((Yo! Sorry about those first couple of chapters, I'm fairly sure I fixed it. Thank you to those who pointed it out—I'm new to FF, so I don't really know what I'm doing yet. Love y'all!))

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Barty dragged him out of the tent and into the brightness of the late afternoon sun, down a low hill and onto the road where the Darkling's black coach was already waiting, surrounded by a ring of mounted Grisha Etherealki and flanked by lines of armed cavalry.

Two gray-clad guards and two Corporalki stood just in front of the door to the coach.

"Get in," Barty commanded brightly. Then, as if remembering the Darkling's orders, "If you please."

"No." Harry retorted.

"What?" Barty looked genuinely shocked, the Corporalki behind him almost horrified.

"No! I'm not going anywhere. There's been some kind of mistake. I'm not—"

"The Darkling doesn't make mistakes." Barty's grip on Harry's arm tightened and his expression turned icy. "Get in the coach."

Harry glowered right back, "I don't want—"

Barty lowered his head until his bose was just inches from Harry's. His voice was a low, condescending purr. "Do you think I care what you want? In a few hours time, every Fjerdan spy and Shu Han assassin will know what happened on the Fold, and guess what, little Lightling?" His grin was back, twisted and dim. "Mistake or not, they'll be coming for you. They'll kill you, and then maybe they'll hunt down that herd of gingers you call family, just to make sure they didn't miss one. Your only chance is for us to get you to Os Alta and behind palace walls before anyone else discovers what you are. Now, get in the coach."

White faced at the thought of Fjerdans hunting down his adoptive family and cutting their throats in their beds, all because of him, Harry let himself be shoved into the coach. Barty settled in on one side of the coach, the other two Corporalki clambering in beside him, while Harry plopped down on the seat across from him, the two guards on either side.

He somehow worked his tongue back down from the roof of his mouth. "So I'm the Darkling's prisoner?"

"You're under his protection."

"What's the difference?"

The man to Barty's left scoffed and gave Harry an unreadable stare. "Pray you never find out."

Well. Wasn't that ominous? Harry scowled and slumped back on the cushioned seat, only to hiss and lean forward again. He'd forgotten his wound.

Barty jerked his head at the woman to his right. "See to him."

The woman switched places with one of Harry's guards so she could sit beside him. Just then, a soldier poked his head into the coach. "We're ready."

"Good. Stay alert and keep moving. We only stop to change horses. If we stop before then, I will assume something is wrong." Barty ordered with a bit of a dangerous glint in his eye.

The soldier paled and disappeared, the door slammed shut behind him. The driver didn't hesitate. With a cry and the snap of a whip, the coach lurched forwards. Barty gave a pleasant smile at the door, smug. Harry had the feeling that people didn't like telling Barty that things were wrong.

"Please remove your coat." The woman spoke up at last.

"What?"

"I need to see your wounds."

Harry considered refusing, just for the spite of it, but what would have been the point? Besides, it wasn't her fault; she'd just been told to heal him. Which, considering how his bicep had almost gone numb, he would be rather grateful for at the moment. He shrugged out of his coat and let the healer ease his shirt over his shoulders. Harry had never been healed by Grisha before, and his muscles were tense as the woman took something out of her satchel. A sharp, chemical scent filled the coach. Harry flinched as she cleaned the bite on his shoulder, but settled back down with his fingers digging harshly into his knees.

A hot, prickling sensation bubbled up beneath his skin, the urge to reach back and claw at his shoulder blade almost unbearable. Finally, she stopped and let his shirt fall back into place. "Now the arm."

Harry had almost forgotten the Darkling's cut on his wrist, but now that he looked, his hand and nails were sticky with blood. The Healer mopped up the blood on his arm and cleaned the cut without flinching, then held his arm up to the light.

"Try to hold still, or there will be a scar," She warned.

"I've got scars aplenty," Harry shrugged. "What's one more?" No doubt his shoulder looked like a war-wound.

But the Healer gave him a disapproving look, so he held as still as possible in the bumpy, jostling coach. The Healer slowly passed her hand over the cut and he felt his skin throb with heat. The deplorable itching was drowned out by amazement as Harry watched his flesh shimmer and move as the two sides of the wound knit back together. The skin sealed shut, and the itching stopped. The Healer sat back and Harry reached out to run his fingers over his wrist. There was a slightly raised line where te cut had been, but that was all.

"Thank you," Harry breathed in awe.

"Of course," She replied with a polite incline of her head.

"Give him your kefta," Barty butted in after a moment, his arms crossed lazily.

The Healer frowned, but hesitated only a momentbefore she shrugged out of her red cloak and handed it to Harry. Harry matched her frown. "Why do I need this?"

Barty grinned and tipped his head. "You ask a lot of questions."

Harry scowled and snorted. "Not that you've given me any straight answers. At least not ones that don't sound like threats."

Perhaps sensing the tension in the coach, the woman slid over to the door of the coach, tapped the roof twice, waited for thrm to slow, and then opened the door to swing outside. The door banged shut behind her.

Temporarily distracted, Harry blinked. "Where is she going?"

"Back to kribirsk. We'll travel faster with less weight." The man beside Barty gruffed.

"All of you look heavier than she does," Harry grumbled, only partially beneath his breath.

"Put on the kefta." The man repeated with a glance at Barty.

"Why?"

"Because it's made with Materialki corecloth. It can withstand rifle fire."

Harry stared at him. Was that even possible? There had always been stories of Grisha withstanding direct gunshots and surviving what should have been fatal wounds, but Harry had never taken them seriously. Maybe the truth behind the peasant tales was just Fabrikator handiwork.

Soldiers apparently weren't worth it, though.

He slowly pulled the kefta on withoutlooking at anybody. "Do you all wear this stuff?"

"When were in the field." One of the guards said, and Harry nearly had a heart attack. He hadn't known they could speak.

"Just don't get shot in the face," Barty drawled, his grin now more than a bit condescending.

Harry ignored him.

The kefta felt far too large. It felt soft and unfamiliar, the fur lining warm against his skin. Harry gnawed on his lip as the coach picked up speed, fingers twisted in the lovely fabric.

In the time it had taken for the Healer to do her work, dusk had fallen and they'd left Kribirsk in the dust. Harry leaned forward and strained to see out the window, but the world beyond was a twilight blur. His eyes stung briefly before he reigned himself him. A few hours ago, he'd been a worried boy on his way into the unknown, but at least he had known who and what he was. What would his fellow surveyors be doing right now? Mourning Dean's death? Talking about what happened on the Fold—about Harry?

What would the Weasleys be thinking? Did they think he had hidden this supposed power of his from them, that he had let it free on purpose? Surely they would have the truth, the desperation in his eyes. And Fred, Fred had to know. That stricken look on his face...

This had to all be a dream. Harry couldn't really be wearing Grisha kefta and riding in the Darkling's coach. The very same coach that Neville had saved him from being crushed beneath yesterday. Yes, that had to be what triggered this hysterical hallucination of his. Harry's knuckled whitened, his grip so tight in the furred silk that he thought he might just tear through it.

Someone lit a lamp inside the coach, and Harry was pulled from his thoughts by the flickering light. He blinked as he finally noticed the wealthy interior of the coach. The seats were heavily cushioned black velvet, the floor wooden and polished to shine. On the windows, the Darkling's symbol had been cut into the glass; two overlapping circles—the sun in an eclipse.

Across from Harry, the two Heartrenders were studying him with open curiousity. The one that had spoken earlier had dark hair and a long, melancholy face. Barty was shorter, less broad, but his golden-straw hair and sharp jawline made him leagues more attractive than his friend.

Now that Harry was bothering to look, he could admit the man was handsome. Handsome, of course, but a total sycophant prick.

He shifted restlessly in his seat, unnerved by their stares. Irritation rose up to scratch at his mind once more. Harry tried to hold his tongue, as he knew these people could literally make his heart explode in his chest, but eventually their gawking got to be too much.

"I don't do tricks, you know." Harry growled.

"That was a pretty good trick you did back there in the tent." The Corporalnik said with a raised eyebrow.

Harry barely bit back a snarl. "Well if I plan on doing something exciting, I'll let you know. Until then, just, I dunno...take a nap or something."

The Corporalnik looked affronted. Harry's pulse spiked briefly, but Barty let out a bark of laughter. He gave Harry an appraising look and jerked his head at the taller man. "This is Antonin Dolohov."

Harry sized Dolohov up for a momenf before giving a hesitant nod. Then, with Molly's disapproving face in mind, blurted out, "Nice to meet you."

Barty just looked amused.

"Is it safe to be traveling at night like this?" Harry ventured after a moment of narrow staring.

"Not really," Barty admitted. "But it would be considerably more dangerous to stop."

"Because people are after me now?"

"If not now, then soon."

Harry snorted. Dolohov glanced at Harry with a quirked brow. "For hundreds of years, the Shadow Fold has been doing our enemies' work: closing off our ports, choking us, making us weak."

Unease crawled up his spine. "So?"

Barty answered this time, a strange glintin his eye. "If you're truly a Sun Summoner, then your power could be the key to opening up the Fold. Maybe even destroying it. And unfortunately, Fjerda and Shu Han aren't going just going to sit back and watch that happen."

Harry gaped at him. What did these people expect from him? He couldn't destroy the fucking Fold! That was insane! What would happen when they found out Harry couldn't deliver? Harry shook his head and grit his teeth. "This is ridiculous."

Barty looked him up and down and gave a very unsettling smile. "Maybe."

Harry frowned. He was agreeing with him, but Harry still felt insulted. Barty just kept staring at him, so Harry jerked his head around to stare out the blank window. It was silent for a long while, until Barty spoke up again.

"How did you hide it?"

"What?"

"Your power. How did you hide it? Did your family help you?"

"I didn't hide it," Harry snarled. "I didn't know it was there. Neither did they, for that matter."

Barty tipped his head. "That's impossible."

"And yet here we are," Harry bit back bitterly.

"Weren't you tested?"

"Of course I was tested!"

"When?"

"When I was eight."

"That's very late," Barty narrowed his eyes, almost suspicious if not for the grin on his lips. "Why didn't your parents get you tested earlier?"

Harry remembered a dim day with three cloaked figures in a grayed out room, Petunia's haughty raised brow. Insults about his parents gallavanting off to war and leaving her stranded with yet another kid. Sitting by the windows wih Neville and watching the road, waiting for their parents to come back. Back from the dead.

Harry looked away and shrugged. "Dunno."

Barty's brow furrowed. "That doesn't make any sense."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Harry huffed and leaned forward to glance between Barty and Dolohov. "I'm not a Sun Summoner. I'm not Grisha. Whatever happened on the Fold, I don't know, but I didn't do it."

"And what happened in the Grisha tent?" Dolohov drawled wih his arms crossed.

Harry fidgeted. "I can't explain that, but I didn't do it. The Darkling, he-he did something, when he touched me."

Dolohov laughed. "He didn't do anything. He's an amplifier."

"A what?" Harry was baffled. Barty and Dolohov exchanged another glance, a pregnant moment of quiet between them. Harry bristled. "Forget it. I don't care."

"An amplifier increases a Grisha's power," Barty quickly answered. He ducked two fingers beneath his kefta and tugged out a thin silver chain around his neck. When Harry looked closer, he could see a cluster of sharp, black claws dangling at the bottom. "I got mine when I left school. Killed a Sherborn bear and joined the Darkling's service." Barty finished with pride.

"Do all Grisha have them?" Harry asked, unable to stifle his curiosity.

Dolohov stiffened. "No. Amplifiers are rare and hard to obtain. Only the Darkling's most favored Grisha have them."

Barty tucked his claws back away and leaned back into his seat. "The Darkling is a living amplifier. That's what you felt."

Brow furrowed in thought, Harry huffed softly. "Like the claws? That's his power?"

"One of them." Barty's grin darkened.

Harry clenched the kefta tighter around himself, abruptly very cold. He remembered the surety that had flooded him at the Darkling's touch, the calmness, the oneness. As much as Harry wished he had never felt the Darkling's strangely strong call, it had felt...good. He had felt powerful, in that moment. Like he could do anything, battle anyone, and win.

Barty continued to grin oddly at him, like he knew what Harry was thinking. It stood his hair on end. Harry crossed his arms and sighed. "You're wrong. I can't do what you want."

"For your sake, I hope you're wrong." Barty replied.

"For all our sakes," Dolohov grumbled.

• ️•

Harry lost track of time. Night and day cycled through the windows of the coach, which Harry spent most of his time staring out. They kept brutal pace, only stopping to change horses. On those stops, Harry was allowed to get out and stretch his legs. He slept fitfully, his dreams filled with hellfire eyes, silver blades, and stricken faces.

He'd fallen asleep at some point during the day, because he found himself jolting awake when the coach went over a particularly jarring bump. He shook his head, heart loud in his ears, and found Dolohov staring at him.

"Who's Charlie?"

"No one," Harry answered instinctively. He must've been talking in his sleep. Fred's shocked blue eyes turned into George's, and then Ron's, and then Neville's, somehow blue instead of brown, yet no less devastating. "A friend."

"The tamer?"

Harry pursed his lips and gave a jerky nod. "He saved my life on the Shadow Fold."

"And you saved his." Harry opened his mouth to disagree, but stopped short at the slight upturn of Dolohov's lips. "It is a great honor, to save a life. You saved many."

"Not enough," Harry murmured as he closed his eyes and saw Charlie's blood staining his hands, hands slipping from Dean's grasp as he stared at Harry with terrified eyes. Save me. If Harry really had this power, why hadn't he been able to?

"What about you? If you believe saving a life is such an honor, why not be a Healer instead of a Heartrender?"

Dolohov smiled wryly. "To kill or to cure? We each have our own gifts. I felt I could ultimately save more lives as a Heartrender."

The retort on the tip of Harry's tongue shriveled and died as soon as he thought it. 'As a killer?' No. He knew that wasn't right. These days, in a world of war, one had to look at the big picture. While saving individual lives might make someone feel better in the moment, working to end the cause of the individual pain would save more lives in the end. Not a killer. A soldier.

Abruptly, Dolohov's smile vanished and he slung an arm into a sleeping Barty's side. "Wake up!"

The coach had stopped. For a moment, Harry was confused. "Are we—" He cut himself off as noticed the sun's position in the sky.

The coach door flew open and nearly gave Harry a heart attack. A soldier poked his head in. "There's a fallen tree in the road. It could be a trap, so be alert and—"

He never finished.

A shot rang out and he fell forward, a bullet in his spine. The air was immediately filled wih sound of panicked cries and the teeth-rattling sound of gunfire as a volley of bullets struck the coach.

"Get down!" The guard beside him yelled as he shielded Harry's body with his own.

Barty kicked the dead soldier out of the coach and slammed the door behind him. "Fjerdans." He grumbled. "Antonin, go with him and take this side. We'll take the other. At all costs, defend the coach." He pinned Harry with a hard stare, no humor in it. "Stay here, and stay down. And for Saints sake, don't die."

Then Harry was left alone in the coach, eyes wide, knees to his chest, and ears ringing with the sound of shouting, metal on metal, and horses whinnying in felt a brief indignance for being told to stay put while others lept into the fray, before being distracted with the horror of a body slamming into the side of the coach. It slumped, and a smear of red stained the window in his place. Harry quickly got his feet under him and crouched low to the corner. The door flew open as a man with wild blond hair and a matching beard shoved his head in, caught sight of Harry, and turned to shout something back to his fellows in his sharp Fjerdan tongue.

Harry slung himself forward and shoved his whole weight into the man's stomach. The man choked and tumbled backwards, shocked. Harry scrambled to his feet, kicked the man's knife away, then dropped a knee into the bastard's crotch for good measure.

A high-pitched yelp screeched out of the Fjerdan as he rolled over and dry-heaved onto the ground. Harry didn't stick around to see if he recovered. He bolted for the cover of the trees, an age old instinct from back the orphanage, up a hill and away from the sound of the fighting. As much as Harry hated it, Barty was right. There were people after him, that wanted him dead.

He made it halfway up he slope before he was tackled to the ground from behind. Air whooshed out of him as he hit the ground hard, two blood-stained hands quickly pinning his wrists to the ground.

"I'll gut you right here, witch," The man snarled, voice heavy with accent.

"'M not a witch!" Harry snarled as his hair was yanked up so the man could place a knife at his throat. The split second where he fumbled to grasp both Harry's wrists in one hand gave Harry the moment he need to sling his arm back and elbow the prick right in the sternum.

'Hello, mystical power that I probably don't actually have! Now would be a great time to show yourself!'

The man let out a shout of pain as Harry bucked him off and lunged towards the slick part of the hill. His ankle was caught by trembling but unyeilding fingers and he was dragged backwards until the Fjerdan had pinned Harry's arms down with his knees and sat the rest of his weight on Harry's chest. The man sneered at him, enraged, and brought the knife back up just in time for the pound of several hoofbeats to reign to a halt behind the decimated coach.

A group of riders rode into the clearing, kefta streaks of red and blue, fire and thunder at their fingertips. The lead rider was dressed in black.

There was suddenly much less fury in those blue eyes, and much more fear.

The Darkling slid from his mount and brought his hands together with a resounding boom. Skeins of blackness erupted from his hands, slithered along the ground to seek out Fjerdan assassins and wrap around their faces in masks of seething shadow. They screamed, handicapped. Some dropped their swords, while others waved them about blindly.

Harry watched with a mix of nausea and awe as the Grisha seized the advantage. They cut down men left and right, Heartrenders clutching air and making men fall to their knees, blood at their lips, while Inferni and Squallers worked together to create tornadoes of flame that swept up the Fjerdans and left nothing but charred corpses behind. There was no mercy.

The man on top of Harry muttered something that sounded like a prayer. He was staring, frozen, at the Darkling, his terror paramount.

Harry seized the opportunity. "Could use a little help over here!"

The Darkling's head turned. He raised his hands—

"Nej!" The Fjerdan bleated as he raised his knife higher. "I do not need to see to put my knife through his heart!"

"Shit," Harry hissed under his breath as silence fell over the glen. The Darkling slowly lowered his hands.

"You must realize that you're surrounded," He said calmly. His voice did not raise, and yet it echoed solidly over the hills and trees. The Fjerdan looked around wildly, frantic, and the Darkling edged a few steps up the slope.

"No closer!" He shrieked, knife hand now trembling.

The Darkling stopped. "Give him to me," He murmured, dark eyes intent on the assassin's face, "Give him to me, and I'll let you scurry back to your King."

'Like the rat you are,' Harry thought venomously.

For a moment, it looked like the Darkling's lips twitched up, the ghost of a smirk. Harry blinked.

The Fjerdan gave a hysterical giggle. "Oh no, I do not think so. The Darkling does not spare lives." He shook his head and looked down at Harry. "He will not have you," He crooned, a maniacal expression on his face. "He will not have this power, too. No more." He raised the knife in both hands and bellowed at the sky, "Skirden Fjerda!"

The knife plunged down and Harry choked on his sudden panic. His eyes shut tightly as he clawed viciously at whatever part of the man he could reach, a final struggle. He briefly glimpsed the Darkling swinging his arm down in a wide arc before he closed his eyes. There was a crack like thunder, and Harry's hands stilled as...nothing.

Harry peeked an eye open and gawked at the horrifying sight before him. The Fjerdan had been cut in half. His shoulder and his right arm lay on the grass next to Harry, while the remaining part of his body swayed and fell forward.

The scream that wanted to escape Harry's throat caught in his chest and left room for nothing more than a shocked wheeze as he scrambled out from beneath the half of a body still on top of him. His breath came in shallow pants as hysteria built within him.

Somebody knelt in front him and obscured his view of the mutilated corpse with dark eyes and wavy hair. Gloved hands grasped at the sides of his face. "Look at me."

"What," Harry croaked out with another strained wheeze. "What did you do to him?"

"What I had to. Can you stand?"

Harry nodded absently. He completely ignored the Darkling's offered hand as he heaved himself o his feet, his gaze drawn back to ebbing puddle of blood beneath—

Fingertips pulled his head away. "At me."

Green eyes blinked into the half-lidded eyes before him, before Harry shook himself and jerked his chin out of the Darkling's grip with a growl. It didn't seem to phase him. He let his hand drop.

The Darkling led Harry down the hill and called out to his men, "Clear the road. I need twenty riders."

"The boy?" Barty asked.

"Rides with me," The Darkling replied easily.

Harry bristled. He was left by the Darkling's horse as he went to confer with his captains. Harry saw Dolohov among them, sweaty and clutching a bloodied arm, and felt a startling ping of relief. While their meeting hadn't been exactly pleasant, the conversation they'd had earlier that day still stuck in Harry's mind.

A few minutes passed, and then Grisha were mounting their horses to continue onward. Several men had finished clearing the tree from the road, and others were riding out with the now battered coach.

"A decoy," The Darkling explained as he came up beside Harry. Harry jolted in surprise. Those dark eyes glittered in amusement. "We'll take to the southern trails. It's what we should have done in the first place."

"So you do make mistakes," Harry mused without thinking. The Darkling had paused in the act of pulling on his gloves, but before Harry could apologize—not that he actually wanted to—his lips curled into a half-smile.

"Of course I make mistakes. Just not often."

He raised his hood and offered Harry a hand to help him onto the horse. Harry scowled at it and crossed his arms, the adrenaline in his veins urging him to stand tall, fearless. "I'm not a princess. I know how to mount a damn horse."

The Darkling blinked at him, surprised, and there was a tense moment where they merely stared at each other, unblinking. Perhaps Harry should've felt more afraid, as he had just seen this man cut a person in fucking half with nothing but air—but Harry couldn't bring himself to feel contrite about his tone. He wasn't really used to people trying to kill him, so he figured a shock like that entitled him to a few 'insolent brat' moments. He might still be in shock, actually. He couldn't tell.

After another minute of silence, the Darkling swept his arm to the side to give him the go ahead. Harry felt a knot in him he hadn't even noticed loosen at the gesture. He inclined his head jerkily and turned to swing himself easily onto the dappled gray mare before him. She whickered softly at him, almost as if in disapproval.

Harry grasped the reins to steady himself, then stiffened as the Darkling hefted onto the mare's flank, just behind him. He pressed so close that Harry could feel his body heat through the many layers clothes between them. The healed bite on his shoulder tingled.

Gloved hands slid around to grasp loosely at Harry's wrists. "Do you suppose," The Darkling murmured softly. "That you'll be driving?"

Harry released the reins quickly and pushed his hands awkwardly into the mare's mane. He felt a little foolish, what with the Darkling's arms caging him into place, leaned forward like a racer, but it was better than being placed behind the Darkling and being told to hang on for dear life.

"I noticed that you did not complain about being made to ride with me."

"Why would I?" Harry shot back sharply as the mare kicked up into a trot. "It's obvious you don't want me dead. Since a lot of people apparently dowant me dead now, I figured that you're my best bet if I want to live. Believe it or not, I'm not really used to people trying to off me."

"Really?" The Darkling drawled. "I hardly notice anymore."

Harry let out a startled laugh, turning back to look at the Darkling just in time to catch the ghost of a smile on the man's lips. Though there was humor in it, Harry got the sense that he wasn't joking.

There no more words spoken between them for a while, just the sound of beating hooves and the rush of wind in his ears.

Adrenaline trickled from his system slowly, until he found himself slumping forward more and more, face ashen as it truly sunk in what had just happened. He could still see the frightened face of the Fjerdan assassin, the glint of the dagger as it stabbed toward his heart, the sight of blood seeping into the grass from a severed torso…

Harry heard a slight shuffle of fabric behind him, then jolted at the feel of bare fingers pressing into the back of his neck. He opened his mouth to protest the touch, but never got that far. Warmth blossomed out from beneath the Darkling's fingertips, a feeling of surety and calm along with it. The deep, unsettlingly pleasant feeling of oneness that washed through him set him on edge, but it wasn't enough to keep him awake. Exhaustion wrangled with content, and together, they pulled him into slumber.