Faerûn is as it has always been. The steel ring of steels in its hundred wars still echoes in the air, the wisp of wood caressing water across the seas breaks the journeys’ silence, the wind blows the green feathers of the trees, the world’s denizens keep on with their lives, like ants in their colonies. Except for one thing. Wizards, sorcerers and magical beings sense it, though they cannot pinpoint it. Like a pebble inside a shoe, it bothers but doesn’t show itself. Small drops fall in the pond, breaking its harmony every now and then, noticeable only at its surface. Magic is not as it always has been. In her endless domain, her home, Mystra is oblivious to the rippling, her mind far too busy with her deity affairs to be bothered by a wind as small as a fly’s wings produce.
When the Weave shimmers, not even the simplest creature is safe. Lords and peasants tremble at the slightest shift in its net. It is shimmering now…
But before everything ensues, a more immediate threat must be dealt with, near the merchant city of Sumberton. The ruins of an ancient battle that lie scattered around the fields are a flare calling for flies and the latest reports show some unusual activity inside them. Someone must deal with the problem at hand once and for all.
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