Book 1 Chapter 1: The Rescuer

The acrid stench of burnt black powder mingled with the cloying sweetness of fresh blood, painting the dawn air with a grim palette as she picked her way across the battlefield. It was a landscape of twisted metal and shattered lives, a testament to the brutal efficiency of both blade and steam. Here, a cavalry shield, its embossed steel scorched black, lay impaled by a crude but effective spear. There, the gleaming brass casing of a steam cannon, its pressure valve blown, had buckled into a grotesque sculpture around the remains of its crew. Swords lay half-buried in the churned earth, some hilts still clenched by severed hands, while daggers glinted malevolently from the torn uniforms of soldiers from both Faph and Solara, locked in final, desperate embraces. The sheer scale of the carnage, the grotesque tapestry of broken bodies and ruined gear, made finding a live soul seem less like a hope and more like a cruel joke of the gods.

Tash Everground, with her bright blonde hair cut in a practical, short crop, moved through the devastation every step measured but without hesitation as she searched. Her simple, utilitarian clothes were already caked in the grim, rust-coloured stains of others' blood – a result of the lives she'd already tried, and often failed, to save. She paused, her keen eyes scanning the ground near a fallen steam-boiler, searching for any sign of shallow breathing amidst the rubble. She was a healer, by secret trade and by nature, but this was a battlefield, not her quiet cafe in Dustfall, where the only wounds were typically a broken heart or a tough morning. 

She moved with a thin, athletic build, her body accustomed to long hours on her feet, both tending to customers and now, grimly, to casualties. As she waded through the carnage, an orchestra of distant moans pierced the eerie quiet. She quickened her pace, making her way deeper into the battlefield. She spotted a cluster of mangled forms near the remains of what must have been a steam-powered siege engine. The metal shell had imploded, spitting shrapnel and superheated steam in all directions. She scanned the men, their uniforms — some the sandy brown of Faph, some the midnight black of Solara — now indistinguishable beneath the horrific injuries. Limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, skin scalded and shredded, eyes wide with a pain no living being should endure. There was no hope of mending them, no chance her remedies could knit bone and flesh shattered by such mechanical savagery. Their breath came in shallow, rattling gasps, a slow, agonising slide towards oblivion.

Tash knelt amidst the wreckage, her face etched with a profound sorrow. She closed her eyes for a moment, her lips moving in a silent, hurried prayer – a plea for mercy, for swift passage, for forgiveness. Then, with steady hands, she drew a small, sharp knife from a sheath hidden beneath her tunic. It was a tool, like any other, but its purpose here was chillingly different. One by one, she moved among the dying, a swift, precise insertion to the throat, ending their torment instantly. Each act was an agony for her soul, yet a release for theirs. She continued until the last rattling breath was silenced, the final terrible suffering brought to an abrupt end.

As Tash rose in the now eerie silence, the cold weight of the knife still clutched in her hand, a faint gleam caught her eye through the swirling dust. It was an anomaly in the landscape of decay – a small, silver badge, reflecting in the new dawn with an unnatural, pristine gleam. It was the only clean thing on this entire, desecrated field.

Drawn by its impossible gleam, she navigated the last few paces of carnage, her boot squelching in something wet and soft. There, amidst a scattering of dark, uniform fabric of the Solarian Army, lay a man. He was tall, his frame surprisingly powerful even in repose, with defined muscles visible beneath the burnt and torn remnants of his black uniform. His black hair was matted and soaked with blood, some of it his own, some clearly from others. A gruesome gash marred the side of his head. He looked utterly broken, a hair's breadth from death.

Her knife, still in her grip, felt heavy, cold, and ready for its grim purpose. She looked at his face, then down at the enemy uniform. A flicker of hesitation, a rare tremor of uncertainty, ran through her. Every instinct screamed to end his suffering, just as she had for the others. But as her gaze swept over his still, silent form, she saw the faint, almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. He was alive. And something in the resilience of that tiny breath, or perhaps the sheer defiance of that unblemished silver badge, whispered that he might just be salvageable. As her eyes finished their final sweep over his body, they stopped on a name stitched into his uniform. She whispered, “Motley”.

Awakening felt different this time, less a violent jolt and more a slow, hazy ascent. He felt incredibly weak, a profound weariness dragging at his limbs, pulling him down. All he wanted was to drift back into the comforting embrace of the void, to surrender to the darkness that promised no pain, no questions. But then, a soft, distant voice called out, insistent, a melodic whisper that somehow resonated deep within his fractured mind. "Motley." It was a sweet, gentle tone, yet it held a surprising tenacity, a delicate hook that reeled him back from the edges of oblivion. A bright, unblinking light greeted his eyes, making him squint. For a moment, he thought he was still lying on the battlefield, the sun now high and unforgiving. But then he noticed the cold—a crisp, unfamiliar coolness on his exposed skin, a stark contrast to the baked earth he remembered. The comforting warmth of sunlight was absent. He followed the persistent call, letting the sound pull him, and his vision slowly sharpened. The blinding glare resolved into a single, large ceiling light: a coiled wire encased in glass, humming faintly as it cast an even, sterile illumination across the entire room.

And he wasn't on the ground. A wave of confusion washed over him as he became aware of the surface beneath him. It was incredibly soft, yielding beneath his weight, almost like lying on a cloud. He flexed his fingers, feeling a smooth, finely woven sheet beneath them, then a remarkable plushness below that. He couldn't recall ever feeling such comfort, such sheer coziness in his life, a sensation so alien it was almost disorienting.

“Can you hear me?” Tash asked.

The voice was the same one that had called his name, sweet and clear, cutting through the haze. He slowly shifted his eyes away from the light, searching for the source of the sound.

A woman stood over him, her face framed by short, bright blonde hair. Her eyes, a striking shade of hazel, met his gaze with an unnerving stoicism. Her features were composed, almost devoid of emotion, like a finely carved statue. There was no warmth in her expression, no hint of the gentle tone he'd just heard. 

A sudden voice entered his mind. 

The target is Tash Everground.

Age: 22

Race: human

Power: yes, unable to define

Memories: None to access. 

The information, delivered with stark, undeniable certainty, left Motley bewildered. His brow furrowed. There was no pain accompanying the intrusive voice, no discomfort, only a profound sense of disorientation. He blinked, trying to shake away the impossible sound. A sharp pain burst from the right side of his head. Motley froze and slowly reached for his head. The pain disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving a tingling sensation. For the first time, Motley realised his head was wrapped in a cloth bandage. He gently touched his head where the wound was. It felt wet and sticky. A cold wave of concern, entirely new, washed over him as he thought about the long-term effect of this wound.

“Can you hear me?” Tash asked again. Motley slowly parted his lips and tried to speak. His voice was raspy and strained like sandpaper. “Yes”. 

“Good.” Tash’s response was quick and sharp, void of any emotion. 

“Do you know what happened, Motley?”

Motley? There was that word again. Motley slightly strained his face in thought. His eyes darted back and forth as if he were looking for the memories. 

“What happened?” Motley froze in surprise as the thought left his lips. He looked up at Tash again, searching for her reaction. Tash didn’t say anything or move, so Motley continued.

“I remember waking up on the ground. It was night.” Motley paused for a second. “The next thing I remember was this moment, waking up here.

Tash leaned forward a bit to get a better angle at the head gash on Motley’s head. Tash gently touched Motley’s head around the wound. “Are you in any-”

“What is Motley?” He quickly blurted out. Tash stopped what she was doing and stood back to her usual position, looking at Motley’s face. Motley broke eye contact “I am sorry for interrupting. You have said that word a few times, and I remember hearing you say it before I woke up.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Tash suddenly stand. It made Motley’s heart race. As Motley turned his head to look back up at Tash to try and gauge her reaction, all he could see was Tash’s back as she walked out of the room.

Oh shit. What have I done?

The room was dead silent. Motley’s mind raced with the possible reasons for that reaction. What is a common expression that I should know? Motley thought back through their brief conversation. Could Motley be a town or a name of something? No, that makes no sense. 

Motley heard footsteps. He looked up and noticed for the first time that the room outside where he lay was pitch black. A figure slowly appeared out of the darkness. With all the strength he could muster, Motley pushed himself up into a sitting position. Motley’s heart suddenly pounded, faster than it ever had before. Again, his mind flashed with all the possibilities of what could emerge. Suddenly, Motley’s heart stopped. His shoulders and arms relaxed, his vision sharpened, and slowly, his fingers balled into his palms. Tash appeared from the shadowed hallway holding something. A Black, horribly torn and bloodied jacket. 

Tash stood up and walked out of her makeshift trauma room. She noticed the confused look on the man's face, but it didn’t bother her. She expected that the man, Motley, was suffering from Anterograde Amnesia on the extreme scale or just shock. Tash made her way down the dark hallway and to a small door, just a few minutes from her trauma room. With a quick turn of the knob and a pull, she opened her storage room. Piles of bloody uniforms, daggers, shields, boots and even some long swords and axes filled the small room. The sudden smell of blood, sweat and mud wafted, assaulting Tash’s senses. Tash didn’t react; years of hoarding and washing the clothes of injured patrons and soldiers made this unfortunate smell second nature. Tash’s focus was on searching for a particular clothing. As Motley was her most recent patient, his belongings shouldn’t be buried too deeply amongst the identical collection of uniforms- well, more like rags of cloth. As Tash lifted a wooden shield, a familiar shine caught her eye. She placed the shield in the doorway and reached for the black uniform, her eyes glued to the shiny badge. She held the remains of the uniform in her hands, and she brought the uniform closer to her face; the smell was overpowering, but Tash was hypnotised by the badge. It shone bright in the almost pitch black hallway like an invisible light was directed to solely illuminate the small object.

The badge was shaped like a small, stylised shield, its top edge crowned with three perfectly symmetrical, rounded points, hinting at ancient, forgotten heraldry. The surface was a testament to a master artisan's touch, every line and curve exquisitely sharp. At its centre, a feral wolf, cast in breathtaking, three-dimensional detail, reared its head. Its jaws were open in a silent snarl, revealing tiny, impossibly sharp teeth. The wolf's fur was rendered with such fine texture that Tash almost expected to feel the individual strands beneath her finger, and its eyes, though solid silver, conveyed a predatory intelligence. The entire beast seemed to pulse with an almost living, coiled power, a stark contrast to the death surrounding it.

Circling the wolf, meticulously etched into the badge's border, was a dense, unbroken pine forest. Each individual tree was a miniature masterpiece, its needles distinct, its trunk scarred with tiny, realistic bark patterns. The forest spirals inward, creating a sense of depth and enclosure around the snarling wolf.

Tash had seen countless military insignias in her grim work, thousands of dull, mass-produced symbols of rank and regiment on both Faph and Solara uniforms. But this was utterly different. This badge was not simply a symbol; it was a work of art, a declaration of immense status and perhaps a forgotten power. The Solarian Army's black uniforms were common, but this level of craftsmanship, this unique design, was unprecedented. A cold certainty settled in her gut: the man named Motley, lying broken in her makeshift trauma room, was no ordinary soldier. He was someone of profound significance, someone far more important – and dangerous – than she could yet fathom.

Tash blinked away the spell and tore her eyes away from the badge. What the fuck am I going to do about Motley? Tash stood there thinking for a second. For the moment, Motley can’t do anything at all. From his injuries, he is not a threat to me, my customers or himself. Tash repacked her storage room and closed the door, still holding Motley’s uniform. I need information to fully grasp the significance of this badge. As Tash made her way back to her trauma room, she gave the badge one last look before tearing it from the uniform and placing the badge into the side pocket of her pants. I will visit Hugo first thing in the morning.

As she walked through the doorway, Tash suddenly froze, eyes wide in utter fear. She left a man who was broken, confused and weak. Tash was always hesitant around Motley, just from his muscular physique. If Motley suddenly woke up while she was working on healing his wounds and he lashed out in confusion, Tash knew she could not protect herself against him. Motley’s shoulders alone were twice her body width. The man she saw, sitting up on the bed, was no broken soldier. Motley was ready to attack. His form, even in such a vulnerable position, was flawless. His fists looked like clubs, and his eyes. Tash has only seen that look before in a few men. It was terrifying. It froze Tash in place. The piercing, cold eyes told Tash, if she took one more step, she was dead. Before Tash could take another breath, he was gone. The absolute monster of a man that frozen Tash solid in her doorway was no longer there. 

“Oh, thank god. It is just you again.” Motley said, slowly letting go of a held breath. 

There he was again, the broken and vulnerable soldier. Tash stays standing in the doorway, holding the black uniform in one hand. Her calculating eyes are locked onto Motley, judging his every move. Tash follows his gaze as it wanders down to her hand. “Umm, what are you carrying?” Motley moves his eyes back up to Tash’s.

Tash slowly breathes in and lets out a slow breath that carries all her tension. Her expression becomes stoic again. “Are you going to hurt me?”

Motley stared at her, his eyes wide with genuine shock. He looked utterly bewildered, as if she'd asked him the most absurd question imaginable. "Hurt you?" he repeated, the words a strained whisper. His brow furrowed in confusion, and the last vestiges of that terrifying intensity vanished, replaced by a dazed vulnerability. "Why… why would you ask that?"

Tash, still wary, didn't drop her guard entirely, but she saw the genuine confusion in his eyes. She moved closer, setting the black uniform aside on a small, worn chest at the foot of the bed. 

“Motley,” she began, her voice calm and professional, “you sustained a significant blow to the head. Based on your erratic behaviour and disorientation, I believe you are suffering from amnesia.” She dabbed some antiseptic onto a fresh cloth, the clinical scent filling the air. “You have no memory of who you are, or how you came to be here, right?.” She gently began to clean the wound on his shoulder, her touch surprisingly delicate.

Motley flinched slightly at the touch, but his gaze remained fixed on her, a flicker of something new–dawning realisation, then a hint of fear in his eyes. "Amnesia?" he mumbled, testing the word. "I… I don't remember anything. My name, where I'm from… nothing." He looked down at his hands, then back at her, a profound sense of loss washing over his face. 

"For now," Tash confirmed, moving to another wound. "Your body is recovering well, but your mind needs time. You're in Dustfall, a trade city nestled in the heart of the desert. It's safe here, as long as you don't stir up trouble. We’re mostly merchants and travellers passing through." She glanced at him, her gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "For now, just rest.” 

Try not to think about it too much. Your memories might return in time, or they might not. Either way, you need to heal." She finished dressing his wounds, securing the bandages with practised ease. "I'm going out for a few hours to buy supplies. I’ll be back before nightfall."

Motley watched her, a hundred questions swirling in his eyes, but he simply nodded, his large frame suddenly looking very small on the bed. "Alright," he said, his voice quiet.

“Wait,” Motley said as Tash reached the doorway. Tash turned around and saw Motley’s eyes move from her to the place where the chest sat at the end of the bed. “What did you bring in?”

Tash paused in thought, chewing over her next words. After a few seconds, she spoke. “That is the clothes I found you in”. She paused, her face turning sombre for a split second. But Motley noticed it. His brows furrowed in thought. “Motley is your name, it is stitched on the front of your shirt. It might help you trigger some memories.” With those parting words. Tash left the room.

Tash walked into the front of her house, a massive room that hosts her cafe - The Cooper Cactus, a place Tash is usually found bustling with life, now lying in an unsettling quiet. It was a space meticulously ordered, a stark contrast to the chaos outside its doors. To the left, her working area stretched in a long, gleaming expanse of polished metal and scrubbed wood. It housed the crown jewel of her establishment: the only steam-powered coffee machine in all of Dustfall, its brass gleaming, its pipes polished to a mirror sheen. A neat line of tin mugs hung above a deep, industrial sink, ready for the morning rush that hadn't come.

Opposite this pristine workstation, a row of stools, worn smooth by countless patrons, sat empty and expectant. These were the favoured spots of her regulars, now conspicuously absent. On the far right, tables stood in perfectly aligned rows, each surrounded by three meticulously arranged chairs, their surfaces clean enough to eat from. A clear, uncluttered path ran down the centre of the room, from the heavy oak front door to the back entrance where Tash now stood. Her gaze swept over the silent, empty space, a place usually vibrant with chatter and the hiss of steam, now silent only because of the ‘closed’ sign that hung on her front door. As Tash stood in her cafe, her mind was still in her trauma room with Motley. Her mind was still turning on the last few words she said to him. She started to slowly pace up and down the walkway of her cafe.

Did I make a mistake? She approached a chair closest to the front door that was slightly out of line compared to the others. I was going to use his uniform as proof he is the enemy… But those eyes. Tash’s skin prickled as a cold shiver crawled up her spine. She shook away the thoughts and straightened the chair. A small smile crossed her face as her eyes danced over her pristine cafe. As they landed on the door leading to her back rooms, a sudden flash of Motley fell over her. His broken body lay on the battlefield. The faint rise and fall of his chest. The knife in her hand suddenly felt heavy. The feeling. The feeling of hope that this one life can be saved. Tash snapped back to reality. There was something different about this one person; she felt an urge to save him last night when Tash realised he was grasping onto life. Actually, she has an urge to save and heal everyone, but this was different - she didn’t feel the urge coming from her desire but from something deeper. It reminded Tash of when she used her power to make her healing remedies. 

Again, Tash shook away the thoughts and let out a large sigh. I have already decided to save and shelter him. I have to focus on the present. Tash reached into her pocket and felt the cold steel of the badge. A small sly smile appeared on Tash’s face. Let's see how much I can get for this.

Tash walked out of the cool, dim interior of her small café and into the vibrant, sun-baked heart of Dustfall. The air hit her immediately – hot and dry, thick with the scent of spices, desert dust, and distant cooking fires. Overhead, the sun was a searing disc in the middle of the sky, casting harsh, short shadows.

The city was a sprawling, chaotic spectacle. There was barely any grass to be seen, the ground a packed earth of ochre and rust-coloured sand. Hundreds of merchants jostled for space, their voices a continuous hum of bartering and calls. Their unique, hand-crafted stalls were a riot of colour and ingenuity, each one a miniature work of art vying for attention. One stall was fashioned from scavenged metal sheets, glinting like a chrome mirage. Another was a sprawling tent made from patchwork silks, its entrance draped with shimmering beads. People moved about in a constant ebb and flow, their sandals and boots kicking up a small mist of sand that shimmered in the intense light. Camels laden with goods, their bells jingling, pushed through the crowds, adding to the cacophony.

Tash navigated the labyrinthine lanes with practised ease, her eyes scanning the familiar chaos. She bypassed stalls overflowing with exotic fruits, intricate textiles, and gleaming metalwork, their owner giving Tash a small nod or wave as she passed. But she didn’t stop, her destination was always the same: Hugo's stall.

It was the most basic-looking stall in the city, a massive, sturdy structure of rough-hewn timber and canvas that took up an impressive amount of space. Yet, its sheer size and the steady stream of customers were a testament to its owner's reputation.

A man emerged from behind a towering stack of burlap sacks. This was Hugo. He was noticeably small, shorter than most people his age, 33, but carried himself with an undeniable air of quiet confidence. His silky, combed-back brown hair was neatly parted, and he sported a neat brown beard that he kept perfectly trimmed. Large, round glasses with a wire-thin gold band perched on his nose, magnifying his intelligent eyes. And, as always, a small, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips, as if he were perpetually on the verge of plotting the next big sale, already calculating the profit.

Like always, Hugo had a small crowd of customers waiting to be served, not by Hugo himself but by his small army of employees. Tash stood away from the crowd, watching and waiting. She observed the organised chaos of goods and money being exchanged, customers leaving as new customers joined the pack. As Tash’s gaze slowly studied the practised organisation of Hugo’s staff, their every movement dedicated to serving each customer as effectively and quickly as possible, she noticed Hugo’s eyes on her. A small smile appeared on her face, then his smile grew wider. Hugo disappeared into the back of his stall, and in a few seconds, he appeared from the back, making his way towards Tash. 

Hugo stood beside Tash, not facing her, but joining Tash’s gaze on his stall. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tash knew it wasn’t a question but a boast. “What is?” Tash said teasingly, softly elbowing Hugo. For any other man, the elbow would hit their ribs, but this time, Tash’s elbow softly hit Hugo's shoulder. Hugo let out a soft chuckle. “What can I do for you?” Hugo asked, breaking his eyes from his stall for the first time and up at Tash.

Tash looked down at Hugo, his small smile ever present. “What do you know about the ranking system of the Solarian Army?” 

“What do you have as payment for this information?” Hugo asked with a smile. Tash reached down to her pocket, and Hugo noticed this action. 

“Oh, I feel I have something valuable,” Tash stated. “Actually, it might also cover the tab I have opened”, Tash noticed a slight gleam cross Hugo’s eyes as she continued. 

“Well, follow me, my lady,” Hugo said while mockingly bowing and pointing to the back of his stall. “Information on this matter is worth a lot of money at the moment, we don’t want any freeloaders overhearing”. Hugo whispered as they made their way to the back, Hugo leading the way.