Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Neverwinter, the Night After the Beckoning Death (interrupted)

Edgin Darvis was feeling good. Maybe not great, because great would mean his ribs weren’t still sore from getting thrown into a wall, and his head didn’t have the lingering throb of magical exertion, but good was close enough. They’d won. They’d saved the city. Forge was in chains, Kira was safe, and after everything, they had even managed to live. He was a big damn hero, and Neverwinter had rewarded him accordingly—his own very fancy room at the finest inn in the city.

Holga had already turned in after challenging a half-dozen mercenaries to an arm-wrestling contest. Simon had been too flustered by a barmaid's interest to call it a night yet, and Doric had long since retreated to a quiet corner with a drink that she very pointedly wasn’t sharing. So Edgin, still pleasantly warm with mead and victory, bid the tavern farewell and made his way to his room, humming under his breath.

The door creaked open, and he stepped inside, expecting plush bedding and a night of well-earned sleep.

Instead, he walked into an entirely different room.

The space before him wasn’t the lavish suite he’d been promised. No, this was an opulent sitting room, draped in deep blues and silvers, lined with shelves that hummed with arcane energy. It smelled—not of fine perfumes or rich feasts—but of old magic, parchment, and… pipe tobacco?

Edgin blinked. Once. Twice. Then he looked back over his shoulder. Hallway. Looked forward again. Not his room.

“Ah, good, you’re finally here,” a voice greeted warmly.

Sitting in one of the plush chairs, pipe in hand, was an old man with a long white beard, dressed in deep blue robes adorned with silver embroidery. His eyes twinkled with something far too knowing.

Edgin squinted at him. Then at the pipe. Then at the room that was not his room.

“…Okay, either I’m more drunk than I thought, or I’ve finally suffered a complete and total mental collapse.”

The old man chuckled. “Neither, lad. Though I’d wager you have had quite the eventful night.” He tapped his pipe against the armrest, and the embers flared briefly. “Come, sit. We have much to discuss.”

Edgin did not move.

“Right. And, ah… who exactly are we?”

The old man smiled in a way that was both deeply amused and frustratingly patient. “I am Elminster.”

Edgin blinked again. “The Elminster? As in, Mystra’s right-hand wizard? That Elminster?”

“The very same.”

“…Hells.” Edgin let out a long breath. “So this is definitely about magic, then. Listen, if this is about Simon, I swear he’s really coming along—”

“It is not about Simon.”

“Oh. That’s a relief.” Edgin rocked back on his heels. “Because I’ve really been trying not to be overbearing, you know? I want to be a supportive figure, let him develop at his own pace—”

“Edgin.”

Elminster’s tone, though still warm, had taken on a note of unmistakable finality.

Edgin shut his mouth.

The old wizard studied him, gaze keen, assessing something Edgin couldn’t quite grasp. Then he sighed, leaning back with an almost wistful expression.

“You remind me of another bard, long ago. He also had a knack for finding trouble, for making good men and women believe in something greater than themselves.” His lips twitched. “And, like you, he had a habit of talking his way into places he had no business being.”

Edgin raised a finger. “In my defense, most of the time, I’m invited.”

Elminster chuckled. “Oh, you were most certainly invited.”

Before Edgin could ask what that meant, Elminster raised a hand, and the room seemed to shift. The very air hummed with power. The lanterns flickered with a cool, silver light. A presence filled the space—not a person, but something vast and incomprehensible, like the night sky stretching endlessly overhead.

Edgin felt his breath hitch.

And then, softly, Elminster spoke.

“Edgin Darvis, Mystra has chosen you.”

Silence.

Now, Edgin knew words. Words and phrases and rhyme were kind of his thing…along with planning…but…

These particular words? Sense they did not seem to make.

’Edgin’ and ‘Darvis’ he got. He wasn’t drunk enough to not remember his own name…probably. ‘Mystra,” super powerful major deity, Goddess with a Capital G level entity. Somehow not just goddess over magic, somehow is also the embodiment of magic? Simon tried to explain it once. Ed kinda wishes he had been paying more attention.
Then came the weird, completely nonsensical section of this strange little proclamation.

’HAS CHOSEN YOU.’

Then the words sunk in.

Edgin’s mouth went dry. His hands curled into loose fists at his sides, though he wasn’t sure why.

‘Stay calm, Ed…’

“…I think there’s been a mistake,” he said finally, voice quieter than he intended. “I’m not— I don’t do that. I’m just a bard. A thief, if we’re being honest.” He let out a weak chuckle. “You’re thinking of someone else.”

Now was not the time to panic.

“No,” Elminster said simply.

Edgin swallowed. His heart was pounding now, though he wasn’t sure if it was fear or something else.

Now was the perfect time to panic!

“You have walked paths few dare tread,” Elminster continued, his voice carrying the weight of something old, something vast. “You have stood against death, against despair, and even in your darkest moments, you did not surrender to it. Not truly.” His gaze softened. “Mystra sees not just those who wield magic, but those who understand its purpose. You may not call yourself a wizard, but you have always known the power of words, of music, of the stories that shape the world.”

A pause.

“That is why you are chosen.”

Edgin let out a slow, shaking breath. He turned away, pressing a hand to his face.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t. He was just a man who had spent years running from failure, from pain, from everything. The world had broken him once, and he had barely survived the pieces it left behind.

And yet.

He thought of Kira, of the way she had looked at him when he told her he would never leave her again. He thought of Holga, of Simon, of Doric, of the friends who had stood beside him, who had trusted him to lead them through madness.

He thought of the dead. Of Zia.

Of how he had promised—promised—to never let his past define his future.

“…What happens now?” he asked finally, his voice hoarse, his heart fluttering furiously in his chest. Totally not panicking.

Elminster smiled, and for the first time, there was something almost gentle in his gaze.

“Now?” He exhaled a puff of smoke, and the scent of pipe tobacco curled through the air.

“Now, we see what kind of story you choose to tell.”

And for the first time since he could remember, Edgin Darvis had no words at all<\p>

Chapter Text

Edgin Darvis was, in a word, discombobulated. His head spun, his eyes bulged, he half felt as if he were about to swallow his own tongue.

There had to be something in the mead. Or maybe the ale? Or both? Had Holga slipped something into his drink for a laugh? He wouldn’t put it past her. But no, no—Holga didn’t have this kind of humor. She’d lean toward bar fights and extremely questionable dares, not conjuring up Elminster himself for a prank.

So. Either he was hallucinating, dead, or—gods help him—this was real.

He ran both hands through his hair, paced, stopped, looked at Elminster, opened his mouth, closed his mouth, turned around, paced again.

"Okay," he started, pointing vaguely at Elminster while he tried to keep his thoughts from spilling out of his ears. "Okay. Let's just—slow down for a second, alright?"

Elminster didn’t look like a man inclined to slow down. He looked like a man perfectly content to watch Edgin flail, and enjoy every second of it, the cheeky bastard.

Edgin exhaled sharply and sat down in one of the room’s chairs. Or, well, tried to. It was one of those overly ornate, impractical things, and he misjudged the seat entirely, almost sliding right off onto the floor. He caught himself, adjusted, then immediately stood back up again because sitting felt like too much commitment.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself. “This is actually, properly insane. I mean—me? Chosen? That’s ridiculous. It’s a mistake. A clerical error, surely.”

He looked at Elminster, eyes wide, wincing internally at the inadvertent play on words. “You must get those. Right? A god’s gotta have a lot on their plate, yeah? Maybe she meant to choose someone else and, you know, the ink smudged on the divine paperwork, and—”

Elminster just took another puff of his pipe.

Edgin groaned and rubbed his face. "Gods above. Okay, alright, just—hypothetically—" He waved a hand. "Let's say I do say yes."

Elminster tilted his head ever so slightly.

Edgin narrowed his eyes. "What happens?"

Elminster smiled. “You become more than you were.”

Ed snorted. “Oh, fantastic, that’s so specific.”

"You may find your magic stronger,” Elminster continued, unbothered. “You may find doors opening where once there were only walls. You may see, hear, feel magic in ways you never have before. It will change you, Edgin Darvis—but not into someone else." He leaned forward, voice softer now. "Only into more of who you already are."

Edgin gaped at him.

He wasn't sure what he expected. Some grand declaration? A list of powers? Maybe a cryptic riddle that would only make sense in hindsight?

But this—this felt real. It wasn’t some promise of ultimate knowledge or endless power. It was just…him, but more.

Which was, frankly, terrifying.

Edgin let out a shaky breath, turned halfway toward the door like he might leave, then turned back, then turned back again, then made it three whole steps before spinning right back around.

"Okay, wait, wait—what about responsibilities?" he asked, voice climbing toward panic again. "Are there rules? Conditions? Am I signing myself up for something that's gonna end with me spontaneously combusting in my sleep?"

Elminster chuckled. "Mystra does not bind her Chosen with chains, Edgin."

Edgin made a vague, distressed noise. Skipping over the fleeting question of what Mystra DID bind her chosen with, he tried again. "Okay, but like—expectations?"

Elminster shrugged. "Only that you be you."

Edgin blinked at him. "That’s it?"

"A difficult task, if you think on it," Elminster said, smiling. "But yes."

Edgin’s hands went to his hips, then to his face, then back to his hips. He turned in a slow, confused circle, then finally collapsed into the ridiculous chair, dropping his head into his hands.

"Fuck," he muttered into his palms.

Elminster, ever patient, simply waited.

After a long moment, Edgin exhaled and peeked through his fingers. "Does this come with spontaneous combustion, though?"

Elminster’s grin was positively maddening. "Not unless you make particularly poor choices."

Edgin groaned again and let his head fall back against the absurdly plush cushions. He deliberately pushes away the idle thought that he had an unfortunate track record of making particularly poor choices.

“Why me?” he asked the ceiling.

And, from across the room, Elminster answered:

“Because you are exactly who you need to be.”

Edgin took a deep breath.

Edgin Darvis had faced a lot of things in his life. Prison? Sure. Red Wizards? Absolutely. Undead horrors, betrayal, soul-crushing grief? All in a day’s work.

But this?

This was too much.

“I—” He let out a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp for air. “I—okay. No. No, see, you’re wrong, old man. This is a mistake. I am a mistake.”

Elminster arched a brow, puffing at his pipe as if he hadn’t just shattered Edgin’s entire worldview.

“I mean, come on!” Edgin cried, jumping up from the ambiguously chair shaped piece of furniture. He threw up his hands, pacing the length of the opulent—not his—room. “I’m nearly forty! You can’t just—just choose me now! I have back pain! I make a weird noise when I stand up too fast! I have a daughter, for gods’ sake!”

He whirled on Elminster. “I stopped doing magic before I even hit adulthood! I don’t even have a spellbook!

Spontaneous combustion was very much involved!”

Elminster took a slow, deliberate drag from his pipe. “You play the lute, do you not?”

Edgin stopped mid-panic. Blinked.

“What?”

“You shape the world with your words, your music. You wield magic every time you open your mouth.” Elminster exhaled a long trail of smoke. “You have never stopped.”

Edgin pointed a finger at him. “Oh, don’t you wizard-mystic me, old man. This is different! You’re different! You’re Elminster! You’re all wise and mysterious and beardy! I— I steal things!”

“Indeed,” Elminster said, amused. “Some would say you have stolen quite a bit. Hearts, trust, a second chance at life—”

Edgin groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “You’re insufferable.”

Elminster grinned. “So I have been told.”

Edgin let out a shaky breath and turned away, pacing again. His thoughts raced, tumbling over themselves, grasping for a way out.

“I’m not— I broke my oath,” he muttered. “I was a Harper, once. And I threw it all away. I let my grief, my anger, turn me into something I never wanted to be. And now you’re telling me Mystra— the literal goddess of magic— looked at that and went, ‘Yes. That one.’”
He laughed, sharp and bitter. “What does that say about her judgment?”

Elminster was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, “Do you believe she chooses only the perfect?”

Edgin blinked. Absently, he sat down again.

Elminster leaned forward, the twinkle in his eyes fading into something older, something weighed with centuries of knowing.

“I have been many things, Edgin Darvis. A thief, a liar, even a killer. I have seen my friends die. I have betrayed, and I have been betrayed. I have lost faith, and I have crawled back to it on bleeding hands.” He tapped his pipe against the armrest. “Mystra does not choose those who have never fallen. She chooses those who rise.”

Edgin stared at him. His mouth felt dry.

“That,” Elminster said, leaning back once more, “is why she chose you.”

Edgin swallowed hard. His hands trembled.

This was too much. Too much responsibility, too much weight. He was just a man—a father, a thief, an oathbreaker. He wasn’t meant to be this.

His mind reeled, searching for a way out, for a loophole, for anything—

And then, softer, like the barest whisper of wind, he felt it.

A presence. Warm, vast, endless, curling around him like a song just on the edge of memory. Not demanding, not forceful—just there, waiting.

Mystra.

Edgin
squeezed his eyes shut.

For a long moment, he just breathed.

Edgin sat there, staring at the ceiling, Elminster’s words hanging in the air between them.

"If I say no?"

"Nothing happens. You go back to your room and have a good night’s rest."

That should have been a relief. A way out. No grand destiny, no cosmic weight pressing down on his shoulders, no sudden shift in who he was. He could just be Edgin Darvis, the charming, slightly tipsy bard who had barely scraped through saving Neverwinter.

But then—

His fingers curled into the fabric of the absurdly plush chair.

He thought about Forge, smug and untouchable, holding a knife to Kira’s throat while Edgin had been powerless to stop him. He thought about Sofina, her magic sealing him away like he was nothing, a nuisance to be dealt with, while his daughter—his whole world—was left in danger. He thought about those years stolen from him, wasted in a cold, dark cell, while Kira grew up without him.

If he’d had the power—

If he’d been able to do something—

His jaw tightened. His chest ached with the weight of everything he couldn’t do. Everything he should have been able to do.

How many people like him had faced those same moments of helplessness? How many people had lost everything because they weren’t strong enough, fast enough, good enough?

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his hands together, the warmth of the room suddenly feeling too much.

“If I say yes…” His voice was quiet, measured, but not uncertain. Not anymore. “Do I have to change?”

Elminster smiled, the kind of smile that felt like it had seen a hundred versions of this conversation before. "Only in the ways that you already are."

Edgin swallowed.

It wasn’t about deserving this.

It was about what he could do with it.

For Kira. For people like her.

For himself.

His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his knee, thoughts racing, circling, weighing every impossible, life-changingpossibility.

Then—

“…Well,” he said, pushing himself to his feet, steeling himself for the biggest leap of faith he’d ever take.

“Let’s see where this goes.”

“I Accept.”

Chapter Text

The moment Edgin says yes, the world shifts.

At first, it’s subtle—like a change in air pressure, the quiet hum of something vast and ineffable pressing in on the edges of his awareness. Then, suddenly, it’s not subtle.

A wave of warmth floods his chest, rushing outward through his veins like liquid light. His breath catches, and for half a second, he thinks he’s made a terrible mistake. His heart pounds against his ribs, his skin tingles, and he feels—wrong. Too aware of himself, of the chair beneath him, (wasn’t he on his feet?) of the space around him. Like the world has sharpened, become too much.

Then the light inside him bursts.
It’s not fire, not quite. It’s something—something powerful, something old. He gasps, tipping forward, hands gripping the arms of the chair, but the sensation doesn't stop. It coils through his bones, curls in his breath, hums beneath his skin.

Magic.

Not the kind he’s used to, not the safe, predictable plucking of a lute string and the gentle pull of a spell spun from song. This is different. Deeper. A force older than kingdoms, older than the gods who fight over them. A power that does not ask, does not bargain.

Mystra’s magic.

It doesn't just touch him—it claims him.

Edgin’s hands tremble. He holds one to his chest, buries the other deep in the uncomfortable upholstery, but the magic doesn’t care. It sings in his blood, threads through his thoughts, and for a terrifying, exhilarating moment, he understands. Not everything. Not nearly. But more than he should.

The weave of magic is not some distant, untouchable thing—it is here, now, part of him. He can feel it, stretching beyond the edges of his perception, an infinite tapestry of power and knowledge.

And he, Edgin Darvis—bard, thief, broken man—has just tied himself to it.
His breath is unsteady. He blinks, uncurling and looking down at his hands. His fingers still shake, but he swears, for the briefest moment, that he sees threads of light dancing between them.

He swallows hard.

“Well,” he rasps, breathless and a bit shocky. “That’s…a lot.”

Elminster, watching him with knowing amusement, only nods. “Aye.”

Edgin exhales, running both hands through his hair. He knows himself. He knows his habits. He leaps without looking. He makes reckless, stupid decisions, and this—this might be the biggest one yet.

He has no idea what he’s just agreed to.

Fuck.

Edgin leans back against the ridiculous chair, rubbing his hands over his face. Panting like a race horse, heart pounding like a drum. He still feels it—this strange, humming awareness in his bones, the sense that he’s standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable. And he said yes.

Then. Another horrible thought.

What the hells is he supposed to tell Kira?

"Hey, sweetheart, you know how I always said magic was more trouble than it’s worth? Well, turns out I was right, and also, your dad is now cosmically entangled with the goddess of magic herself. No, I don’t really know what that means yet. Yes, I probably should have asked more questions."

Gods. She’s going to look at him. With those sharp, knowing eyes, the ones that say Dad, I love you, but you’re an idiot, and she won’t even have to say it because he’ll already know.

And Holga.

Holga is going to strangle him. No, first she’s going to laugh. That deep, belly-shaking, you absolute moron laugh. Then she’s going to strangle him. Then she’ll probably make him soup or something, because she cares, but also because she’s obligated to balance out her disappointment with comfort food.

Doric will probably take it in stride. She’s got that “I’m too angsty and teenager-y to care about anything” vibe going for her.

Simon will probably cry.

And then there’s Xenk.

Ed groans, dropping his head into his hands.

Xenk will be insufferable. Well—more insufferable. There will be knowing looks. Stoic nods. Possibly some kind of noble-sounding sermon about duty and the sanctity of being Chosen and fulfilling one's higher purpose. Edgin can already hear it in his head.

“The path of those chosen by the gods is fraught with hardship, but you must walk it with unwavering resolve and—”

Gods, why does he care what Xenk thinks again?

Ed pushes that thought deep into the recesses of his mind, locks the door, and throws away the key.

First things first: he needs to sleep this off. Maybe when he wakes up, he’ll have a better idea of how to explain to everyone that he may have just made the biggest, most reckless decision of his entire life.

…Or at least, second only to robbing that Harper stronghold.
(And look how that turned out.)

Elminster watches with an amused twinkle in his eye as Edgin spirals through every stage of existential panic, from babbling disbelief to grudging acceptance to what looks suspiciously like the early onset of a massive migraine. It’s a reaction he’s seen before—hells, he’s had it before.

“Easy, lad,” he says at last, his voice warm with understanding. “Ye’ve had quite the night. And ye’ll have quite the morning, I expect.”

Ed looks up at him, bleary and frazzled, already half-draped across the impractical bit of furniture he collapsed onto. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Morning’s gonna suck.”

Elminster chuckles, setting his pipe aside. “Aye, that it will.” With a small gesture, he murmurs a few arcane words, his magic wrapping through the air with a soothing hum. “Best ye get some rest, then.”

Ed barely has time to register what’s happening before the sleep spell hits. His limbs go heavy, his thoughts blur, and a slow, drowsy realization creeps in—

Elminster Aumar, Sage of Shadowdale, has just put him to bed like a fucking toddler.

He has exactly one second to be mortified before he’s out cold.

Elminster watches him for a moment, shaking his head fondly. “Mystra help ye, lad,” he murmurs. “Ye’ll be needin’ it.”

Then, with a final puff of his pipe, he’s gone, leaving Edgin to sleep off the best—and worst—decision of his life.

Chapter Text

Edgin wakes up with a groan, face-down in the most comfortable bed he’s ever had the privilege of drooling on.

His first thought is that Neverwinter really knows how to treat its heroes.

His second thought is that he drank way too much last night.

His third thought—

Wait.

He sits up sharply, blinking at the lavish room around him. For a split second, something about it feels off, like he expected to wake up somewhere else. But that’s ridiculous. He barely even remembers getting back here.

A dream, then. Just a dream. The old man with the pipe, the weirdly vivid feeling of—

Nope. Not thinking about it.

He hauls himself out of bed, splashes some cold water over his face, and gets dressed.

Normal morning. He’s going to get breakfast, he’s going to pretend last night was nothing more than his imagination, and everything will be fine.

And it is fine. Mostly.

The inn’s main room is lively, filled with the warm smell of bread and sizzling meat, the murmur of voices, and the occasional clatter of dishes. He slides into a seat, orders breakfast, and pointedly does not acknowledge the way the whole room feels… brighter.

Not visibly, just—

Just.

He rubs his temples. Hangover. That’s all.

The server sets down his food, and the moment the plate touches the table, he can feel the residual magic from whatever warming enchantment they’re using in the kitchen. He flinches. Stares at the plate like it’s about to bite him.

No. No, no. It’s fine. He’s just jumpy.

Totally normal morning.

And then—

“Hey.”

“GAH—!”

He damn near launches himself out of his chair. His heart lurches into his throat, breath hitching, as he whirls around to see Holga standing there with an unimpressed look, arms crossed.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks.

Edgin places a hand over his chest, trying to will his pulse back to something resembling normal.

“Nothing,” he says, too quickly. “Totally fine. Normal morning. Nothing weird happening here.”

Holga narrows her eyes. “You’re making that face.”

Ed blinks, snapping his face into his patented ‘what face?’ face.

“You know, the ‘I say I’m fine but I’m secretly freaking out’ face.”

“I am not,” he lies, secretly freaking out and shoving a too-large bite of bread into his mouth to distract from his completely not secretly freaking out face.

She watches him chew like she’s contemplating throwing him out a window.

Ed grins somewhat unconvincingly. Thankfully, he manages not to choke to death as he does so.

Finally, she shakes her head. “If you were gonna start losing your mind, you could’ve at least waited until after breakfast.”

She sits down across from him, and Edgin, still rattled, wonders how the hell he’s going to get through the day without giving himself away.

Edgin focuses on his food. If he just keeps eating, keeps nodding along like everything is fine, nobody will notice that it absolutely isn’t.

The rest of the group trickles in, one by one. Doric is the first, sitting down with her usual cautious reserve. Then Simon, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and muttering something about weird dreams. He stops mid-motion, squinting at Ed like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

Ed pointedly ignores it.

There’s talk of the upcoming ceremony—some kind of grand thank-you from Neverwinter, complete with medals, speeches, and probably some noble trying to take credit for their heroics. Holga is immediately dismissive of the whole thing, Doric seems indifferent, and Simon is torn between excitement and absolute dread at having to stand in front of a crowd.

Edgin, meanwhile, is concentrating very, very hard on not reacting to every speck of ambient magic in the room. It’s everywhere—woven into the inn’s structure, humming in the lanterns, lingering in the clothes of every passing wizard. He can’t see it, exactly, but he can feel it, like standing too close to an instrument and hearing its resonance in his bones.

Simon is still staring at him.

Ed takes another bite of food, chews, swallows.

“You good, Simon?”

********

Simon doesn’t mean to stare, but he is a sorcerer, magic is kind of his thing, and something is definitely off.

Edgin looks normal—same tired eyes, same easy grin, same way he slouches just enough to make himself seem like the least important person in the room. But that’s the thing. He feels different.

Magic has a presence. Even if Simon can’t see auras or read the Weave like a master mage, he’s sensitive enough to notice when something shifts. And
Edgin—Edgin, who has never so much as sparked a cantrip in his life—has shifted.

Simon keeps glancing at him over breakfast, trying to pin it down. It’s not a spell, at least not one he recognizes. It’s not an illusion, and it’s not some lingering curse or enchantment. It’s subtler than that, something woven into the very airaround Ed. Like he’s suddenly attuned to something bigger than himself, something vast and ancient and—

Well. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Edgin is not vast or ancient or anything even remotely like that.

He’s Ed. The guy who plays the lute badly, who always has some ridiculous plan that somehow works, who makes dumb jokes even when they’re in mortal danger. The guy who took Simon in when he was at his lowest and never made him feel like a burden.

And yet.

Simon doesn’t realize he’s frowning until Ed catches him looking.

“You good, Simon?”

Simon hesitates. He could say yes, could just brush it off and pretend he’s not losing his mind. But that’s not how his brain works, so instead, what comes out is:

“Uh. Yeah. Just… You feel weird.”

Edgin immediately chokes on his food.

Holga thumps him on the back.

Simon watches him recover, narrowing his eyes. That reaction was suspicious.

“I feel fine,” Edgin insists. “Totally fine. You’re imagining things.”

Simon isn’t convinced. If anything, that only makes him more sure something is up.

“Are you sure?” he presses. “Because your whole… everything feels different.” He gestures vaguely. “Like you’re giving off a kind of—”

“There is absolutely nothing different about me,” Edgin interrupts, a little too quickly. “Same old Ed. Just a guy who plays a lute and occasionally commits grand larceny for the right reasons.”

Simon squints. That is a deflection. A very Edgin deflection, sure, but a deflection nonetheless.

Doric sighs. “Does this actually matter, or are you just being paranoid?”

Simon hesitates. Does it matter?

Maybe not. Maybe it’s just a trick of the mind, some leftover magic from their last battle, some subconscious instinct making him imagine things that aren’t there.

“I mean… probably not?” he admits.

Edgin claps his hands together like the matter is officially closed.

“Great! So, about this ceremony—”

Simon lets it go. For now. But he keeps watching, keeps thinking.

Something happened. He doesn’t know what, but he’s going to figure it out.

********

“Great,” Ed says, clapping his hands together. “So, about this ceremony—”

Holga groans. “Do we have to go?”

Thank the gods for Holga.

“Well, they did give us free rooms,” Ed points out, more than happy to change the subject. “And free food. And I think they’d like to get a little public recognition out of us before we skip town.”

Holga grumbles something unkind about politicians.

Simon is still staring.

Edgin is definitely going to have to do something about that.

But all thoughts fall away when he spots someone small making their way across the common room. Someone who, for two long years, he had been afraid he’d never see again…

“Kira!”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Hey Dad.”

Huh. The eye roll is new.

Chapter Text

Edgin doesn’t realize how nervous he is until Kira actually walks into the tavern.

He’s mid-sentence—something about medals and public ceremonies and how maybe they could convince the city officials that interpretive dance is a valid way to express gratitude instead of, you know, standing awkwardly on stage while people cheer—but the second he sees her, everything else drops out of his head.

“Kira!” he blurts, half-standing, knocking his knee against the table in the process. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor. His mug wobbles. He does not care.

She’s here. She’s okay. She’s safe.

Kira had spent most of the trip back mentally bracing for this moment, but somehow, it still doesn’t prepare her for the absolute mess of a human being sitting in front of her.

She hasn’t even done anything yet. Just walked in. Said hi. And he’s already flailing.

It is, honestly, kind of impressive.

She gives him an unimpressed look, but she catches the way his face lights up, how he’s beaming like an idiot, how he tries and fails spectacularly to play it cool.

“Hey, Dad.”

“How was the trip?” He sputters. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you—do you want me to, uh—” He gestures vaguely toward the bar, then immediately second-guesses himself. “Actually, what are kids drinking these days?

Not—not that you’re a kid, obviously, you’re very mature, extremely capable, can handle yourself and all that—”

“Dad.”

“Right, right. Overexplaining. Got it.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, realizes too late he’s making it even messier, and forces himself to sit down before he somehow manages to make an even bigger fool of himself.

Kira crosses her arms, watching as he fumbles through his over-eager welcome, managing to knock into the table, nearly spill his drink, and make a complete idiot of himself in record time.

Her father, ladies and gentlemen.

She should let him off the hook.

Should tell him to stop being weird and just breathe—but then Holga snickers, and Ed looks so desperately like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole, and… well.
Where would the fun be in that?

“You’re gonna make him explode, kid,” Holga comments, clearly delighted.

Kira smirks. “I know.”

*********

Ed groans and lets his head thunk onto the table.

This is fine. This is great. He’s a perfectly normal father who is totally chill about seeing his daughter again after nearly dying (again) and getting chosen by a literal goddess (which he is still pretending didn’t happen).

He lifts his head slightly, just enough to meet Kira’s gaze. “I’m, uh… really glad you’re here.”

The teasing fades from her expression, replaced by something softer.

Something in his chest tugs at that, something too big to put into words.
And just like when she was small, she slips her hand gently into his. “Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”

The moment Kira reaches out and takes his hand, Ed feels like he might actually burst from sheer joy. He absolutely beams, warmth spreading through his chest, his throat tightening with something dangerously close to tears. He’s fine. He’s totally fine.

Except—

Kira hesitates. Just for a second.

His stomach dips.

Something is off.

It’s the smallest thing—her fingers tightening slightly, her brow furrowing just a little—but he knows that look.

That’s the something’s weird look.

That’s the look she gets when Holga’s cooking smells wrong or when Simon’s magic gets all crackly.

And then she tilts her head, squinting at him like she’s seeing something.

Shit.

“You’re hiding something.”

His whole body stiffens. He covers it up with an easy smile. “Me? Hide something? Kira, I’m an open book, ask me anything—”

Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t let go of his hand. “Dad.”

No. No, no, no. He does not want to have this conversation right now. He is still pretending this isn’t a thing. He has successfully been pretending this isn’t a thing all morning.

“Okay,” Simon cuts in, sitting up straight. “Wait, hold on. Kira, are you getting something weird off of him too? Because I have been getting something weird off of him, but no one listens to me.”

“I listen to you,” Doric interjects.

“You glare at me!”

“Affectionately…”

“Moving on…” Simon continues.

“Feels like magic,” Kira mutters, glancing first at the young sorcerer, then back at her dad, “Like your magic, but… different.”

Simon gasps. “Right? Right?? Like, not wild magic, but still kind of all shimmery—”

“I do not shimmer,” Edgin says quickly. “There is no shimmering happening.”

“There is so much shimmering happening,” Simon argues. “I knew it! I knew something was weird—”

Four pairs of eyes focus suspiciously on his person.

He is so busted.

“Okay! Okay,” he concedes, “yes, maybe there’s something, but it’s not bad, just—” Ed scrambles for a word, his mind searching frantically for anything to get them to drop it.

“Complicated.”

Holga crosses her arms. “Complicated how?”

He pauses, chest tight. “I can’t talk about it here,” he says, voice just a little too high-pitched to sound convincing. “I will tell you, I promise, but—”

Before he can finish, the deep, resonant toll of the city bells rings through the tavern.
The hour.

Ed’s eyes go wide. Oh thank the heavens!

“Oh. Oh, we’re late.”

Kira frowns. “For what?”

“The ‘thanks for saving us from being turned into a horde of mindless undead’ ceremony,” Holga supplies, deadpan.

Kira snorts. “Oh, gods, please tell me there’s interpretive dance.”

“There should be!” Ed says, seizing the distraction like a lifeline. “Unfortunately, the officials are very attached to the whole ‘awkwardly standing while people clap’ thing—”

“Dad.” She doesn’t look happy. He can’t stand to see his little girl unhappy…

“Right! Right. Ceremony now, complicated-not-bad-secret later.” Kira raises an eyebrow. “I promise,” he swears, with as much sincerity as he can muster.

Simon groans, but Holga just sighs, leveling him with a look. “Fine. But we will be having this talk.”

Ed throws his hands up in exaggerated surrender. “Of course! Would I ever lie to you?”

Four sets of unimpressed stares meet him.

He clears his throat. “Alright. Let’s go get awkwardly cheered at.”

And with that, he escapes—for now.

Chapter Text

Ed has forgotten how much he hates ceremonial bullshit. He’d had to put up with it from the Harpers, but now that he’s out of practice, his ability to schmooz has gotten rather rusty, and that was Before all…this.

Ed tries to ignore the overwhelming amount of magic filling the room. It’s everywhere, like a thick fog of glittering spells just hanging in the air. It’s practically suffocating. From the way every noble’s cloak billows with the flick of their fingers to the soft glow around the candles on the tables—magic is being used for everything.

He can’t even escape it in the floor beneath his feet, which is being cleaned in real-time by some clever spell that keeps it pristine despite the shuffle of hundreds of feet.

His eyes keep darting around, involuntarily noticing the faint shimmer of protections on the walls, the way the chandeliers stay perfectly balanced with magic, even the slight hum in the air that lets him know someone is warding off any potential threats.

And then... Lord Neverember’s toupee.
Ed’s eyes narrow as the lord moves past him. The man’s hair is ludicrous. It shines in a way that hair shouldn’t, almost too perfect, too smooth.

There’s something wrong about it, like it’s a little too uniform, a little too stiff. Ed isn’t an expert in wigs—he’s too busy picking locks and dodging guards—but he knows when something smells fishy.

“Tell me that isn’t enchanted,” Ed mutters under his breath, still watching the Lord’s scalp gleam in the light. “It’s got to be.”

Xenk, standing beside him, is quietly observing the scene, his expression unreadable . “You don’t think it’s real?” he asks in that too-serious tone of his.

Ed gives him a look. “No, I think it’s real. Too real. Too real. The man’s using magic to make it look like he’s got a head full of hair that’s just… well, ridiculous. Magic shouldn’t be used for that.”

Xenk’s brow furrows slightly, and Ed realizes that the paladin probably wouldn’t understand. To Xenk, everything magical is purposeful and noble. Not, you know, to enhance someone’s appearance just because they’re insecure about their hairline.

It’s just one of those moments that makes Ed want to laugh despite the magic-induced headache brewing in his temples. But instead, he’s stuck here—surrounded by all this fancy nonsense, trying to endure the ceremony without letting on that he feels completely out of place.

*********

Xenk stands tall at the front of the room, keeping his posture straight, his gaze sweeping over the ceremony with the same focus he would give to a battlefield. He’s a man of discipline and duty, and while the ceremony seems a bit... unnecessary to him, it’s a part of the greater whole. Forge’s retrieval had been difficult, but it was necessary. There was work to be done, and he had done it.

Then, his gaze turns to Edgin.

The younger man is speaking, something about a magical hair piece but Xenk can’t seem to focus on his actual meaning.

The sight of him hits Xenk differently now. He hasn’t seen Edgin since the tense moments on the beach, when he’d walked away to allow Edgin to seek his own destiny. If he had known of Sofina’s true plot, that she had planned to release the Beckoning Death once more, he might have stayed, but what’s done is done, and Edgin has proved himself a hero many times over in their short separation.

There’s a subtle shift in the way he’s standing—less uncertain, a little more resolute. It’s small, but Xenk notices.

He notices everything about Edgin Darvis, like how his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles, how his posture has changed in the last few days. And there's something in his gaze, the intensity with which he looks at the proceedings.

There’s no denying the handsome bard has grown since they first met. He's always had a sharp mind and a silver tongue, but now? There’s something else there.

Something stronger. More.

Xenk feels a swell of pride. He is proud of Edgin. He should be proud. They’ve been through a lot together, and were it not for Edgin’s cleverness, the city in which they now stand would be nothing more than a graveyard, haunted by the rotted corpses of its own inhabitants, all under the command of a red wizard of Thay.

And then, that feeling of admiration, of respect, flares up. That’s normal, right? Nothing unusual about it. Not when Edgin has fought alongside him in the underdark, saved them from the turgid wyrm with his brilliant scheme, taken his hand when it was offered ...

So why does it feel like there's a weight in his chest, a strange tightness when he looks at Edgin? Xenk pushes the thought away. He’s a paladin of The Three, after all.

Admiration for a companion is only natural, and if it’s slightly... stronger than he expected, that’s nothing more than a passing emotion, a sense of camaraderie earned through hardship.

He doesn’t let his thoughts linger. Instead, his eyes trace the room again. His gaze flicks to that dynamic man once more—and that’s when he notices it.

It’s subtle at first, like a ripple through the air, almost imperceptible, but Xenk has been trained to notice even the slightest change in his surroundings.

The divine energy around Edgin is palpable. It shimmers, like the air just around him has been infused with something holy. It’s... different from the way The Triad’s presence manifests. His deities’ power is steadier, a constant, like a warm and steady light. This... feels like something more—a flicker of something ancient, something vast, a force in flux that hums beneath the surface of Edgin’s being.

He blinks, watching the proud father from across the room. He can’t be sure, not yet, but that divine aura—that power—feels like... like a divine marking.

His stomach tightens as it dawns on him.

Could it be?

No, he dismisses the thought. Edgin Darvis is a good man, yes, but this? He’d only just met him not long ago, but Edgin was completely human then, bound firmly to the prime material plane without a trace of otherness—this doesn’t feel possible.

But the signs are there, undeniable in their way. He feels that energy just as surely as he feels his own connection to Torm. To Tyr. To Blessed Ilmater. It’s unmistakable.

And now... now it makes sense. The way Edgin has been acting, a little off, a little distracted, like his mind is elsewhere. The way the magic in the room seems to settle around him, like butterflies in a still forest. Almost responding to his presence.

Edgin Darvis has changed.

It’s almost like a cloak around him, like Edgin is suddenly aware of something he can’t fully comprehend, something big, too vast for him to wrap his head around.

Xenk takes a steadying breath, trying to keep his thoughts clear. The connection to the divine is... complicated. It’s not always immediate. It’s not always good. And it’s not always something people want.

But for Edgin...?

He wonders if this is why his bardic friend has seemed more unsure of himself. Is he confused? Is he struggling with the weight of what’s happening to him? A change this big, especially one involving a deity... it’s no small thing.

And whatever this mark is, whatever it means for Edgin, Xenk can’t help but feel protective, even if he doesn’t fully understand it.

He looks at Edgin again, this time, not just as a friend or a companion in arms, but as someone... different. Someone touched by the divine.

And yes, there’s still that strange feeling in his chest when he looks at him. But Xenk can’t quite put a name to it just yet.

For now, though, he watches Edgin closely, wondering what this really means for him—and for their future.

***********

Edgin’s gaze flicks to the side, and there, standing near the front is Xenk.

It takes a second for Ed to fully register the sight of him, a passing snark does not count, but the moment he does, he feels his stomach drop. He can't explain it, but something about Xenk’s presence is different today. The way the light catches his armor, the way his stance seems a bit more rigid than usual, the way the air seems to shift when Xenk looks at him...

Ed nearly chokes on his own spit.

No. No, no, no. He can’t have noticed.

Ed knows that Xenk’s connection to the divine is... obvious. His armor practically glows with Torm’s (Tyr’s? He always gets those two confused) influence. But Ed didn’t think Xenk could sense this. Not the subtle, shifting aura that Ed feels wrapped around himself now—this divine energy that’s completely foreign to him.

Not like this, not like Edgin Darvis, chosen of Mystra.

He tries to swallow down his panic, looking anywhere but at Xenk, focusing on the ceremony, focusing on the endless speeches and the drawn-out “thank-yous” that are so unnecessary. The clink of ceremonial armor, the faint hum of magic in the air—each moment feels like an eternity.

Ed can’t focus. His mind keeps circling back to Xenk. Every time he sneaks a glance at the paladin, Xenk seems... different. His eyes flick to Ed, piercing, as if searching for something.

Knowing something.

"Come on, Darvis. Get it together," he mutters under his breath, trying to mask the sudden, overwhelming sense of dread. It feels like Xenk’s gaze is an invisible weight on his chest, a constant reminder that something is off. His heart starts to beat faster.

Then, like a trickle of cold water, it hits him: Does Xenk know? Does he feel it? Is he aware of Ed’s... divine connection? Because Ed sure feels it, like a weight pressing down on his chest, like a spark in his veins, as if a part of him is vibrating with a resonance that is not entirely his own.
He looks away again, focusing hard on the ornate chairs, the silken banners, the fancy food on the tables—anything, anything to distract himself from the truth of it. From the fact that there’s something in him, something he can’t control, something that’s not entirely him anymore. He doesn’t know how to handle it.

The ceremony drags on. He’s supposed to feel proud, he’s supposed to be soaking in the accolades, but all he feels is exposed. Everyone in this room can probably sense it by now, right? That weight in the air when Ed speaks, when he moves, when he simply exists in this place. Every time someone brushes past him, he feels that odd current in the air, and his skin prickles with a magic he doesn’t quite understand. He’s barely holding it together.

Then, to his horror, Ed notices Xenk again, and the paladin is looking directly at him, the full force of his gaze now focused entirely on him.

It feels like the whole room stops. The air grows thick, as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting for something. Ed’s face heats, his stomach does another flip, and his hand twitches at his side, like he’s going to do something embarrassing—wave, salute, maybe faint.

Oh gods, what if he knows? What if he can tell? What if he says something?

And then, as if Xenk can hear the frantic whirring of Ed’s thoughts, he gives him a slight nod, his lips twitching into a barely perceptible smile, and then his gaze moves on.

Ed lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

It’s only then that he realizes how utterly ridiculous he’s being. He’s a thief, a former oathbreaker, a man who’s spent most of his life making light of things, laughing through the chaos and avoiding any responsibility that might tie him down. So why, why now, does it feel like he’s on display like a prize bird on a feast day?

The ceremony drags on, the speeches blur into a haze of political niceties, and Ed forces himself to keep his composure. It takes everything he has to stop himself from glancing at Xenk again. The paladin’s gaze is like a burning brand, even when he’s not looking directly at him.

Ed doesn’t know what Xenk’s thinking, but the weight of the divine presence in the room seems to amplify everything. Mystra’s mark on him, this fate that’s been thrust upon him, it’s all too much for one man to carry. He never wanted this—never asked for it.

But it’s here. It’s real.

As the ceremony finally winds down, Ed feels like he’s just survived a battle, one of his own making. The room is still buzzing with congratulations and pleasantries, but for Ed, the world has shrunk down to just himself, Xenk, and the weight of the divine.

And no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise, he knows that something has changed. He can feel it. And no matter how much he might wish it away, Ed knows, deep down, he’ll never be able to ignore it again.

***********

Holga’s keen instincts have been picking up on Ed’s odd behavior for a while now. She’s seen him be a mess before—hell, they all have, but this? This is something else.

There’s an energy about him that’s different, and it’s not just the way he’s been acting in the ceremony, though that’s been odd enough. No, it’s the little things. The way he’s shifting around, looking like he’s either about to pass out or bolt.

She watches him closely, brow furrowing as he keeps glancing at Xenk like he’s got something to hide, like he’s bracing himself for something. It’s not like Ed to act so twitchy, especially not when there’s no immediate danger. Sure, he’s always been a bit of a nervous wreck on the inside—hell, if she had a copper for every time she caught him fidgeting under pressure, she’d have enough to retire in a Waterdavhean Manor—but this... this is different. This is like watching a man who knows something’s coming and doesn’t know how to deal with it.

Holga leans back in her chair, arms crossed, trying not to look too obvious as she watches Ed try to keep it together. It’s a losing battle. She can tell he’s hiding something, and she’s not sure what it is. Every time he shifts uncomfortably or tries to laugh something off, it just feels like he’s running from something—something big.

By the time the ceremony finally ends, Holga’s had enough. She’s been patient, but this is Ed—her friend—and she’s not going to let him stew in whatever’s bothering him alone. Not this time.

As the room starts to empty, she catches his eye. He’s trying to slip out quietly, but she’s already on her feet, moving through the crowd to intercept him.

“Ed,” she says, her voice low, just above a growl. “We need to talk.”

His face flushes a little, like he’s been caught doing something. Holga doesn't know if it’s guilt, panic, or just the fact that he can’t hide from her anymore. She steps closer, her expression turning from concern to something a little more serious.

“Talk about what?” Ed asks, voice a little too high-pitched for comfort. He looks around, clearly trying to escape the situation, but Holga’s not letting him off the hook this time.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she snaps, stepping in front of him so he can’t avoid her. “What the hell’s going on with you, Ed? You’ve been acting weird all day. This ain’t the usual ‘oh look, Ed’s panicking again’ kinda weird. You’re jumpy. Like... really jumpy. What’s going on?”

Ed shifts, his eyes darting away, then back to her. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out. It’s clear from his expression that whatever’s going on is not something he wants to talk about. Not here. Not now.

“Come on, Ed,” she presses, her voice quieter now but no less demanding. “You’re not fooling me. You’re not fooling anyone. You think we didn’t notice?”

He opens his mouth again, but before he can stutter out an excuse, Holga grabs his arm, the grip firm and unyielding.

“Whatever it is,” she mutters, softer this time, “you don’t have to do it alone.”

For a long moment, Ed stares at her, like he’s trying to decide if he can trust her with whatever’s going on inside his head. Finally, his shoulders sag a little, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. Holga can see him fighting the urge to just let it all spill out.

“Holga…” he starts, his voice strained, but he falters, his words faltering again.

He’s scared. Holga’s heart tightens a little as she watches him. It’s not the fear of an enemy—no, this is something else, something much deeper. This is the kind of fear that comes from facing something you don’t understand, something bigger than you.

She softens her grip on his arm, but her voice doesn’t lose its edge. “Ed,” she says again, but this time it’s more of a plea than a command. “Whatever it is... we can figure it out together. But you’ve gotta tell me. You’ve gotta tell someone.”

He looks down, his face drawn in thought for a moment. He opens his mouth again but stops himself. It’s like he’s trying to find the right words, but nothing seems to fit.

Holga waits, her gaze steady and unwavering.

Finally, Ed lets out a deep breath, his voice barely a whisper, “It’s not something I can talk about here.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So you’re just gonna keep hiding it?”

“It’s... complicated, Holga. I don’t know how to explain it. Not yet.”

“Well, you better figure it out soon, Ed,” she says, her tone firm, but with a touch of concern underneath.

“Because whatever’s going on, it’s eating you up inside.”

Ed looks at her then, really looks at her, and for the first time since the ceremony started, he lets his guard down just a little bit.

“I know,” he mutters, almost too quietly to hear.

And for a moment, Holga just stands there, letting the silence hang in the air between them, before finally giving him a squeeze on the arm.

“Whenever you’re ready, Ed,” she says gently. “I’ll be here.”

Ed nods, “Like I said, It’s not something I can talk about here.” But for the first time in a while, he looks like he might just start to tell her. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll let her help him carry this burden after all.

***********

Xenk does not mean to eavesdrop. He would not call it eavesdropping at all—simply… observing. And he is watching Edgin.

From the moment he first lays eyes on him again at the ceremony, something is different. Something has changed. The divine leaves its mark upon those it touches, and Edgin is practically buzzing with it.

And now, seeing him cornered by Holga, his friend trying to pull the truth from him with equal parts concern and irritation, Xenk knows his suspicions are correct.

He approaches with purpose, waiting just until the man mutters, “Like I said, it’s not something I can talk about here,” before stepping in.

"Then perhaps we should speak in private," Xenk offers, his voice smooth, composed.

Edgin flinches. Actually flinches. He turns slowly, eyes wide with something between panic and exhaustion.

Xenk does not react to it. He only inclines his head, glancing between Edgin and Holga. “I have a private room here in the keep. It is quiet and secure. If you wish to speak freely, I would offer it to you.”

The bard looks at him for a long moment, unreadable emotions flitting across his face. He seems to be measuring his options, debating whether to bolt or to face the thing he has clearly been running from.

Finally, with a sigh, he scrubs a hand over his face. He has been doing that rather often today, Xenk notices.

“Alright,” Edgin mutters. “Yeah. Fine. But—” He looks around, then back at Holga. “I want everyone there. I only wanna have to explain this once.”

Holga exhales like she’s been holding her breath. She claps him on the shoulder—perhaps a bit harder than necessary, but that is Holga’s way of showing affection. “Good. Then let’s go.”

Xenk nods in agreement, then turns sharply on his heel. “Follow me.”

And so they go. Edgin, tense as a bowstring. Holga, her worry barely hidden beneath her gruff determination. And Xenk, leading the way, knowing that whatever is about to be revealed will be something of great importance.

Chapter Text

Edgin charges into Xenk’s quarters like a man marching to the gallows.

The room is tidy—too tidy. No clutter, no mess, just a perfectly organized space that makes Ed feel deeply out of place. It even smells righteous in here. Like polished steel and faint incense.

Great. Now he gets to have an existential crisis under the judgmental gaze of a room.

The room is thick with expectation, the air heavy with unspoken concerns. They are all looking at him.

Holga, arms crossed, the closest to understanding but still impatient.

Kira, watching him with the same sort of suspicion she had shown when she believed Forge’s lies. Still, there is a glimmer of hope, something is off but she waiting for him to trust her with it.

Simon, fidgeting, eyes darting between the others, clearly about to start guessing.

Doric, skeptical, arms folded, still not entirely sure why she’s been roped into this.

And Xenk—Xenk, who stands with perfect stillness, waiting with that infuriating, unreadable patience.

Ed can feel the weight of their attention pressing down on him. He clears his throat.

“So,” Simon starts, unable to take the silence any longer. “You’re not—possessed, are you?”

“No,” Ed says flatly.

Holga squints. “Cursed?”

“No.”

Kira tilts her head. “Did you—get engaged?”

“What? No!”

Doric frowns. “Did you steal something again?”

Ed groans, running both hands through his hair. If he has any left after all of this, it will have been a miracle.

“Gods, no! Would you all just—”

Simon snaps his fingers. “You’re pregnant.”

Ed stares at him for a full five seconds. “Simon, what.”

“I don’t know, man, you’ve been weird! It could be magic!”

“Okay, that’s it,” Ed declares, throwing his hands in the air. “I was gonna try and ease into this, but you know what? Screw it.”

He takes a deep breath, absently wringing his hands, braces himself, then blurts out—

“Last night, Elminster showed up in my room and, uh…” He takes another breath, but Simon interrupts him.

“Wait, Elminster? The Elminster? The Sage of Shadowdale?”

Ed snaps. “No, Simon, the other Elminster. The fishmonger from Luskan.”

They blink.

“OF COURSE THAT ELMINSTER!” Gods, why is this so hard?

They seem chagrined. The tension draws out like the string of a longbow.

“But what would an archmage want with you, Ed?” Doric asks, finally.

“I’m getting to that… see, apparently… um… and this is just what he said, mind…” Ed stammers.

“Just spit it out,” Holga says, frustrated.

Bracing himself, Ed blurts, “He told me that I’mgoingtobemadeaChosenofMystra.”

Silence.
Complete, utter, stunned silence.

Simon’s mouth falls open. Holga looks like she’s just been slapped. Kira blinks. Doric furrows her brows. And Xenk… Xenk, for the first time in Edgin’s memory, actually looks surprised.

The moment stretches on, unbearable.

Finally, Ed shifts uncomfortably and adds, “Or… something. I don’t know how it works.”

Still, no one speaks.

He sighs. “Somebody say something before I have a panic attack.”

Ed crosses his arms defiantly. The rest of them take stock and then…

At first, it’s just a chuckle—soft, amused, like someone trying to hold back laughter.

Then it spreads.

Holga snorts. Simon outright cackles. Kira shakes her head, smirking. Doric sighs, muttering, “Gods, Ed.” Even Xenk—Xenk—lifts an eyebrow like he’s fighting the urge to smile.

Edgin blinks. “Wait. Are you laughing?”

“Oh, come on, Ed,” Simon wheezes.
“That’s a good one.”

Kira nods. “Yeah, I mean—Mystra, Dad?” She gestures vaguely at him. “You?”

Doric smirks. “If you’re her Chosen, then I’m a cleric of Gruumsh.”

Holga claps him on the back, still chuckling. “Didn’t know you had jokes ready, but alright.”

Edgin stares at them, lips pressing into a thin line. He shuffles his feet, suddenly very interested in the floor.

“Yeah. Hilarious.”

Something about the tone—the look—shuts them up.

Simon, still grinning, starts, “Ed, you can’t seriously—” but then stops. Squints at him. “Oh.”

Kira stiffens. “Wait. You’re not… you’re not joking?”

Edgin gives them a tight, awkward smile. Spreading his hands as if in supplication, “Surprise?”

A beat.

Then chaos.

“You’re serious?!”

“Since when?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“What does that even mean?”

“Ed, what did you do?”

The questions pile up, everyone talking over each other, gesturing wildly.

Edgin sighs, dragging both hands down his face. “So yeah, old man shows up and tells me I’m special and then….”

After another long pause, Simon swallows. “And you—you actually feel something?”

Ed hesitates, moving his hand to the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like—I feel magic, everywhere. It’s in the air, in people, in objects, in places that shouldn’t have it but do. It’s like I’ve suddenly got an extra sense, and it’s really, really distracting.”

Doric looks at him warily. “That sounds like something a Chosen might experience.”

Kira steps closer, studying him. “So that’s why you felt… weird when I held your hand.”

Edgin winces. “Yeah I guess.” He looks at her mournfully. “Sorry about that, kiddo.”

Xenk, who has been watching quietly, finally speaks. “Mystra does not choose lightly,” he says, voice thoughtful. “And she does not choose at random.”

Ed sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Well, she picked wrong. I’m not a wizard, I’m not a scholar, I’m not—I’m barely a bard! A thief! A—” He gestures vaguely at himself. “A guy with a lute and a questionable moral compass!”

“But you were a Harper,” Simon points out, eyes narrowing.

“And a leader,” Holga adds.

“And you’re not as morally questionable as you think,” Kira breathes, bringing the tiniest little bit of warmth back to his chest.

Doric crosses her arms. “And for some reason, Mystra did pick you.”

Edgin groans, collapsing into a chair and staring brokenly off into the distance. “I guess? Gods alone know why.”

***********

Simon Aumar has a strange relationship with magic. On the one hand, it’s familiar, he’s never not had it, but on the other it’s still a little frightening. Only recently has he felt like he was managing to get some sort of hold of everything…surprisingly in large part thanks to Edgin Darvis.

Huh.

A Chosen of Mystra though? What does that even look like…

Simon takes a deep breath, rubbing his hands together like he’s preparing for a particularly tricky spell. “Okay, uh… I’m gonna cast Detect Magic now. Just—hold still.”

Edgin waves his hands in a conciliatory ‘go ahead’ motion and quips. “Yeah, I’ll try not to explode.”

Same old Ed.

Simon shoots him a look but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he mutters the incantation under his breath, his fingers flickering with practiced gestures. A faint shimmer passes over his eyes as the spell takes hold.

And then—

“Oh.”

Simon blinks. His mouth opens. Then closes.

Then opens again.

“Ohhhh.”

Edgin frowns, looking actually concerned for once. “Why are you making that noise?”

Simon doesn’t answer. He’s too busy staring.

Ed isn’t just glowing with magic—he’s drenched in it. Magic pours off him in waves, more than Simon has ever seen on a single person before. It isn’t just one school of magic, either—it’s everything.

The air around Ed shimmers with layers upon layers of arcane energy, interwoven in ways that defy logic.

Divination wraps around him like an unseen tether, Conjuration hums just beneath his skin. Abjuration pulses faintly, like it’s waiting for something to strike. Enchantment flickers through his words, even unspoken. Transmutation coils through his limbs, something latent, like a potential not yet realized. Evocation slumbers, like banked embers waiting to ignite. There’s even the slightest hint of Necromancy dancing along the ends of his hair and nails.

And deep beneath it all, nestled at his very core, is Mystra’s mark—a presence so profound that Simon almost can’t look at it directly, a radiant thread of pure, unfiltered magic tying Ed to the Weave itself.

It’s beautiful.

“Ohhhhhh.”

Edgin waves a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Simon? Are you having a stroke?”

Simon sucks in a breath and drops the spell, blinking rapidly as his normal vision returns. “Uh.”

Doric raises a brow. “That didn’t sound good.”

Holga frowns. “What did you see?”

Simon has no idea what to tell them. He imagines this is just a fraction of what Ed must be feeling. All that power…Simon just points at Ed. “That is not normal.”

Edgin sighs. “Yeah, I got that part already.”

“No, I mean—really not normal. You—you don’t just have magic, Ed. You are magic.” Simon struggles to explain.

Silence.

Kira squints at him. “What does that mean?”

Simon shakes his head, still trying to process. “I mean—he’s not just, like, holding power. It’s not some spell effect on him. It’s part of him. Like—it’s built into his very being. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Edgin groans, grabs a pillow from the bed and forcefully stuffs his face into it. “Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.”

Xenk, who has been listening intently, tilts his head. “Then the connection is deeper than I expected. Mystra has not only marked you—she has woven you into the fabric of the Weave itself.”

From the depths of the down, Ed’s voice rumbles.

“That sounds horrifying.”

Xenk gives him an infuriatingly serene look. “Only if you fear it.”

Ed glares at the Paladin. It’s clear, Edgin does fear it. He fears it a lot. But saying that out loud would probably make Xenk smug, so instead, he just groans again and flops dramatically, crushing the unfortunate cushion even further in the process.

“Okay,” he says. “I change my mind. This was all a dream. Never happened. You never cast that spell. We are all going to go about our lives like normal, and I am not going to think about this ever again.”

He’s deflecting again, but is it for their benefit or his own? Simon thinks it’s a little bit of both.

Kira nudges him. “That’s not going to work, Dad.”

Edgin sighs, rubbing his temples. “Yeah. I know.”

Chapter Text

There’s a pop of displaced air, a faint shimmer in the Weave—then the unmistakable scent of pipe smoke fills the room.

Edgin groans before he even looks up. “Oh, come on.”

The others startle. Doric’s ears twitch as she spins, Simon nearly tumbles out of his chair, and Holga is halfway to drawing an axe before she clocks the being who just materialized like a smug cloud of smugness.

An old man in a deep blue robe, long white beard flowing, eyes twinkling with dangerous delight.

“Ah,” says Elminster, tapping out his pipe against his palm before stashing it away. “So, ye told ‘em.”

Xenk bows his head in deference.

Everyone else… decidedly does not.

Edgin gestures vaguely in the wizard’s direction. “Yeah, uh—everyone, this is Elminster. He’s, you know. Him.”

Simon’s mouth opens and doesn’t close. “Elminster Aumar?”

“The one and only,” Elminster says with that infuriating cheer. “Mystra’s most loyal servant, Sage of Shadowdale, Master of—”

“We get it,” Edgin interrupts, flatly. “You’re impressive. You’re magical. You have… a beard.”

Elminster beams like someone just offered him a second dessert. “I have been called many things in my time, lad. Lord, Wizard, Nuisance, Savior, Scoundrel—once even Elminster the fishmonger from Luskan.”

Simon blinks. “Wait, what—”

“In actuality, it was Waterdeep,” Elminster says brightly. “But the point still stands.”

Edgin glares. “You’ve been listening this whole time.”

Elminster doesn’t deny it. He just leans back like he belongs here—which, annoyingly, he kind of does.

Holga narrows her eyes. “You’re the one who did this to Ed?”

“I merely opened a door,” Elminster says with a shrug. “He was the fool who walked through it.”

Holga turns to Edgin with the full weight of an enraged barbarian behind her. “You said yes,” she says, her voice deadly calm. “Why the hell did you say yes?”

Edgin throws his hands in the air. “I panicked!”

Kira groans into her palm. “Dad.”

Elminster snorts. “Aye. Classic Edgin Darvis. Leap first, pray you don’t splat later.”

Edgin sinks into his chair with a long sigh. “I’m starting to feel very seen and I don’t like it.”

Simon, finally recovering from his most recent existential breakdown, says in a high-pitched squeak, “So it’s true? You’re… actually a Chosen?”

Elminster nods, and—for the first time—his voice softens. “Aye. The Lady has marked him. He bears her touch now.”

Xenk’s eyes shine with certainty. “Then it is fate.”

Edgin throws his head back. “Not you too!” He’s flushing bright red.

Elminster’s chuckle is warm and a little infuriating. He waves a hand, and a chair appears beneath him like the Weave’s own ottoman. He sits, settles, and suddenly all the space feels like it’s been rearranged around him.

Which is exactly what is happening.

“Well then, lad,” he says, looking at Edgin with unnerving clarity. “Now that ye’ve gone and said yes… I suppose it’s time we talk about what comes next.”

Edgin groans, slouching lower. “You don’t happen to sell insurance for divine fallout, do you?”

Elminster smiles like he does, but would never tell you how to file the claim.

Ed wrings his hands so hard his knuckles are beginning to turn white.

Elminster watches him carefully, a faint smile curling at the edges of the old mage’s lips. “Ye don’t seem overly thrilled with your new title, lad,” he observes.

Edgin shifts in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks around the room. “I mean, it's… a lot, y'know? A lot of magic. I can practically taste it. It hums. It's everywhere.” He pauses, eyes narrowing as if he's just trying to figure out where to start. “I never asked for this. This... whole Chosen of Mystra thing. It's a bit much. A bit too much.”

Elminster nods, puffing on his pipe thoughtfully. “Aye, well, no one ever asks for a life like that. Not really.” His gaze sharpens, softening with an unspoken understanding. “But you don’t need to love it. Not right now, at least.”

Edgin frowns. “So… I just… deal with it? Because this is my life now?”

“Not exactly.” Elminster leans forward slightly, eyes gleaming with that mischievous wisdom of his. “It’s done, yes. But that doesn’t mean you’re chained to it forever. You’re a Chosen, sure. But you’re not bound to it unless you choose to be. There’s always the matter of free will, after all.”

Edgin’s brows furrow, confused. “You mean I can... just not be chosen?”

Elminster gives a small, knowing smile. “Ah, if you don’t want it, lad, then you can take it up with the Lady herself. Mystra will hear you. She won’t force you into something you don’t want to be.”

Edgin blinks, his mouth going dry.

“Wait. She’ll hear me? Like, directly?”

Ed swallows painfully. He thought facing the absolution hearing was stressful…

“Aye,” Elminster says with a nod. “You’ve already been marked. But if you want to turn your back on it? If you want to walk away, it's not as simple as just pretending it never happened. You'll have to speak to her. Ask her, in your own way, if this path is still one you want to walk.”

The room falls silent as Edgin mulls this over. His heart races, the weight of it all sinking in. It feels like standing at the edge of an enormous cliff, peering into the unknown. “I… don’t know if I want to walk away. But it’s just so much. The expectations, the power… it’s too much sometimes.”

Elminster exhales a puff of smoke, watching it curl around him like an ethereal fog. “That’s the nature of being Chosen, lad. The weight is heavy. But remember this: you don’t need to carry it all alone. You’ve got family, friends, and a world that would look to you for guidance. But none of them are asking you to carry it all on your shoulders.”

Edgin rubs his temples, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “So, what am I supposed to do? Go to Mystra and beg her to take it away?”

“Not begging, lad.” Elminster’s voice is gentle now, almost reassuring. “You ask, as a man asking a Lady. Tell her your heart, your fears. Speak your truth. And then let her decide. That’s how it works. The path, as always, is yours to choose.”

Edgin doesn’t know what to say to that. The idea of speaking to Mystra directly, of confronting all of this magic swirling inside of him, feels both terrifying and oddly comforting. It’s not just his choice anymore. It's hers too.

“So, it’s not final, then?” Edgin finally asks, the words hanging in the air between them.

Elminster’s smile widens, more teasing now. “Nothing in life is final, lad. Except maybe death and taxes. And even then, we find ways around it.”

He pauses, thoughtfully, “Well, maybe not the taxes.”

Edgin laughs weakly. "Well, I guess that's comforting… in a weird way."

Kira speaks up, her voice small but firm. “I don’t like this.”

Everyone turns toward her. She stands with her arms crossed tightly, chin lifted, even though her eyes are shimmering.

“I’m not gonna lose my dad again,” she says. “Not after everything. I just got him back. So what does Mystra even want from him? What does she want him to do?”

Edgin looks at her, blinking. Her words hit harder than anything Elminster has said. He may be an archmage, but this is his daughter.

Priorities.

He opens his mouth, but for a moment, nothing comes out. He hadn't really thought about how this looked from her side—how fragile the peace between them still is.

“I… didn’t know you felt that way,” he admits softly. “I mean, I knew you cared, but—”

“Of course I care,” Kira snaps, voice cracking just a little. “You’re my dad. You’re not perfect and sometimes you really mess up, but you’re trying. You’re better now. You’re here. And I don’t want some goddess to take you away or get you killed or—” She stops, choking back emotion. “I don’t want to be alone again.”

Edgin swallows hard. “Kir… I’m so sorry. I know I’ve let you down before. More than once.” He kneels in front of her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“But I’m not going anywhere. I promise. If I take this on… I’ll still be me. And I’ll still be your dad.”

Kira doesn’t answer, just throws her arms around him and hugs him tight.

He hugs her back just as fiercely.

Elminster, watching from his conjured chair, chuckles warmly and taps out his pipe. “Ah, lass… you’ve got a fierce heart. That’s good. You’ll need that, if you’re to keep this one grounded.”

Kira peers up at him, still clinging to her father. “So you’re saying she won’t hurt him?”

Elminster nods solemnly. “Mystra would never harm him directly. That’s not her way. She’s not cruel. But the path of a Chosen—it’s not safe. It never is. The world has too many sharp edges for that. The Lady gives purpose, not protection.”

The young girl’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“But she chose your dad for a reason,” Elminster continues, smiling down at the two of them. “Because he’s strong. Not in muscle or magic, though he’s not lacking there either—but in will. In heart. That kind of strength? It can shape the world.”

Ed feels her arms tighten around him and it’s the best thing he’s felt in years.

Edgin snorts softly. “No pressure, right?”

Elminster raises an eyebrow. “Oh, none at all, lad. Just the fate of the Weave and the Realms now and again.”

“Great,” Edgin mutters. “Well, as long as it doesn’t interfere with bedtime stories.” He pulls back, gently wiping away the tears than have run down his daughter’s face, all while pointedly ignoring his own.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Elminster says with a wink.

Kira pulls back and wipes her eyes. “You’d better not.”

And Edgin just smiles at her—because whatever path he walks, she is the reason he’ll keep going.

As for what’s next…

Edgin shifts uneasily, glancing at Elminster. “So, I just… ask? That’s it?”

Elminster nods, puffing once more on his pipe before letting it vanish with a flick of his fingers. “That’s it, lad. Simple.”

Edgin squints. “I’m not saying no. But I’m not not saying no either.”

Elminster’s expression turns knowing, almost gentle. “Just because something is simple doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

There’s a long pause. Edgin stares at the floor, at his hands, at Kira. Then he exhales, long and low, steeling himself.

“Okay,” he breathes, squaring his shoulders with determination, his blue eyes hardening with resolve.

“Chat with a goddess it is.”

And before anyone can speak—

He’s gone.

Just gone.

A shimmer in the Weave, a faint pulse of energy, and the space where he stood collapses inward with a soft pop.

Kira’s mouth opens in protest. Holga’s already reaching for her axe. Simon lets out a yelp. Doric half-rises. Xenk simply lowers his head in quiet anticipation.

And Elminster? He smiles faintly, eyes glimmering with ancient knowledge.

“Ah,” he says. “There he goes. Braver than he knows, that one.”

Not half as much sense as a below average gelatinous cube, most of the time,” huffs Holga.

No one argues. Elminster laughs.

Chapter Text

Ed really wishes rooms would stop changing into things they aren’t supposed to be.

One moment he’s standing with his friends, heart hammering in his chest. The next, the world shifts—not with sound, but with feeling. Like the fabric of reality folds gently inward, wrapping around him, then unfurls again in a place that is not a place.

The space in which he stands isn’t quite solid. It’s vast, endless, but not in any way he can measure. There’s no clear floor, yet he’s not falling. The “ground” beneath his feet ripples like water when he shifts his weight, glowing with threads of blue and silver light.

The sky—or what passes for it—is layered in shifting veils of stars, like the night is dreaming of itself. The air hums with quiet magic, not in sound, but in pressure and presence—like the moment before a spell finishes casting, held in perfect suspension.

There are no walls, no doors, no anchors. Just infinite light and swirling threads of arcane power that rise and coil in slow, graceful spirals, forming symbols he doesn’t recognize but feels he should. The Weave itself is visible here, alive, and Edgin Darvis—bard, thief, father, ordinary man—is standing in the heart of it.

It is profoundly disorienting.

He feels small. Exposed. Laid bare in a way he’s never experienced before. Not even the most brutal interrogations, the most personal failures, made him feel like this. Here, there’s no charm to hide behind, no clever quip to offer. Just… him. Every scar, every lie, every fleeting moment of courage or cowardice. All of it floats to the surface like mist.

He swallows hard.

And then he feels her.

Mystra doesn’t arrive—she is. She was always here, and now she lets him see.

She doesn’t shine. She radiates. Her form is more suggestion than substance: long hair like flowing starlight, eyes like twin galaxies, skin a tapestry of runes and constellations. Her presence is gentle, but there’s no mistaking her power. It presses down on him with divine gravity, impossible to ignore. And yet… it’s not cruel. Not demanding.

She regards him.

Not as a tool. Not even as a supplicant.

As Edgin.

Her gaze holds his, and in that moment, he feels like a child again—like a single flame flickering in a vast sea of stars.

And yet she smiles. Warm. Knowing. Sad. Hopeful.

“Edgin Darvis,” she says, her voice both whisper and thunder, “you came.”

“Uh, hi?” He waves pathetically, tongue-tied and wrong-footed. What do you say to a goddess?

Ed doesn’t step forward.

He wants to—some part of him aches to close the space between them, to understand, to belong—but his feet stay rooted to the shimmering starlight beneath him.

The Weave curls and breathes around him like it’s alive, responding to each unspoken fear, every flicker of doubt. Magic hums in the air, not loud, not overwhelming, but vast. It stretches out beyond thought and horizon, and in the center of it all stands her.

Mystra is beautiful in a way Edgin can’t quite comprehend. Not like a woman. Not like a goddess, even. More like the night sky at its deepest, the kind that makes you feel like you might fall upward into it forever. Like the perfect song, the one that finds you exactly when you need it. Like the first time he ever held his daughter, and knew the world would never be the same again.

And she’s smiling at him.

Edgin has never felt so ordinary in his entire life.

“My dear Edgin,” she says—and her voice isn’t just sound. It’s a sensation. A warmth that starts in his bones and rises up through his chest, a vibration behind his eyes, a melody he knows but hasn’t heard since he was a boy.

“You’ve had quite the few days.”

He lets out a breathless, awkward laugh.

“Uh. Yeah. You could say that.” How long ago was it that he lay there freezing in his bunk in Revel’s End, nothing but time and regrets and Holga to keep him company? Then there was Forge, Xenk, a gods-be-damned Dragon, Sofina, the Beckoning Death, Holga, and giving up hope of ever seeing Zia alive again…

That’s not even mentioning Elminster and…all this.

Maybe he has simply lost his mind.

Mystra’s smile deepens, not amused—tender. “And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” he echoes. He rubs the back of his neck. “Not really sure why, though.”

She tilts her head. “A thief. A liar. An oathbreaker,” she says, and each word lands like a weight in his gut.

“And yet, a father. A friend. A man who would risk everything for those he loves.”

Edgin swallows hard. “I, uh… I don’t know if those things cancel each other out.”

“They don’t,” she replies. Her voice is gentle but unshakable. “They make you who you are.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He’s spent his whole life trying to be something else—something better, or smarter, or safer. He’s spent just as long trying to fix what he broke.

She steps forward. Not far. Not threatening. But closer—and with that closeness comes a sense of power that wraps around him like sunlight. Warm. Real. Undeniable.

“Do you know what it means to be Chosen?” she asks.

Edgin exhales, slow. “I’m starting to get the impression it’s not just about magic.”

“No,” she agrees. “It is about you.”

That stops him cold. He’s played roles his whole life—Harper, husband, widower, thief, father, failure, fool. But this? This is something else entirely.

This is someone asking him to be.

“Why me?” he asks, helpless and honest.

Mystra’s hand lifts—not touching, but close enough that he can feel the hum of her presence just above his skin. It feels like standing at the edge of something bigger than mountains, bigger than the sky.

“Because you are a story unfinished,” she says. “Because you see magic not only as power, but as hope. Because you would change the world—not for glory, but for those who need it most.”

His throat tightens.

“You were not chosen to be perfect,” she continues. “You were chosen to be yourself. And the choice, my dear Edgin… is still yours.”

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

He thinks of Kira. Of Holga. Of Simon’s ridiculous panic and Doric’s cool glances and Xenk’s steady faith. He thinks of Zia. He thinks of every lie he’s told and every truth he’s tried to live up to. He thinks of the man he is—and the one he still might be.

And slowly, slowly, Edgin closes his eyes. “But what does that mean? what am i supposed to do?” He all but whines. This is all so…mystical. Not his realm of expertise at all. He prefers concrete plans, back up plans, contingencies, not this wishy-washy metaphysical nonsense.

He shakes his head to clear it.

It doesn’t work.

Mystra watches him quietly for a long moment, the weight of eternity in her gaze—and yet, somehow, it isn’t heavy. Just real.

“To be Chosen,” she says softly, “is not an easy road.”

Edgin opens his eyes again, her voice pulling him from the tangle of his thoughts.

“You will be changed,” she continues, not unkindly. “Not in body, perhaps, but in essence. In the way you see the world, and in the way the world sees you. There will always be a part of you that walks apart, no matter how surrounded you are.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The fear’s already written across his face.

“It can be lonely,” Mystra says gently. “And long. Time does not pass the same way for one who bears my mark. You will outlive some things. You may have to let go of others.”

That lands hard. Harder than he expects. Edgin’s already lost too much. Too many.

But she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t soften the truth.

“The road is difficult,” she says, “but the rewards…”

She lifts her hand slightly, and the space around them ripples with memory and possibility. A green hill under golden sun. A girl laughing. A city saved. A door held open just long enough. A life spared. A song remembered.

“The Realms need you, Edgin Darvis. You may not see how. Not yet. But I do.”

She steps no closer, but somehow her presence draws in around him all the same. He blushes harder than Simon in the presence of a pretty barmaid.

“I have faith in you.”

He lets out a slow breath, stunned by the words. Not because he doesn’t believe her—but because part of him does. And that, more than anything, shakes him.

He gives a crooked, helpless smile.

“And isn’t that a hell of a thing.”

Mystra smiles in return, and this time, there’s no divine grandeur in it—just something achingly human.

“It is,” she says. “Isn’t it?”

He lowers his gaze, hands shaking slightly, breath slow and shallow in his chest. The space between him and Mystra is quiet—but not empty. It hums with magic, yes, but also with memory. With meaning.

He remembers.

He remembers what it felt like to take the Harper pin in his hand for the first time, young and stupid and full of idealism. He wanted to matter. He wanted to help. He wanted to be the kind of person who made the world just a little less cruel.

He remembers when that dream shattered—when his wife died, when he broke his vows, when he ran. When he let people down.

He remembers thinking that was it. That he’d had his shot and blown it.

But now…

Now a goddess—the goddess—was offering him another chance.

Not to fix the past. Not to erase the pain. But to walk forward. To protect what matters. To make sure no one else has to lose and suffer as he did.

He thinks of Kira, and something in his chest aches and glows all at once.

In light of all that… how could he say no?

His throat is tight when he lifts his head. His voice is rough but certain.

“…Okay.”

He looks Mystra in the eyes and nods.

“I’m in.”

Mystra smiles—and Ed feels it everywhere. Not just on his skin, not just in his chest, but in the deepest, quietest part of himself, the part that still dares to hope. It’s a warmth that rises like dawn after a long, cold night.

She steps toward him with the grace of stars sliding into alignment. Ed’s heart stutters wildly, thunder in his ribs. He forgets how to breathe.

She raises her hands and cups his face with a tenderness that undoes him. Her fingers are cool and soft and glowing, like moonlight woven with magic, and when she touches him, he swears he can hear the Weave hum his name.

His breath hitches. His eyes flutter half-closed.

And then…

She kisses him.

It’s not lust. It’s not possession. It’s invitation. It’s blessing. It’s every note of a lullaby he never knew he needed, every aching chord of a song that says, You are not alone. You are loved. You are mine, and you are enough.

Magic explodes behind his eyes—real magic, raw and infinite. He tastes starlight and old songs and new beginnings. He feels the shape of the world shift inside him. He feels seen.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, Edgin Darvis doesn’t feel broken.

He feels whole.

Paradoxically, there is also pain.

It hurts.

It hurts.

The kiss—her touch—isn't just warmth and beauty and aching wonder. It's fire. It's truth. It's the raw, unfiltered force of the Weave pouring into him, through him, around him, changing him. Branding him.

It’s the pain of rebirth, of breaking apart and of being made whole.

Mystra marks him—not with ink or steel, but with something older, deeper. A claim not of ownership, but of recognition. She sees him, all of him, and still, still, she chooses him.

It’s ecstasy and agony, light and thunder, grief and joy braided so tightly together he can’t tell one from the other. The taste of power floods his senses. Possibility crashes into him like a tidal wave.

He feels as if he were about to fly apart at the seams. Just dissolve into the weave and the song.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, as his knees buckle.

The world lurches sideways.
Mystra catches him easily, as though gravity itself bends to her will. Her arms are strong, impossibly so, holding him upright when everything inside is unraveling.

His face is wet. He didn’t even realize he had wept.

She says nothing. She just holds him.

And when he can breathe again—really breathe—he slowly draws back, trembling, hollowed out and filled up all at once. He wipes at his face with the back of his hand, shaking out his thoughts like a musician trying to retune after a symphony has played itself through his soul.

“What now?” he asks hoarsely, voice raw.

Mystra smiles again, gentler this time, radiant as moonlight on still water.

Mystra’s smile softens, and when she speaks, her voice wraps around him like sunlight through stained glass—warm, full of color, impossible to hold.

“Now you live,” she says.

Edgin blinks, startled.

“Raise your daughter. Protect your family. Sing your songs,” she continues, as if it’s the most sacred commandment in the world. “And when the time comes, you’ll know. You’ll feel it. The world will whisper.”

She leans in, her forehead nearly touching his, her presence like the calm at the heart of a storm.

“And Edgin… whenever you can—add a little magic to the world.”

His breath catches again, not from pain this time, but from something else—something impossible and overwhelming.

Mystra steps back slightly, her eyes never leaving his, and says the words that undo him more than any fire or kiss or searing light:

“I have faith in you.”

Not the world. Not destiny. She.

She has faith in him.

Chapter Text

Ed lets out a slow breath, still reeling. His head spins, his heart aches, but paradoxically, his chest feels lighter.

Mystra watches him with that same knowing smile, like she sees every thought passing through his head, every feeling tangled up in his heart.

She reaches out, brushing a hand over his forehead—warmth, energy, power thrumming through his very being.

“It’s time to go back,” she murmurs. “Before a certain barbarian decides to take my archmage’s head.”

Ed blinks, startled. “Oh, shit—”

Mystra laughs, a sound like starlight on water, full of endless patience and deep amusement.

“Worry not, Elminster is more than capable of handling himself. Though I suspect your friends are very concerned about you right now.”

“Yeah, I—” Ed scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “Gods. What do I even do now?”

Mystra tilts her head, considering him. Then she smiles again, something gentler this time. “As I told you, just live,” she says simply.

Ed blinks at her. “That’s it?”

“For now,” she allows. “I won’t need you for a while yet. Learn what I have given you. Understand your abilities. Take care of your daughter. And—” her smile deepens,

“—don’t forget to add a little magic to the world where I can.” Ed finishes.

She nods, gracefully.

Ed swallows hard, something warm curling in his chest.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I can do that.”

Mystra lifts a hand, and before Ed can say another word, the world around him shifts—

And then he’s falling.

His stomach lurches, the stars and light around him blurring, the sensation of being somewhere else rushing through him like a sudden drop—

With a thud, Ed lands flat on his back on a very expensive carpet in Xenk’s very fancy room.

Holga, standing nearby with her axe drawn, freezes mid-threat. Simon, hands half-thrown in a panic, gawks. Doric jumps. Kira’s eyes go huge. Xenk, ever composed, merely raises an eyebrow.

Ed groans. “Oh, fuck me.”

Holga’s axe drops to her side as she storms over and hauls him upright with a strength he’d normally appreciate if he weren’t currently so dizzy. “What the hell was that?!”

Simon stares at him with wide, frantic eyes. “You vanished! Just—poof! And then the world’s most powerful archmage told us you’d be back soon but wouldn’t tell us what that meant—”

“I thought you ascended to godhood,” Doric says flatly.

Ed blinks. “What—no! I—No!”

“Are you ok?” Kira says, still staring at him, trepidation tinging her voice. “I knew something was weird.”

Xenk steps forward, peering at him with an intensity that makes Ed’s skin prickle. “…You spoke to her.”

Ed exhales heavily, rubbing his face. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches for a moment. Then Holga crosses her arms. “And?”

Ed lowers his hands. Looks at them all.

At his family. His friends.

He smiles.

“And now,” he says, straightening, “I think we could all use a drink.”

Elminster snaps his fingers, as if suddenly remembering something. A scroll materializes in a puff of shimmering air, and he catches it with one hand.

“Ah—yes. Almost forgot,” he says, turning toward them. “Lord Neverember asked me to pass this along.”

He hands it to Edgin, who unrolls it slowly, eyebrows rising as he reads.
“It’s a deed,” Ed says. “To… a tavern? In Neverwinter?”

Elminster nods, unflappable as ever.

“The previous owner was a rather corrupt little man. Got himself properly disintegrated during that whole Beckoning Death fiasco. Nasty business. But the property’s yours now.”

Ed stares at him. “We got a tavern as a reward?”

“Standard compensation for saving the populace from being turned into a mass of undead horrors,” Elminster says, straight-faced.

Simon frowns. “Does that… happen a lot?”

Elminster’s eyes twinkle. “More often than you’d think.”

They all sort of sit with that for a long second.

Then, Elminster flaps a hand at them like a man herding over-curious chickens.

“ANYWAY…Shoo, shoo—go on now. You’ve earned a bit of joy. I’m not your babysitter.”

“But—” Simon starts.

“Ah-ah,” Elminster wags a finger. “Fun. Now. Off with you before I turn philosophical.”

Holga, not needing to be told twice, grabs Ed by the arm and starts dragging him toward the tavern. The others follow, still buzzing with questions and disbelief, but also a kind of giddy relief. They’re alive. They’re whole. And apparently—they’re tavern owners now.

The tavern they’re gifted is, unsurprisingly, perfect. Small, warm, and tucked into a quiet corner of Neverwinter, it has just the right mix of charm and comfort.

The wooden beams overhead are low enough that Xenk has to mind his head, the fireplace crackles invitingly, and the air is thick with the scent of roasting meat, fresh bread, and strong ale.

Holga is immediately and utterly smitten with the halfling bartender. A broad-shouldered, rosy-cheeked woman with laugh lines around her eyes, she pours drinks with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing and takes zero shit.

When she teasingly calls Holga “love” while sliding her a flagon of ale, Ed swears he sees his best friend blush.

Simon, still trying to wrap his head around Ed’s whole Chosen of Mystra situation, is drinking faster than usual and alternating between looking at Ed like he’s an unsolved magical theorem and trying to impress Doric with sleight-of-hand tricks.

Doric, for her part, watches with bemusement, occasionally offering dry commentary that makes Simon flush.

Kira, ever the curious one, keeps asking Ed questions between bites of stew.

“So what does it feel like?” she asks, eyes shining with fascination. “Is it like a spell? Or more like—you just know things?”

Ed, slightly tipsy already, squints at his tankard. “It’s… weird,” he admits.

His daughter waits.

“Like, everything has a hum now? I can feel the magic in the room, even in you lot. And sometimes I just know things. Like, I could tell you that the guy in the corner is using a minor illusion to make his mustache look fuller.”

Kira immediately turns to stare at the man in question. He looks back at her, startled, and quickly coughs into his drink.

Xenk, who’s been drinking steadily but sparingly, regards Ed over the rim of his goblet. “You seem… unburdened.”

Ed huffs out a soft laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far.” He glances around the table, his gaze lingering on Kira, on Holga, on the people who matter most.

“But yeah. I don’t know what’s coming next. I don’t think Mystra does anything without reason. It’s a lot though, not gonna lie.”

Simon tilts his head.

Ed leans back, looking up at the wooden beams above, like the answer might be carved into them. Then he continues, blindly searching for the right words to describe something entirely indescribable.

“It’s like…” He waggles the fingers of one hand dramatically. “Being full of a thousand sunsets. Like standing at the edge of the world with a storm in your chest and knowing you’re allowed to dance in it.”

Simon blinks.

Ed continues, slurring slightly. “It’s like hearing a song you didn’t know you remembered. And realizing it’s your song.”

Holga appears at his shoulder, snorting. “So, drunk, then.”

“A little bit,” Ed agrees, holding his fingers up in a pinch, grinning at her with eyes shining.

“But also…” He pauses a bit, places a hand over his heart, just for a second.

“I feel… lighter. Like maybe I’m not just the guy who screws things up anymore.”

He looks at them all—his mismatched, wonderful mess of a family.

“I think I’ve been given a second verse,” he ends softly. “And I plan to sing the hell out of it.”

Silence settles for a moment, warm and comfortable.

Then Holga, eyes still fixed on the bartender, says with great determination, “I think I’m in love.”

Simon immediately chokes on his drink. Doric rolls her eyes. Ed just grins wider.

The night stretches on, full of laughter, conversation, and more drinks than are probably wise.

For now, at least, the world can wait.

**********

Ed settles in, slowly.

It starts small. A flicker of magic here, a little nudge there—nothing obvious, nothing that calls attention. Just… experiments.

At first, Edgin barely notices he’s doing it. A cup that should tip over miraculously rights itself. A too-stiff chair just happens to feel more comfortable when he sits down. His dice rolls on game night? Suspiciously good.

Then he starts testing it.

When a patron at the Rock Bottom grumbles about their ale being too warm, Ed taps the mug absentmindedly. The next sip? Perfectly chilled. The guy doesn’t question it. And no sticking his finger in it either—gross.

Holga nearly drops a tray of food once—until Ed, without thinking, wills the plate to stay balanced. It does. She blinks at him, shrugs, and keeps moving.

Simon, on the other hand, notices.
It’s over something stupid, of course. They’re playing cards, and Ed has a remarkably good hand. Too good.

Simon squints at him.

“You’re cheating,” he accuses.

“Pfft, no I’m not,” Ed says, oozing innocence.

Simon narrows his eyes, staring very intently at the deck. “The probability of you getting that exact hand—”

Ed casually wiggles his fingers. The next card Simon pulls is a perfect counter.

Simon gawks. “What—? Did you just—”

“Nothing,” Ed says quickly.

“You did something!” Simon squawks. “You bent probability—do you even know how dangerous that is?!”

Ed leans back in his chair, utterly unbothered. “Oh come on,” he huffs, “what’s a little reality bending between friends?”

Simon groans into his cards.

And that’s how it begins.

A flick of the wrist to make sure the inn never runs out of firewood. A suggestion to the weather so Kira doesn’t have to walk home in the rain. A casual adjustment when a song’s melody isn’t quite right.

Nothing too big. Nothing too noticeable.

…Just a little extra magic.

**********
Epilogue

Mystra watches as Edgin Darvis, her newest Chosen, casually bends the weave like the bard he is, composing it like a melody—instinctively, effortlessly, and with just a hint of mischief.

Elminster, seated comfortably in his usual plane-hopping way, takes a long draw from his pipe and exhales a curl of silver smoke.

“He’s adjusting well,” he remarks, watching as Ed subtly nudges fate at the Rock Bottom Inn, ensuring the stew never burns and the dice never roll too poorly.

Mystra hums, a sound both celestial and deeply amused. “He is playing.”

Elminster chuckles. “Aye. But what bard doesn’t?”

“He does not think of it as magic, not truly,” she muses. “He does not study it as your apprentices do.”

Elminster grins around his pipe. “No, he just does it. Feels it. Like breathing.”

Mystra tilts her head, watching as Ed charms Holga into doing the books properly and makes Kira’s worn-out boots feel just a little sturdier without her noticing.

“I wonder how long he will keep pretending it’s not happening.”

Elminster smirks. “Depends how long Simon can keep from having an aneurysm.”

Mystra laughs, warm and rich like the Weave itself. “He is unlike my other Chosen.”

Elminster raises a brow. “Ye say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Mystra’s gaze softens. “No. It is… refreshing.”

Elminster watches her for a long moment, then grins. “Ye like him.”

Mystra gives him a sidelong glance, her expression far too composed. “I chose him.”

“Uh-huh,” Elminster says, amused. “And not just because he makes ye laugh.”

Mystra does not dignify that with a response.

But Elminster notices the way her gaze lingers, the way her smile curves just a little when Ed, utterly unaware of the divine forces watching him, pulls his daughter into an impromptu dance in the middle of the tavern, the whole place alive with warmth, laughter, and a little extra magic.

And Elminster, the world’s most powerful archmage, sits back with a smirk.

Not gossip.
Totally not gossip.

Chapter Text

Edgin choked on his drink.

"Excuse me?"

Simon, Doric, and Kira all burst into laughter as Holga smirked, arms crossed. “Oh, come on, Ed, you had to know.”

“I absolutely did not know!” Ed sputtered, wiping ale from his chin. “Is this a real thing, or are you all just making things up to mess with me?”

“Oh, it’s real,” Simon said, grinning. “Mystra has, uh… historically been rather close with some of her Chosen.”

“Some very close,” Doric added dryly “intimate even…”

Ed stared at them, feeling his ears burn. “Are you telling me Elminster—Elminster—has—” He stopped, horrified. “No. Nope. Not thinking about that.”

Kira wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, Dad, that’s gross.”

“Thank you!” Ed waved a hand at her. “See? My daughter agrees! Why are we talking about this?”

“Because it’s funny,” Holga said, taking a long drink. “And because you’ve got that look like you’re wondering just a little—”

“There is no wondering!”

“You did say she kissed you,” Simon pointed out, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“She did!” Ed concedes, throwing his hands in the air. “But it was a very divine, mysterious, mystical kind of kiss, not a ‘hey, let’s go behind the celestial curtain and see what happens’ kind of kiss!”

“Are you sure?” Doric asked, smirking. “Because I’ve heard stories about bards…and their activities.”

“That is a harmful stereotype and you know it,” Ed huffed. He buried his face in his hands.

“This is the worst conversation I’ve ever had.”

Xenk, who had been listening with his usual composed expression, finally spoke up.

“Mystra’s blessings are beyond mortal comprehension,” he said, ever serious.

Ed lifted his head. “Thank you.”

“That being said,” Xenk continued, “her affections have been well-documented.”

Simon snorted as Ed let out a strangled groan.

“Et tu, Xenk?”

Xenk’s lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smirk.

Holga clapped Ed on the back hard enough to nearly knock him face first into the fire. Classic Holga.

“Don’t worry, Ed. We’re all just waiting to see if you start glowing in the night.”

Ed groaned again. “I hate all of you.”

They laughed.

Ed noticed that Simon was grinning way too much for Edgin’s comfort.

“What?” Ed said flatly.

“Oh, so I was just thinking,” Simon said, rubbing his hands together. “So, you know the Seven Sisters, right? The really powerful Chosen of Mystra?”

“I mean, I’ve heard of them,” Edgin said warily, already sensing danger.

“Why?”

“Well,” Simon continued, “they’re not just her Chosen. They’re literally her kids.”

Edgin blinked. “Her what?”

“Oh yeah,” Simon said, nodding enthusiastically. “Mystra wanted powerful mortal agents, so she, uh… imbued a single man with magic and—”

“No.”

“—sent him off to, um… spread her influence.”

“No.”

Holga, Doric, and Kira were already cackling. Xenk looked faintly amused but said nothing.

“Oh, yes,” Simon went on, grinning like a devil. “Seven daughters. All from the same guy, all Chosen of Mystra.”

Edgin ran a hand down his face. “I hate everything about this.”

“I mean, she hasn’t done that in a while,” Simon said, barely holding back laughter. “But you are her Chosen now, soooo…”

“Could you please Stop talking.”

Kira, looking both fascinated and horrified, turned to Holga.

“I thought he was just supposed to have a whole bunch of weird magical powers?”

“I don’t know, but either way, I’m never letting him live it down,” Holga said, grinning.

Edgin pointed at her.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” she said, “but this is funny.”

Simon leaned in. “Soooo, if you start glowing and people start mysteriously getting magic pregnancies—”

“I will sic Elminster on you the next time he’s in a playful mood.”

Simon cackled. Xenk finally, mercifully, cleared his throat. The party turned to listen.

“It is unlikely that Mystra will repeat such an event,” he said, and Edgin almost sighed in relief—

“But not impossible.”

Edgin groaned. “I am never sleeping again.”

Edgin let out a long, dramatic sigh, rubbing his temples as the laughter around him died down.

Then, with a slow, wicked grin, he turned to Kira.
It was time to give as good as he’d gotten. He was a bard after all. He had a reputation to uphold.

“Well, kid,” he said, leaning back on his hands, “sounds like you might be getting some little sisters.”

Kira’s eyes widened in absolute horror. “NO.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ed continued, stroking his chin in mock contemplation. “If I’m Mystra’s Chosen, and she’s got a history of just poofing magical daughters into existence…”

Kira bolted upright. “Absolutely not!”

Holga wheezed with laughter. “Ed, that’s evil.”

Simon, already crying from laughter, pointed at Kira. “Hey, at least you won’t be the only one dealing with his terrible jokes anymore.”

Kira grabbed Ed’s sleeve. “Dad. Dad. Listen to me.”

Ed hummed, looking at her with the most insufferably smug expression possible. “Yes, my darling firstborn?”

She groaned. “You are not allowed to have any more kids! No magic babies! No divine daughters! No more Kiras!”

He sighed dramatically.

“Why not? I think you’d make an excellent babysitter — you’d have to learn to deal with magical temper tantrums but I’m sure you’ll manage…somehow.”

“Nope! Nope nope nope!” Kira shook her head furiously. “I refuse to be a big sister to a bunch of Mystra-brained weirdos! You barely survived one of me!”

Holga clapped Ed on the back. “She’s got a point.”

“Alright, alright,” Ed said, holding up his hands. “No magical little sisters.”

Kira relaxed minutely.

“For now.”

Kira gaped at him. “FOR NOW?!”

Ed just waggled his eyebrows.

Simon fell off his log laughing.

Turning his focus to the young sorcerer, Edgin tapped his chin, eventually fixing Simon with that same, dangerously wicked grin.

“Y’know, now that I think about it…”

Simon, still recovering from laughter, blinked.

“What?”

“Well,” Ed drawled, “if Mystra was, uh, romantically involved with Elminster—”

Simon’s smile dropped.

“Wait.”

“And you are Elminster’s great-great-whatever—”

Simon sat up straight. “Oh, come on Ed, don’t.”

Ed’s grin widened. “That means Mystra is basically your grandfather’s ex.”

Simon’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“She…um…WHAT? NO!”

“Oh yeah,” Holga said, jumping in with a wicked smirk. “You’re practically family, Simon.”

Doric, barely holding back actual giggles added,

“Should we start calling Ed your great-uncle?”

Kira, seizing the opportunity, clapped Simon on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, cousin. We’ll take good care of you.”

Simon looked like he wanted to die. “Ed, you are literally the worst. I swear to...”

“…Mystra?” Ed finished with a smirk. “Something tells me that she would not agree with your assessment, considering that I’m, well…Chosen of…”

“WE KNOW,” several voices groaned.

Edgin sighed dramatically, shaking his head.

“You know, it’s a shame. You could have asked Mystra for help with your magic ages ago.”

“I hate you,” Simon muttered, burying his face in his hands.

Ed slung an arm around his shoulders. “Hate me all you want, kiddo, but you can’t change the fact that,” and he paused dramatically before he adopted a little sing-song flair as he continued, “your grandpa and my girlfriend used to da-ate.”

Holga wheeze-laughed. Doric was crying. Now it was Kira who toppled off the log.

Simon groaned into his hands. “I’m never doing magic again.”

Holga, still grinning wickedly but feeling a little left out, nudged Xenk with her elbow.

“Y’know, Xenk, you might have some competition.”

Xenk, who had been observing the chaos with his normal composed expression, somehow managed to stiffen even more than usual. He turned to her with a calm blink.

“Competition?”

Holga gestured vaguely in Edgin’s direction.

“Yeah. If Mystra’s taken a liking to our boy here, you might have to fight a goddess for his affections.”

Edgin choked on absolutely nothing. “I—what? No!”

Simon, still groaning from his existential crisis, peeked through his fingers.

“Oh gods, she’s right. Mystra has a history of getting slightly possessive of her Chosen.”

Edgin buried his face in his hands. “Can we not analyze my divine love life? Please?”

Doric smirked. “I don’t know. If Xenk has to duel a goddess for your hand, I’d pay to see it.”

Holga leaned toward Xenk, mock-conspiratorial.

“How are you with divine courtship battles?”

Xenk, ever composed, simply tilted his head. “I do not believe Mystra intends to engage in romantic pursuit.”

Kira, grinning, chimed in. “But if she did?”

Xenk considered for a long moment, then turned to Edgin with a level gaze.

“Would you prefer I challenge her directly or through a trial of worthiness?”

Edgin groaned. “You’re all awful.”

Holga patted him on the back. “Relax, Ed. I’m sure she’ll be more than accommodating.”

Simon snickered. “Or not.”

Edgin pointed at him.

“You are henceforth grounded, young man.”

Edgin sighed, basking in the gentle teasing and camaraderie as the laughter around him finally started to die down. He glanced at Xenk, who, despite his usual stoic expression, had a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Something thoughtful. Maybe even a little unsure.

Ed knew that look. He also knew exactly how to fix it.

He turned fully toward Xenk and, before anyone else could throw in another teasing remark, reached out and cupped the paladin’s face.

Xenk’s eyes widened slightly, and Ed grinned.

“Hey,” Ed said softly, just for him. “No goddess, past, present, or otherwise, is taking me from you.”

Then, without giving Xenk time to respond, he kissed him.

It was warm and solid and real, the exact opposite of all the teasing nonsense from before. Xenk, after a brief hesitation, melted into it, his hands resting at Ed’s waist like he was afraid of holding on too tightly. Ed leaned in more, deepening the kiss just enough to leave no doubt.

Holga wolf-whistled and Kira groaned in teenage embarrassment.

When they finally pulled apart, Xenk exhaled slowly, eyes still half-lidded. “…I believe you,” he murmured.

“Good.” Ed grinned, then turned back to the group, draping an arm around Xenk’s waist.

“See? All settled. No duels, no divine courtships, no jealous deities—”

“Yet,” Simon muttered.

Ed pointed at him again.

“You are extra grounded.”

Holga snorted. “Yeah, yeah. But for real, Ed, if Mystra does show up again with hearts in her eyes, we’re all gonna remind you of this moment.”

Ed groaned good-naturedly, but Xenk only tightened his hold on him, steady and certain. Ed’s head came to rest comfortably on the paladin’s shoulder.

The night continued on, filled with the sound of laughter and gentle teasing, spreading through the dark night among the best of friends.

And for now, that was enough.

****************

Somewhere beyond mortal sight, in the infinite weave of magic itself, Mystra watched her newest Chosen with a knowing smile.

Edgin Darvis. Clever, foolish, bright, and endlessly stubborn. A man who had stumbled into her favor not by ambition or devotion, but simply by being himself. She had touched countless souls, lifted many to greatness, but few amused her quite like this one.

She had to admit, his reaction to her imagined affections had been hilarious. The horror, the flustered embarrassment, the desperate attempts to change the subject—truly, she had not laughed so much in centuries.

And now, seeing him turn to Xenk, reassuring him in the wake of their friends’ teasing, staking his claim with such certainty? That, too, brought her a deep and quiet joy.

Mystra chuckled softly, the sound weaving through the fabric of magic itself.

“Oh, my dear Edgin. You are far more interesting than you realize.”

She could have interfered. She could have clarified, soothed his worries, assured him that her interest was not that of a lover, but of a patron with an exceptional Chosen.

But where would be the fun in that?

No, she would let him flail a little longer, let the teasing continue. After all, she had eternity to watch him grow into the power she had given him.

And perhaps, when he was ready, she would really give him something to be flustered about.

For now, though, she simply laughed—and let the weave carry her mirth to places beyond the stars.