Virex Calderveil never claimed to be a wizard. That sort of honesty caused expectations. Instead, they traveled as an assistant, a scholar, a translator of obscure texts. Useful. Forgettable. Always nearby when something quietly went wrong.

Locks opened without a touch. Ink shifted on the page. Conversations tilted, ever so slightly, toward outcomes Virex preferred. If questioned, they smiled and blamed coincidence, nerves, or poor lighting.

Magic, to Virex, was not spectacle. It was suggestion. Illusions lived at the edges of perception, shadows lagging a fraction behind their movements, reflections that hesitated before agreeing.

Faces changed, but never carelessly. Each identity was practiced, refined, and retired when it grew dangerous. The lie was not hiding who they were. The lie was convincing the world they were harmless.

And that illusion held better than any spell.