Harry woke with a start. He could hear the wind whistling past his ears, and when he opened his eyes he saw what seemed to be dark clouds of smoke above him. He was sprawled out on his back on the deck of the skiff. He blinked and groaned softly, a dull pounding in his head just behind his eyes. The clouds of smoke grew thinner and thinner until they were merely dark wisps around the harsh light of the bright, autumn sun.

Green eyes closing once more, Harry felt a wave of relief wash over him. They were out of the Fold. Somehow, they had made it through.

'Or did we?' Harry thought with sudden panic. Memories of the Volcra attack flooded back to him in a frightening rush. Where was his family? Where were Neville, Ron, Fred, George? Harry felt his heart stop. Where was Charlie?

Harry tried to sit up and a jolt of pain panged through his shoulder. He ignored it. He pushed himself the rest of the way up to find himself looking down the barrel of a rifle.

"Get that thing out of my face," Harry growled snappishly as he batted it to the side.

"Stay where you are," The soldier holding the gun commanded as he swung it back around to jab it threateningly at him.

Harry stared at him, stunned. "What is wrong with you?"

"He's awake!" He shouted over his shoulder without answering. Two more armed soldiers, the captain, and a Corporalnik came to his side. With a trill of panic, Harry saw that her cuffs were embroidered in black.

What did a Heartrender want with him? He looked around and saw a Squaller and a single soldier at the mast to help them forward. A Corporalnik with white embroidery was healing people on the other side of the deck, which was still spotted with wet blood. Harry's stomach churned uneasily.

There were soldiers and Grisha standing by the railings, bloodied, singed, and far fewer in number than when they had first set out. All of their eyes, no matter how discreet, were trained on Harry. With growing hysteria, Harry realized that the soldiers and Corporalnik were actually guarding him.

Like a prisoner.

"My family," Harry rasped out. "Where is my family?" No one said anything. "T-They're tall, and all of them have red hair—bright as a pumpkin, you can't miss it. There would be about seven of them, and a blond boy with them. One of my brothers was injured during the attack, Charlie Weasley, a tamer. Please, where are they?" Harry pleaded.

"Up." Was the only reply he received, the gun back in his face as the skiff jolted to a stop.

"No! I'm not going anywhere until—"

"You'll go wherever we tell you to go, boy, if you ever want to see them again." The Heartrender said icily, a dangerous look in her eyes that said Harry would not like where pushing her got him.

Fuming, Harry staggered to his feet. When he stumbled, he reached out instinctively to steady himself, only to have the soldier he touched shrink away from his hand as if burned. He managed to find his footing by himself, but his twinge of satisfaction was overrun by his reeling thoughts.

The captain glanced over the railing, made an odd hand gesture to someone below, then turned back to them. "Move."

The soldiers led Harry at riflepoint from the skiff, and he was acutely aware of the curious and
frightened stares of the other survivors. Harry caught sight of his Senior babbling excitedly to one of the soldiers, only to bite his tongue when Harry passed. Seamus loitered behind the Senior, his face gaunt and miserable. He must've heard about Dean. Harry looked away.

As they stepped onto the drydock, Harry was shocked to see that they were back in Kribirsk.
They hadn't even made it across the Fold. Anger bubbled to life in his chest.

'Then what was the bloody point!?' He thought furiously.

He was torn from his righteous fury by the feeling of eyes on him. As the soldiers marched him through the main road, people turned from their work to stop and gawk at them. Harry's mind whirled, but he found no answers to any of his questions. Had he done something wrong on the Fold? Broken some kind of military protocol? How had they even gotten out of the Fold,
anyway?

The wound on his shoulder throbbed. Last thing Harry remembered was the searing pain of the
Volcra's fangs in his flesh, and then that brilliant burst of light. How had they survived?

Those thoughts were driven from his mind as they reached the officers' tent. The captain called the guards to a halt and went to go in, only for the Heartrender to reach out a hand and stop him. "This is a waste of time. We should proceed directly too—"

"Get your hands off me, bloodletter," The captain growled as he shook his arm free. For a
moment, Harry thought the woman might just kill him out of sure spite, but to his surprise, she
merely bowed and smiled coldly.

"Yes, Kapitan."

Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

The captain disappeared inside the tent. As they waited on him, Harry felt the Heartrender's eyes
drilling holes into his face. Scrutinizing. Calculative. Harry wished the captain would hurry up.

It seemed Harry would receive his wish, if only to cause him more trouble. He was stunned to see
the tent flap open to reveal the captain, accompanied by the Colonel Goldstein. What could Harry possibly have done to require the involvement of a senior officer?

Colonel Goldstein peered at him, face grim. "What are you?"

"Assistant Cartographer Harry Potter, sir. Royal Corps of Surveyors—"

"No," He cut Harry off. "What are you?"

"I'm a mapmaker, sir." Harry shot back with a glare, very much done with all of this. He was hungry, he was exhausted, his shoulder hurt, and he still had no clue if his family was still alive or not. Harry thought of Charlie with his heart in his throat and his stomach in his shoes. Saints, there had been so much blood...

Goldstein scowled. He pulled one of the soldiers aside and muttered something to him that sent the soldier sprinting back towards the drydocks. "Let's go," He barked tersely.

Harry felt the jab of a rifle at his back and shot a glower to the owner of it before marching
forward. His irritation was feeble at best, however, as Harry had a fairly good idea of where he was being taken. But, surely it couldn't be. It made no sense.

But as the huge black tent loomed large and larger ahead of them, Harry knew there could be no doubt of their destination. The entrance to the Grisha tent was guarded by more Heartrenders and charcoal-clad men, the elite soldiers that made up the Darkling's personal guard. They weren't Grisha, but they were just as frightening.

High above, four flags fluttered in the breeze. Blue, red, yellow, and above them all, black. Just last night, Harry had been listening to the twins and Neville laughing about how they were going to try sneaking inside this tent, and what they might find inside. Now it seemed that Harry would be the one to find out.

The Heartrender and Colonel Goldstein conferred briefly with the guards in front of the entrance, then disappeared inside. Harry waited, heart a frantic bird in his chest, and wondered again what had happened to his adoptive family.

After what seemed to be an eternity, the Heartrender returned and nodded to the captain, who led Harry into the Grisha tent.

For a moment, his fear fell, forgotten, into the back of his mind. It was beautiful. The tent's inner walls were draped in cascades of bronze silk that glimmered with the candlelight of the sparkling chandeliers above. The floor was covered in rich rugs and furs softer than Harry had ever seen. Along the walls, shimmering silken dividers seperated compartments where Grisha clustered together in their vibrant fur robes. Some stood talking, others lounged on cushions drinking tea. Two were bent over a game of chess.

Before the Weasleys had acquired two new family members via clothing cart, Harry and Neville had used to wander the halls of the Duke's manor. It had been beautiful, but it had been the antique beauty of dusty rooms, peeling paint, and chipped gilds of gold. The echo of something that had once been grand. It had nothing on this.

Soldiers marched Harry down a long carpeted aisle, at the end of which stood a black pavilion on a raised dias. Ripples of curiosity spread through tent as Harry passed. Grisha men and women stopped their conversations to stare at him—a few even stood to get a better look. Harry bristled.

By the time they had reached the dias, the room had grown damn near silent. In front of the black
pavilion, a few richly attired ministers wearing the King's double eagle and a group of Corporalki huddled around a long table spread with maps.

At the head of the table was an ornately carved, high-backed chair of blackest ebony. Upon it lounged a figure in a black cloak, his chin resting on one pale hand.

Only one Grisha wore black, was permitted to wear black.

Colonel Goldstein stood beside him and spoke to him in tones far too low for Harry to hear. Harry was torn between apprehension and intrigue. 'He's too young,' Harry thought in bewilderment. This Darkling had been commanding the Grisha since before Harry was born, but the man seated on the dias didn't look much older than Harry did.

He had an elegant, handsome face, a coif of silky black hair, and eyes so dark that Harry couldn't make out his pupils. Harry knew that powerful Grisha were said to live long lives, and the Darkling was the most powerful Grisha of all, but Harry couldn't help but feel something...odd, about the man. He remembdered Seamus's superstitious words and wondered if they were so off the mark after all.

He's not natural. None of them are.

A sharp laugh sounded from the crowd that had formed near the dias, and Harry turned to see the woman from the day before, the one that had stared after Neville like a cat before a mouse. She was looking at Harry with a smirk, a disdainful glint in her eyes.

Harry knew what he must look like. Covered in dirt, blood, and who knew what else, in baggy peasant clothes with unkempt hair. The antithesis of everything this tent represented.

He raised his chin and narrowed his eyes at her. 'Go ahead and laugh, bitch. Whatever you're
thinking, I've heard worse.'

"Bring them," Colonel Goldstein ordered, his voice loud enough to startle Harry from his spite.

Harry turned to see more soldiers leading in a battered and bewildered group of people into the tent and up the aisle. Amoung them, he spotted the soldier who had been beside him when the Volcra attacked, and his Senior, whose face was frightened in a way Harry had never seen. His own distress grew as he realized that they were the survivors from the sandskiff; they had been brought before the Darkling as witnesses. What the hell had happened out there on the Fold? What did they think he had done?

His breath caught in his chest when he saw a group of clustered redheads just behind the trackers. Harry frantically began counting heads. Yes, there was Molly, Arthur, Ginny, and Neville. Ron stood, white faced, with the twins. Harry felt rather like he was having a heart attack, because where was—

"Charlie," Harry wheezed out a sigh of relief, knees suddenly weak. Charlie was leaning on one of the few other tamers, his shirt bloodied and his face alarmingly pale, but very much alive. They were fine. They were all alive.

"HAR—!" Ron had exclaimed his name in shock, relief, only for Neville to clap a hand over his mouth.

Sending Ron a smile that felt much more like a grimace, Harry turned his attention away from them to look back up at the dias, only to blink. The Darkling was looking straight at him. His was still listening to the Colonel, his posture just as relaxed as it had been before, but his gaze was focused, intent. Dizzying. He turned his attention back to Colonel Goldstein and Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

When the bedraggled group of survivors reached the dias, Colonel Goldstein straightened. "Kapitan, report."

"Approximately thirty minutes into the crossing, we were set upon by a large flock of Volcra. We were pinned down and sustaining heavy casualties. I was fighting on the starboard side of the skiff when I saw..." Here the captain paused, unsure. "I don't know exactly what I saw. A blaze of light. Bright as noon, brighter, even. Like staring into the sun." As the captain finished the crowd erupted in murmurs and nodding. Harry found himself nodding along with them. He had seen the burst of light too.

"The Volcra scattered and the light disappeared. I ordered us back to the drydock immediately." The captain explained hurriedly.

"And the boy?" The Darkling asked, eyes low.

With a jolt, Harry realized that he was talking about him.

The captain hesitated yet again. "I didn't see the boy, my Lord."

The Darkling raised an eyebrow and tilted his head towards the other survivors with something
like cool indifference. "Who actually saw what happened?"

The survivors broke into muttered discussion amounst themselves. Then slowly, timidly, Harry's Senior stepped forward.

"Tell us what you saw." Goldstein's voice offered no room for arguement.

"We..." The Senior licked his lips nervously. "We were under attack. There was fighting all around. So much noise. So much blood. O-One of the boys, Dean, was taken. It was horrible, horrible." His hands fluttered about a bit uselessly.

Harry felt disgust rise in his belly for this man. If the Senior had seen Dean being attacked, why hadn't he tried to help?

The old man cleared his throat. "They were everywhere. I saw one go after him—"

"Go after who?" Goldstein interrupted.

"Harry...Harry Potter, one of my assistants."

There were a few murmurs across the tent, and Harry grit his teeth at the looks he was beginning to receive.

"Go on, then," Goldstein said after a moment of pause.

"I saw one go after him and the tamer," He went on as he gestured vaguely in Charlie's direction.

"And where were you?" Harry snapped with a scowl. Every face turned to look at him, but Harry was beyond caring. "You saw the Volcra attack us. You saw it take Dean—why didn't you help?" He demanded.

"T-There was nothing I could do! They were everywhere, it was chaos!" The Senior spluttered, his hands spread wide.

"Dean might still be alive if you had gotten off your boney ass to help us!"

There was a gasp and a burble of laughter from the crowd as his Senior flushed with anger.

Despite his position, Harry wasn't sorry. If he ever got out of this mess, he would be in a heap of trouble, but if it made that coward regret letting an innocent man die, Harry wouldn't regret it.

Goldstein glowered out at the crowd. "Enough! Tell us what you saw, Cartographer."

The crowd hushed and the Senior wet his lips again. "The tamer went down, and he was beside him. The thing, the Volcra, was coming at them. I saw it on top of him and then...he lit up."

The Grisha burst into exclamations of disbelief and derision. A few of them laughed. Harry frowned at his Senior, baffled. Maybe he shouldn't have cut him down so hard, the man had obviously taken some head trauma.

"I saw it!" The Senior bleated over the din. "Light came out of him!"

Some of the Grisha jeered openly, while others cried, "Let him speak!" The Cartographer looked desperately to his other survivors and, to Harry's amazement, some of then began to nod. Had everyone gone mad? Did they actually think Harry had somehow chased off the Volcra?

"This is absurd!" A voice from the crowd yelled. A boy with dark skin and dressed in a red kefta scowled at the Senior. "What are you suggesting, old man? That you've found us a Sun Summoner?"

"I'm not suggesting anything, I'm just telling you what I saw!" He protested.

"It's not impossible," A tall man in Fabrikator yellow replied. "There are stories—"

"Don't be ridiculous," The other boy said scathingly. "The man's clearly had his wits rattled by the Volcra!" Harry was inclined to agree with that statement, however rude.

The crowd erupted into a loud argument.

Harry's already foul mood blackened further. It had been briefly raised by the sight of his relatively unharmed friends and family, but completely doused by the attention now put upon him. He didn't know or care what his Senior or any of the others on the skiff had seen, or what they had thought they'd seen. This was some sort of mistake, and at the end of it all, Harry would end up being the one who looked foolish. He was teased enough already, thank you very much, he did not need this on top of it.

"Quiet."

The Darkling didn't raise his voice, but the command seemed to slice through the crowd with ease. Silence fell.

Harry suppressed a shudder. The Darkling might not find this joke so funny. He wasn't known for his overflowing mercy. Seamus had once said that the Darkling had a Heartrender seal a traitor's mouth shut permanently. His lips had been grafted together and he had starved to death.

Nonetheless, ducking his head would only make Harry seem guilty. He lifted his chin and glared back at the Darkling, as if daring him to place the blame on him.

"Tamer," The Darkling said softly. "What did you see?"

As one, the crowd turned onto Charlie, who was still leaning on his fellow tamer—Newt, if Harry remembered correctly—and standing just to the left of the rest of the Weasleys. Charlie looked uneasily at Harry and then back to the Darkling. "Nothing. I didn't see anything."

"The boy was right beside you."

"I had lost a lot of blood." Charlie replied smoothly without looking up.

"Surely you must have seen something." The Darkling prodded again.

"We didn't see anything, either." The twins stepped forward simultaneously, a firm set to their mouths. Harry felt both grateful and fearful that they were trying to stick up for him.

"Me either!" That was Neville.

The Darkling's eyes slid carefully over Charlie, looked the twins up and down, before coming to a stop on Neville. "Really?" He said coolly. "Then tell us what you remember, boy."

Neville swallowed harshly, clearly not prepared for that. He clenched his fists. "I was across the deck and firing off at one of the Volcra when I heard screaming. I turned around to look, and there was just this bright ball of light, like the sun. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from, much less if it was coming from anybody, bright as it was. I didn't see him at all."

"So it could have come from him, but you just would have not seen it, yes?" Goldstein drawled.

"Harry isn't—He couldn't—We're from the same...village." Harry noticed that tiny pause, the orphan's pause that they shared between them. "If he could do something like that, I would know."

The Darkling stared at Neville for a long moment before glancing back at Harry. "We all have our secrets."

Neville, Fred, and George all opened their mouths to say more, to protest, perhaps, but the Darkling held up a hand to silence them. Anger flashed over the twins' faces, but they shut their mouths.

Standing up from his chair, the Darkling smoothly made his way down the steps of the dias towards Harry. Harry reigned in the urge to back away, somehow able to hold his ground and the Darkling's gaze at the same time. The man stopped just before him, head tilted curiously.

"And what do you say, Harry Potter?" He asked pleasantly.

"I think there's been some kind of mistake," Harry answered stubbornly. Harry had to make him understand that he'd had no part in any of this. "I didn't do anything. I don't know how we survived, but I'm not going to take credit for it, especially since I didn't do it." He narrowed his eyes at the Darkling, just short of a glare.

The Darkling appeared to consider this, a bit of a bemused expression on his handsome face as he studied Harry. "Well, I like to think that I know everything that happens in Ravka, and that if a Sun Summoner had been living in my own country, I'd be aware of it." His dark eyes were intense, a double meaning in his words. "But something powerful had to have stopped the Volcra and saved the skiffs, or you would not be here now, would you?"

He paused and waited, as if he expected Harry to solve this puzzle for him. Harry lifted his chin determinedly. "I didn't do anything. Not one thing."

The side of the Darkling's mouth twitched, as if he were repressing the urge to smile. His gaze slid over Harry from head to toe and back again. Harry felt oddly like something strange and shiny, a curiousity that had washed up on a lake shore, that the man might kick aside with his boot.

"Is your memory as faulty as your friends'?" He mused as he glanced toward the place Charlie
was standing.

"I don't..." Harry faltered in his retort, brow furrowed. What did he remember? Terror. Darkness. Pain. Blood, coating his hands. The rage that had consumed him near the end at the thought of his own helplessness.

"Hold out your arm."

"What?" Harry blurted, wide eyed and bewildered.

"We've wasted enough time. Hold out your arm." The Darkling commanded again, and though Harry wanted to protest, an icy feeling trickled down his spine and sealed his lips.

Harry pursed his lips and scanned the crowd for any helpful eyes, but there were none. The survivors were frightened, the Grisha looked intrigued, and the Weasleys had all gone deathly pale. Trying desperately to still his shaking, Harry slowly held out his arm.

Satisfied, the Darkling spread his arms wide. Harry's mind whirled with alarm as blackness pooled in the man's palms, writhing like ink through water; at the same time, something heavy reared in his chest and kicked him breathless, just as it had on the Fold. There again was that impossible feeling of exhilaration. Oneness.

"Now," He said in that same, absurdly conversational tone, as if they were sitting together drinking tea. "Let us see what you can do."

He brought his hands together and there was a sound like a thunderclap. Harry gasped as undulating darkness spread from the Darkling's clasped hands to spill in a black wave over Harry and the crowd.

Harry was blind. The room was gone. Everything was gone. The simultaneous pulse of terror and exuberance nearly sent him to his knees.

A startled gasp of air escaped his lips as he felt thin, cool fingers wrap around his bare wrist. Abruptly, Harry's fear receded. It was still there, a cringing animal inside him, but it had been shoved aside by the Other, calm and sure and powerful, almost familiar.

Harry felt a call ring through him and, to his disbelief, he felt something deep within him rise up to answer. He frantically pushed it down, pushed it away. Somehow he knew that if that thing broke free, it would destroy him.

"Nothing there?" The Darkling murmured.

'That's right, nothing!' Harry thought wildly, pouncing on his words. His rattled, panicked mind barely registered how close the man was to him. 'Nothing there at all. Now leave me alone!'

To Harry's relief, that struggling, roaring thing inside him seemed to lie back down, leaving the Darkling's call unanswered.

"Not so fast," He whispered.

Something cold and sharp pressed to the inside of Harry's wrist. A knife, he realized, just as the blade was slid deeply into his skin. The thing gave a rattle, a feeble try to answer as pain and shock shot through Harry's limbs. But Harry smothered it once more.

A lilting hum reached his ears. "Apparently not. I wonder if I should try this blade on one of your friends, then."

Rage ignited deep in Harry's chest, and he could keep hold of the thing within him no longer. It roared to the surface, racing toward the Darkling's call. Harry had no choice. He answered. The world exploded into blazing, brilliant, white light.

The darkness around them shattered like glass, and a for stunning moment, Harry could see the shocked faces of the crowd with sunlight beaming on their faces, the air tinged with heat. Then the Darkling released his grip, and Harry felt the loss of his touch deeply in his chest, that peculiar feeling of unity muted and dulled without it. The radiance disappeared and left ordinary candlelight in its place. Harry's knees buckled, and the Darkling caught him up against his body with one arm.

"I guess you only look like a mutt." He murmured in Harry's ear, then beckoned to one of his personal guards. "Take him," He said as he handed Harry over to the guardsman who reached out to support him. Harry flushed with indignance—at the comment, at the gesture, at being handed over like a sack of potatoes, and he opened his mouth to protest. He never got the chance, because the Darkling suddenly seemed to remember the cut he'd made on Harry's wrist and barked over him.

"Barty! Get him to my coach. I want him surrounded by an armed guard at all times. Take him to the Little Palace and stop for nothing. Get someone to see to his wounds to make sure he doesn't bleed out on the way there."

A tall Heartrender with sandy blond hair and an unsettling grin rushed over to them and nodded respectfully to the Darkling. "Of course, my Lord."

Harry grit his teeth as Barty the Heartrender grasped his arm to lead him away. "Now wait!" Harry snapped as the Darkling turned away from him. Annoyance roiling in his chest, Harry reached out and grabbed his arm. He ignored the gasp of the Grisha onlookers. "This—This is a mistake. I'm not..." Harry swallowed when those dark eyes drifted to where white fingers twisted in his sleeve, and hastily let go, though he didn't give up that easily. "I'm not what you think I am."

A beat of silence, and then the Darkling stepped closer to him and spoke in a voice so low no one else could hear. "I doubt you have any idea what you are." He nodded at Barty. "Go!"

The Darkling turned his back on Harry and walked swiftly toward the raised dias, where he was swarmed by advisers and ministers. Even if Harry had wanted to shout at him some more, he doubted he would have been heard over the clamor.

Barty yanked Harry cheerfully along by the bicep. "Come on."

"Barty. Mind your tone. He is Grisha now." The Darkling drawled over the heads of the representitives.

"Ah. Yes, of course, my Lord." Barty gave a small bow, but his grip didn't slacken on Harry's arm. It was as if he was concerned that Harry would sprint at the first chance to escape. For good reason, as Harry was definitely thinking of doing that right about now.

"You have to listen to me," Harry hissed as he struggled to keep up with Barty's long strides. "I'm not Grisha. I'm a mapmaker. I'm not even a very good mapmaker." He insisted.

Barty ignored him, his smile a tad wider.

Harry tried in vain to pull himself from the Heartrender's grip, looked back over his shoulder, and searched the crowd. Having been dragged to the other side of the tent already, Harry could only see a few of the faces he wanted.

Neville and Ron were arguing with the captain if the sandskiff, and just behind them Harry could make out the white, panicked face of Fred Weasley.

"Fred!" Harry gasped out. "Fred!" It was no use.

They were gone, swallowed up by the crowd.