...The dice tumble across the counting table and Tymora watches from the corner of the gambling hall, unseen but present in every tumble. A merchant who invested his last silver wins his fortune back. A nobleman loses everything he stole. The table hums with her attention. She doesn't favor the good or punish the wicked; she simply loves the moment of uncertainty, the infinite possibility before the die settles. A soldier prays to her as an arrow flies toward his heart. By fractions, it misses. Luck. Grace. The same thing, she whispers, for those who understand the difference between believing in fate and refusing to let fate believe in them. She moves between tables and hearts, and wherever she passes, someone bets everything on a moment they shouldn't have survived. That's her blessing and her cruel joke at once....