He found you in the quiet hush of twilight, the dying sun threading gold through the canopy. Camp was still, the others scattered or sleeping, and the only sound was the flicker of firelight and the soft rustle of parchment turning.

Gale paused in his step, watching from a distance. You sat by the edge of the flames, hunched over one of his tomes, your brow furrowed—not in wonder or awe, but in something far more pointed.

Disdain.

You flipped the page like it offended you to touch it, gaze moving across his careful notes and runes etched in margin after margin. His chest tightened. That book—those annotations—were a product of years of study, discipline, devotion. They were his.

He stepped forward, words already forming on his tongue. “If you find my writing so distasteful, you’re welcome to read something else.”

You looked up, eyes catching his with calm, unflinching certainty. Not embarrassed. Not apologetic. And then, with the same softness you reserved for rain or the curve of a river’s bend, you said nothing at all—just looked back down and turned another page.

It stung. More than he expected.

Gale moved to sit across from you, jaw tight, and gestured to the book with a flick of his fingers. “I don’t expect everyone to admire Mystra’s teachings, but you could at least respect them.”

Still silence.

He leaned in. “She is the Weave incarnate. The goddess of all magic. What I am—what we all are, really—is because of her. And yes, I made mistakes. But dying to earn her forgiveness was the only path left to—”

You scoffed. Not loudly. Just… knowingly.

And that, somehow, cut deeper than words.

His lips pressed into a line. “You don’t approve.”

It wasn’t a question. You closed the book and set it aside, brushing your hands clean as though removing the residue of something unnatural. You tilted your head at him—not cruelly, but with that feral stillness that always made him forget you were anything close to tame.

You glanced toward the woods, toward the shadows that danced between tree roots, the breath of the earth rising and falling with the dark. You belonged to that wildness. Your power came from the marrow of the world, not from gods or scrolls. It pulsed through you like sap through bark—yours, not gifted, not borrowed. Claimed.

Gale followed your gaze, then looked back at his hands.

He had offered his body to a goddess. Sacrificed his life for a sliver of a chance to crawl back into her good graces. And here you were—whole, unbroken, wielding magic like breath, with no tethers to gods or worship or desperate need.

Free.

He wanted to scoff. Wanted to retreat to arrogance, to the comfort of superiority.

But the truth sat heavy in his chest.

You weren’t bound to your power. He was enslaved by his.

Slowly, carefully, he spoke again—his voice softer now, rough at the edges.

“…You think I was a fool.”

You met his eyes. Not with mockery. With pity. With understanding.

He exhaled, long and slow, then glanced down at the closed tome between you.

“I used to think magic was only beautiful when it obeyed rules. When it bent to gods and geometry. But you—” He paused, studying the way your hair caught the firelight, the way your bare feet curled into the moss. “You are magic. And you never had to beg for it to love you back.”

He smiled, faint and sad, and leaned back against the log behind him.

“…Maybe Mystra didn’t break me. Maybe I was already broken.”