BEAK

Beak was a savant — slow of speech, dismissed by every soldier who passed him. In his mind each warren of magic stood as a candle of a different colour, kept dark until the moment of need. When that moment came, he lit them one by one to shield the companions who had never truly seen him — and he saved the white candle for last: the one that consumed him, and proved, at the end, his worth.

This Beak keeps the same vigil with a quieter fire. He sees intel sources as candles and lights each in turn to gather a brief that can cite its every light. The black candle for the cutting edge, the red for whether a field still moves, the purple for the shadow at its edges — and the white candle, the synthesis, burns last. A candle that cannot cite its light does not burn.