The breeze in Baypost was lovely, a hint of salt carried on the cold winter air. Birds were chirping with familiar songs, ones they had sung over a decade ago, only weathered slightly by the passing of time. The town itself hadn't changed much either; the central clocktower still overshadowed the poorest parts of it all, whilst the noble mansions and keeps stretched into the sky. They weren't the tallest buildings in Amaransis, as anyone well-travelled would be quick to tell you, but in contrast to the rest of the town, they seemed plenty large anyway. Sitting atop the clocktower next to the brilliant bronze bell, Harbinger sat, overlooking the town he'd called home.

  He hadn't lived here long. Hell, he hadn't even finished his second year at Optima before he had to leave, but he liked this town. He wasn't sure exactly why he liked it so much. There were plenty of other towns like it, even if you only looked as far as the others in Sinatra, but that didn't really bother him. It felt good to be back. Of all the places he'd been over the years, he'd always wanted to return to Baypost. It wasn't so he could fulfil some unfinished business, although he had plenty of that. No, he was here for work, not leisure.

  Speaking of leisure and unfinished business, that old tavern should be serving drinks sometime soon, and it just so happened Harbinger was quite the thirsty man. Maybe a little bit of leisure wouldn't hurt, and there had to be some sort of statute of limitations on a bar tab, right? Besides, he'd already made contact with the mole inside the Academy as he was instructed, and his target wouldn't be visible for a little while yet. The tavern was just across the street... Well, it couldn't hurt, could it?

  Harbinger stood up and casually stepped off the clocktower. Wind rushed in his ears as he tried whistling a tune to himself, the air catching in his teeth and rudely stopping him. The air around him started to heat up, and his descent began to slow at an unnatural rate. He was falling at barely a walking pace before slowing even further, eventually touching down on the ground. He brushed himself off and righted his hat. He'd left his cloak back at his commissioner's mansion—at least that's what it looked like from the room or two he saw of it—and had swapped it out for something more local. He already knew a fair bit about the workers here, so he didn't have to do much research. The mines were still open, of course; the nobles loved their metals. Harbinger never really saw the appeal. Sure, they were shiny, but the real prize was the coal. In his eyes, that was much more valuable. He wore a plain shirt with a simple leather tunic over the top of it. His trousers were a little too big for him, as was common with miners. If you got a size or three up, you could grow into them and just tuck the excess material into your knee-high boots. He doubted he'd be growing anytime soon—he was tall enough as it was—but if you were living on a miner's wage like he was, you'd rather not take the risk.

  The only problem was his face. He hadn't been given much time to prepare, only a week or so, and you learn a lot about a man based on what he wore. Sure, he looked the part of a miner, his basic uniform smothered in coal stains and bits of dust, but that wouldn't be enough. People knew people, and in a town like Baypost with a population barely over five hundred, people tended to know a lot of people. They would notice if a random miner showed up, and given how rare it was for common folk to move up in the world, it was likely the same people would be working here from when he was a student. It had been a long time, sure, but long enough for everyone to forget what he looked like? That wasn't a risk worth taking. He needed to be more than a miner; he had to be a miner people knew.

  Harbinger kept to the back alleys as he moved, occasionally taking silent leaps to the top of buildings and across streets to avoid attention if he really had to. He worked his way across to the north of town where the closest of the mines was, and began to wait, making himself silent and still as he waited for a decent target to exit. There were always a few who left work earlier. Harbinger didn't blame them; he was a miner, not a noble, he understood—at least for today. The first man to exit was strong-looking, with broad shoulders and a hunched but tall stature. He wore a few piercings around his ears, the rims of the holes green from where the cheap metal had corroded onto his skin. Harbinger would have no problem killing the man, but that wasn't necessary here, not like it was in the mountains. Plus, he had sympathies for these people, even if they were small. No, he wouldn't go for this one; the build wasn't right anyway.

  After a few more early exits, a man around Harbinger's height walked out the mines. He was fairly tall, a little bit more athletic-looking than the bulk shown by most of the other miners. A distinctive look about him too—a wide-brimmed hat and a scarf pulled around his mouth, presumably to keep the dust out of his lungs. Smart that was. None of the others had seemed to catch onto it though, which was unlucky for Harbinger. More and more miners across Amaransis had started doing that kind of stuff. It was partly why he chose to disguise himself the way he did, as it would cover his face.

  People often think it's best to be a nobody when gathering intel, but truth be told, being distinctive had its benefits. People knew you immediately. If you didn't get stopped on the street for a conversation, then nobody would take a second glance at you, and if they did, you just had to seem like you'd had a particularly terrible morning. Harbinger waited for the man to leave the mines completely before sneaking up behind him and placing his hand over the man's mouth. The man went silent and stiffened.

  "Now, don't you go makin' any funny moves, 'kay? I want ya stuff, not ya life."

  The man nodded in response.

  "Glad we's on the same page. Now, empty ya pockets. I want any coin you got."

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  The man reached into his pocket quickly.

  "Slowly," Harbinger told the man, who took extra precaution when taking his hands out of his pockets to reveal just shy of a dozen copper coins.

  Harbinger wasn't too keen on stealing from common folk. Sure, that was mainly because they rarely had anything worth stealing, but he liked to think a part of him actually cared for them in some small way. But it was necessary. The more this looked like a conventional robbery, the less likely it would trace back to him and his commissioner.

  "You know, 'at's a fancy hat-scarf combo you got there. How's about you hand 'em over as well?"

  The man didn't hesitate, taking his hat off and placing it into Harbinger's open hand that extended from behind the man's back, the scarf following slightly afterward.

  "Good, smart fella you are. Now, I'm gonna hit you real hard-like so you take a nap. When you get up, you just go about like nothin' happened. You don't tell no one 'bout this, alright lad? I know where you work, I can find where you live."

  The man nodded again. Harbinger had been practicing a new method of putting a fella to sleep, but it was a work in progress and exceptionally dangerous. He didn't like messing with stuff in the head; it was a little complex, even for him. So instead, he hit the man on the head, knocking him out cold. He slipped on the scarf, pulling it over his face in a similar fashion to the man and tripped his new hat over his eyes to conceal the differences in their face shapes. All in all, it was convincing. He wouldn't need to change how he spoke much. He'd keep the talking to a minimum anyway, just in case, but the Baypost accent was similar to the one he had adopted. It had history and culture, lots of different ones, actually, all mixed together. That was in large part thanks to the Baypost's status as a port city—alongside the Academy—creating a nation-wide melting pot of language. Harbinger had been all over, and his accent had developed into something similar as a result, a little piece from everywhere and everyone he'd been. Now, all that had exasperated his thirst, and he would kill for a drink if he had to.

  He waddled over to the tavern, taking his time to figure out how he should carry himself, how he should stride, to best play the part. Hunched, naturally. A slight limp? That was overdoing it, so it may be best to settle for just dragging his feet like a man without sleep, a man who needed a drink. That part took little effort to imitate on Harbinger's part. He arrived at the tavern, walking through the front of the small establishment and seeing the miners who had left before 'him.' They nodded at him, and he reciprocated. He walked to the bar and ordered the largest ale he could with the few copper pieces the man had given him. Two pints—it was more than he had expected. That was one way to keep the common folk from getting too angry, he supposed. Why ask for more when booze was this cheap?

  He didn't sit down. Most of the other miners made a show of standing at the tavern, almost like a demonstration of their manhood. It was a pointless challenge—who could stay on their feet the longest after the mines? Who was the strongest, who could endure the most? He took a long gulp from his first pint, necking half the glass in one fluid motion before whipping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. It was as good as he remembered. You didn't get ale like this in bigger, richer establishments. They added all kinds of stuff to their booze to make it taste less like, well, booze, and Harbinger just couldn't understand that either. He took another sip and began resting his back against the wall of the tavern closest to its next-door alley, good in case he needed to get away.

  He had a good view of the academy from here as well, line of sight right up to the gates and a little bit beyond. The academy would have ended by now, so he just had to sit back and watch. Gather intel unseen and plan—that was the way he liked to operate. Granted, half the time he wound up just going up to a fella and beating either near or to death, but that was hardly relevant. He had specific orders not to kill this one. A few sips later, and his target was at the gate surrounded by others. Odd, the mole said he was more of a loner, but there were at least three others present, two of which he hadn't been expecting and one which wouldn't pose much of a threat to him. Either way, it wasn't like he needed to get his target right this second. Need intel, he thought, then we worry about what comes next.

  But fate, it seemed, had other plans. A fourth extra appeared, one with spiky silver hair, tall for his age. It was hard to tell since the Academy was so overcrowded with mages that trying to sense magic with any specificity would be a challenge, but he was certain he was a mage. He began talking to the group, and one of them looked his way. Hells. He wished he had a bit more time to operate as he was, he had spent all this time getting a good disguise on after all, but he needed to change his approach. He took a final swig of his second pint, leaving the empty bottle on a nearby table before wandering off into the alley.

  The second he was out of view, he kicked into action. He leaped into the sky with precision and control, grabbing onto the ledge of a building and pulling himself up, making sure he kept himself as silent as possible, even without using his abilities to do so. He had a better vantage point from on top of the building, and he'd need one given what he was about to do. He stayed completely still since he was still fairly inept at using his powers in this specific way, but he could do it under these conditions. If anyone had been watching Harbinger, it would look as if he had simply vanished from the world. Truth be told, they just couldn't see him. It took a lot of effort to achieve this effect, and a lot of studying all those smart people books the academics seemed to love. The first time he'd tried it, he simply appeared as a living shadow, a spot of complete black. But he'd found a way around that. From his perch, he could observe the group—where they were going, what they were doing, and so on. They seemed a little uneasy, but otherwise not overtly suspicious. That seemed to change when the group huddled together and shock spread on their faces. Most likely, they had sensed he was a mage. It was an unfortunate setback for Harbinger, and he wasn't fond of those at the best of times. If they knew that, they would be wary around mages they didn't know, and if one of them was particularly sensitive to magic, they might recognise his specific signature. That was a possibility he'd been warned of. Bloody Hells, he thought, annoyed.

  We would prefer a loud success over a quiet failure. The words echoed in his mind, and he allowed himself a grin. He was a fairly skilled mage, and an even more sought-out commission, but even he would have trouble infiltrating Academy Optima without aid. But he had aid. His grin widened. He supposed, despite his planning, guns blazing might be the way forward. He was right, this would be fun...