Author's Note: If you came here after having read Chapter 8 because you saw that a new chapter posted, you have my apologies. FFNET has been being really stupid about Chapter 5 (and sometimes others) and I was hoping deleting it and adding it as a new chapter (then changing the order) would fix the issue. Unfortunately the result of that is that those of you who have kindly followed this story get a notification of a new chapter. I'll be cross-posting this to give people a better functioning alternative elsewhere eventually, but I want to get through this arc and revise everything first.

Chapter 8: Oaths and Burdens

Morning light reflected off rain-slick stones and shallow puddles left in the wake of the night's highstorm, the scent of damp stone and lingering stormlight hanging in the air. Tavelin's footsteps echoed in the hush as he approached the unremarkable building where Nale awaited. Even as he forced himself to think of himself as Tavelin rather than Harriah or Harry, a part of him considered simply vanishing. He wasn't convinced the Skybreakers could truly track him if he abandoned the Tavelin persona and lived solely as Harriah. But if he disappeared completely, Rathalas would be left vulnerable once more—perhaps in an even worse position now, with the Blackthorn's army advancing. He refused to simply hide while that happened. The memory of last night's thunderous confrontation still echoed in his thoughts, but he refused to let it dictate his course. If his bright eyes were legal, then it was time to prove it, to claim his place rather than skulk in the shadows. Otherwise, Nale might invoke the law to end him. The thought tightened his chest, but he pressed on, determined not to let fear decide his fate.

He stepped into the building, eyes sharp but framed by thin-rimmed spectacles. A low murmur passed among the observing Skybreakers as they noticed the glasses, their confusion evident. He knew they would be perplexed by the design—this was technology far beyond them—but Nale likely had some method to detect or dispel magic. That made his usual contacts an impossible choice if his eyes were to be inspected, yet walking around half-blind among people who seemed ready to kill him wasn't an option either.

"Apologies," Tavelin said, gesturing to the spectacles. "They help me see." He removed them briefly, their absence highlighting the bright color of his irises—the same hue so many had told him mirrored his mother's—then replaced them. "My eyesight is poor without them. I typically use magic to correct the issue, but since the point of this inspection is to confirm my eye color is unaffected by magic, I decided a mundane solution would be best." He let his words hang, hoping to move past any distraction the peculiar device might cause.

Nale's gaze flicked across the makeshift chamber, and he made a small gesture. One of the Skybreakers stepped forward, revealing a small, lizardlike creature with translucent wings—nestled in the crook of his arm. The hush in the chamber deepened and Tavelin felt unease coil in his gut.

A moment later, the Skybreaker guided the strange beast toward Tavelin's face. Confusion flared in Tavelin's mind, followed almost instantly by a dreadful pull at his reserves of magic. He let out a strangled gasp, knees threatening to buckle even as he processed what was happening. If that… thing stripped the magic from his devices— "Stop!" he gasped, a spike of panic stabbing through him as inky fearspren bubbled around his feet. "Call it off, or you endanger everyone in here!"

Tavelin steadied himself with a hand against the wall, heart pounding. "I—I expected you to check my eyes, not drain me entirely. I came here with multiple enchanted items on my person—some of them are dangerous if forcibly stripped of magic. You could have triggered something catastrophic by letting that creature feed at random."

Nale's blade stayed raised, his stare unrelenting. "So you claim you endanger us all merely by wearing your devices?"

"No, I claim you endanger us all by stripping magic from me without warning," Tavelin accused, swallowing hard. "I'm not trying to escape. But you must let me remove them carefully—or at least remove all of my garments at once—so they're not forcibly unenchanted. Otherwise, we might all regret it."

For a heartbeat, Nale's gaze bored into him, distrust mingling with calculation. Finally, he dismissed the Skybreaker with a curt nod. "Very well. But be assured: if you leave my sight, you will not walk away alive."

Tavelin dipped his head, every muscle taut with apprehension. Without further delay, he slipped off his coat, boots, belts—every layer—until he stood in little more than underclothes. As he did so, he tried not to betray his inward dismay as he felt the items that had already been completely stripped of their magic. This might set him back for more than one highstorm. A chill ran through him, imagining the worst-case scenario had the process continued unchecked. If his lead launchers had had their unbreakable charm removed… it wouldn't have been pretty. He didn't know what kind of protections these "Skybreakers" had, but he saw no one in Shardplate and doubted anyone but Nale was passively powerful enough to survive one of the projectiles.

He heard a few uneasy murmurs behind him—likely from some among the Skybreakers, including a few women—unaccustomed to seeing a "Brightlord" nearly naked, and certainly not one bearing so many scars. Tavelin forced himself not to flush at their stares.

"Proceed," he said hoarsely, lifting his chin.

Nale nodded once. The same Skybreaker brought the lizardlike creature forward again. This time, with all outward gear and clothing set aside, Tavelin felt the drain intensify for a while before it ebbed and finally stopped, leaving him completely depleted. He wavered on his feet at the sudden emptiness in his chest, as though his magic had been ripped away by a biting wind.

Satisfied, Nale dismissed his Blade, though his eyes were still hard. "Your eyes remain bright despite all investiture being stripped from you," he remarked evenly. "It appears they are indeed your true color."

Tavelin stood, breath coming in shallow bursts, magicless and cold but alive. He resisted the urge to snatch his clothes off the floor. For now, he had proven that no subterfuge was at play—at least concerning his eyes.

"You will swear the oath," Nale said, "once you're dressed."

"Understood." Tavelin rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

Once he was dressed, Tavelin proceeded to forswear surgebinding and the bonding of spren as dictated by Nale. He wasn't certain it would actually bind him, especially since he was bereft of magic at the moment and so hardly had any to actually bind himself into a contract, but even if he somehow did have the opportunity to wield these "surges", he doubted he would take the risk now. As he contemplated this, Nale dismissed the remaining Skybreakers with a subtle nod, leaving the two of them in the quiet chamber lit by sphere-glow.

For a moment, neither spoke. At last, Tavelin cleared his throat. "You said Dalinar's army marches here to suppress Rathalas. How do you plan to stop them?"

Nale's expression showed no flicker of doubt. "Why would I stop them?"

Tavelin's jaw tightened. "You just forced me to swear I wouldn't become a Radiant. Yet you won't act against the Blackthorn when he's about to kill thousands?"

A faint, almost imperceptible shrug. "Rathalas is defying the King. By Alethi law, Dalinar is within his rights to march. I have neither cause nor inclination to interfere."

Tavelin stared, anger mixing with disbelief. "So you'll allow the city to be destroyed?"

"Yes," Nale said simply. "And so will you. Anything else would be a direct defiance of the law. You, of all people, should now understand what that means."

Tavelin let out a slow breath, forcing back a surge of frustration. "What are you, then? Who are the Skybreakers? I assumed you did more than hunt so-called Radiants."

He hesitated, then pressed forward. "I thought I was the only magic user here on Roshar. Now that you are no longer trying to kill me, what can you tell me of the magic you use? How is it that you are able to fly? Only the most powerful magic wielder from my world was able to achieve such a feat."

Nale's expression darkened slightly, as though the phrasing itself offended him. "Surgebinding is not magic," he said, voice clipped with disdain. "It is a transformation of Investiture through the Nahel bond, allowing one to manipulate the fundamental forces of the world. It is precise, lawful, and structured." He regarded Tavelin for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. "And that is all I will say on the matter."

Tavelin clenched his jaw, frustration curling in his gut. He had expected Nale to be rigid, but this complete refusal to share even the most basic details of Surgebinding stung more than he wanted to admit. He wasn't asking for its secrets—just an understanding of what he was up against.

But, of course, Nale was a man who believed knowledge was power. And power, especially one so intricately tied to the laws he upheld, was not something he was willing to share.

Tavelin exhaled slowly, suppressing his irritation. "So you manipulate the fundamental forces so that you can, what? Hunt and kill these rogue Radiants?"

Nale's eyes remained as impassive as ever as he continued. "We are pledged to uphold the law—no more, no less. Ages ago, the other orders of Radiants broke their oaths, endangering all of Roshar. Anyone who tries to revive those oaths could spark another Desolation. That must not happen. The Skybreakers are the only ones capable of stopping it. In truth, everyone violates the law eventually, and Radiants are no exception. We simply ensure that none—including those with powers beyond normal men—escape justice."

Tavelin felt a gnawing emptiness, his mind spinning with questions he suspected Nale wouldn't answer. "And if I see those thousands of deaths in Rathalas and choose to act, regardless of what your law permits?"

Nale's expression didn't flicker. "Then we both know where that will lead."

He turned and walked away, leaving Tavelin alone with the hollow chill of magic lost and a future clouded by the looming devastation.

Harriah stood at the forge, trying not to let exhaustion show. The clang of metal on metal vibrated through his bones, each blow reshaping a warped ingot into a usable form.

Darnal finished quenching a newly forged tool, then turned to examine Harriah's progress. He wiped sweat from his brow, leaving a faint smear of soot. "You look like ten years of storms just hit you at once," the blacksmith remarked, before picking his hammer back up and returning to his work.

Harriah forced a thin smile and set his hammer aside with a weary sigh. "I had… an eventful morning," he said, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. "And a long night," he added softly. "Darnal, have you heard the rumors about the Dalinar Kholin marching on Rathalas?"

Darnal froze mid-swing, surprise flashing across his features. "The Blackthorn? Storms… no, I haven't. Are you sure about this?"

Harriah shrugged, taking the glowing metal from the anvil and moving it to cool. "That's what they're saying in the taverns yeah. Might be he's only a few weeks away. Figured you, of all people, might like a warning."

A frown deepened across Darnal's face. "Storms… I was starting to actually believe he wouldn't come. We've been in open rebellion for years, but after so long it felt more like a stand-off that King Gavilar was content to address with sanctions than something that would actually turn bloody."

"That's why I wanted to tell you," Harriah murmured, setting the iron aside and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "You should leave—take your family and get out before things turn ugly."

The hush that followed felt heavier than the heat of the forge. Finally, Darnal let out a low scoff, as though the very idea was absurd. "Leave Rathalas? Harriah, that's not how life works. My mother was born here—my brothers, sisters, my wife's whole family too. Where would I go? I've barely enough spheres to keep this forge running, let alone buy a new one in some far-off city. I don't know anyone beyond these walls who'd take me in. We'd be strangers, turned away at every gate. At least here, people know me. I can feed my children and keep a roof over their heads. Even if the Blackthorn comes, it's still better than wandering with nothing."

Harriah wiped sweat from his forehead, remembering the stories Darnal had once told him. "You were the one who first told me about the Blackthorn—how he seized this city, took your pride. You've been good to me. Remember that iron trade I got in on? Well, I've got spheres I can give you, a lot of them. Doesn't it scare you enough to consider leaving, even if it means starting over?"

Darnal's mouth drew into a tight line, anger flashing in his eyes. "I hate Dalinar Kholin for what he did, Harriah. Don't mistake me. Man fought like a demon, tore our defenses apart. He butchered the soldiers he faced. But…"

He cast his gaze aside, as though the admission tasted bitter. "But I can't pretend he slaughtered women and children. He called it cowardly to touch those who couldn't fight back. His men followed orders, brutal though they were. So I don't reckon he'll kill my wife and kids—if we keep our heads down."

Frustration flared in Harriah's chest. "So you're willing to stay here, hoping he shows mercy again?"

"What else can I do?" Darnal retorted, voice thick with resentment. "He's a tyrant, sure—but at least under his command, the worst of his soldiers' depravity is reined in. Even if I were to take your spheres, my family stands a better chance here without them than if we wander into some strange city with no customers, no forge, and no friends. I hate conceding anything good about that bastard, but I'd be a bigger fool not to see that my family is probably safe so long as we don't resist."

Harriah felt torn. He quenched the last of his metal, watching the steam hiss. "All right," he relented. "But at least keep alert. If trouble starts, promise me you'll protect your family first."

Darnal nodded stiffly. "I'll do what I can. Thanks, Harriah. Means a lot that you'd try to take care of us."

They worked in silence for a moment, the forge's heat wrapping around them. At last, Harriah cleared his throat, setting his hammer aside. "Listen… there's something else on my mind. I've been thinking about the Radiants. What do you know about them?"

Darnal raised an eyebrow, setting a finished blade aside to cool. "The Lost Radiants? All I know is they fought the Voidbringers—then abandoned us. Or so the stories say. Good riddance, I say."

Harriah grasped a pair of tongs and began to reheat a small bar of metal. "But did they really fight, using magic of some sort? What were they supposed to be able to do?"

"Magic?" Darnal snorted. "Maybe illusions, old fabrials. If they'd had real powers—flying, summoning storms, healing wounds—how come none of it's around now? Doesn't add up. I figure if they'd truly been as great as people claim, they wouldn't have run off."

Harriah's grip on the tongs tightened. He had firsthand knowledge that Radiants were more than myth. "And what if one appeared now, showing they could shape stone or heal the sick?"

Darnal hesitated, a flicker of worry crossing his face. "I suspect folks would turn on them—call them betrayers or turn them in to the city lord. Don't reckon they'd be welcomed. Especially not with the old songs labeling them traitors."

Harriah forced a neutral tone. "But say they really wanted to help. Wouldn't that change minds?"

A rueful laugh escaped Darnal. "Harriah, you've got your head in the clouds. People here spook easily. We barely trust new fabrials, let alone some ancient magic. There's a reason the Radiants vanished, if you ask me."

Harriah swallowed back his own conflicting emotions and set the heated metal on the anvil for another round of hammering. He understood better than Darnal realized—some Radiants were still around, but secrecy was their shield. "Thanks," he murmured. "That's... helpful."

Darnal grunted, returning to the piece he'd been shaping. "If the Blackthorn's really coming, maybe we should both figure where we stand. Because storms know he's not going to just pass us by."

Harriah nodded once more, mind churning with possibilities as he resumed hammering metal. The warmth of the forge battled the cold swirl of apprehension in his gut. If the Radiants truly existed in secrecy, this land was no kinder to them than to any powerless darkeyes—and with an unstoppable army approaching, those who wished to help might be risking more than they ever imagined.

A hush lay over the Devotary of Insight, broken only by the whisper of parchment and the murmur of ardents conferring over theological or historical texts. Vorinism, the dominant religion of Alethkar, called both its disciplines and its houses of worship by the name "devotary," and this one was apparently the most scholarly of them. Shelves lined every wall, laden with scrolls, tablets, and codices of varying age and condition. Harriah stepped carefully through the corridors, mindful not to intrude on the quiet diligence around him.

He soon noticed a figure bent over in the hallway ahead—a parshman, one of the incredibly docile humanoids that served as laborers across Roshar. Its marbled red-brown skin, characteristic of the Parsh, caught the soft glow of the garnet spheres set along the walls. The creature moved methodically, dusting a row of stone pillars with slow, deliberate strokes. Though he had glimpsed parshmen before, Harriah had rarely been this close. Something about its singular focus unsettled him, like it was aware only of the task at hand, to the exclusion of everything else.

Determined to offer some courtesy, Harriah cleared his throat softly. "Hello. How are you, friend?"

The parshman blinked, lifting its head. After a hesitant moment, it managed, "I… dust." Its voice was flat but not entirely devoid of awareness.

Harriah's brow creased in mild surprise. "What's your name?"

"...Kailo," the parshman answered haltingly, then dipped its head as though unsure if more was needed.

A voice intruded from behind, brimming with disapproval: "Do you talk to your axehounds, too?"

Startled, Harriah turned. An ardent, one of the priests of Vorinism, stood in the aisle, arms folded, wearing an expression that suggested an amused patience. He was presumably someone who could show Harriah around.

"I've never owned an axehound," Harriah replied, forcing politeness into his tone. "But I did have an owl once—she seemed to understand me better than my cousin. Of course, neither of them really counted as 'people' like Kailo here." He gestured to the parshman.

"Owl?" repeated the ardent, sounding unimpressed.

Harriah offered a half-smile. "Oh, right. It's a kind of... special chicken, if you will. My point is, just because something doesn't speak fluidly doesn't mean it lacks spirit."

"Spirit or not," the ardent retorted with a condescending shrug, "parshmen are barely above axehounds. Dutiful, quiet, they do what they're told and very little else. Even if they speak a few words, it's rote at best." He waved a hand dismissively at Kailo. "He'll dust for hours if left alone. You can greet him all you like, but I wouldn't expect meaningful conversation."

Kailo bowed his head again, returning to slow, steady dusting. Each subtle motion—from the tilt of its head to the careful way it applied the cloth—reinforced for Harriah that this being wasn't merely an object. Yet he couldn't escape the fact that Kailo seemed to lack the self-direction he might have expected of any sapient creature.

Memories of Hermione's outrage over any form of servitude rose unbidden in Harriah's mind—house-elves, magical beings, each with their own complexities. Despite parshmen apparently possessing only a fraction of that autonomy, the knot of unease in his chest refused to fade.

Unfortunately, this was a world where there were still human slaves. He forced his thoughts away from all of the things Hermione would be trying to fix in this world even as a tear tried to escape his eye. "Regardless," he said softly, "I believe politeness is never wasted, no matter the circumstances."

The ardent's lips curled into a patronizing smile. "If it eases your conscience, you're free to greet every parshman in Alethkar. But don't expect them to respond as though they think like we do." With a curt gesture, he indicated a corridor lined with neatly labeled scrolls. "Now, is there something you need? I'm rather occupied."

Harriah gave Kailo one last look—wondering just how much lay behind those dark, unblinking eyes—then cleared his throat. "Yes, actually. I was hoping to learn about the Heralds."

The ardent's expression flicked between caution and curiosity. "Which aspect of them, precisely?"

"All of them, honestly," Harriah replied. "Who they were, what they were said to do. I've heard conflicting stories. Some claim they served as champions of the Almighty, while others say they simply vanished. Is that true?"

The ardent nodded, setting his transcribing aside. "Yes, well, the Heralds were ten immortal guardians chosen by the Almighty to stand against the Voidbringers. Each was endowed with a divine attribute, each entrusted with a domain—like Ishar of Luck or Jezrien of Kings, depending on the tradition." He gestured to a painting of an epic battle where godlike figures fought against monstrous demons. "Here, you can see the Battle of Aharietiam, where the Heralds defeated the Voidbringers on Roshar for the last time, ending the cycle of Desolations. After this battle, the Heralds departed for the Tranquiline Halls, where they continue the war to this day—just as you and I will when our lives here end."

Harriah paused, glancing at the depictions of harsh battles and hideous shapes in the artwork. Harriah recalled how many of the magical beasts on Earth had inspired the mundane depictions of demons and faeries in local folklore and shuddered. If the Heralds had fought against beings of the power depicted in this art, then he had been very right to be wary of Nale's power. That, of course, brought up another concern. "What exactly were the Voidbringers?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

A shadow flickered in the ardent's eyes, but he answered with quiet conviction. "They were no mere legends as people seem to think today. The Voidbringers were monstrous forces spawned by hatred and originating from Damnation itself. The Heralds led us against them time and again, giving their own blood and tears to push these terrors back."

He gestured to a frieze showing twisted silhouettes beneath a looming darkness. "Some accounts call them spirits of fury; others believe they were physical abominations. We cannot know all the details now, but we know they were real. Each Desolation brought them forth to ravage humankind, and each time the Heralds fought them off—until the final victory, when the Voidbringers were vanquished from Roshar."

The ardent's gaze hardened with a devout certainty. "Though we don't see them today, we must remain watchful. Should mankind turn from the Almighty, the Voidbringers could grow in strength and push the Heralds out of the Tranquiline Halls once again before returning in a new Desolation. It's why our work endures—to keep alive the memory of the fight the Heralds continue, and to prepare us to aid them after we pass on here."

So much myth, superstition, and legend. Harriah suspected there were kernels of truth here, he was here because he suspected he had met and been hunted by one of these figures of legend after all, but it was so hard to parse what might be truth from what was fabricated. By the Church's own account, it had been 4,500 years since Aharietiam. It was hard to imagine any useful truth surviving that long, but even the ancient pharaohs and Greeks had left their mark in real ways through their magic if one knew where to look. The painting before him reminded him of such mythology as the Heralds were depicted in a manner that was clearly intended to emphasize their deific status than to be a faithful representation of their features. "Do you have any other depictions of the Heralds?" Harriah asked, hoping to find one that showed a more detailed depiction of Nale, "Perhaps ones that focus more on what they each looked like than on the enemies they fought?"

He motioned for Harriah to follow him down a short hall. Eventually, they reached a modest chamber where aged paintings hung in neat rows. Each depicted one of the Ten Heralds in grand regalia. Finally, he thought, detailed depictions that could actually have been real people.

Harriah's eyes instantly sought out and landed on Nalan'Elin: tall, stern, dressed in regal blue and black. His face carried the proud bearing of an Alethi highlord—fairer skin, straight hair, sharp nose. Harriah exhaled, releasing a tension he hadn't realized he was holding.

So… Nale was not a Herald.

He should have felt relief. The man who'd forced him into an oath with lethal efficiency was no demigod or ancient being. Still, an odd sense of... disappointment tugged at him. Why disappointment? Some part of him must have enjoyed the notion that he'd encountered one of Roshar's immortal champions. If Nale truly were a Herald, that might have meant… something. He wasn't even sure what.

He shook the thought aside. "And these," he asked, gesturing to the rest of the paintings, "they're all Heralds too, I presume?"

The ardent nodded, pointing out Jezrien, Kalak, Shalash—each shown with Alethi features. Harriah's brow furrowed at the uniformity. "You're certain these are accurate?"

"They're the most faithful depictions we have," the ardent replied, as though stating an obvious fact. "No other nation has preserved knowledge so precisely. The Alethi have ever been closest to the Heralds in lineage and understanding."

Harriah's skepticism grew. "Does everyone record them this way though? Or did other regions perhaps record them differently?"

The ardent sniffed with mild amusement. "Oh, they did. And we have some of their 'reinterpretations' here. They can be entertaining." He rummaged through a nearby shelf, drawing out an older scroll. Spreading it flat on a table, he revealed intricately inked figures with Azish features—darker complexions, tight curls, symmetrical patterns.

Nalan'Elin among them again, unambiguously Azish.

Harriah felt a twist of annoyance. He had learned next to nothing regarding the possibility of Nale being an actual ancient being of immense power. Every culture depicted the Heralds to look like themselves. That meant no single portrait told him anything real about Nale and he failed to find anything common enough across the depictions to help him with his question either. He sighed under his breath.

Harriah's gaze swept over the pinned sketches and incomplete paintings as he thought back over what the ardent had said so far. "You said the Heralds continue the war in the Tranquiline Halls; does that mean they are no longer on Roshar?"

"Correct. The Tranquiline Halls are the homeland of humanity, where we all lived peacefully before the invasion of the Voidbringers. The Heralds continue the fight there so that we may return some day," the ardent answered. "Should they fail, a new Desolation might come."

Harriah nodded, wondering how much, if any, of the mythology was grounded in truth. "And Nalan'Elin specifically—did he champion justice, or was he more about the letter of the law?"

At that, the ardent smiled with a hint of pride. "Nalan, Herald of Justice, was believed to hold both concepts in perfect balance. To him, law was the backbone of all civilization, and justice its natural consequence. It was said he could pass judgments that served the greater good without compromise. He was no petty bureaucrat or scribe with pedantic rules. He enforced the law as he saw fit and was revered for it."

Harriah's mouth tightened slightly. "Right," he murmured. So the myth claimed. But the man he had met in the storm showed how easily that 'law' could become cruelty and if he was indeed the Herald after which he was named... well, that was yet another aspect of history which had been distorted by the Vorin religion. But he really shouldn't be surprised that a religion which viewed the Heralds essentially as gods would whitewash their reputation.

He let the matter rest and tried a different question. "And the Radiants—who were they? Did they truly wield powers beyond Shardblades and Shardplate? Tales speak of them flying, shaping stone, healing with a touch... turning entire armies to smoke."

That earned him a dismissive chuckle. "Legends. If their miracles were real, how come we see no one doing them now?" The ardent shrugged. "We have too little confirmed. The accounts differ. Some say the Radiants performed wonders, others claim they used elaborate tricks to imitate 'holy callings.' Ultimately, they betrayed mankind—'the Recreance,' it's called."

Harriah frowned. "Doesn't it bother you, the idea that they suddenly betrayed us?" he asked. "What did they do, really? Why did they leave?"

The ardent's voice took on a dismissive tone. "We know enough. They used illusions, advanced fabrials, anything to appear miraculous. When the deception was discovered, they fled." He gave Harriah a short bow. "Feel free to look at the references and drawings here. Perhaps you'll find them illuminating."

Harriah felt an odd wave of indignation at such glib condemnation, but he let the discussion rest, turning instead to the boards and old sketches pinned nearby. His gaze snagged on a separate tapestry in the corner—a threadbare cloth depicting a man kneeling beneath an immense, unseen burden, cracks spiderwebbing across the ground around him. Though the tapestry was worn, the figure's face radiated deep sorrow and unbreakable resolve.A pang of recognition shot through Harriah. That figurine from so long ago—now lost. The one the stranger had placed in his palm, carved with the same cracks and posture.

The ardent's brows rose. "That is Talenelat, the Herald of War. Some know him as Stonesinew, others call him the 'Bearer of Agonies.' It is said he typically chose fights believed impossible to win, and did indeed win them—though often at the cost of his life. Each time, the Almighty restored him so he might stand in the next Desolation."

Harriah swallowed, eyes lingering on the tapestry's sorrowful figure. "Why… why call him the Bearer of Agonies?"

The ardent's expression became devout, nearly awestruck. "Because he took upon himself a suffering beyond imagination. Legends say Talenelat shouldered not only his own pain but the pain of others, willingly returning to hopeless battles so humankind might have hope. If the tales are true, he endured torment after torment—dying, returning, dying again—each time fulfilling what he saw as his duty to protect."

A chill passed through Harriah. He understood the weight of obligations forced upon him, the cost of shouldering burdens no one else would. His memory flashed to the figurine, the cracks carved in the wood, the words: A chance to carry something, not because you must, but because you choose to.

Harriah's heart pounded in his ears. "And… he departed? Like the rest?"

A tinge of regret touched the ardent's expression. "Yes. He now fights among the Ten Heralds who departed the world for the Tranquiline Halls."

Harriah tore his gaze from Talenelat's sorrowful image. He'd come here for clarity about Radiants and Nalan—yet what he found was a deeper, more personal sense of empathy for the Herald of War. The feeling jolted him, half comforting, half unsettling.

Harriah tore his gaze from the tapestry, feeling a strange ache in his chest. He tried to dismiss it as mere curiosity, but the figurine—that figurine—had brought him to Roshar. And it depicted a Herald, the man who, if the stories were true, had borne more suffering than any mortal soul.

That was a weight Harry Potter understood: the burden of others' expectations, the cost of standing in a fight one never asked for.

He realized the ardent was watching him, so he schooled his expression. "Well, thank you for your time," he said quietly. "You've given me much to ponder."

He turned away, a swirl of unresolved emotions stirring in his gut. He hadn't found definitive proof about Radiants or Nale, and the depictions of the Heralds had proven contradictory. Even these illusions of Talenelat might not be factual. In short, he had no more information regarding the magic wielded by these Radiants or whether he had met a demigod than when he had entered the Devotary. He barely had more than before he talked to Darnal.

Yet, as Harriah emerged from the Devotary, thin ribbons of anticipation spren stirred at the edges of his vision. Rumors of the Blackthorn's march were spreading, and the city's usual bustle felt subdued—like everyone sensed a gathering storm. The rumors weren't spreading as quickly as he'd have liked—he'd have preferred to be magically fueling an atmosphere that stirred action—but that accursed creature denied him the ability to use more than mundane methods.

He walked on, boots echoing on cobblestones worn by centuries of travelers. Each step carried a subtle weight, as though his body remembered the toll of every risk he'd taken thus far. Passersby kept their heads low, voices hushed, shoulders tense. A few eyed him warily, but Harriah forced a calm neutrality onto his face, determined not to betray the swirl of uncertainty in his chest. Above, the looming upper walkways cast half-light over everything, mirroring the half-truths he told himself about whether he should intervene.

Still, that old, carved memory tugged at his thoughts: the kneeling figure, the unseen burden, the choice to carry it when it should have broken any ordinary man. For all the ardent's cynicism, Harriah couldn't help empathizing with a soul who took on the world's agonies—whether forced or not. His heart twisted at the memory of the carving's haunted lines, reflecting an exhaustion he understood too well. It didn't matter if Talenelat had truly been some immortal champion. What mattered was that Harriah recognized himself, in part, in that depiction. He left the devotary with more questions than answers, but also a sense of kinship and resignation, a mingling of awe and dread.

In a more just world, those who took up the mantle of power and responsibility could help others without also being forced to bear agonies. In that fantastical reality, he could warn the world about a rising darklord without being vilified by those he tried to protect. He could lessen the violent threats to a city without being called Voidbringer or hunted by those with power. In that place, held real only by the most optimistic minds, he wouldn't have to fear that coming out of the shadows—using every highstorm to fortify Rathalas against shardbearers—would make friends like Darnal regard him with terror or the Vorin church condemn him as heretical. Nor would he worry about Nale and his Skybreakers resuming their hunt. He could freely stand for an independent Rathalas without being branded a pariah who stirred civil war with "accursed powers."

But neither back on Earth nor here on Roshar had he been in that perfect realm. As he passed beneath a dim lantern, he exhaled slowly, chest tight with the familiarity of disappointment. He inhabited a world where events unfolded as they would, with no cosmic safety net for those who had a "saving people thing." Here, good deeds were often repaid with betrayal, and even a demigod who fought for the needy might be called "Bearer of Agonies," suffering who knew what in return. Even if those sufferings were only legend, such tales revealed how people viewed power—and how they might view him.

Maybe he was making excuses. Even as he considered the possibility, the tension in his shoulders grew, and his pulse quickened at the thought of the Skybreakers. He recalled bitterly how quickly the city might turn on him if he showed too much of his magic. Perhaps his own dread fed that voice inside, whispering that he'd already caused enough harm by interfering in Rathalas's affairs. Yet the memory of his younger self, the reckless boy who challenged a dark lord, also rose to the surface, pressing him toward action. He clenched his fists, then forced them open, forcing himself to remember that that same child led his friends into an ambush that by all rights should have found them all slaughtered. He wasn't that child anymore, his willingness to watch travelers be murdered by the thieves he intended to rob had proven that. He wasn't the lamb who'd walked meekly into the forest and dammit, he wasn't ready to become a Bearer of Agonies again! He'd left Earth for a reason. While these last months had helped him heal, his scars still throbbed beneath the surface, warning him that throwing himself into every injustice might break him at last.

Yes, Darnal insisted the Blackthorn was a tyrant, but he also admitted the man had forbidden the usual post-conquest atrocities. Perhaps that partial fairness justified letting certain things be. Maybe Nale was right, in part, about allowing events to play out without magical interference, no matter how Harriah's instincts rebelled.

So whether it was cowardice or wisdom, Harriah would not openly defy Nale's order to let Dalinar Kholin's army proceed unhindered. He could sense the strain in his breath as he acknowledged that choice. That didn't mean he'd do nothing, but it meant Rathalas wouldn't find its fortifications surreptitiously strengthened with magic. The shardbearers on the march would not be assassinated in their camps, nor would they stumble into hidden spell traps at the city walls.

Instead, he'd use the coming weeks to help those who simply wanted to live their lives. His thoughts turned to the people he'd come to know, their small joys and big fears. As he continued through the streets, he saw a mother yank her child away from a passing cart, fear spren curling around her ankles. Harriah felt that pang of empathy stab deeper. His methods would be subtle, more like the rumors he'd spread of the Blackthorn's siege than the direct attacks he'd used against the thieves. If there was a middle path between utter passivity and the fate of a hunted "Voidbringer," he intended to find it.