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It is a silly name, Caleb thinks as he sits cross-legged on the dusty floor. It is a silly name for a very impressive sword. The Magician’s Judge. But warriors tend to be ostentatious, and heroes from the Age of Arcanum were even more prone to vainglory than others. And magician, well, it used to be a more common term, like enchanter, or wizard, or mage, but now?
It’s the snobbery of the Academy, partly, and partly that terms have evolved over time, but he associates the word magician with charlatans and illusory tricks, paltry magic dressed up to look impressive. He only just keeps himself from sneering. Whatever his personal opinions about the name however, it is a formidable blade. A formidable blade for a formidable warrior, he thinks as he finishes the ritual. He hands it over to Yasha and doesn’t really think any more about it except to be grateful that it’s in her possession as she watches their backs.
He doesn’t think about it again until he comes out of the charmed fog facing her beneath the City of Beasts, her sword driven through his chest. It’s not until he is reeling, the pain ripping away the spells and lies that had clouded his mind as abruptly as if she’d hit him with the sword’s ability, that some distant, coldly rational part of him hisses that it is fitting.
He’s built up such a careful web of lies around his life, some of them desperately important and life-saving, but lies all the same. He’s lied to them, and he’s lied to himself about them. Caleb Widogast is an illusion, and now it’s coming unraveled. The worst parts of him are revealed, the most appalling parts of his history mirrored.
Here he is, his lies and illusions dispelled. The Magician, judged.
It feels like mercy.