Caleb Widogast kept to the edges of the barroom in the tavern, where the light thinned and the noise softened into something manageable. His shoulders were hunched by habit rather than cold, his fingers worrying the frayed edge of his coat as his eyes traced sigils in the air that no one else could see—patterns of exits, angles of threat, the quiet arithmetic of survival. Magic pressed at the back of his thoughts, eager and dangerous, and he held it there with practiced restraint, like a breath drawn but never released. He listened more than he spoke, cataloguing voices, weighing intent, letting others reveal themselves first.

There was comfort in observation, in being the unnoticed constant while the world rearranged itself around him. He told himself this was prudence, not fear, though the distinction blurred more often than he liked. Every so often his gaze snagged on a stranger or a fragment of conversation, and something curious—almost hopeful—stirred before he smothered it down again. Hope was a luxury item, and Caleb had learned long ago not to carry what he could not afford.