Author's Note:

If you're one of the unfortunate few who read this story somewhere around the time between when I posted chapter 5 and this chapter, you have my apologies. After posting chapter 5, I noticed that the copy/paste method dropped formatting like bold and italics, and even if I reapplied it, it didn't get kept in the save. So I uploaded a .docx instead. Only I just went back and looked at some previous chapters to find that that method drops my section breaks. I'm sure that made the transitions, especially in chapter 5, rather jarring, so, once again, my apologies for the inattention to detail.

Chapter 6: The Weight of Whispers

Darnal stood in the forge's entrance, arms crossed, his expression a mixture of fury and disbelief as he watched Harry approach, pulling a cart loaded with iron. "Where the hell have you been for the last two days?"

Harry, still a bit sore from the last few days but feeling far better than he had before the storm, gave a lopsided grin. "Out drinking."

Harry nodded. "Met some friends from home at a tavern. We got to talking about the iron shortage, and they mentioned that a town not far from here had a stockpile because they didn't want to risk the ambushes. We ranted about how Kholinar was screwing us by allowing it, drank some more, and then I drank too much and passed out at the tavern."

Darnal's glare didn't waver. "And that explains why you're pulling a cart full of iron?"

"Well," Harry said, shrugging, "next morning, word was spreading about how the thieves that had been hitting the convoys had turned on each other. My friends figured if we got over there fast enough, we could buy some of that stockpile cheap and resell it before the merchants figured out the path was clear. We made a killing." He gestured to the cart. "I even had some left to bring you."

Darnal looked skeptical. "And they just let you tag along? You're not exactly the hired muscle type."

"They weren't interested in my muscle," Harry said. "They wanted my spheres. They weren't going to let me in on the deal without my coin, and I wasn't about to just hand it over and trust they'd bring me my share of the return. So I went with them."

Darnal's skepticism deepened before it finally broke into something sharper—realization giving way to fury. His jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists. "You complete storming fool. You put your life on the line for a few spheres? And what if those rumors were spread by the same thieves who'd been hitting the convoys? You'd have walked straight into their hands!"

Harry exhaled, setting down the cart's handles. "Didn't seem that way at the time. I wasn't about to hand over my spheres and hope for the best. And let's be honest, if it were you, would you have passed up that kind of opportunity?"

Darnal let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "I wouldn't have been dumb enough to take the risk in the first place! Did it never occur to you that this could have been a setup? That the thieves might have been trying to lure more convoys into running? You got lucky, Harriah—lucky I'm not dragging your carcass out of a ditch somewhere."

Harry met Darnal's glare but didn't answer right away. The anger rolling off the older man was justified, and he knew it. If Darnal had been skeptical before, now he was furious, and Harry could hardly blame him. But the truth wasn't something he could explain—not without inviting more questions than he was willing to answer. Instead, he let out a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. "I made a choice. It paid off. If I hadn't come back, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

Darnal scoffed, shaking his head. "That's supposed to make me feel better?" His voice was still sharp, but the heat of his anger was shifting, cooling into something else—frustration, maybe even reluctant acceptance. "Storms, Harriah. You're going to get yourself killed one of these days."

Harry didn't respond to that, but the words stuck with him as he pulled the cart forward. Darnal was wrong about what had happened, but not about the risk—Harry knew that much. He had made it through, but only barely, and it hadn't been because of good planning. It had been desperation, instinct, and sheer luck that had gotten him through. And that, more than anything, was what gnawed at him as he reflected on how he had actually spent his last two days.

Flashback: A Day Ago

Harry sat in the corner of a dimly lit tavern, nursing a watered-down ale and keeping his head down. His shaved head and commoner's clothes let him blend in well enough, and no one paid much attention to a man minding his own business. He had spent the last day haunting the taverns, listening to gossip, and he had finally caught something useful.

"Did you hear? Vardor skipped town."

The other man at the table snorted. "That bastard? No surprise. His crew take off again?"

"Not according to him. He came in here last night beat to damnation, spewing some crem about a voidbringer Brightlord."

The second man let out a harsh laugh. "A voidbringer Brightlord? Now I've heard everything."

"Yeah, so get this: apparently his crew comes back all spooked, and Alvik starts ranting that they have to leave at sunup. Had some story about a Brightlord asking around about him, attacking them with flour and vanishing. Vardor thought Alvik had been hitting the moss too hard, but knew better than to argue."

"And?"

"So that night, Vardor's on guard. He and Renin have been watching the streets the whole time—no one came in, no one left. Quiet as the storm before the rain. Then, out of nowhere, there's screaming and banging from the back room. They rush in, and it's chaos. Bodies everywhere, people scrambling. And then—" the man leaned forward, lowering his voice, "—a floating voidbringer hand, holding a stick that spits lightning."

The second man choked on his drink. "Storms, are you serious?"

"Dead serious. He says lightning knocked him on his ass, and by the time he got up, everyone else was dead. So he ran."

The second man looked at him for a long moment before guffawing loudly as he shook his head with a grin. "And he expects us to believe a voidbringer is posing as a Brightlord during the day and assassinating thieves at night?"

"Well, he expects us to believe he's a merchant, too, but yeah," the first man said with a grin, "that story's so full of crem you could patch a roof with it."

"No kidding. He probably heard the lighteyes were closing in and spun this tale to cover his escape."

"Maybe. But part of it's true." The first man suddenly sobered. "Jorlen went over to their shack to check it out. He found seven bodies in there. Crushed heads, slit throats. Looked like a few of them were killed in their sleep and the rest before they could even get out of their bedrolls. No loot, though."

"Storms," the second man muttered, clearly shaken. "I didn't think Vardor had it in him to take out his own crew."

"Yeah. No idea who helped him. The usual types aren't saying anything except calling his story a load of crem."

"So Vardor got spooked, hired someone to help him take out his own crew, bungled it, and is now spreading voidbringer rumors while he skips town with their loot?"

"That's about what I figure."

"That's cold. Glad I never pissed him off too much."

"Me too."

Harry was relieved to hear that the rumors were being dismissed. If this was the norm rather than the exception, it meant he had some breathing room. Still, he knew better than to assume he was entirely in the clear. He spent the rest of his time keeping a low profile, occasionally spreading his own version of the story to further dilute the details. It wasn't perfect, but with enough conflicting accounts, no one would know what to believe.

His magic finally ran out, leaving him vulnerable in ways he hated. His vision blurred, his once-crisp perception dulled by the familiar half-blindness of his unaltered green eyes. The wound on his side worsened, the edges raw and angry, and he had no more energy left to stave off infection. Knowing better than to risk exposure in such a state, he remained hidden in his rented room, only venturing out under the safety of his invisibility cloak when absolutely necessary.

The next highstorm had found Harry outside the thieves' shack, pale and shaking, his wound attracting the dark, skittering presence of rot spren. He clenched his jaw, ignoring them. He just had to hold on a little longer.

Then, the stormwall hit.

The rush of magic surged through him like a second heartbeat, warmth flooding his limbs as his reserves refilled in nearly an instant. The exhaustion and dull ache that had settled deep in his bones lifted, replaced by a sharp clarity. The storm was a force of destruction, but to him, it was renewal.

Under its cover, he threw up a Notice-Me-Not and got to work.

First, he treated his wound, feeling the torn flesh mostly knit together under the spell. The relief was immediate, but he knew better than to trust it completely—he would still need time to fully recover. He restored his contacts, ensuring his disguise remained intact, then turned his attention to his equipment, checking every strap, clasp, and enchantment. His cloak had had holes in it from where it had been stabbed but those were thankfully already gone. Part of the magic of the True Cloak of Invisibility meant that it repaired itself when damaged. Without the ambient magic of earth, the holes had remained right up until the highstorm hit, when it knit itself back together with no help from Harry. Only once he was certain everything was in order did he step inside the thieves' shack.

The bodies were gone, but the aftermath remained. Blood had dried in dark stains across the wooden floor, the signs of struggle frozen in time. The air was thick with the staleness of death, despite the storm's howling passage just outside.

Moving quickly, he re-shrunk and lightened his anvil weights, ensuring he could reclaim a spell from each in the future. Then, he retrieved the rest of the loot he had hidden, reducing it all to manageable size before tucking it away. Finally, he did the same with a cart they must have used to move the iron. The rest of the shack held nothing of value so he stepped back outside to recharge.

Apparating near the entrance of Rathalas, he spent the remainder of the storm trying to make use of the absurdly high levels of ambient magic. He concentrated and willed magic into his body, accelerating processes that were normally passive by sheer force of will and an exorbitant use of magic. It was a brute force approach that would have been exhausting even back on Earth, but since he had already done everything he knew how to do without using potions and the highstorm supercharged his magic, he figured this was a good time for the direct approach he seemed to favor anyway.

By the time the storm passed, his hair had grown longer than it had been in his Brightlord persona but still not back to its full length. His wound had stabilized—tender, but scabbed and no longer drawing rot spren.

He rented another room for the night, but before sleeping, he fixed one last thought in his mind: how much he hated his hair like this. He let the frustration settle, anchoring it in his subconscious.

When he woke up, his hair was back to normal, returning to its usual length. His wound had fully closed, though it still ached faintly when he moved. His magical reserves weren't quite full, but they were close enough for what he needed.

Stepping into an alley, he unshrunk the cart and the iron he had gathered, the release of magic replenishing his reserves slightly. Then, without fanfare, he set off on the long walk back to Darnal's forge.

End Flashback

Harry barely noticed the heat of the forge as he worked, his hands moving automatically through the familiar motions. The rhythmic clang of metal against metal filled the space, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Each strike of the hammer sent vibrations up his arm, grounding him in the present even as his mind turned over the events of the past days. He had won. That was undeniable. He had survived, struck his enemies down, and walked away stronger for it. But it had been close. Too close.

The reality was stark: his magic gave him a huge edge, but it didn't mean poor decisions and overconfidence wouldn't bring him failure just because his opponents didn't have magic. Power alone wouldn't be enough—he couldn't afford to rely on brute force and instinct forever and he certainly couldn't keep trying to fight like a mundane. The flour-bomb and storing magic in shrunken weights were a good start and represented the kind of thinking he needed to have for this kind of work. If he wanted to keep doing this—if he wanted to help sometimes—he needed more than raw power. He needed to be *better*. Smarter. More precise.

He had done this for Darnal, and he was glad he had. He might even do it again, whether for Darnal or simply for the people of Rathalas. But he would never feel obligated to.

Before he considered doing it again, however, he needed to refine his methods—more control, more efficiency. He had to ensure that when he struck, his enemies never saw him coming.

He would do better. He had to.

Thunder rumbled overhead as the wind howled through the cracks in the hideout's wooden walls. Inside, the gang of criminals huddled around their scattered fire, the dim glow casting flickering shadows along the warped planks. Rain drummed against the roof in a steady rhythm, masking the tension in the room—until one of them broke the silence.

"I'm just saying," a man muttered, voice uneasy, "we ain't the first. Something's been picking people off during highstorms."

"Oh, storm off," another scoffed. "You gonna tell me you believe those voidbringer stories? It's just idiots getting caught outside, same as always."

"In Rathalas? I know you're new to this city, but you've still been here long enough to know that storms aren't deadly here—'less you're down in the drainway when they hit."

A brief hesitation. Then resolve. "Look, just 'cause your gran told you stories about voidbringers—"

"My gran ain't got nothin' to do with the fact that the Blackbarbs got cleaned out two months ago, Jolin!"

"Oh? And why's it gotta be voidbringers instead of some other group expanding their territory?"

"Because everyone knows that Brightlord summoned a voidbringer to stop the convoy ambushes, and it got loose after!"

"There you go on about that again," said a third voice. "But what everyone actually knows is that Vardor made that whole thing up to cover that he slaughtered his own crew just long enough to get out of the city."

The first man snorted. "Oh yeah? Then go check on Kevar for us if you're so sure there's nothin' goin' on!" He scanned the room, eyes narrowing. "He was supposed to be back from checking on Tarvah a while ago."

The gang exchanged glances. The second man groaned and pushed himself to his feet. "Fine. I'll go check on him if it'll shut you up." He left the room, shaking his head.

A thump echoed from the next room.

"I TOLD YOU!" the first man screamed.

"Shut up, you fool!" the third man hissed, now on his feet. "Jolin! Jolin, what's going on in there?" Silence.

The third man's jaw tightened. "Okay, boys," he said uneasily, "grab your weapons—someone might be making a move on us."

He never finished the sentence.

A streak of light blasted into the room, striking the fire. The explosion sent flaming brands, smoke, and shards of stone flying. Shadows twisted wildly as men stumbled back, coughing, cursing.

The first man was in full panic now. He bolted for the door, but as he threw his weight against it, the wood held firm—as if it had fused to the frame. Harder than a storming wall.

He whirled around, breath ragged, just as a sharp pop sounded from the other room.

Chaos.

Two of the others were already on the ground—one groaning in pain, the other utterly still. The rest grabbed weapons, rushing toward the other room.

Then the outer wall exploded inward.

Dust and splinters rained down as bodies were sent sprawling. The fire guttered, its embers glowing through the swirling haze. And where the wall had been, something floated.

A hand, holding a stick spewing pulses of red light.

The first time had been chaos—a mess of hesitation, misjudged spells, and an over-reliance on skills he didn't actually have. That wasn't sustainable, so every strike, he refined his craft.

The first change was abandoning the need for perfect timing. Before, he had tried to strike when his targets were asleep, believing it would minimize resistance. But that approach left too many variables: light sleepers, restless movements, unpredictable shifts in guard rotations. Now, he didn't care when they were awake or asleep. Instead, he leveraged the highstorm, hitting them with magic, then apparating outside to recharge. With stormlight flooding the air, his reserves refilled almost instantly, allowing him to strike again with renewed strength, sometimes without even re-entering, casting spells through windows or creating an opening by blasting the wall itself into his targets. The cycle repeated—attack, vanish, recharge, return—until there was nothing left to fight.

Then there was his weapon.

What he really wanted was potions, something he could brew over time, allowing it to steep in magic during the highstorm, using a stasis charm for the periods when it needed more but the storm was gone, and continue it when the next one hit. Potions would fill a much needed gap in options that didn't rely on his reserves. Unfortunately, the flora and fauna of Roshar were completely different from those back on Earth. His mother might've been the kind of prodigy that could invent potions on this planet, but all of his attempts so far had ended in failure. Only a couple of the failures were even magical in nature, the rest strange messes of goup. Thankfully he had come up with the idea of using magic in ways that removing a spell could serve as an activation for the device.

The flour bomb had been effective, but it was never meant to be a real weapon—it was a distraction, a tool to disorient. Similarly, the stones he had dropped had never been intended to be weapons, just a way to let him reclaim some magic later that he had been able to use as an improvised weapon. He needed something better. Something silent, lethal, and sustainable.

So he built one by combining the two.

The first iteration was crude, but the principle worked. A narrow tube, silenced and magically reinforced, with a shrinking charm on a set of lead projectiles inside. A tiny spring-loaded mechanism launched the projectiles out one end at the speed of a crossbow bolt, making no more sound than a whisper of air. Upon leaving the tube, the magic reducing their weight faded. The result? A barrage of dense lead projectiles, each with a mass several times that of a crossbow bolt, slamming into the target with devastating force. A single projectile was enough to put a man down before he could cry out, especially if properly aimed after using invisibility to ensure a clean shot.

It was efficient. Silent. Devastating. And unlike spells, it didn't drain his magic.

That was the real problem with using magic in between highstorms—it was finite. Every spell cast was a step closer to vulnerability, and he refused to let himself run empty again. With this weapon, he didn't have to. It allowed him to reserve his magic for barriers, movement, and control, while the projectile launcher ensured that when he needed to kill, it was quick and clean. The result was an increase in what he could achieve before having to retreat back into the highstorm the first time as well as a weapon that he could rely on in between storms no matter how much magic he had used.

But he didn't always need to kill.

Now, with more control over his engagements, he had options. There was no need to leave a pile of bodies every time he struck. Although he felt no guilt for those he killed, he took no pleasure in their death and still found himself disturbed by those he had killed while they were incapacitated.

Instead, he removed their memories.

A carefully cast Obliviate, precise and controlled, could wipe away everything—the attack, the fear, any trace of the magic he had used. He varied the level of erasure depending on what he needed. Some awoke with no memory at all, their last recollection a quiet evening ending in nothing. Others were left with fragmented impressions—blurry images of an attack, chaos in the storm, but nothing clear.

And so the rumors grew. Had the first attack not spawned tales of voidbringers, people might have simply assumed criminals were fighting each other. But because of the first 'Voidbringer Brightlord' tale, the legend took root.

Now, the criminals of Rathalas feared the storms for more than just the winds.

The stories became wilder with each retelling. Some claimed the killer was a vengeful spren, hunting those who had wronged others. Others whispered that an old Herald had returned, cleansing the city in blood and stormlight. But among the criminals, the belief was simpler—and more terrifying. A voidbringer stalked the highstorms, unseen and unstoppable.

For Harriah, he rarely thought of himself as "Harry" anymore, that was enough. He'd only hit a few groups in the six months since that first bungled attempt, the worst and the most vile gangs in the city, but the rumors had spread like Fiendfyre: far faster than the truth. Whether they knew the truth or not, the fear served his purpose. Gangs once emboldened by the city's chaos now moved in whispers, their numbers dwindling as they fled for safer havens. The streets of Rathalas, while still dangerous, had grown quieter, the shadows not as thick with predatory intent as they once were. The legend of the unseen hunter, of the voidbringer that walked the storms, had become a force as powerful as the storms themselves.

The tavern was alive with conversation, voices rising over the hum of anticipation. The highstorm would arrive soon, and with its approach came the usual mix of anxiety and restless energy. Men huddled together over drinks, retelling old stories of the storms' wrath—of caravans lost to the winds, of fools not safely within the shelter of the rift of Rathalas ripped apart by flying debris.

But tonight, another tale was threading its way through the murmurs.

The Voidbringer attacks.

"Another one last storm," a man muttered, swirling the contents of his cup. "Davan's crew. Half of them never woke up. The rest? Can't even agree on what happened."

"Serves them right," another scoffed, shaking his head. "But I don't buy it. No way it's some creature from a children's story. Just some cutthroat picking his targets."

"That's not what the survivors say."

A hush settled over the table.

"Because they don't remember," the first man said grimly. "Saw one of 'em myself, Kelith. He came stumbling into the market a few mornings ago. Didn't know how he got there. He looked half-mad, kept saying he woke up in the crem outside the hideout, surrounded by bodies."

Someone shifted uneasily.

"So he doesn't remember anything?"

"He says he doesn't," another muttered. "But the rest of 'em? They remember plenty. Just not the same thing."

A man leaned forward. "You hear what Berek said? Swears up and down he saw a hundred red eyes in the storm, staring at him from the dark. Says they watched him, judged him, then just… let him go."

"That's nothing," another cut in. "One of the others—Havrim? He won't talk about it, but his mates say he woke up screaming about a living shadow that reached inside his head and ripped out his name."

"Bah," an older man grunted. "Kelith says the walls melted. Swears he saw them ripple like water right before everything went black. Then he woke up outside, lying in the crem, no idea how he got there."

Harriah took a sip of his drink, keeping his voice even. "My friend Harun told me he heard from one of the guards that one of them just sat there, staring at the wall for hours. Didn't say a word. Just kept rubbing at his forehead, like he was trying to pull something out of it."

A nervous silence settled around them.

"Sounds like a lot of different storming stories to me," a skeptic muttered, taking a slow drink.

"That's the worst part," another man said grimly. "Not one of 'em says the same thing. And when you ask them to explain, they just get this… look." He shuddered. "Like they're afraid they'll remember something they don't want to."

Silence.

Then, from a shadowed corner, a new voice cut through the murmurs.

"When was the first of these?"

The group turned toward the speaker—a man sitting just at the edge of the firelight, posture relaxed, expression neutral. He hadn't spoken before. Hadn't laughed or scoffed like the others.

And he wasn't a regular.

A few exchanged glances. One furrowed his brow. "What?"

"The first attack," the newcomer clarified, swirling his own drink absently. "You say no one agrees on what's happening now—but when did the rumors start? Who was the first to claim something unnatural was at work?"

The group hesitated, exchanging glances.

Then a man muttered, "Vardor."

The name settled over the table like a lead weight.

"What did Vardor say?"

Harriah barely turned his head, but his attention had definitely shifted.

The group considered the speaker—a man sitting alone and not a regular. That much was obvious.

Most of the men here knew each other, even if just by face. This one? No one recognized him.

A few exchanged glances. One man furrowed his brow.

"You ain't heard it before?"

The stranger shook his head. "No. And if he was the first to talk about it, I'd rather hear his story than the ones that came after."

The men muttered among themselves.

One scoffed. "Vardor was a lying bastard. Made up a voidbringer story to cover his own mess."

The stranger didn't react. He just waited.

After a moment, another man shrugged. "Vardor was spooked. Said his men came back from some job all shaken, raving about some Brightlord looking for them. Next thing they know, their hideout gets hit."

The newcomer tilted his head slightly. "Hit by what?"

A man exhaled sharply through his nose. "That's where it gets strange. Some of 'em said it was smoke and fire, like the place just burst apart from the inside. Some said it was lightning. Vardor said he saw a floating hand, holding a stick that spat fire."

A chuckle. "And some say it was flour."

"No," someone laughed, "the voidbringer turned into flour!"

That got some scattered laughter.

The stranger waited for the amusement to settle before speaking again.

"And no one survived?"

One of the men exhaled sharply. "Not from the first one."

Another scratched at his chin. "Vardor was the only one who made it out."

The newcomer tilted his head slightly. "He was outside when it happened?"

"Nah," the first man muttered. "He was in there watching the entrances. Said they got attacked from inside and he barely got out. The story was so ridiculous no one believed him—figured he must've been the one who did it."

"But… then it kept happening," another pointed out, shifting uncomfortably.

The stranger took this in with a slow nod, then asked, "And this Brightlord? The one his men were afraid of?"

A few exchanged glances.

One man grunted. "Vardor never saw him. Just heard his crew talking about him before it all went to the storming pit."

"Yeah," another added. "Said he was asking about them in taverns. Real lighteyes type—spheres to throw around, sharp questions, acting like he belonged."

"Vardor claimed they were being hunted," a third man muttered.

A dry chuckle. "Well, considering what happened, he wasn't wrong."

The stranger absorbed this, swirling his drink absently. "And no one saw this Brightlord?"

One man grunted. "Oh, people saw him, half the damn taverns in the city remember him."

"Yeah," another added. "Didn't act like some noble waltzing in for a drink—he was looking for something. Kept asking about Vardor's men, offering spheres for information."

"'Course no one said anything," a third muttered. "People 'round here know to keep their mouth shut. Especially about Alvik."

The newcomer absorbed this, swirling his drink absently. Then he asked, "And when did he show up?"

Another brief pause as Harriah's grip on his cup tightened slightly. "Day before the hit," one admitted.

The stranger tilted his head slightly. "So the day before Vardor's crew got wiped out, this Brightlord showed up, throwing spheres around, asking about them?"

A few men hesitated. One gave a nod. "That's about right."

"And no one thought that a strange coincidence?"

Another shrugged. "Course they did, but we know better than to ask questions about stuff like that." Now his face took on a severe look. "You should too, considering what happened to Alvik." The man paused and seemed to try to relax, "Sure, he made everyone uncomfortable asking about Alvik's crew, and that wasn't helped when Vardor turned on them the same night, but no one at the taverns got tuned up as payback and we could afford drink again."

"Yeah, the goods started flowing again after that," someone else pointed out. "Coincidence or not, the ambushes stopped. People know better than to question good luck."

Harriah started to feel a strange sense of connection as the men spoke about what he had done. There seemed to be a gratefulness for his actions and as much as the stranger's questions had caught most of his attention he still found himself thankful for the sentiment of the regulars. He had clearly made a difference to at least some of the people in this city.

"And what has this Brightlord been doing since?"

Now some of the men turned away from the conversation, a few mumbling about how strangers should mind their own business.

"Still around," one of those less bothered by the stranger's persistence replied. "Different tasks, though. Not just asking about criminals anymore."

"Aye," another muttered. "Last few months, he's been seen at the guard posts. Asking questions sometimes—though not as bluntly as before."

"People think he's with the city guard now," a third added. "Doesn't wear a uniform, but you see him around them enough, and people stop asking questions."

The stranger tilted his head slightly. "And what do they call him?"

One of the men shrugged. "Tavelin."

The newcomer let the name hang in the air for a moment. "He was looking for criminals," he said carefully. "And he's close to the guard?"

"Seems that way, don't it?" One chuckled awkwardly as another tried to subtly turn away from the conversation.

The stranger tapped a finger against the side of his cup. "And do people trust him?"

That got an actual laugh from the two remaining members of the stranger's audience.

"No one trusts a lighteyes," one scoffed. "But they tolerate him."

A shrug from the other. "He's not like most of 'em. Doesn't swagger around like he owns the place."

"Nope," his friend agreed. "He's not just trying to look important. He's got a purpose."

Another slow sip of the stranger's drink. "Interesting. What-"

But before he could ask his next question, one of the men who had returned to his own conversation stood up and turned around. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but take your storming questions about Brightlords somewhere else. We mind our own business here," he gave a pointed look at the two who had continued to talk to the stranger, "cuz the last thing we need is some Brightlord hearing we've been spreading stories about him."

"Very well." With the same quiet ease he had maintained throughout the conversation, the stranger stood and left, his departure bringing a sense of relief to the room.

Harriah didn't move at first, still idly swirling his cup.

There was something different about this man.

Most people listened to stories for entertainment or idle curiosity. But this one? He had been sorting through the details, pressing at the edges of the story, looking for something, even past the point of creating tension in the room.

But while the others were concerned with not being seen as spreading stories about Brightlords, Harriah was bothered by how interested he was in Tavelin.

He set his cup down and moved toward the bar, using the movement to get a clean line of sight on the stranger as he exited the tavern. In a move that would look like he was picking at his fingers with a knife to everyone else, he subtly cast a tracking charm on the man before he was out of sight. Fifteen minutes later, long enough that it wouldn't be associated with the stranger, he stepped out into the night.