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At the Mystraean Lyceum of Arcane Arts , where Gale holds the title of Magister Emmeritus …
The early bells of the Lyceum echoed through the high halls of learning, summoning first-year students to their morning lecture. The outer courtyard buzzed with the usual scatter of robes, scrolls, and floating notebooks - but in one corner, beneath the boughs of an enchanted lilac tree, a huddle of students leaned in close, voices low, eyes bright with scandal.
The halfling who claims to have seen them - Thomble - stood on a stone bench, arms wide as he performed what was clearly the fifteenth retelling of a very beloved story.
“I swear by the Weave, the wards of the tower parted like the sea! Not a flicker of resistance. Like she was meant to be there.”
The half-elf girl, Mireleth, nodded gravely.
“And did you see her hair? Like wildfire. It glowed in the sun. I heard she once shot down a wyvern mid-flight using nothing but the moon’s reflection off her blade.”
“Oh, that’s new,” said a bespectacled gnome, furiously taking notes. “Was that during the war in the Shadowed Vale, or-”
“That war never happened,” someone else muttered.
But no one cared. The stories were growing legs and wings now.
“They say she’s his muse. His flame. The reason Professor Dekarios renounced godhood!”
“I heard he was halfway to ascension when he looked into her eyes and saw mortality, and chose her instead.”
“They say she sleeps in the tower, you know. Stays the night.”
“You’re joking - what, like romantically?”
“They live together, Tamsin. Wake up.”
A stunned silence fell over the group. A few blushed. One hiccupped.
“...So what you’re saying is… Professor Dekarios is in love? ”
A quiet voice behind them spoke:
“With whom?”
Every student froze.
Slowly, they turned.
There, standing in the arched entrance to the lecture hall, his dark robes trimmed in blue and silver, a thin folder under one arm and a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, was Gale Dekarios.
His brow arched slightly. “Am I interrupting?”
“No, Professor!”
“We were just discussing the uh - morning’s, um, cloud patterns!”
“Very metaphorical, sir!”
“Something about entropy in fog formation!”
Gale paused. He gave them a look so polished and neutral it could have been carved from marble - except for the faint gleam of amusement in his eyes.
“Fascinating. Let’s see if your thoughts on fog translate well into our topic this morning.”
He turned and entered the hall.
The students scrambled after him, red-faced and whispering behind their sleeves.
The first-years filed into the softly glowing auditorium, hover-lights blooming like sunbursts along the ceiling as arcane ink flowed across the main lecture wall:
"Basic Theory of Somatic Casting: Intent, Gesture, Precision."
The topic was simple. Straightforward. Beginner’s material.
But every student sat a little too straight. Blushed a little too brightly. Sneaked glances toward the front where Gale stood, arranging his notes with maddening calm.
“Today,” he began, “we discuss the most misunderstood component of spellcasting: the body. While many young mages pour themselves into incantations or scribble furiously over glyphs, they forget that your arms, your hands - your fingers - carry power through every motion.”
He raised his right hand, index finger extended.
“With a single gesture, you can alter the world…”
He paused, then smiled faintly.
“And with a single look, sometimes you can alter your future.”
A few students inhaled sharply. One squeaked. Thomble dropped his inkpot.
Gale didn’t look up.
“Now. Form one: The Weave Beckoning Curve. Fingers arched, palm open. You may begin.”
The students obeyed instantly, a flurry of stiff, awkward gestures and jittery murmurs sweeping the room like wind in a rookery.
From the back, Mireleth leaned over and whispered to Thomble:
“You think he knows we were talking about them?”
“He definitely knows.”
“And he didn’t deny it!”
They both beamed.