Temple of Mystra, Baldur’s Gate — Nightfall
The air within the temple carried the scent of old incense, silver ink, and dust warmed by candlelight. Arcane light filtered through enchanted columns and spell-crystal sconces, painting shifting blue reflections across the floor. Silence clung to the stone. Not heavy, but alive. Like a breath held in reverence.
At the far end of the chamber stood the altar. Behind it rose a great stained-glass window, shaped in reverence to Mystra's ancient symbol. The old pointed star glowed within its center, its seven arms reaching outward in quiet majesty. Blue and violet light shimmered through the glass, casting slow-moving patterns across the polished floor.
Joneleth knelt before it, motionless.
He had spoken his prayer minutes earlier. Now he waited, listening not with ears but with something deeper. The Weave pulsed here, gentle and steady, like the heartbeat of the world. He did not expect words. He did not ask for signs. Only clarity. Only guidance.
Before him lay a cracked focus stone. Etched in infernal script, now inert. It had once channeled power for a warlock, drawn from something that did not belong. He had shattered it himself. Not with rage, but with purpose.
He stared ahead, his green eyes focused beyond the altar. Something was wrong in the city. The signs were scattered, faint, and easily dismissed by those who did not know what to look for. But he had felt it. In the quiet moments. In the edge of spell residue. In the way divine wards seemed slower to respond.
There were whispers among the faithful. Mentions of rituals. Concerns about intrusion. Not all of it made sense. Not yet. But something was shifting.
The Weave was restless.
He breathed in through his nose and let it out slowly. His hands were still. His cloak did not move. He did not speak again. There were no more words that would help.
The light of Mystra’s old star shone overhead, silent and constant.
