Chapter 2: The Path to Possibility

Whether the success of his magic was his own power finally forming a Connection to Roshar out of desperation, or if the raw magic of the storm had made a Connection unnecessary, he couldn't be certain. But as he pressed on, battered but determined, one thought burned brightly in his mind: if he could continue whatever it was that was working, he might just survive.

Pain shot through his body as he shifted, his left shoulder protesting with a sharp, searing ache that made his wand-hand falter briefly. The pain was a cruel reminder of his vulnerability, forcing him to grit his teeth and push the thought aside as he focused on survival. His ribs weren't much better, each breath a painful reminder of the storm's brutal power. Harry was certain he'd broken something during the fall, but there was no time to wallow in pain. He couldn't afford to be weak, not now.

He crouched behind a jagged rock, his wand trembling in his grasp as he dropped his shield and muttered a hasty healing spell. The warmth of the magic surged briefly, numbing the worst of the pain and knitting the fractured bone just enough to let him move. It wasn't perfect—far from it—but it would have to do.

Harry tugged the edges of his cloak free from the wind's grasp, careful not to let the fabric tear. The storm's ferocity would shred it if he left it on. Reluctantly, he removed the cloak, folding it carefully and tucking it into his pack before raising his wand once more. A shimmering shield sprang to life around him as he recast Protego, the barrier glowing faintly against the storm's onslaught. Under its protection, he forced himself to his feet.

He turned his gaze back toward the shelter. The storm's roar masked every sound as he pushed forward, cloak safely stowed and his wand steady in his hand. The bandits were still inside, struggling to stabilize the sagging structure. Harry's jaw tightened as he raised his wand, magic thrumming in the storm-charged air around him.

For weeks, he had forced himself to stay in the shadows, stealing from criminals while watching them victimize the weak and helpless. He had justified it as survival, but each time he turned his back on their cruelty, the weight of his inaction grew heavier. That time was over. He wasn't sure if his magic would last beyond the storm, but for now, he had the power to make a difference, and he would wield it.

Harry stepped through the shelter's narrow entrance, his shield shimmering faintly as he moved closer to the group of bandits. The storm's roar faded slightly within the relative safety of the structure, though the tension in the air was palpable. With a swift, deliberate motion, Harry cast Reducto at the pile of debris nearest the bandits, his magic crackling with raw, storm-fed energy. The explosion sent shards of rock and wood flying, scattering the bandits and leaving them momentarily stunned. Memories of another time flashed in his mind—thirteen years old, desperate and naive, pleading for mercy for a man who would later bring ruin to everything he loved. The boy who once hesitated was long gone, replaced by someone who understood the cost of mercy all too well. Mercy had cost too much. Now, his wand moved with precision, a lifetime of pain and determination guiding each spell. He followed up immediately with a series of Stunners, moving faster than he had in years. Each spell struck true, leaving the bandits crumpled and unconscious before they had a chance to react.

The shelter groaned, the walls shifting ominously under the combined force of the storm and Harry's attack. He muttered a string of repair spells, his focus sharp despite the chaos around him. The beams creaked but held firm as glowing lines of magic knitted the structure back together. For a moment, he paused, staring at the unconscious bandits. His seventeen-year-old self would have hesitated, grappling with the morality of what came next. But Harry was no longer that boy.

"You chose this," he muttered, flicking his wand. With a well-placed Leviosa, he hurled the bandits one by one into the raging storm. For weeks, he had forced himself to stay hidden, watching helplessly as these very men robbed, beat, and even murdered travelers. While he had mostly gotten over his 'saving people thing,' the urge to intervene had never truly left him. Each time he witnessed their cruelty, it had taken every ounce of restraint he had to remain in the shadows. The voice of Hermione, sharp and logical, would echo in his head, reminding him that he had no magic left and no training for melee combat. It was the only thing that had stopped him from charging in and getting himself killed. Now, though, things were different. He had his magic, and the power thrumming through him was more than enough to end their reign of terror. The winds snatched them immediately, tossing their bodies out of sight. Harry didn't waste time worrying about their fate; he had no illusions about justice or mercy. He was long past losing sleep over filth like them.

The shelter, now repaired and empty, was his. Harry had learned long ago not to be optimistic, especially in regards to anything going his way; so before resting, he stepped out into the storm once more - still sheltered by a protego, but also able to once again feel the raw energy that had accompanied the return of his magic. After spending a few seconds basking in the magic of the storm, he returned to safety. Harry slumped against the rock wall, his wand still trembling in his hand.

Pain still throbbed through Harry's body, but now that he had the relative safety of the shelter and the storm's magic coursing through him, he finally allowed himself the time to address his injuries properly. With his wand steady in his hand, he muttered a series of more complex healing spells. He wasn't a trained healer, but after years of scrapes, battles, and injuries far worse than these, he'd learned enough to count as a passable field medic. His spells weren't elegant or efficient like those of a professional, but they were effective.

The warmth of magic surged through him, mending fractures and knitting torn tissue in a way that mundane doctors could only dream of, but as he worked, Harry began to notice something unsettling—his reserves weren't refilling when he paused to breathe. Each spell drained him further, and the gap left behind didn't refill as it should. By the time he finished healing his shoulder and ribs, the realization was undeniable: his magic wasn't being replenished unless he was actively exposed to the storm.

The confirmation set a new urgency in his movements. Harry moved quickly to the entrance of the shelter, erecting a simple ward against physical intrusion that would hold without his focus but allow the storm's magic to flow freely. Ensuring he could remain connected to the storm's power, he set about addressing the other tasks that had plagued him since his arrival on Roshar.

First, he turned his attention to his battered clothing, boots, and equipment. The past month had been brutal on his gear, and though he'd planned to use his stolen spheres to pay for repairs, the storm's magic now offered an alternative. Muttering repair spells, he mended the worn soles of his boots, patched tears in his cloak, and reinforced the seams of his pack. Each spell brought his gear closer to the state it had been in before his arrival, saving him precious resources for more urgent needs.

Next came the enchantments. Different kinds of enchantments worked in different ways. Some, like the ones on his invisibility cloak, were permanent and never needed maintenance—but those were rare and expensive, crafted by masters far beyond his skill. More common were enchantments that required regular upkeep, needing magic poured into them now and again lest they fade to nothing. Unfortunately, Harry wasn't much of an enchanter himself. While Hermione could have layered a dozen spells that would hold for weeks or months, Harry's limited knowledge meant most of what he could apply was closer to ordinary spells, barely likely to last until the next highstorm.

With time against him, Harry prioritized spells that would last a week or more, focusing on warmth, dryness, protection, and utility, first recharging a few such enhancements that already existed and then adding some new ones. His overcoat and boots were fortified with spells to keep him warm and dry, while his clothes were imbued with protective enchantments against wear and weather. He added additional layers of defense to protect himself from highstorm debris or physical attacks. He lightened the weight of his pack and added softening spells to his gear, just in case stealth became necessary again. While he didn't focus on silencing spells, he had other methods than stealth to provide for himself now, he ensured that the essentials for survival were thoroughly enhanced.

He worked quickly, his wand moving with practiced efficiency. Despite the pressure, a small part of him relished the chance to use magic freely again. The storm's energy pulsed around him, a tangible reminder of the power he could tap into—but only for as long as the storm raged.

Finally, with time running short, Harry turned to the spheres in his pack. Re-entering the shelter before pulling out a handful of dun spheres, he concentrated, trying to channel the storm's magic into them. His wand trembled as he directed the flow of energy, but the spheres remained stubbornly inert. He frowned, his efforts growing more desperate with each passing minute, but the experiment ultimately failed. The spheres wouldn't take, leaving him no closer to solving the mystery of Rosharan magic. Why was it that the storm's magic recharged these, leaving them glowing brightly, but his had no effect?

As the storm began to wane, Harry leaned back against the shelter wall in his spot near the entrance and set the dun spheres out to recharge, once again feeling the weight of his exertion. His gear was repaired, his enchantments were refreshed, and his reserves were full—for now. He had accomplished what he could, but the fleeting nature of the storm's power loomed in his mind. Once the tempest passed, he would be back to relying on the finite reserves he'd built, unsure of when—or if—he would feel this surge of magic again.

The storm's fury ebbed gradually, its overwhelming magic fading with each passing moment. Harry used his last access to the storm's energy for a few of the less important spells he had deferred earlier. Soon, the tempest diminished into a mere rainstorm, reminiscent of those back on Earth. The vibrant pulse of raw energy disappeared, leaving him with only the finite reserves he had managed to collect. The power was gone, and with it, the exhilarating sense of invincibility that had coursed through him during the storm's peak.

Resigned to having only his equipment and limited magical reserves until the next highstorm, Harry turned his attention to the shelter. He gathered the remaining spheres, leaving a few out for light, and began searching for anything else of value among the bandits' belongings. A small stash of dried provisions, a flask of water, and a simple but sturdy knife were tucked into his bag alongside the spheres he'd already taken. With nothing else of use, Harry settled into a corner to wait out the lingering rain, his thoughts flickering between relief and a gnawing uncertainty about the future.

This fleeting connection to the storm meant he could recharge his magic, but only under extreme and dangerous circumstances. As annoying as it would have been to find out that it was something stupid like his desperation that allowed him to draw on the magic of Roshar, at least he wouldn't have been dependent on an accursed highstorm. Instead, he was bound to the highstorms, their violence both a lifeline and a threat. He needed a plan for the time between storms—and, more importantly, a strategy to maximize the magic and opportunities they brought when they came. Living in a village would no longer work; too many questions would arise if he stepped out into a highstorm instead of sheltering from it. Sure, he could become a hermit out here, perfecting a barrier that let him harness the storm's magic while staying protected, but there might be a less lonely option than isolating himself miles from civilization.

As he watched a cluster of rainspren form glistening, liquid-like shapes on the damp rocks outside the shelter's entrance, their subtle, otherworldly shimmer a reminder of the storm's power, his thoughts turned to the rift city of Rathalas. If the rumors he had heard in the villages were true, the city was built in a deep crack in the ground, providing protection from the storm's fury. Such a location should allow him to safely access the storm's magic without drawing suspicion. More than that, a bustling city offered opportunities to gather resources, blend in, and perhaps even begin to unravel the mysteries of this world's magic.

Once the rain lightened to a drizzle, Harry stepped outside. The landscape was transformed. Alien flora—rockbuds and snarlbrush—had emerged from their protective shells, greedily soaking up the storm's moisture. Vibrant greens and purples dotted the barren terrain, a stark contrast to the muted grays of the passing storm. Among the greenery, luminous lifespren flitted through the air, their glowing forms hovering near the plants as if celebrating the renewal of life. The surreal balance of beauty and chaos reminded Harry just how alien this world was.

As he made his way back toward the road, his thoughts lingered on the village he'd left behind. He had stolen from its criminals, not its farmers or merchants, and he had justified it as survival. Yet, even now, he wondered if his absence during the highstorm had been noticed. Perhaps someone had drawn a connection between his thefts and the mysterious new lighteyes. The thought brought a twinge of unease, but Harry quickly dismissed it. There was nothing for him in that village—only questions he didn't want to answer and people he didn't need to see.

By the time he reached the road, his decision was made. Rathalas offered far more potential than the insular village he'd been skirting for weeks. Harry adjusted the pack on his shoulders, ensuring his wand was properly secured in its forearm holster, taking comfort in the fact that the action was no longer in vain. He glanced once more at the horizon, where the village lay hidden beyond the hills, then turned in the opposite direction.

The path to Rathalas stretched before him, a ribbon of possibility in the storm-swept land. It wasn't much, but it was something—a place to start again, a place where he might be able to move from surviving to thriving.

With a deep breath, Harry began walking, the faint hum of residual stormlight in his veins a quiet reminder of what he still had to lose.