Cyric sat in the vast, empty throne room of the Bone Throne. Gazing at Shar's illusion before him, the Prince of Lies could not help recalling how Mystra-that bitch Midnight-had humiliated him. Above all, he remembered the vicious moment when Midnight had secretly made the Weave discriminate against him, ensuring that Cyric's followers always suffered catastrophic failures when casting spells. His mind twisted uncontrollably as he tried to alter reality with his divine power.
Different timelines unfolded in the Dark Sun's mind, one after another. He shattered Midnight's divine shield, stabbed her to death with Godsbane, and watched in ecstasy as she collapsed in a pool of blood.
Cyric had won!
The Dark Sun Prince added the divine portfolio of magic to his ever-growing list of titles. He was already the God of Murder and the Three-Crowned King. Who could stop Cyric from claiming another title?
In another version, the Weave itself turned against Mystra. Midnight would surely face judgment for such reckless meddling. Or perhaps the Chaos Gods would unite and attack her like starving wolves in winter, or His Majesty Ao would personally intervene to stop her from abusing her power.
In Cyric's hallucinations, Midnight had died countless times, and every time, Cyric had been the one to do it!
It was all my doing!
These twisted fantasies shifted endlessly. In the dark corners of Cyric's chaotic consciousness, some took root like seeds sown in a mire of delusion and paranoia, gradually leaving him unable to distinguish reality from illusion.
In the days, months, and even years following his ascension, these confused recollections would evolve into false memories. They would battle the truth, covering it with the branches and leaves of lies until they drained its vitality.
Then these lies would become Cyric's only memories of Mystra, and