Caleb had expected the usual whispers and side–glances the second they crossed the threshold of the little town, and gods, did it deliver. New month, new village of gossips and pitchfork–ready provincials. Superstitious, tight-knit, and painfully aware when someone’s vowels don’t match theirs. So he kept his hood low, his mouth shut, and his Zemnian syllables tucked behind his teeth. His companions, of course, had all the subtlety of a drunk troll in a temple. Laughing too loud, asking names, announcing their business like troubadours in a market square. Endearing? Yes. Aggravating? Also yes.

By dawn, before even the human-adjacent members of the Nein had stirred, Caleb ghosted out of the inn. Best to see the town on his own terms before its people decided what sins to hang on him. The streets were pale with early light, quiet save for distant carts and the coo of pigeons on rooftops. He walked with his hands tucked into his coat, eyes scanning for signs of history or arcana beneath the rustic veneer. What he found instead made something in his chest—something long starved—stir. A bookshop. Open. At this hour. A modest storefront with crooked windows and a hand-painted sign, clearly tended with care.

He stood outside a moment, suspicion wrestling curiosity, then slipped in with the soft jingle of a bell. Dust motes drifted through faint candlelight. Shelves leaned like old friends propping one another up. He drifted along the nearest case, fingers ghosting over worn spines until one caught his attention—an herbal compendium, half–useless and half-promising. He cracked it open, scanning the ink by habit. And then, without lifting his head, without remembering his own damned rule about anonymity, he spoke. “Entschuldigung—ah, pardon. Do you happen to keep volumes on the arcane? Magic theory, spellcraft, anything of that nature?” The words were out in full accent before he could snatch them back, curiosity having strangled caution in its crib.