Chapter 4: A Fragile Cover
"I'll give you two ruby chips for the anvil," Harry said, his voice casual as he gestured toward the cracked hulk of iron by the forge.
The blacksmith, a broad-shouldered man with soot-streaked arms and an air of perpetual weariness, paused mid-swing. He lowered his hammer to the edge of the anvil he was working on and squinted at Harry, his sharp eyes darting between the younger man and the broken anvil. "Two chips? You're joking. That's solid iron—even cracked, it's worth more than that."
"Solid iron that's in the way and useless as an anvil," Harry replied evenly. He stepped closer, crouching to inspect the jagged fracture running through its middle. "I'll haul it off for you and leave two chips in its place. You save space, I get some iron. Fair deal."
The blacksmith—Marel, as Harry had overheard someone call him—grunted, crossing his arms as he studied Harry with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "You haul it off, sure. But not for two chips. Five."
Harry held Marel's gaze, calm but firm. "Five for something you were going to sell to a salvager for three? Generous of you. Three chips, final offer."
Marel scratched his chin, his gaze flicking to the anvil and then to Harry's cart. His expression suggested he was weighing the effort it would take to move the thing himself. "Three chips and you get it out of here today."
"Deal." Harry reached into his pouch, pulling out three dun chips and handing them over. Marel inspected them briefly before pocketing them. Without another word, he turned back to his forge, picking up his hammer again.
Harry waited for the rhythmic clang of metal striking metal to resume before discreetly letting his wand drop into his hands from its holster. With a muttered incantation and a subtle twist of his hand, he cast a lightening spell on the anvil. The faint shimmer of magic was masked by the ambient light from the forge, and the anvil felt almost manageable as he hoisted it onto his cart. Still, the effort left him sweating—partly from the exertion and partly from the knowledge that the spell had drained some of the last of his magical reserves.
His brown eyes scanned the street as he adjusted the load on his cart, the dark irises an essential part of his disguise. Although the transfigured contacts were a trick he'd conceived back when he first tried to go unnoticed in his own world, they'd only become viable now that his magic had returned. They required a constant trickle of power to sustain, but the trade-off was worth it. His natural green eyes would have drawn far too much attention in Alethi society, as proven by his first foray into their world, inviting a scrutiny Harry could not afford. The contacts also freed him from the need for glasses—an unfamiliar concept in Alethkar as they hadn't been invented yet—providing both practicality and anonymity.
The lightening spell, though effective, had taken a small but noticeable toll on his reserves. He still had enough magic left to deal with most emergencies, but the dwindling supply made him grateful for the approaching highstorm. He couldn't afford to keep relying on tricks like this without replenishing his strength.
For the past several days, Harry had been navigating Rathalas, moving from one blacksmith to the next. He spent his time observing their operations, taking note of who might be willing to part with damaged goods at reduced prices. The cracked anvils, warped tools, broken tongs, and malformed ingots he'd gathered were proof of his efforts. To cover his activity, Harry had been posing as an apprentice to a master smith who specialized in repairing such items. The lie had worked surprisingly well—most blacksmiths seemed too busy to care about verifying his story, and Harry's observations allowed him to make deals without raising suspicion.
As he moved through the city, Harry couldn't help but reflect on Rathalas itself. The bustling streets were alive with a strange energy, a mix of purpose and tension that hung in the air. The looming highstorm heightened the city's frenetic pace. Even with the shelter provided by the massive crack in the ground, people scrambled to finish their work before the tempest arrived. The city was far from peaceful, yet there was something oddly comforting about its chaotic rhythm.
Harry adjusted the anvil's position, letting its weight secure it despite the lightening charm. He glanced over his shoulder toward the forge. Marel remained focused on his work, oblivious to Harry's methods.
Releasing his wand into his hand once more from his enchanted holster, a purchase inspired by Moody, Harry moved on to the next step of his plan. After a quick glance to make sure no one from the street was watching, he started weaving magic onto the cart. First, a quick glamour on the cart gave it the appearance of a pile of junk, next a more delicate notice-me-not on the same cart. The two spells synergized very nicely: with a notice-me-not, the glamour was free to be crude, and a pile of junk didn't require much magic to become unnoticeable. The result was something which required only a little more magic than a very strong glamour or a very strong notice-me-not, but was much more likely to go unnoticed than either of the two cast separately, regardless of the skill of the caster. A good thing too, since he could hardly afford to cast both at full strength or afford to be discovered. The notice-me-not was tenuous, a spell normally cast with a great deal more magic intended to last days or weeks, but it would hold until the storm began. Unfortunately, it also left him with only the very dregs of his magic left—barely enough for a simple defensive spell in a pinch.
Harry straightened and stepped back from the cart, scanning the bustling street to gauge the effectiveness of his work. As he'd hoped, the passersby had gone from casting curious glances at the strange cart to ignoring it entirely. That was exactly what he needed—he didn't have the magic left to risk trying again. His reserves were down to a trickle, enough for one or two simple spells at best, and even that was a gamble. The result was a hollow sensation, a familiar ache setting in as he forced himself to accept such a low level of magic. He hated being this close to empty, relying entirely on the storm's arrival. If the forecast he'd overheard and his understanding of the storm's strange magic were accurate, the tempest would replenish his reserves. If they weren't, he was in trouble.
The rhythmic clang of the Marel's hammer suddenly stopped. "Oi!" the man called out, his tone gruff but not unkind. "Boy, one more thing…"
Harry stiffened as the blacksmith turned mid-sentence. The words faltered, hanging in the air as the man's eyes landed on the empty space by the forge.
Harry's breath caught. He turned slowly, forcing a neutral expression onto his face as he met Marel's gaze. The man's eyes darted from the spot where the cracked anvil had sat to the vacant space beside it, where he had clearly expected to see Harry's cart. His brow furrowed, his lips parting slightly, as though struggling to make sense of what was—or wasn't—there.
"Where in the storms…?" the smith muttered, taking a step closer to the empty space. "The cart… and the anvil…" His voice trailed off as his gaze snapped back to Harry, confusion giving way to suspicion. "How in Damnation did you move all of that so fast?"
Harry hesitated, keeping his posture relaxed despite the rising panic creeping up his spine. He'd been so focused on ensuring the man's back was turned while he cast that he hadn't accounted for what would happen next. Of course the blacksmith would eventually turn around. Of course he'd notice the missing anvil. For all his careful timing, Harry realized, he'd left himself standing here with no plausible explanation for what the man was—or wasn't—seeing.
Harry's thoughts raced, his mind scrambling for something—anything—that could explain the impossible. He knew he looked out of place: a lean, undersized figure who couldn't possibly have hauled the cracked anvil off alone. Marel's bafflement was almost tangible, his gaze lingering far too long on the empty space where the anvil and cart had been. Harry could see the confusion in the man's furrowed brow and darting eyes, as though searching for some logical explanation but finding none.
This wasn't just a misunderstanding. Marel wasn't suspicious yet—just confused—but that was dangerous enough. People didn't question the mundane too deeply, but the moment something veered too far into the strange, they started looking for answers, and answers meant scrutiny. Scrutiny Harry couldn't afford. His disguise, his cart, even his grasp of the local customs—all of the work he had put into this plan could unravel if the man's confusion spread to someone sharper or more curious.
The weight of his remaining magic pressed on him like a tightening noose. He had barely enough left for a single spell—two if he stretched himself dangerously thin—and the highstorm wasn't here yet. If Marel decided to keep pressing or if anyone else overheard this exchange, there would be no way to deflect attention without risking exposure. Harry's pulse thundered in his ears as his mind scrambled for a way out, cataloging possibilities at a dizzying speed. None of them ended well.
He'd known this was what he was choosing when he took that figurine, but that didn't make the contrast with his time on Earth any less intimidating. There, he'd been surrounded by people who, for better or worse, believed in him. Here, there was no one. No safety net. Just him, his dwindling magic, and the cold, unfamiliar streets of Rathalas.
But no matter how hard he tried, Harry's racing thoughts refused to present him with a good solution. Playing dumb stubbornly enough would almost certainly force the blacksmith to give up in frustration, but it would leave the man with an impression Harry couldn't afford—a memory of a man who drove a hard bargain one moment then acted like a fool who somehow performed the impossible. That kind of story would spread, and Rathalas wasn't large enough for Harry to risk becoming a curiosity even if it was confined to just a few blacksmiths.
While Hermione might have found a clever solution here, Harry had always struggled to see past the blunt force approach, and this was no exception. He sighed, grimacing as he realized what he had to do. He didn't want to use the last of his magic, but there was no other way to resolve this cleanly.
"Look," he said, his tone calm but measured, as though explaining something obvious. "See that sword you've been working on?"
Marel blinked, his attention momentarily diverted. "What about it?"
"Just take a look," Harry pressed, gesturing toward the forge with a nod. Reluctantly, Marel turned toward the glowing blade.
Harry seized the moment, letting his wand drop silently into his hand from its enchanted holster. With a whispered incantation, he cast the Confundus Charm, feeling the last of his magic drain from him in a cold, wrenching rush. As soon as the spell struck, he released the wand, and it slid back into the holster with a smooth, automatic motion.
"Look how much progress you've made on it since we last spoke," Harry said, his voice laced with feigned admiration. "It's been longer than you realize. You probably just lost track of time—you were focused, right? Makes sense when you think about it."
Marel frowned, staring at the sword as if seeing it for the first time. His expression softened, the furrow in his brow easing. "Huh," he muttered, his voice distant. "Guess I must've been. Lost in the work, you know?"
"Exactly," Harry said with a sad smile. "That's all it is. Nothing strange about the timing."
The blacksmith gave a slow nod, his confusion fading under the weight of the spell. He turned back to Harry, but his gaze was no longer sharp. "Yeah, you're right. Must've been longer than I thought." He glanced once more at the empty space near the forge but shook his head dismissively. "Doesn't matter. Thanks for clearing it out."
"No problem," Harry replied, his voice steady despite the hollowness he felt inside. As the man returned to his work, Harry turned toward the street, his breath shallow and his steps measured.
The last of his magic was gone, and with it, any margin for error. All he had now was his wits, his disguise, the protections layered onto his equipment, and the hope that the highstorm would come soon enough to refill his reserves. For now, though, he'd escaped without leaving behind more than a faint sense of bewilderment in the blacksmith's mind. That would have to be enough.
Harry slipped behind the pile of what the Marel surely saw as nothing but a heap of discarded rubbish—his cleverly concealed cart. As soon as he was out of sight, he climbed into the cart's narrow confines, pulling the canvas tighter around him to shield against prying eyes. His fingers moved quickly to his eyes, hastily removing the transfigured contacts. Without the trickle of magic to sustain them, they could revert at any moment, and the last thing he needed was shards of glass against his irises.
He sat back, the storm's rising winds stirring the edges of the canvas around him. His breath slowed as he allowed himself a moment to reflect. His magic was now gone, leaving him hollow and vulnerable, but the storm was close. The air buzzed with energy, and the distant rumble of thunder sent vibrations through the ground. Relief trickled in alongside the tension.
When the first crack of the highstorm's approach shattered the air, Harry felt it—the raw, overwhelming power of stormlight saturating everything around him. It surged through him like a flood, filling the empty spaces where his magic had once felt like a fragile ember. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his fingers loosening from the fists he'd subconsciously made. The magic was back. Just as he had hoped, the rift in the ground which housed Rathalas provided a shelter that allowed him to feel the magic of the storm without being ripped apart by its winds.
Wasting no time, Harry pulled his wand from its holster and got to work. He began by renewing the enchantments on his equipment, focusing on those he had come to rely on most. The protective spells layered into his cloak and boots shimmered briefly as he topped them off, ensuring they would hold under the harshest conditions and last until the next highstorm. His pack, its weight reduced by a lightening charm, was given a fresh enchantment to keep it sturdy and silent.
With his immediate gear taken care of, he turned his attention to the damaged items in his cart. Unlike transfiguration, which transformed something into an unnatural state, repair spells restored items to their original state—permanently, unless damaged again. He began casting repair spells on the warped tools, cracked anvils, and twisted bits of metal he had spent the last few days collecting. Each incantation brought flashes of light and warmth as the items straightened, smoothed, and solidified under his wand's direction. A warped hammer handle became straight and solid once more; a dented tong was restored to its original form. By the time he finished, the cart was laden with tools and equipment that looked almost as good as new.
Sweat dampened Harry's brow, but he pressed on. He needed to make the most of the storm's power. He cast a more powerful transfiguration spell, this time recreating his contacts at full strength, ensuring they would last far longer than the fragile version he had made earlier. Then, with careful precision, he layered fresh lightening charms on the cart's contents. The tools practically floated as the charm took hold, reducing the strain on the cart's frame and making it easier to move. He hoped, too, that these spells might allow him to reclaim some of the magic later when he dismissed them, though he had no confidence in being able to pull it off. Though he was hopeful about the idea of reclaiming magic, he had no proof it would work—there had never been any point back on Earth. It was just another of many tests he'd have to do as he learned to live in this strange world.
Finally, satisfied he had done all he could, Harry leaned back against the cart's frame, pulling out a small pouch of spheres set on trying, once again, to infuse them with his magic. He opened it carefully, his fingers brushing the smooth, familiar surfaces within. The faint, soft glow of stormlight met his gaze, and he blinked, momentarily startled. Of course, he thought, his lips twitching in dry amusement. Of course they'd be infused after sitting out in a storm. That was the one thing everyone knew about stormlight, after all.
He let the realization settle, a strange mix of relief and exasperation. "Well," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the storm's receding fury, "at least something about this world is predictable."
As the last remnants of the storm faded into the distance, Harry sat in the quiet aftermath, his magic restored and his work complete. For now, he was ready to forge the beginnings of a life in Rathalas.
Harry approached the modest forge nestled along one of Rathalas's quieter streets, his cart creaking softly behind him. The smithy looked well-maintained but lacked the bustling activity of others he'd observed in the city. A single figure worked near the hearth, hammering steadily but without urgency. The man's movements were practiced, deliberate, but there was no crowd of orders demanding his attention—exactly what Harry had been hoping for.
"Master smith," Harry began, stopping just shy of the forge's threshold. His tone was respectful, but his voice carried enough weight to command attention. The blacksmith, a wiry man with streaks of gray in his hair and soot smudged across his brow, looked up, squinting against the light.
"What's this, then?" the man asked, setting down his hammer and wiping his hands on a rag. His sharp eyes flicked to the cart behind Harry, curiosity flickering in his gaze.
"My name's Harriah," Harry said smoothly, using the name he had practiced for the last few days. "I'm looking to learn the trade, and I've come prepared to prove I'm worth your time."
The blacksmith raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to get a better look at the cart. "Prepared, you say? What's in there, then?"
Harry gestured to the tarp covering the cart, then stepped aside to pull it back, revealing an array of tools and raw materials. The neatly repaired tongs, hammers, and other items gleamed in the dim light, their surfaces smooth and unmarred. Alongside them, stacks of ingots and a neatly coiled bundle of wire sat ready for use.
"These," Harry said, motioning to the contents, "are tools and materials I've collected. They're yours if you'll take me on as an apprentice. I don't know the first thing about smithing, but I'm eager to learn. The tools are to make sure I don't slow you down."
The blacksmith let out a low whistle, his hand hovering over one of the hammers before picking it up. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it with a practiced eye. "You don't know smithing, but you show up with this? Bit of a contradiction, don't you think?"
Harry smiled faintly. "I figured showing up empty-handed wouldn't give me much of a chance. I wanted to bring something useful—figured tools and ingots were a good start. I've been watching the smiths here for a while, trying to understand what's important. This seemed like the best way to prove I'm serious."
The blacksmith grunted, setting the hammer down and glancing at Harry. "And why come to me, then? Plenty of other smiths in Rathalas."
Harry met the man's gaze evenly. "Because you're not drowning in work like they are. I figure you've got the time to teach, and I've got the resources to make it worth your while. Besides," he added with a faint smile, "I'd rather learn from someone who knows how to focus on the craft than someone rushing through orders."
The blacksmith chuckled, a sound that was equal parts amusement and skepticism. "You've got a silver tongue, Harriah, I'll give you that. It's not often someone walks in here offering to pay me to teach them." He folded his arms, studying Harry for a long moment. "All right. We'll give it a try. But if you're wasting my time, you won't last a week."
"I wouldn't expect anything less," Harry replied, his smile widening slightly.
The blacksmith extended a hand. "Name's Darnal. Let's see if you're as serious as you say."
Harry shook the offered hand firmly, letting out a quiet breath. He nodded once, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. The hardest part—finding a way to start—was behind him. There was still plenty of work to do, but for the first time since arriving in Rathalas, he felt like he had a real path forward.
The days that followed fell into a rhythm that, while physically exhausting, felt deeply rewarding. Darnal proved to be a patient but demanding teacher. He pointed out mistakes with blunt efficiency, leaving no room for ego, yet his guidance was always clear and constructive. Harry quickly realized that blacksmithing wasn't just about brute strength; it required precision, timing, and an intimate understanding of how metal behaved under heat and pressure.
Each morning began early, with the forge roaring to life before the rest of Rathalas had fully stirred. Harry hauled coal, pumped the bellows, and prepared tools, while Darnal worked with a focus so steady that it bordered on meditative. By midday, Harry's arms ached from swinging the hammer, and his hands, blistered despite the gloves Darnal had begrudgingly handed over, throbbed with every motion. The work was grueling, but the satisfaction of seeing a piece take shape under his own efforts made it worthwhile.
In the evenings, Harry often found himself gazing up at the stars above Rathalas. The ache in his body served as a reminder of the progress he was making—not just in crafting tools, but in carving out a place for himself in this storm-swept world. For the first time since arriving on Roshar, he felt like he was building something lasting.
The city itself continued to intrigue him. Rathalas was both chaotic and orderly, its winding streets bustling with a purpose that reminded Harry faintly of Diagon Alley. The people were sharp-eyed and pragmatic, their lives focused on trade, craftsmanship, and the rhythm of daily commerce. Harry found himself blending in more each day, absorbing their habits and learning their phrases with an ease that surprised even him.
Highstorms became both a challenge and an opportunity. While the storms had a fierceness and relentless nature that he could sense from deep within the rift of Rathalas, Harry found an odd sense of solace in their rhythm. They reminded him of his limits but also of the determination that had carried him this far. In his free time, Harry scoured Rathalas for broken tools, discarded scrap, and damaged equipment—anything that could be repaired or repurposed. When the storms came, he worked tirelessly under their influence, using the surge of magic to repair his finds and enhance the enchantments on his gear. The tools he repaired were sold for modest profit, using his position as a blacksmith to cover for his ability to repair them, while the raw materials he salvaged went to Darnal, claiming he'd developed a knack for finding discount material. It served as both a token of gratitude for the blacksmith's training and a practical explanation for how Harry spent his time. The gesture earned him a rare approving nod, and Harry suspected that Darnal valued the thoughtfulness as much as the usefulness.
This meticulous routine gave Harry a sense of stability and purpose, but it also underscored the fragility of his situation. The highstorms refilled his reserves, but they were irregular and about five days apart minimum, leaving him to carefully ration his magic in the time between. Back on that first day on Roshar, he'd barely noticed his magic levels dropping until they were already down at dangerously low levels. After a few weeks of paying close attention to how his magic felt as he used it and some discrete experimentation on days of forecasted highstorms, however, he could now identify almost exactly when he was down to just enough magic for one Line of Sight apparition. Because of the sheer amount of magic required for apparitions, it was one of the most common ways to measure power back on Earth. Most wizards could manage two line-of-sight apparitions without rest, but longer, non-LOS jumps drained magic exponentially. Few could handle two long-distance jumps in succession, and the ultimate measure of power was often how far a wizard could apparate in a single attempt. While Dumbledore's legendary ability to apparate from Hogsmeade to the continent was a feat Harry knew he'd never match, he also knew he was stronger than average, leaving him capable of something on the order of two and a half to three LOS apparitions on a full reserve. Outside of combat, this was little more than a bragging point for most wizards back on Earth. On Roshar, however, it took on a new meaning. Apparition, he reasoned, was his ultimate fallback—his escape plan. To ensure he always had enough for emergencies, he resolved never to use more than half his reserves unless absolutely necessary.
With this principle guiding him, Harry began experimenting with ways to store magic for later use. He discovered that dismissing enchantments allowed him to reclaim a fraction of the magic spent—depressingly small at around ten percent, but better than nothing. His most promising idea involved shrinking heavy objects while maintaining their weight and layering them with weightlessness charms. This dual enchantment allowed him to store magic from both spells in a compact, portable form. Releasing both charms was hardly enough for an apparition, but it was enough to cast most spells and if he kept them low powered, he could get in two. It was inefficient and it wasn't enough, but it was a start.
With such a severe limitation on magic in between storms, Harry was forced to focus on efficiency for his day to day life. Every spell he cast was weighed carefully, its necessity balanced against the need to conserve energy. He aimed for high-impact results, avoiding anything that was more about preference or comfort while ensuring he always had reserves for emergencies. With every spell he cast, he gave thought to whether there was something he could cast during a highstorm which would prevent its future necessity. After a few weeks of this routine, learning his limits and finding ways to protect himself from the many risks of Roshar, he finally began to feel a sense of control—like he had the techniques and abilities to do more than simply keep his head above water.
As Harry adapted to life in the rift city, he sometimes found himself thinking about the night he left Earth. The story told by that strange man had left him yearning for both a life free from the overbearing sense of people depending on him and a life where he was free to help others on his own terms. At first, the part of the drifter's story that implied helping others in this new life had been disregarded entirely. Bereft of magic and consumed by the need to survive, Harry had no room for lofty ideals. But now, as he built stability for himself, the idea began to resurface—not as a duty, but as a choice.
He had no obligations to these people, and that was the entire reason he'd left Earth: to escape the suffocating expectations of both himself and others. It wasn't that he didn't want to help, but he had to keep himself from falling into old patterns of obligation. If he chose to help others, it would be because he wanted to—not because he felt he needed to.
One day, as Harry worked alongside Darnal, the blacksmith wiped sweat from his brow and leaned back with a sigh. "Lucky you found those ingots when you did," Darnal said, his voice carrying a mix of gratitude and frustration. "Storming thieves made off with my last delivery. Set me back weeks."
Harry paused mid-swing, the hammer resting lightly against the glowing metal he'd been shaping. "Thieves?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral though his interest was piqued.
Darnal nodded, frowning deeply. "Aye. Ambushed the wagon just outside the city. Took everything—iron, tools, even the poor lad driving it. They killed him outright and left his body by the roadside. A gruesome sight to find, and one I'd rather not think about."
Harry set the hammer down, wiping his hands on a rag as he considered Darnal's words. He had been dismissing such things as none of his business since arriving, but now the thought lingered, nagging at him. He had no obligation to do anything about it, but perhaps that was the point. He'd dealt with thieves before out of necessity, but now, maybe, he could do something about them because he wanted to help.
"That's rough," Harry said after a moment, his voice measured. "The city guards not doing anything about it?"
Darnal snorted. "Guards? The ambush was outside the city—well beyond their jurisdiction. Even if it wasn't, what could they do? It's not like the thieves are parading through the streets announcing themselves. And with Rathalas in rebellion since Tanalan's return, the king has no interest in protecting the roads or the lands around the city. Missing caravans and fewer traders willing to risk the roads have become the norm, all part of the crown's strategy to pressure Rathalas into submission."
Harry nodded thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward the forge's entrance. The streets of Rathalas were bustling as always, filled with sharp-eyed, pragmatic people who kept their heads down and their business to themselves. It wasn't his problem. Not really. And yet…
"Well," he said, picking up the hammer again, "I guess you're right about the ingots, I'll try to keep my eye out for some more."
Darnal grunted in agreement, already turning back to his work. But as Harry resumed his rhythm at the anvil, the thought stayed with him, growing louder with each swing. A choice, not an obligation, he reminded himself. Perhaps it was time to start making those choices.