There in the tilt of the bottle is a barely discernable waver—hesitating by a scarce degree before the whole vessel is upended and the gritty dregs of the bottle slough into the tarnished cup ready to receive it.

"I gather that not very remarkable here."

There are mages on every street corner in this place, and little tricks come so readily to the fingertips that a child might be expected to be capable of at least a few little diversionary—what? Cantrips. He's taken to breathing the air here too; that isn't saying much.

(But the tips of his fingers are still tingling from the smothered thrill of bending the world under the invisible pressure they can apply against it. If not for the wine wicking his mouth dry, he thinks, he might taste it against his back teeth.)

The emptied bottle is set aside with an hollow thunk.