A perfect sphere of warm, torch-bright light, about two feet in diameter. Harahel's glow is layered: an inner core of steady honey-gold and an outer halo that ripples pale silver when amused or narrows to a pinprick when vexed. The light has a faint motley texture, like oil on water, so that when it drifts close enough you can see slow, webbed currents inside its radius. It emits a barely audible click like a far-off bell when it makes decisions. Unexpectedly, it leaves no shadows directly beneath it; instead the ground around Harahel blooms with a ring of soft, cooling steam when it is over the bathhouse pools, a contradiction—an unshadowed light that moistens the air.