Chapter 5: The Message

Harry leaned casually against the counter of a small forge nestled deep in Rathalas's winding streets, the air thick with the smell of soot and iron. Heat spren flickered near the forge, tiny motes of red and orange that wavered like embers. The smith behind the counter, an older man named Tovot, looked up from a pile of warped tongs he was sorting, his brows furrowing as Harry spoke.

"Darnal's running low on iron," Harry said, his tone light but with just enough concern to make it sound natural. "We've been keeping busy, but every supplier I've checked is bone dry. You know of anyone who might have gotten a fresh shipment?"

Tovot grunted, shaking his head. "Not likely. That last ambush outside the city hit everyone hard. No caravans have come through since. Most of us are just making do with what little's left."

Harry feigned a sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Figures. Darnal's been making me chase scrap for days. Thought I'd save myself a trip if you'd heard something."

Tovot paused, scratching at the stubble on his chin. "Well… there is one place you might try." He glanced toward the open door, lowering his voice as he leaned in slightly. "Maran's been quiet lately. Too quiet, if you ask me. Last time I passed by, his forge was full, but no one was working it. If anyone's got iron, it's him."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Maran? The man hardly keeps his bellows warm most days."

"That's why it stands out," Tovot said, folding his arms. "He's never been one to stockpile. If he's got a full forge right now, he's either been saving for years or he's found a way to get shipments no one else can."

Harry nodded, filing away the information. "I'll check it out. Thanks, Tovot."

"Don't thank me if he sends you packing," Tovot replied with a snort, already turning back to his tongs. "Just don't let Darnal waste time on rumors."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry said with a faint smile, pushing off the counter and slipping out into the bustling street.

Harry stepped into Maran's forge, the clang of hammer on metal ringing out as molten iron hissed in its mold. A few industrious work spren, shaped like tiny gears, spun lazily in the air, drawn to the rhythm of the blacksmith's work. Maran didn't look up right away, his wiry frame bent over the anvil as he worked a glowing rod of steel into shape. The older man finally glanced over when Harry cleared his throat.

"Back again so soon, Harriah?" Maran asked, setting his hammer aside. There was no surprise in his voice, just the slight curiosity born of a small disruption of routine.

"Thought I'd check in," Harry said, letting his gaze drift over the forge. "With the supply issues, Darnal's got me looking for more broken tools again sooner than normal. You break anything since my last visit?"

Maran scratched at the back of his neck, glancing toward a pile of scrap near the forge. His tone was casual, his gaze steady as he considered Harry's request—frequent visits like these weren't exactly welcome to him, but the spheres made them worth tolerating. "Not much. Haven't had much break lately and it's only been a few days besides."

Harry nodded, stepping closer to the pile. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Help yourself," Maran said with a shrug. "Not much there worth fixing, though."

As Harry sifted through the scrap, he let his gaze subtly wander to the forge's storage racks. Maran's raw materials were neatly stacked—far neater than Harry would expect given the recent shortages. Bundles of iron rods sat in orderly rows, and several small ingots were stacked off to the side. It wasn't the kind of stockpile someone struggling to scrape by would have, and Harry filed the detail away for later.

Most of the scrap was salvageable with magic, though a few pieces showed burn marks that even repair spells couldn't fix. Harry selected a few bent rods and a cracked hammerhead, setting them aside as he continued talking.

As he worked, he wished he could simply read Maran's surface thoughts to confirm his suspicions. Passive legilimency would make it easy to confirm the truthfulness of the man's words and any hidden unease. Though Harry wasn't a skilled legilimens, mundane minds required little effort to read—as he'd learned during his time outside the wizarding world. But wandless magic, even for a passive probe, would drain too much of his limited reserves. For now, he had to stick to mundane investigative techniques.

"Quiet out here lately?" he asked casually.

"Quiet enough," Maran replied, leaning back against his workbench. "Not much traffic coming through after that ambush."

Harry straightened, setting the last of the scrap down. "Yeah, I heard about that. Messed up a lot of shipments. Guess it's good you've been able to stay stocked."

Maran's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I manage."

"Must've built up a stockpile at just the right time then," Harry said, brushing off his hands. "Seems like everyone else is running low."

Maran shrugged, his tone cool. "Luck's part of the trade."

Harry held his gaze for a moment, considering his next move. He'd gotten as much as he could through normal means. It wasn't enough. As much as he hated spending his magic, he needed answers now.

"Fair enough," Harry said, reaching for his pouch. He counted out the spheres, handing them over. Maran turned toward the back of the forge to store them. The moment the man's back was turned, Harry flicked his wand from its holster with a sharp motion.

"Silencio."

The hum of the forge seemed to vanish, leaving the space unnaturally quiet. As Maran turned back, Harry's wand was already raised.

"Petrificus."

Maran's body stiffened instantly, his arms snapping to his sides as he toppled backward onto a bench. His head, however, remained free, and his wide eyes darted to Harry in a mix of shock, confusion, and terror.

"What the—what are you doing?" Maran stammered, his voice shaky, but building into a mix of terror and outrage. "What is this? Let me go!".

Harry stepped closer, his wand unwavering. "Where did you get your iron?" he asked, his tone calm.

"I—I bought it!" Maran said quickly. "Just a shipment that came through before the ambush, I swear!" Finally, Maran's confusion twisted into terror. His breathing quickened, and his eyes darted wildly around the room as realization seemingly dawned. Then he screamed, his voice cracking with panic. "Voidbringer! You're a Voidbringer! Almighty save me!" His body strained futilely against the invisible bonds, his fear palpable in the way his muscles tensed and his head jerked from side to side.

Harry frowned. "Legilimens."

The spell connected, and Harry's mind plunged into Maran's as he continued to scream about the evil creatures that were spoken of in Rosharan mythology. The man's thoughts were chaotic and panicked, but Harry sifted through them, trying to find something related to the iron. Flashes of memory came to him—Maran arguing with a merchant late at night, the whispered promise of iron at a price too good to refuse, the face of a burly man handing over ingots by torchlight.

Harry pulled back, releasing the spell. "The thieves," he said flatly. "You bought from them."

"I didn't know!" Maran pleaded, his voice cracking. "They just said they had iron, I didn't ask where it came from!"

Harry narrowed his eyes. He knew the man was lying—partially. He'd seen enough in the memories to know Maran suspected the truth, even if he hadn't asked outright.

"Where can I find them?" Harry demanded.

Maran's eyes widened, "I—I don't know!" he claimed. "They found me, I swear to the heralds! Came to the forge. Sold me iron. That's all."

Maran's breathing hitched, his eyes darting frantically, searching for an escape that didn't exist. His mouth moved, half-formed protests tumbling out, but Harry wasn't listening.

His magic pressed deeper, brushing against Maran's scattered thoughts, peeling away the half-truths and omissions. The man stiffened, his panic spiking, his words breaking into a desperate, jumbled mess—half accusations, half pleas.

"What—what are you doing? Get out of my head! Stop—" His voice cracked, rising again into a shriek. "GET OUT OF MY HEAD YOU STORMING VOIDBRINGER!"

Harry barely heard him. The memories were unraveling, slipping through the gaps of Maran's frantic mind.

Flashes. A dimly lit forge, the faint hum of stormlight spheres casting an eerie glow over scattered tools. The clang of metal cooling echoed, accompanied by a swirl of smoke spren curling in the corners of the room.

A silhouette—broad shoulders, standing just inside the entrance. The glint of a scar running down a cheek. His dark vest was worn and patched, a soldier's cut but stripped of insignia. A rough, calloused hand setting an ingot down on the workbench with a dull thud.

"You've been low on iron, haven't you?"

Maran counting out spheres, his fingers shaking slightly.

Another shape, quieter. A hood pulled up. Watching. Not speaking.

"If you need more, don't go looking for us. We'll find you."

The images broke apart as Maran's panic spiraled, his thoughts too scattered to hold onto. Harry pulled back, his own pulse steady as he reassessed what he'd seen. No location, no names. But details—maybe even enough to work with.

Harry studied him for a moment, then nodded. With a flick of his wand, he cast Obliviate. Maran's eyes glazed over, and his expression went slack.

Harry leaned in, his voice low. "I came here to buy damaged equipment, paid for it, and left. Nothing remarkable happened while I was here."

Canceling the silencing charm and the body bind, Harry stepped back as Maran blinked rapidly, his confusion evident. The older man climbed to his feet and glanced around the forge, scratching his head. "That's everything, then?" he asked, his voice uncertain.

"That's everything," Harry replied evenly. "Thanks, Maran."

As Harry stepped out into the street, he took a measured breath, aware of the subtle but distinct drain on his magic. A few anticipation spren, thin ribbons of twisting air, hovered around him, drawn by the tension rolling off his shoulders. The spells had worked exactly as planned, and though the expenditure wasn't overwhelming, he still felt the shift in his reserves. Weeks of practice had sharpened his ability to notice these changes, and he estimated that just those three spells had consumed nearly a third of his budgeted magic until the next highstorm. He was thankful he hadn't needed to cast anything since the last storm until now and silently hoped he could resolve this lead without being forced to wait for another highstorm.

"Wasteful," he thought bitterly. Time spent, magic drained—mostly just to confirm what he'd already suspected. Sure, he knew what one of them looked like now, but what good was that? Rathalas had tens of thousands of people, and he had no practical way to sift through them. No trail to follow. No next step. Just a face, lost in a city too large to search. One of them would probably return eventually, but he hardly had the time to just sit around and watch for them to come back. What was he going to do now, put up "Wanted" posters?

But he couldn't afford to sit idle. If he wanted a real lead, he'd have to make one himself. There was risk in being too bold, but if he just waited, more people would get hurt and Darnal might even be forced to join those buying the iron on the black market. He needed to force movement, shake the right tree and see what fell out.

The next evening, Harry moved through Rathalas's winding streets with careful purpose, stepping over vines curling between the cracks of wooden walkways, their leaves retracting slightly at his passing. his borrowed lighteyes persona fully in place. He had changed just enough—his skin a shade darker from a simple color charm, his messy black hair cut extremely short and trimmed at the sides, his bright green eyes left uncovered after releasing the coloration in his contacts and a transfiguration covering his recognizable scar. The fine-cut coat and polished boots purchased with some of the spheres he'd saved from selling repaired equipment did the rest of the work.

To most, he would look like a minor brightlord, some self-important man with too much coin and too much curiosity. The look would serve its purpose.

Not being able to spend the time or resources to employ more subtle means, he had spent hours bluntly asking after his target in less-than-reputable establishments—giving the man's description, offering a reward, and trying to identify more than a hint of recognition. The responses had been frustratingly predictable—disinterest, deflections, or outright refusals to talk. Some looked tempted by the reward but ultimately waved him off, unwilling to get involved. He was pretty sure he had noticed recognition in the eyes of some of those he had asked, but not enough to give him confidence that techniques like what he had used with Maran would yield anything worth the magic expenditure.

Then, finally, he got a bite. A few curiosity spren flickered into existence around him, drawn to his persistence.

A wiry man with a thin face and a too-eager smile had stepped forward, his eyes darting as if weighing his next words. "I might know the man you're looking for Brightlord."

Harry had kept his expression neutral. "Do you know where he is now? Just tell me, and I'll handle the rest. No need for you to get involved."

The man hesitated, glancing around as if considering his options. "Safer for both of us if I show you," he said. "Less chance of trouble that way."

Harry frowned, pressing. "I'd rather not waste time walking if you can just tell me now. I can pay you handsomely." The man shook his head again, more resolute this time. Harry had been afraid of this.

If the man wouldn't budge, then this was too easy. And when something was too easy, it was often a trap. But he couldn't afford to move cautiously forever—his window for gathering intelligence was limited, and if this was a trap, then springing it on his terms was better than being caught unaware later.

He followed, keeping careful track of the streets they turned down, memorizing their route as a small cluster of windspren darted playfully around the rooftops, twisting along the currents of air flowing through the Rift. The bustle of Rathalas faded behind them as the path grew narrower, walls pressing in on either side. The alley seemed to curve slightly, obscuring what lay ahead. Only when they had moved further in did he realize the far end was a dead end—one not immediately obvious from the entrance. The moment Harry stepped inside, he saw them—the man he was hunting, a broad-shouldered figure with a scar running down his cheek, flanked by two thugs. One was thick-necked with a shaved head and a heavy, square jaw, his arms corded with muscle beneath a worn vest. The other was lankier but no less dangerous, his dark vest patched and stripped of insignia, a jagged knife resting easily in his grip. Both stood in deliberate positions to cut off any retreat.

A soft shuffle behind him made his stomach tighten. He turned his head slightly, just enough to see another figure stepping into the alley's entrance, cutting off his retreat.

The wiry man who had led him there took two steps deeper towards, leaving Harry alone in the middle of the alley. A few anticipation spren, shaped like small, twisting ribbons, hovered faintly around the thugs, their movements mirroring the tension in the air. The trap was closed.

The man at the center of it all smiled as though they had just met under polite circumstances. "Good evening, Brightlord. I hear you've been looking for me?"

Harry's pulse picked up slightly. His throat felt dry.

He had no illusions about what would happen if they took him. They wouldn't kill him outright—not yet. But they wouldn't leave him whole either. He could heal some things and his magic meant his body would repair itself far faster than a mundane's, but not everything could be fixed, especially if they killed him before he got away. He had no experience with melee combat, and he was so outnumbered that if he tried to fight, they'd break his bones even with the protections on his equipment. He'd hoped to be able to do this part without using more magic, but he couldn't let them take him nor could he risk a melee.

At the same time, he couldn't simply start casting spells either. He was pretty sure he had enough left in the tank to deal with these guys, but there were so many of them, one of them might slip away having seen what he could do. That could really complicate things for him.

His eyes flicked past the leader's shoulder to a point beyond him, deep in the alley. While keeping his eyes locked on the leader, his mind focused on the point over his shoulder.

He forced his voice steady. "Indeed," he said. "I have a message for you."

The leader raised an eyebrow, but his posture remained relaxed, waiting. His men, though, were already shifting their weight slightly, preparing.

Harry kept his stance easy, unthreatening, as he reached into his coat. This next part would be difficult and if even the smallest part went wrong, he was in trouble. His fingers closed on a smooth metal cylinder tucked inside.

Not a wand. Not a blade. Just a simple tube.

He withdrew it carefully, as if it contained a rolled-up parchment—a nobleman's letter of intent, perhaps. Something to be read, not feared.

The bandits relaxed slightly and watched, wary but not yet acting.

That moment of hesitation was all he needed.

"Finite."

The Unbreakable Charm collapsed.

The thin pewter end caps—suddenly no longer reinforced—shattered instantly. The compressed spring within the cylinder sprung outward with violent force, shoving plates against packed flour.

FOOM.

Two dense jets of flour exploded violently, the compressed force blasting it outward in twin streams. During the last highstorm, Harry had built a prototype flour bomb by shrinking flour and a spring, carefully arranging them within the cylinder, and capping the ends with pewter. After an unbreakable charm had been applied to the end caps, he had carefully dispelled the shrinking charm on the flower and the spring creating immense pressure on the internal components that would have shattered any mundane equivalent. The result of dispelling the unbreakable charm was exactly the chaos he'd been hoping for as the alley vanished in a choking white cloud.

But Harry hadn't waited to see if it worked and even as the cylinder fell from his fingers, he was already twisting into an Apparition.

A soft pop echoed through the air as he disappeared, reappearing at the point he had been focusing on just beyond the bandits. Nearby, confusion spren—wavering, translucent bubbles—popped into existence around the dazed thugs. As the chaos of the flour bomb filled the alley, he withdrew his invisibility cloak, wrapping it swiftly around himself and vanishing from sight before anyone could regain their senses.

One of the thugs swore, stumbling back. "Storming—he just vanished! He was right here!" He swung wildly with his knife, slashing at empty air. "Don't be stupid! Nobody just vanishes!" another thug coughed as he rushed forward, disappearing into the thick flour cloud, swinging a cudgel in wide arcs in the hopes of connecting with something—anything.

Another let out a hacking cough. "What in Damnation—what is this?!" He staggered sideways, nearly colliding with his ally. "I can't see a storming thing!" Another thug barreled forward blindly, crashing into a crate with a loud thud, sending loose debris clattering against the stone ground.

The leader wiped at his face, spitting, his scarred cheek twitching in irritation. "Powder—storming powder." He blinked rapidly, eyes watering, as another thug lurched forward out of the cloud, coughing and shaking flour from his hair. "Spread out! Find him! There's no way he slipped past all of us!" He blinked and coughed, then opened and closed his mouth, smacking his tongue. "Is this… flour?"

Silence, then a ragged curse. "What kind of voidbringer magic did that lighteyes hit us with?! And where in Damnation did he go?!"

"Don't be stupid, it was some kind of trick." Said another of the thieves.

"What kinda trick creates a cloud of flour in an instant? That weren't no trick, that was a voidbringer, just like my gran told me 'bout!"

The leader gritted his teeth as his men stumbled about, swiping at empty air as if it might hold an invisible attacker, their initial panic fading into confused frustration. One of them kicked over a crate, another shoved aside a barrel as if expecting to find their quarry crouched behind it. A few even waved weapons through the dissipating flour cloud, trying to cut through nothing at all.

After a minute of searching, their movements grew more hesitant. One by one, the thugs slowed, realization dawning. He was gone. Really gone.

The leader took a deep breath, exhaling sharply as he adjusted his coat. His frustration was evident, but he forced it down, his voice measured. "Enough. If he was still here, we'd have found him by now." He let his eyes linger on the swirling remnants of flour, his fingers flexing at his sides. "That means he left before we could stop him."

One of the thugs scowled. "You think he'll be back?"

The leader hesitated, glancing around at the settling flour. "If he was just some meddler, maybe not. But he was a lighteyes. If he really is a brightlord…" His jaw clenched. "Then he has coin. Influence. He might send the city watch after us."

Another thug cursed under his breath. "Damnation. You think he saw enough to do that?"

The leader wiped more flour from his eyes and straightened. "Doesn't matter. We aren't waiting to find out. Move out. Kabsah, make sure we aren't followed."

The thugs muttered an acknowledgment, then moved into action, still brushing flour from their clothes.

Harry, now fully concealed, stepped lightly back, his silenced equipment keeping him unheard as he followed them through the layered streets of Rathalas.

As they walked, Kabsah allowed the group to move ahead, separating himself from them. He would occasionally pause at market stalls and step behind buildings. He even stopped to relieve himself once and eventually went off in an entirely different direction. His subtle attempts at detecting a pursuer would have been effective—if he were being followed by someone who wasn't invisible.

Harry simply moved past him, keeping close to the main group as they descended toward the bottom levels of the Rift. The wooden walkways creaked beneath their boots as they entered a narrow corridor between haphazardly built structures. The air grew denser, heavy with the mingling scents of unwashed bodies, damp wood, and stale ale.

The bandits arrived at their shelter—an aged wooden building slotted between the lower walkways, held together with salvaged materials. The structure had two rooms: a front room serving as a crude common area where two guards sat, watching the approaches to the building, and a back room that appeared to be where the gang slept. Dim stormlight spheres cast uneven shadows across the interior as they slipped inside. Harry followed cautiously, slipping in right after the last thief and moving carefully past the two guards and moved into the back room.

"We need to move. We've been made," the leader muttered as he dusted the last of the flour from his coat.

"What? How?" one of the others asked sharply.

"I don't know. Someone must have talked. Some lighteyes was asking around, giving people my description."

"Sounds like you have been made…"

"Oh, storm off with that," the leader snapped, his voice tight with frustration. "Someone talked, and now we've got a brightlord sniffing around. And instead of finding out what he knows, we let him make fools of us!" He gestured sharply to his scar. "Maybe I'm just the easiest to describe, maybe not. Doesn't matter. We tried to grab him, and he slipped right through us. Jathah, we had him boxed in—both ends of the alley covered. He pulls out a tube, and next thing I know, a storming stone weight of flour is choking the air. I don't know how, but he was gone before we could do anything."

Jathah scowled. "You're telling me a brightlord threw flour at you and disappeared?"

"I don't know how the storming bastard pulled it off!" the leader snapped, his face twisting with fury. "We had him trapped! He should be in the back of a wagon right now spilling his guts in more ways than one, not vanishing into thin air!" He took a sharp breath, barely containing his rage. "We can't sit around hoping that lighteyes doesn't have a way to find us. We leave Rathalas at sunup. If we wait too long, we'll be stuck on the road when the highstorm hits, and I'm not getting ripped apart because of someone's hesitation. The nearest place worth being is a day's travel, so we either move now, or we wait to get dragged in by the watch."

A few of the bandits exchanged uneasy glances, shifting where they stood. One muttered, "Storming pain in the ass." Another exhaled sharply through his nose. "Always something." A third shook his head but nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, fine. We move at sunup.""

Harry scanned the room carefully as he moved to an out-of-the-way corner where no one would bump into him. A single lifespren, a glowing green speck, drifted near a small potted plant in the corner, pulsing faintly in the dim light. Three unfamiliar faces stood out—men he hadn't seen in the alley earlier. Taking in the cramped space, the number of bedrolls, and the general state of the shelter, he estimated their numbers. Eight in total. More than he wanted to take on, especially after the magic he'd burned through escaping. Between the apparition and what he'd spent on Maran, he had just enough left for about six low-level spells, a couple of mid-tier ones, or one powerful spell of the kind taught after OWLs.

Line-of-sight apparition was already on the edge of his limits, and one more spell would push it out of reach entirely. He knew too well how quickly things could go sideways, even with an invisibility cloak. But if he didn't act now, the thieves would be gone by morning. Letting them escape wasn't necessarily a problem—they wouldn't be raiding Rathalas convoys if they moved to Kholinar. But they had seen him in his Brightlord persona. If they ever returned, it would be because they felt confident they could deal with him.

That persona had been on his mind ever since he started asking questions, and he still wasn't sure exactly how he wanted to use it, but he did want to maintain the capability. For now, the best move was to wait for them to go to sleep; he could further deliberate whether he wanted to target the thieves themselves or just their supplies as he did.

Harry remained still, watching from his corner as the thieves finally began settling down for the night. Faint ribbons of smoke spren curled near the dim embers of the small fire in the front room, while the occasional gust from the Rift carried distant sounds of the city above. The front room quieted, save for the occasional murmur from the guards near the entrance. He forced himself to steady his breathing. He knew what he had to do, but the thought of it made his stomach churn. Tossing unconscious bodies into the storm was one thing, but this—this was different. This would be personal.

He moved silently, approaching the leader first. His hands trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny, unnaturally light anvil weight. He held it over the sleeping man's head, whispered "Finite", and let go. The weight expanded, instantly gaining weight and falling from his fingers. The impact crushed the thief's skull with a sickening crunch. The act nearly made Harry retch, but he forced himself to move.

The second target was the man who had led him into the ambush. Another weight, another whispered spell, and another dull, heavy thud as the body went still. The reclaimed magic steadied him slightly. Eight low level spells now. He could do this.

But he had no more weights. He could take care of the rest of them with his remaining magic, but if he could get a little more without resorting to magic, he might manage to have an emergency reserve until the next highstorm.

For the next kill, he pulled his knife and lined it up against the throat of one of the thugs who had been in the alley. His hands were steadier now—until he cut. The blade didn't slide cleanly like in the stories. The man twitched, his body jerking in sudden pain. He let out a low, wet gurgle—loud enough that combined with the thrashing another thief stirred, then bolted upright with a shout.

Harry cursed under his breath. He'd forgotten the silencing charm. Idiot. It was a wonder the thuds from the weights hadn't woken them already.

The room erupted into chaos. Fear spren, dark and inky, flitted at the edges of the thieves' vision as they scrambled backward, their terror made manifest. Confused shouts filled the air. "What in Damnation—?!" One of the thieves scrambled backward, knocking over a stool. "Storms, he's using voidbringer tricks!" Another swung wildly at the floating, bloodied knife attacking as he tried to get to his feet but was hampered by his bedroll. "Where is he?! What is this?!" Harry barely had time to react as the third thief charged his position. Thinking fast, Harry drove the blade forward, but his untrained strike hit bone instead of a vital point, lodging deep in the man's shoulder. The thief snarled in pain and lashed out instinctively, stabbing toward the source of his unseen attacker.

Harry's reflexes had always been lightning fast, but they still didn't save him as the blade pierced straight through his cloak. Instead of biting into flesh though, the strike halted abruptly, meeting unseen resistance. A faint shimmer rippled across his clothing as the protections woven into his gear absorbed the impact.

Harry dropped the knife and withdrew from the melee. Stop fighting like a Muggle.

A blasting hex erupted from his wand, slamming into two rising thieves and sending them crashing into the wall. They didn't get up, but the effort cost him. That had not been a low-level spell, six spells left.

One of the remaining thieves lunged at the last place he had seen Harry's knife, swinging wildly. Harry sidestepped, firing off a stunning spell at nearly point-blank range. The man collapsed. Four.

The guards from the front room rushed in, weapons drawn, eyes wide as they tried to make sense of the bodies, the destruction, and the floating flashes of red light. They hesitated for only a second before one of them charged.

Harry flicked his wand again—another blasting hex. "Storms take me, what was that?!" one of the thieves bellowed, clutching his chest as he collapsed, his leg bending unnaturally. The other staggered back, injured but still standing. That one didn't hesitate. He turned and ran as best he could.

Harry's wand snapped up for a stunner, but—nothing. Dammit. One of his spells must have taken more power than he realized.

Harry stood there, breathless, surrounded by death and destruction. But it wasn't over.

Two of the injured thieves were still conscious, groaning in pain, their eyes flicking around in terror. If he left them, they could still crawl away, still recover. He couldn't afford that risk. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed a sword one of the fallen thieves had dropped. It felt unfamiliar in his hands—too heavy, too clumsy compared to the elegance of his wand—but he raised it anyway.

The first thief tried to roll away, raising a shaking arm in defense against the floating sword. Harry swung down, but his aim was off. The blade struck bone, wedging into the man's shoulder instead of his neck. The thief screamed, thrashing violently. Before Harry could correct his mistake, the man lashed out, a dagger flashing in the dim light. Harry twisted, but once again was not fast enough. A sharp pain tore through his side as the blade pierced his cloak again and this time hit a gap in his equipment. Gritting his teeth, he retaliated with a final, brutal strike that silenced the thief for good.

The second thief was worse off, barely able to lift his head. The first blow still didn't finish him. The second did.

He turned to the two unconscious thieves, hesitation creeping in. They were no threat now, but if left alive, they could confirm whatever story the escapee spread. He forced himself to be methodical, efficient. No risks, no chances. He had spent his life dealing with the consequences of enemies left standing. There was no guilt—just cold logic. And yet, as he finished the job, bile rose in his throat, and a deep, sickening horror curled inside him, threatening to consume him.

By the time it was over, his arms ached from exertion, and blood seeped from the wound at his side, staining his coat. Painspren were now flocking to it as he became aware of the sharp pain now that the adrenaline was wearing off. Thankfully, even though the knife had found a gap, the protections on his equipment had still worked to some extent, so it hadn't hit vitals, but it burned—sharp and insistent. Sloppy. Stupid.

He slumped against the wall, panting. He should have enough magic to prevent infection at least. That was something. He could probably maintain his contacts and even restore the color shift they provided. But what about his hair? Back on Earth, he had cut it short while going incognito, and it had always grown back overnight, just as it had when he was a child. He had expected the same here, but now, with his magic so low, he wasn't sure. And if it did grow back, would it drain the last of his reserves?

More troubling was how his passive magic—his innate durability and healing, the very thing that made magicals hardier than mundanes—would function at such low levels. Would it drain what little magic he had left, leaving him with half-blind green eyes and nothing to fall back on? He didn't know, but it would hardly serve him to keep thinking about it here.

Finally, he forced himself to his feet and surveyed the scene. Nearby, rot spren had already begun to gather around the pooling blood, tiny black motes skittering along the edges of the ruined floorboards. The stench of blood, splintered wood, and sweat filled his nostrils. He had won, but not cleanly. One had escaped. His limbs ached. His hands trembled. Exhaustion settled over him, warring with the gnawing horror of what he had done.

As he scavenged what he could—including a decent trove of spheres—frustration simmered beneath the surface. He'd had enough magic to handle this, yet he had bungled it—hesitation, inefficiency, and miscalculations fueled by his own overconfidence. Now, he was injured, drained, and exposed.

He couldn't risk walking into Darnal's forge until he knew he could control his appearance. He gathered what he could carry, but there was more here than he could take in one trip. He spent a few minutes stashing the excess in a place he could find later, hidden beneath a broken floorboard and covered with debris. If he could make it through the next couple of days, he would return for it once his magic was replenished. For now, he needed to disappear—to find somewhere to hole up and recover. With two days until the next highstorm, he had to stay low, conserve what little strength he had left, and make sure his next move wasn't another costly mistake. After what he had done tonight, being missing for a day or two would be far less suspicious than suddenly showing up with short hair, green eyes, and an injury—just as rumors of a voidbringer brightlord began to spread.