The candle burned low, drowning in melted wax, but Caleb Widogast left it untouched. Struggling light felt honest. Hunched over a cramped desk, he filled page after page with equations and arcane theory, charcoal staining his hands. Beyond the window, distant laughter drifted through the night. Caleb's jaw tightened.

Careless. His gaze lingered on an empty corner where memory waited: fire, smoke, voices cut short. His breath hitched before he forced it steady. Control. The charcoal snapped in his grip.

With a muttered "Nein," he pushed away from the desk and opened his battered satchel. The scent of parchment grounded him. Magic, at least, obeyed rules. Kneeling on the floor, he traced a careful sigil in the dust. At the final line, he hesitated—then reached quietly for the magic waiting beneath his skin.