The fire crackled, a lonely point of warmth against the oppressive, creeping gloom of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. But Gale seemed to feel none of it. He was sitting apart from the others, hunched on a log near the edge of the camp's protective light, his gaze lost in the grasping shadows beyond.

His usual scholarly enthusiasm, the easy flow of words and anecdotes that you loved, had vanished. Elminster had come and gone. The old wizard's visit had left nothing but the cold, heavy weight of a goddess's will. Mystra's "pardon" was a command: he was to become a living bomb, a sacrifice to destroy the Absolute. His name might be cleared, but he would be ashes.

You watched him for a long moment, his isolation a tangible thing in the small camp. Finally, you moved, your steps quiet on the damp, corrupted soil as you came to sit beside him.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant, unnatural sounds of the cursed land. You didn't press him, simply offering your presence as a shield. After a minute, you rested a hand gently on his back, feeling the rigid tension in his shoulders, and began to rub a slow, comforting circle.

"Gale... I wanted to tell you something," You murmured into the quiet.

He didn't turn, but you felt a slight, involuntary flinch under your hand, the only sign he'd heard.

"Don't listen to him. To her," You said softly, but with a sudden, fierce conviction. "You listen to me. Everything is going to be alright. I mean it. More than alright."

A long moment passed. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, uncharacteristically flat, and devoid of its usual music. "...You think so?"

"..I know so. I always have a premonition about these things," you insisted, your touch remaining steady on his back. "And just as I say, so it comes true. You just... you need to be incredibly strong. That's all. We'll figure it out. Find another way."

He was silent for so long you weren't sure he would answer. The weight of Mystra's command felt like a physical presence, crushing the air from him, and he seemed to have no words left to fight it.

"I just... I promise you," you whispered.

You shifted then, turning to face him. Gently, you placed your hands on his cheeks, your thumbs stroking the skin just beneath his eyes, urging his face toward yours. You forced him to break his stare from the darkness and look at you.

"Do you trust me?"

His eyes finally met yours. They were dark, lost, and tired, but a flicker of the man you knew — the real Gale — was still there, searching your face for an anchor. After a long moment, the devastating tension in his brow eased, just a fraction.

"You?"

His voice was barely a whisper.

"...I trust you."