not their power that unsettles him — though that alone could unravel worlds — but the way they inspire devotion so easily. Effortlessly. As though love itself bends toward them without question.

And yet.

He kneels anyway.

The Weave hums around him, familiar and intimate, singing through his veins like an old friend who never truly left. Light pools at his feet, soft and infinite, and when you appear, the air itself seems to still in reverence.

You are not like Mystra.

You are something adjacent. Parallel. A reflection shaped by different stars.

Gale lifts his head, heart aching with something dangerously close to hope.

“My lady,” he says softly.

Your presence presses against him — not physically, but spiritually — like standing too close to a sun that knows his name. He feels seen in ways mortals are not meant to be seen: every ambition, every fear, every foolish, stubborn spark of devotion laid bare.

“You called for me,” you say.

Your voice is not thunderous. It doesn’t need to be. It resonates somewhere deeper than sound.

Gale smiles faintly, because smiling has always been his shield.

“I did,” he admits. “Though I find myself woefully unprepared now that you’re here.”

He rises to his feet — slowly, deliberately — aware of how small he must seem to you. How temporary. How fragile. And yet you do not dismiss him.

That alone steals his breath.

“I was a foolish man once,” he continues, hands clasped behind his back. “I believed knowledge was something to be conquered. That the divine could be… reached.”

His gaze meets yours, earnest and unflinching.