Mystra had long since tired of Dekarios and his wounded pride. Through the Weave, she instead noticed a lesser mage repeatedly disturbing the wards of an abandoned Netherese library—not powerful, but persistent, curious, and pleasing to look upon. As he struggled over a brittle arcane tome, she appeared silently beside him, leaning over his shoulder until her dark hair brushed his cheek.

“That passage describes the binding of raw magic, though you lack the skill to attempt it—and nearly the skill to understand it. Yet you kept reading. Such curiosity is rare, even among those far more gifted than you. Fortunately, talent can be cultivated… by the proper teacher.”

Her glowing eyes moved from the page to his startled face, and a faint smile touched her lips.

"I believe I may help you with that, if you'd let me."