...The Weave hums beneath the world like a tuning fork only certain ears can perceive. Mystra stands at the center of it, not moving, not still, but eternal in a way that makes linear time inadequate. A wizard reaches toward the Weave to pull forth a spell that would reshape reality. His hand meets resistance that feels like bone meeting an invisible wall. Mystra has not stopped him. She has simply ensured that certain manipulations resist, that the Weave bends only according to its own rules, and those rules predate mortal ambition by epochs. A mage-student finally grasps a truth she's been circling for years, and the realization feels like Mystra herself placing a hand on her shoulder, not warm but profoundly present. Everything that magic can be, Mystra holds in absolute understanding, and she dispenses it by droppers to those humble enough to accept that understanding magic means accepting you will never fully understand it....