**PART I — THE TAVERN OF DUST AND OMENS** The Driftwood Tavern was hardly alive that night. Dust clung to tables in lazy sheets. The lanternlight hung low, dim and amber, as though it were too tired to glow properly. Only two old regulars stirred, and even then, only when they shifted in their sleep. It was into this small, forgotten pocket of Neverwinter that Thalien Moonstrider stepped, road-worn and calm, his cloak heavy with the dust of long miles. When he drew back his hood, the faint sigils etched along his elven ears caught the lantern’s glow—moonlit lines winding delicately through their angular shape. Not flamboyant. Not loud. Simply there, like a quiet truth revealed. He ordered a drink—not with speech, but with gesture—mirroring the choice of the knight slumped over the bar: Nathaniel. A man whose weariness clung to him like older dust. Then the tavern burst, abruptly, into a strange sort of life. A bard with a fool’s grin and a red-feathered cap strode in, calling himself Monty. A jester—Miguel—slammed the door wide open, honking a hand-horn and bellowing about ‘serious chuckles,’ sending the dust of the tavern swirling in protest. Nathaniel groaned. Monty chuckled. And Thalien simply watched, a gentle crease forming between his brows. But omen came on silent wings. A pale Cathshee Owl—Sirael—darted into the tavern, its wings whispering silver light, its feathers bristled with warning. It brushed past Miguel’s gaudy hair and arrowed across the room before landing heavily on Thalien’s shoulder. The elf trembled under the weight—not out of fear, but because every instinct he held told him the Weave itself had stirred. Nathaniel spoke of strange lights in the sky. Of orcs burned by heat that left no flame. Of armored figures that vanished as if stepping between moments. And when Thalien unrolled his moon-inked map of Zaneya Keep, the glyphs upon it pulsed faintly, as though recognizing the truth in the knight’s words. The tavern was no longer quiet. It had become a crossroads. And the road forward bent sharply toward destiny. **PART II — THE HALFLING, THE HIPPOGRIFF, AND THE GIRL'S BIRTHDAY** Outside the tavern, the night air carried the faint echo of revelry—music, laughter, and something that sounded suspiciously like small chaos. It was there that Tillo Bramblefoot appeared: a city halfling with a lantern, a grin too wide for his round face, and a voice that moved faster than his feet. He had news: a runaway hippogriff from a noblewoman’s rooftop birthday party. Within minutes, Nathaniel, Thalien, and Tillo were bounding through alleys at halfling-speed. Left onto Crooked Cutters Lane. Up the swaying footbridge called Quill-and-Rafter Span. Down over Old Barrel Bend. Across the basin where fishermen whispered rumors into the dark. Then right at the stables, where the night erupted. A hippogriff, furious and flapping, was being corralled by guards. A noble lass in fine dress was clutching a displacer kitten wearing a crushed birthday hat and half-chewed ribbon. Miguel was juggling his own hat for no reason. And the hired mercenaries were trying—and failing—to act like this was an ordinary evening in Neverwinter. Thalien remained still through it all. It was Sirael who reacted—her feathers flaring with moonlight each time the Weave trembled. Nathaniel calmed the hippogriff with quiet resolve, guiding it back to its jeweled harness. The lass reclaimed her pet, still clutching the frayed ribbon. The mercenaries secured the creature. Miguel vanished into smoke. Tillo bowed out with halfling flair and an invitation for dinner ‘next time.’ Yet even in the laughter and bizarre chaos, Thalien felt the signs tightening. The sky above shimmered oddly, as though something beyond it had turned an eye toward the city. **PART III — THE OUTCROP AND THE GITH WHO STEPPED THROUGH THE VEIL** Thalien's visions led him beyond the lights of Neverwinter, guiding him to the twin oaks on a hill near Zaneya Keep. The air there felt thinner, stretched, as though the Weave had drawn breath and held it in trembling anticipation. He carved glyphs into the soil—moon sigils and soft druidic lines—and Sirael circled above, her glow illuminating the field as though she were a miniature Selûne adrift in feathered form. Nathaniel arrived. Dust-covered. Thoughtful. Uncertain of his path, but following it nonetheless. Thalien spoke of the tavern’s tales—of the lights, the scorched bodies, the vanishing armored figures. He spoke of omens tightening, of the Weave pulling taut like a bowstring ready to release. And Nathaniel listened, torn between fate and defiance. Then the veil shivered. A presence emerged from behind the twin oaks—a Gith man clad in a white suit lined with glowing blue circuitry. His golden skin caught the moonlight in unnatural reflection. He introduced himself as **Doctor Zedd**. A scientist. A star-walker. A man who knew the shape of what approached Toril. A man who could offer a vessel capable of crossing the void. Nathaniel questioned him. Doubted him. But Thalien merely watched, seeing in Zedd the shadow he had glimpsed in dreams—another sign, another thread in a pattern too large for mortal eyes. Above them, one of Selûne’s Tears flared brighter than all the others, streaking across the heavens with purpose—silent, sharp, as though naming the danger itself. The Weave trembled. Sirael’s feathers glowed. Thalien understood: This night was only the first turning of a far greater wheel. **In the Ledger, the Soul Bearer inked:** > ‘The sky remembers what the land forgets. > The light that fell tonight was not the last. > And the next will not fall alone.’