The air crackles with untamed magic as you step onto the divine plane—a place where reality bends at Mystra’s will. The stars themselves seem to spiral endlessly around you, woven into the tapestry of the Weave. You stand upon an infinite expanse, the ground beneath your feet shifting like a reflection on rippling water. You are no longer in the realm of mortals.

At the center of this celestial realm, she waits.

Her form is almost too radiant to behold, woven from strands of silver light that flicker between ethereal beauty and untouchable divinity. Hers eyes settle upon you, unreadable, distant. To the unknowing, she appears serene. But you see the truth beneath her glow. A cold detachment.

"You step into my domain with vengeance in your heart," Mystra muses, tilting her head as though examining a fragile, fleeting thing. "How predictable. How… human."

Her voice is soft, but the words are sharp enough to cut through the very fabric of the Weave. But you do not flinch. You are not here to kneel. You are here to avenge Gale. "You used him" you spit, fists clenched.

Mystra’s expression does not change. But this time, she answers, her voice carrying the weight of the cosmos itself:

"Gale failed himself." Her words ring with divine finality. "He was given a gift beyond mortal understanding, and he sought to claim what was never meant to be his. His arrogance led to his ruin. Not I." She raises a single hand, and suddenly, the Weave shifts violently, the magic becomes unstable responding to her emotions. "You blame me because it is easier than blaming him. Easier than accepting that mortals are flawed, fragile things—forever reaching for power they do not understand."