Book 1 Chapter 10: The Outsider
The bells above The Copper Cactus's door jingled, signalling the departure of Elara, Joric, Kael, and Lyra. Motley watched them go, their voices, still lively from their morning banter, fading into the street noise. He picked up their empty mugs, his movements automatic, but his mind was miles away, consumed by a small, polished disc of silver. The coin. The royal Solarian coin.
Why would I have something like that? The question, posed by Hugo, had burrowed deep, refusing to leave him. As he meticulously wiped down the counter, his thoughts spun, trying to force sense from the impossible.
Scenario One: The Royal Soldier. He imagined himself clad in the midnight-black uniform, leading the charge. A prince, perhaps? Or a duke, venturing onto the battlefield for glory. The thought was absurd, yet it held a strange, undeniable pull. He remembered the combat instincts that had flared inside him, the terrifying readiness to strike. Could a royal be so proficient, so utterly ruthless in a fight? He scrubbed harder at an invisible smudge, the cloth moving in tight, frustrated circles. If he were a royal, why was he here? Why was he... amnesiac?
"Motley, could you get those tables?" Tash called from the back, her voice a little louder than usual. Motley didn't hear her.
He moved to the tables, gathering empty plates. Scenario Two: The Thief. He saw himself as a cunning rogue, infiltrating Solara's highest echelons, snatching the rare coin under the cover of the battle's chaos. He pictured himself slipping through shadows, the badge a trophy of a daring heist. This felt more plausible, aligning with his current predicament as a hidden outsider, but it didn't explain the fight, the wound, or the terrifying blankness of his mind. A master thief wouldn't lose himself so completely. He stacked the plates, the ceramic clinking softly. The idea of being a thief, an opportunist, felt... wrong somehow. It chafed against an instinct he couldn't name.
"Motley! The mugs, are you going to wash them today?" Tash's voice carried a hint of exasperation now. Still, he didn't register it. His gaze was distant, fixed on nothing.
He walked towards the sink, the cold metal a familiar sensation. Scenario Three: The Unwitting Pawn. Perhaps he was simply given the badge, sent on a mission without understanding its true value or significance. A courier. A decoy. Or worse, a sacrifice. The thought was chilling, suggesting he was merely a tool in someone else's grand, dangerous game. He reached for the sponge, the rough texture grounding him slightly. This scenario felt the most unsettling, the most helpless. It made his skin prickle.
Each scenario, equally compelling and equally far-fetched, twisted together in his mind. He couldn't grasp a single thread of certainty. He was so lost in thought, so deep in the labyrinth of his own speculation, that he barely registered Tash moving towards him.
A soft thwap startled him. A damp cloth landed squarely on his cheek. He blinked, shaking his head as if clearing water from his ears, his gaze snapping to Tash. She stood there, hands on her hips, a wry smile on her face. "Finally!" she exclaimed, a hint of genuine amusement in her voice.
Motley felt a faint flush creep up his neck. He muttered an apology, picking up the cloth from the ground, his mind still buzzing with the impossible scenarios of his past and the unsettling memory of the badge and its price. He resumed wiping the counter, trying to appear diligent. Tash, however, didn't press. She seemed to sense the depth of his distraction, though she knew nothing of its true cause. The cafe settled back into its quiet rhythm, Tash working behind the gleaming coffee machine, Motley meticulously cleaning.
But the quiet didn't last. Tash moved from behind the counter, her steps deliberate, until she stood beside him. Her voice was low, laced with a directness that cut through the cafe's hum. "Something happened at the bar tonight, didn't it? Something to do with Hugo."
Motley's hands stilled on the counter. He kept his gaze fixed on the rag in his hands, unable to meet her eyes. Too many secrets had been shared in that private room, too many impossible truths. He couldn't betray Hugo's trust, nor could he reveal the terrifying new depths of his power. "Hugo and I talked," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. He took a breath, the words tasting like ash. "And... I'm sorry, Tash, but I can't share what happened."
A beat of silence hung between them. He felt the weight of her gaze, expecting anger, disappointment.
"I understand," Tash finally said, her voice tight, a hint of steel beneath her forced calm. He risked a glance. Her eyes narrowed, but she visibly relented, a sigh escaping her lips. "But you're letting it affect your work, Motley."
Motley blinked, genuinely confused. He looked up, truly seeing his surroundings for the first time since Hugo had left. The counter he was wiping was already gleaming, but the tables beyond stood half-wiped, forgotten mugs scattered on several surfaces, and faint trails of dust from incoming patrons marred the floor he should have swept. A cold wave of shame washed over him.
Motley immediately began to apologise, his voice thick with shame. "I'm sorry, Tash. I got... distracted."
Tash looked at him, a faint, understanding smile touching her lips. "Just get it done, please. No need to be sorry." She turned, heading back to her coffee machine.
As Tash walked away, a thought struck Motley. He glanced around the cafe; they were alone. "There's something I can share," he said, his voice lowering slightly. He pulled the silver badge frame from his pocket, the hollowed piece gleaming in the cafe's light, and extended it towards her. "Hugo said you could keep this."
Tash walked back to him, her eyes fixed on the magical frame. She took it gently. "He said the payment for the information would just be added to his tab," he murmured, her brows furrowing as she examined the glowing silver. "But... where's the centre piece of the badge?"
Motley reached into his pocket again and pulled out the dull, circular coin, holding it for her to see. "Hugo said that piece of the badge has no value. He can't sell it, and it's now property of... me." He looked at Tash, his gaze earnest, the coin reflecting his troubled expression. "Maybe... one day I can share with you what I've learned about myself and this." He subtly indicated the coin, the weight of its secret heavy in his palm. "But for now, please trust me that everything is okay."
Motley held out the badge, its secrets heavy between his palm and Tash's questioning gaze.
Tash looked at him, confusion etched on her face. Hugo loved nothing more than money; for him to decline such an immense immediate payment, especially with her tab, was unprecedented. "Why the sudden change of heart?" she asked, her voice laced with genuine bewilderment.
"Umm," Motley responded, looking uncomfortable, his gaze shifting away from hers. "I'm sorry, I don't think I can say."
"I see," Tash said, her eyes narrowing, the previous warmth receding. "Get back to work." Her voice sharpened, changing the subject abruptly. "The lunch rush will be coming in fairly soon."
"Right," Motley said, his voice serious. He turned, his gaze sweeping the cafe, and started collecting mugs, his mind racing.
Bang, crack!
The front door slammed open, making the bell above it swing wildly and bounce against the ceiling. A woman Motley had never seen before stumbled in, panting, her chest heaving. "Tash! Tash!" she gasped, clutching at her side.
Tash looked at her in utter confusion and anticipation, her body tensing. "What is it, Lory?" The older woman, named Lory, was wearing an apron over simple working clothes, the apron covered in flour, making Motley suspect she worked at the bakery just up the road.
"A... a..." Lory tried to speak between heavy, ragged breaths, trying desperately to catch her breath.
Tash walked quickly to her, reaching out a steadying hand and placing it on her back. "It's okay, Lory. Slow down."
"A power user was caught! They're going to have a public hearing this afternoon!" Lory finally blurted out, the words tumbling free in a rush.
Tash and Motley's eyes locked, a shared look of profound shock. The implications of Lory's words hung heavy in the air.
Before either of them could react, the doors slammed open again. "Chronos have mercy!" Tash swore under her breath, a sharp expletive of alarm.
Zeb burst through the doors, a confident smirk on his face as his gaze swept past Lory to Tash. But as his eyes then landed on Motley, the smirk vanished, replaced by a hard frown.
"You heard the news?" Zeb asked, turning his piercing gaze back to Tash, his voice flat.
"Yes, just now," Tash responded, her voice tight. "Lory here just informed me. Do you know who it is?"
Zeb sighed, the sound sharp. "I was hoping I did, but I don't. Sorry." A heavy silence settled in the cafe, thick with unspoken questions. Tash, Motley, and Zeb looked between each other, the tension ratcheting tighter with every passing second. Lory, having finally caught her breath, now looked utterly bewildered by the palpable unease.
"Well, I'd better go and help the men with this power user," Zeb finally said, his gaze lingering on Motley for a moment before he turned and walked out.
"Bye," Tash and Lory said in unison, their voices flat.
Motley immediately returned to his cleaning, his movements automatic, his mind a whirl of dread. Tash looked over at Lory. "You need a drink?" she offered, her gaze drifting towards the coffee machine, implying a warm brew or a cool cactus juice from her stock.
"After that, yes!" Lory responded, giving a shaky laugh. "Come join me at Bumble Bar when you can."
Tash's shoulders slumped for a fraction of a second, but a soft, disbelieving laugh bubbled from her. Of course. "I will be here," Tash replied, her voice low, as Lory walked out the door, the bell jingling softly behind her, leaving Tash alone in the quiet cafe.
The cafe settled once more into a quiet hum, punctuated only by the soft hiss of the coffee machine. Tash moved behind the counter, her hands a blur of motion, polishing the gleaming brass of the espresso machine, then wiping down the row of clean tin mugs. Across the room, Motley mirrored her efficiency. He swept the packed earth floor in long, even strokes, the broom's bristles kicking up barely a whisper of Dustfall's ever-present sand. Then, he meticulously rearranged the chairs at each table, ensuring every one was perfectly aligned. Without a spoken word, their tasks flowed, a seamless ballet of cleaning and organising. He would finish wiping a table, and Tash would already be placing fresh napkins. He'd stack the clean mugs, and she'd reach for them without looking, her movements synchronised with his own. The Copper Cactus, under their combined efforts, gleamed, every surface buffed, every item in its precise place.
Motley paused, admiring their collective handiwork. The cafe, now in perfect order, hummed with a quiet readiness. He turned to Tash, who was placing a freshly baked pastry on a display stand. "Are you going to the hearing?" he asked, his voice low.
"Are you going to the hearing?" Motley asked, his voice low.
"Yes, of course," Tash responded without a second of thought. "I want to see if I know the person."
Motley felt a knot of nervousness tighten in his gut. A fellow power user, on trial, in public. Yet Tash, also a power user, seemed merely curious, not fearful. Why wasn't she also feeling nervous? He couldn't deny his interest, though. What powers did they have? Could it be like his? He wondered if he knew the person, if his Chronos Eye might somehow recognise them. "How long until the hearing?"
Tash thought for a second. "From memory, whenever there's a public event, the President wants everyone to attend. So I think we'll know when we hear the town bell chime."
"Town bell?" Motley asked, unfamiliar with the term.
"Yeah," Tash confirmed. "On the far south corner of Dustfall is the President's office. It's a massive building with a tall bell tower. You can hear it from even outside the walls here, on the other side of town."
As if on cue, a faint bell sounded, deep and resonant, like distant thunder rumbling across the city. "Ah!" Tash exclaimed, a note of excitement in her voice. "Let's close up and head out!"
She tore off her apron in a rush, a whirlwind of motion as she strode towards the front door, producing a key from her pocket. Motley, startled by the suddenness of the sound and Tash's eagerness, quickly untied his apron. He was about to follow her when he remembered the coin, heavy in his pocket. "Hang on," he said, turning sharply. He hurried through the back door, into the trauma room, and with a quick movement, tossed the coin onto his bed before rushing back out. Tash, her movements efficient, was already pulling the front door closed. She turned the key in the lock with a definitive click, then flipped the 'Open' sign around to proudly display 'Closed'.
Motley and Tash left The Copper Cactus, walking down the same path Motley had explored just last night. The familiar merchant stalls, vibrant in the afternoon sun, were even more chaotic, their canvas awnings stretching like a patchwork quilt across the thoroughfare. The air hummed with the incessant din of bartering, the rhythmic clang of distant smithies, and the constant murmur of hundreds of voices. This path, so quiet and shadowy under the moons, was now a river of humanity, everyone flowing in the same direction. People Motley recognised from the cafe, faces he'd seen just hours ago, offered Tash greetings, and some even gave him a quick nod, recognising him as the cafe's new employee.
They came to the grand fountain at the centre of the city, its water still spirting high, catching the sunlight in dazzling rainbows. The circle of green grass around its base looked lush and inviting in the harsh desert light. Rather than continuing straight up the hill toward the Bumble Bar, the crowd, with Tash and Motley, turned right, circling the fountain's perimeter before exiting into a wider area Motley had never seen before.
This new thoroughfare was immense, at least three times wider than any path Motley had walked on in Dustfall. It was lined with hundreds of stalls, their owners still working, seemingly oblivious to the commotion that had drawn the crowds. As Motley and the surging crowd edged closer, the deep bell continued its relentless chime, now less a distant rumble and more a deafening peal, vibrating through the very ground.
Motley scanned the endless rows of stalls. One offered shimmering silks dyed in sunset hues, another displayed intricate metalwork, steam-forged into delicate filigree. Further on, the sweet scent of freshly baked bread wafted from a tent overflowing with loaves, while next to it, polished ceramics gleamed, depicting scenes of desert life and abstract patterns. His gaze then found a sprawling stall overflowing with a chaotic but vibrant mix of goods – exotic spices, peculiar tools, and unfamiliar trinkets. A bit further, nestled amongst the general chaos, was a stall filled with cured animal hides, rows of gleaming bone daggers, and various jars containing dried herbs and charms fashioned from teeth and claws, hinting at older traditions.
The crowd surged forward, and Motley's gaze snagged on a massive wall looming ahead, stretching into the distance both left and right as far as he could see. It was constructed of rough stone, packed tightly with clay, rising higher than any of the surrounding buildings. They walked under a broad gate carved into the wall and into a vast, open courtyard. Directly in front of them stood an enormous building, as wide as it was tall, with a towering bell tower jutting from its centre. Motley squinted, shielding his eyes against the setting sun as he scanned upwards, towards the bell. From his estimate, it was easily larger than Tash's entire cafe.
Thousands of voices, a low, murmuring roar, drifted to him on the warm air as he looked down. The entire courtyard was a sea of people, all circling an empty, raised wooden platform in the centre.
"Amazing, right?" Tash said, her voice bright beside him. "I think the whole of Dustfall is here with us."
Motley looked around. His height, perhaps greater than most, allowed him to see a dense, undulating sea of heads stretching out before him. He turned, noting several more rows of people behind them. There must have been at least 30,000 here.
"Can you see the platform?" he asked, looking down at Tash.
She looked up at him, a playful scowl on her face. "Are you calling me short?"
Motley laughed nervously. "Well, you were excited to see this. I didn't want you to miss it. If you can't see—" He trailed off, visibly nervous, then blurted, "You can get on my shoulders!"
"I am not a child," Tash said, though a flicker of amusement danced in her eyes.
The crowd suddenly hushed, all thirty thousand people at once, the cacophony of their chatter dying down to a profound, unsettling silence. Motley, startled by this abrupt change, felt his breath catch and his heart pound against his ribs.
On the platform, three figures slowly emerged from the building, walking closer to the edge. Motley could barely make out their details. He saw Zeb, tall in his immaculate uniform, his hand resting on the shoulder of another man. This man was about a head shorter than Zeb, significantly older, and Motley could see his hands were bound together by rope in front of his body. That must be the power user, Motley thought. The third man, about as tall as Zeb, was remarkably skinny, cloaked in a black robe with a deep hood drawn low, obscuring his face.
"Who is that?" Motley asked, his eyes still fixed on the platform.
Tash, knowing exactly who Motley was referring to, said, "The President of Dustfall."
"What is his name?" Motley pressed, a sudden prickle of unease.
"We just call him The President," Tash replied, her voice flat. "No one knows his name."
Motley found this very strange. From Hugo's words last night, he now understood how much one could learn from someone's name alone, how it could be currency, a path to knowledge. He wondered what this person, this President, was hiding.
"Welcome." The sudden voice startled Motley. It was right in his ears, almost as if the words were resonating inside his head. He instinctively looked around, noticing a few people nearby doing the same, a shared flicker of confusion on their faces. The voice was commanding, deep, powerful, utterly captivating. Then a chilling thought struck him. He looked up. The President, now standing at the very edge of the platform in front of Zeb and the bound power user, had his arms spread wide, palms up, as if embracing the entire city.
The President's gaze swept over the vast crowd, a slow, possessive survey. "People of Dustfall," his voice boomed, resonating with that same unnatural clarity that seemed to bypass Motley's ears and settle directly in his mind. "You are here. My people. Gathered in my city. Dustfall. This shining beacon in the heart of the desert, built by our hands, protected by our will. This is my home. And everything within it – every stone, every street, every industrious merchant, every loyal guard, every thriving family – is my property." His arms remained outstretched, a gesture not of welcome, but of absolute ownership. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips, arrogant and self-assured, as if he were a god addressing his devoted subjects.
His gaze then hardened, fixing on the bound man beside Zeb. "But there are those who would threaten my property. Those who seek to corrupt what is pure. Look upon him." The President's voice dripped with disdain, a visceral disgust that made him seem almost physically ill at the sight of the prisoner. "He is an outsider. A vagrant. A bug, crawling in from the wastes. He is not a local. He is not ours." His voice, though still powerful, carried an edge of revulsion, as if the very air around the man was tainted.
"And worse," the President continued, his voice rising, imbued with a chilling righteousness, "he is one of them. One of the tainted. He carries within him the curse of power, a blight that threatens to unravel everything we have built." His arm, still outstretched, now pointed an accusing finger at the bound man. "Therefore, to preserve the purity of my Dustfall, to protect my people from his vile influence, this man will be outlawed. Not just from Dustfall, but from every city. Every fortified town. Every humble village. Every community across these lands." The President’s voice swelled, a chilling echo of absolute authority, painting a desolate picture. "He will roam for the rest of his life, alone. Without a home. Forever banished, a solitary reminder that contamination will not be tolerated. He will drift, unseen, unheard, unable to taint any other soul."
Motley was utterly spellbound. Every word the President uttered seemed to sink deep into his very being, not just heard, but felt, resonating with an undeniable authority. He was completely absorbed, captivated by the commanding voice, just like the rest of the thirty thousand people around him. Yet, a fierce duality raged within him. Part of him was hooked, drawn in by the sheer power and conviction of the President’s speech. But another part, a deeper, instinctual core, revolted at the message. It's wrong, it's horrible, he thought, the words a silent scream against the President's pronouncements. Yet, even as he condemned the sentiment, a chilling logic twisted his thoughts: This man is tainting Dustfall. He has to leave to keep us safe. Then, just as quickly, his internal compass spun wildly. Wait, no, that is not right. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the conflicting voices, to escape the persuasive tendrils of the President's words that seemed to wrap around his mind, his very soul.
We, my people, must keep a watchful eye out for anything unnatural. Anything tainted. Anything that seeks to corrupt what is ours."
The President's voice, now a resounding demand, cut through the uneasy silence. "This is the first time such a blight has dared show its face within my Dustfall. And it will be the last! Security will be increased throughout my city. I will organise a volunteer night watch program, ensuring that every shadow is watched, every suspicious movement reported. Flyers will be posted all around Dustfall with a bounty for any tainted individual, for any strange happening that could link to these abominable powers." His gaze swept over the crowd, a final, chilling reassurance. "We will be safe. We will be protected."
With those final, chilling words, the President turned and walked away, disappearing into the imposing building, his dark robe blending with the deepening twilight. The moment he vanished, the spell over the crowd shattered. A deafening roar erupted, thirty thousand voices cheering as one, clapping and chanting his name: "President! President! President!"
Everyone, that is, but Motley. He stood, frozen, the powerful echoes of the President's voice still resonating within his mind, conflicting with his own visceral revulsion. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the frenzied faces around him. And then he saw Tash. She was chanting too, her face upturned, a look of calm, almost peaceful conviction in her eyes as she joined the chorus. Tash, a fellow power user, willingly succumbed to the very words that condemned them both. The sight twisted Motley’s gut. He felt a wave of nausea, a profound sickness that churned within him.
Without a second thought, Motley grabbed Tash's wrist, his grip firm, and pulled her hard, forcing a path through the jubilant crowd. He heard her protest, her voice a surprised, distant noise, lost beneath the overwhelming roar of the chanting multitude. He didn't care. He just needed to get away.
Motley dragged Tash through the ebbing crowds, the roar of the chanting multitude slowly fading as they neared the gate marking the entrance to the President's territory. He loosened his grip on her wrist, turning, his mouth opening to speak.
Slap!
A firm hand cracked across his face. Motley's world shifted, his ears ringing, noise blurring into one dull, sharp reverb. He blinked away the shock, his vision clearing after what felt like a minute but was perhaps only a second, leaving him with a hot, red, and throbbing cheek.
"What the fuck are you doing, Motley!" Tash yelled, her voice raw with a fury he'd never heard. "Don't you ever handle me like that again, for with Chronos as my witness, I will gut you!"
Motley didn't flinch from her anger, didn't even touch his throbbing cheek. His eyes, usually wide with confusion or sharp with observation, were now blazing with a raw pain that had nothing to do with the slap. He stared at Tash, his chest heaving, not from exertion, but from a sudden, profound heartbreak. "You were chanting," he choked out, the words ripped from his throat. "You were chanting his name, Tash. His name. After what he said. After what he did to that man." His voice, though quiet, vibrated with an intensity she had only ever seen in him when his buried killer instincts flared.
He took a step closer, towering over her, the crowds and the distant cheers now forgotten. "Did you not hear him? Did you not feel him in your head? He called him a bug! He called us tainted! He called you tainted, Tash!" His hand instinctively clenched into a fist, not directed at her, but at the injustice that consumed him. "He wants to hunt us. He wants to kill us. And you... You cheered for him!" The accusation in his voice was laced with a deep, crushing disappointment, a betrayal of the fragile trust that had begun to build between them.
Tash stumbled back a step, her initial fury giving way to utter confusion. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, her brow furrowed. "He's the President! He protected us! He said Dustfall is his home, and everything in it is his property—" As she spoke the words, reciting them almost automatically, her voice faltered. A cold knot twisted in her stomach. "And he will protect his people," she continued, the words suddenly tasting foul, like ash on her tongue. "He will keep us safe from the tainted. He said…”
Her eyes, which had been fixed on Motley in confusion, now widened with dawning horror. The President's voice, that commanding, pervasive presence in her mind, had felt so right at the time. Now, stripped of the crowd's fervour and Motley's raw pain, his words echoed with a chilling, possessive arrogance. She tasted the poison on those words for the first time.
Tash's body went slack, her knees buckling. She began to collapse, but Motley’s arm shot out, strong and steady. He wrapped it around her shoulders, propping her up, supporting her weight.
"Are you okay?" Motley asked, concern heavy in his voice.
"I just felt light-headed... and sick," Tash murmured, her voice thin. She gently pushed herself away from his support, swaying slightly. "I'm okay... Thank you." She coughed, clearing her throat. A shiver ran through her, despite the still-warm afternoon air. "Can we go? I want to be far away from this place."