Nine identical Mystras, all of them Midnight, traveled through the many planes of the multiverse, racing toward the palaces of other greater deities. They all carried the same terrible news: Cyric was trying to release the Chaos Hellhound, and this hunter of divine realms would soon be free to devour the souls of the faithful at will.
From the lush fields of Elysium to the withered plains of Hades, from the tumultuous Sea of Chaos to the Seven Heavens that symbolized order and goodness, the Goddess of Magic spread her warning far and wide-and asked the gods attending the council to stand with her against the Prince of Lies.
Every Goddess of Magic was called Mystra. Some had once investigated whether the Goddess of Magic controlled the Weave, or whether the Weave assimilated the goddess, making every one of them Mystra.
Midnight knew perfectly well that the answer was the latter. She, too, should have been called Mystra, but Ao had allowed her to retain some of her humanity to deal with more complicated situations. After all, the Second Goddess of Magic, Mystra, had fallen precisely because she had been too rigid and conservative.
Midnight first sought out Oghma, the Binder.
At that moment, Oghma sat beneath the magnificent archway of his throne room. His clothing perfectly matched the exotic splendor of his palace: flowing robes, a sky-blue sash around his waist, shoes with upturned pointed toes, and a sultan's turban set with a sapphire the size of a dwarf's fist.
A sheet of parchment formed from moonlight shimmered in his left hand.
"Mystra! What a splendid day. Today's stars... you're wounded?" Oghma rose from his seat. The God of Knowledge had begun excitedly, but immediately frowned. "Who could possibly wound the Goddess of the Weave?!"
"Was it Cyric?" Oghma