book 1 Chapter 11: The Outsider Part 2

The long afternoon bled into evening, painting the dusty sky above Dustfall in hues of bruised purple and fading orange. Captain Zeb Hipgrave shivered, the sharp, dry cold of the desert night already seeping through the thick fabric of his uniform. He was making his final rounds, his boots making a familiar rhythm on the quieting streets. With every step, his muscles ached, a deep, persistent throb. His eyes, usually so sharp, started to droop, betraying a profound weariness. This annoyed Zeb. He shouldn't be tired yet; the sun hadn't fully set, and his shift wasn't over. Ever since his unsettling encounter with that new helper at The Copper Cactus, Motley, he'd been more tense, more on edge. This relentless, extra strain on his body and mind had left him thoroughly fatigued. I have to do something about that man, and soon, he thought, his jaw tightening.

He moved through the city he had sworn to protect, his piercing gaze sweeping over every alleyway and market stall, searching for any anomaly, any threat. His duty was absolute. The aroma of distant cooking fires mingled with the metallic tang of steam from the pipes lining the old buildings. The bustling daytime chatter had faded, replaced by the hushed sounds of families settling in for the night, the occasional whir of a steam-powered mechanism from behind a closed door. All seemed normal, yet his instincts screamed otherwise.

As Zeb made his way down the last stretch of road, the barracks came into sight. The powerful two-story building, where Zeb had spent most of his life, warmed his heart. He didn't know if it was the familiar pride that warmed him or the sheer draw to his bed. He reached the final stall on the path, the smell of spiced meat, steamed cactus root, and sweet lumina berry pastries filling the air.

"Good evening, Captain!" a young man, perhaps thirteen, called out. This was Toby, the son of the stall owner, who always greeted Zeb with the same bright, welcoming smile. His father often joked to Zeb about Toby’s admiration, how one day, he wanted to be a Guard Captain just like him. Whenever his father said this, Zeb always saw the blush and embarrassed look on Toby’s face. Zeb admired Toby, his earnestness and dreams making long, tiring days like this a lot easier.

A combination of Toby's bright smile and the rumble in his stomach drew Zeb towards the stall. "Hey, Toby, where's your Dad?"

"He had to pick up a few supplies for tomorrow," Toby said, already producing a bowl and beginning to fill it with grilled meat and vegetable skewers. "Would you like your usual?"

"Thank you very much, Toby," Zeb said with a smile, settling onto one of the crude homemade stools placed in front of the stall. The street was quiet at this time of evening, with only a handful of people roaming its length. Zeb was the only customer, and he looked forward to giving his mind a rest for a few minutes to enjoy some food. Surely nothing could happen, he thought.

Zeb watched the boy work. Toby took extra care with his meal, making sure each skewer had the perfect ratio of meat and vegetables. He found one that was odd, quickly replacing it with another that was just like the rest. With the meal done, a proud smile plastered on Toby's face, he ran over with the bowl of food. "Here you go, sir."

Zeb smiled. "Thank you, and please. Call me Zeb, you know this." The boy blushed as Zeb playfully tussled his hair.

"Stop that!" Toby laughed, pushing Zeb's hand away. "Did you catch any bad guys today?" he asked, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

Zeb sighed and smiled. Every evening, Toby had the same question. Zeb was truly hungry now, a large bowl of amazing food mere inches from his mouth, but he had a duty. "Not today, Toby. We did have a herd of camels try to break into the city. I had to wrangle them up myself."

Toby's face brightened. "Oh wow, that is amazing!"

"Oh wow, that is amazing!" Toby's face brightened. It was, of course, an over-exaggeration of what happened, but it made Toby happy, and that was enough. The boy took a step beside Zeb, watching him eat, his eyes wide with admiration.

"Dad told me that you joined the guards when you were fourteen," Toby said, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. "Does that mean that I can join soon?"

Zeb tried his best to keep his smile. "Of course, you can. On your fourteenth birthday, come and see me, and I will get everything organised for you."

Toby raised both hands above his head in victory. "Yippy! I'm going to be the best guard Dustfall has ever seen!"

Zeb smiled, his eyes kind, but his gut clenched, making him feel sick. Memories of his youth, of hours spent sparring with men three times his size, the brutal sting of sticks beating against his arms, forcing him to block each blow as tears streamed down his face and pleas died in his throat. He did not feel hungry anymore. Zeb took a piece of meat between his teeth and pulled it off the skewer, chewing slowly, tasteless. He stared out at the quiet street, the last sliver of the sun painting the horizon in a fiery farewell. He tried to lose himself in the familiar, beautiful sight, to push the unwelcome memories back into the dark corners of his mind.

Zeb pushed the half-eaten bowl aside, the aroma of spiced meat, once inviting, now cloying. The boy's cheerful chatter faded into a distant hum. Zeb dropped a few coppers onto the counter. "Good night, Toby," he said, his voice a little gruffer than intended.

"Good night, Captain!" Toby chirped, waving after him with a large, undimmed smile.

Zeb nodded, but his mind remained distant. He walked away from the warmth of the stall's lamp, the desert chill seeping deeper into his uniform. The fatigue he'd felt earlier intensified, a dull ache in his bones, compounded by the churning unease from his memories. He considered heading straight for his bed, but duty pulled him forward. He glanced at the distant, imposing silhouette of the barracks, its precise lines a stark contrast to the shifting, uncertain landscape of his thoughts. He took a deep, fortifying breath, pushing the unsettling recollections aside, and forced his focus back onto the familiar path ahead.

Zeb entered the barracks, the building a hive of disciplined activity. Uniformed figures moved through the stone halls like components of a well-oiled machine. As Zeb passed, people in his path smoothly stepped aside, saluting before seamlessly slotting back into their duties. He saw guardsmen honing blades at grinding stations, the rasp of steel a steady counterpoint to the quiet hum of the building's steam-powered systems. Others, clipboards clutched in hand, moved between desks, checking off lists, their faces set in focused concentration. Near the main entrance, a few guards sat behind polished timber desks, speaking with civilians, their quills scratching across parchment as they meticulously recorded details.

Zeb made his way to a back door marked "Guardsmen Only." As he stepped through, the hustle and bustle of the front office faded, replaced by the low murmur of other guardsmen. This was the mess hall, a vast room where lines of heavy wooden tables hosted men and women eating dinner from steel plates. A long wall was dedicated to a buffet of different foods, cooked in bulk for everyone to help themselves. Their murmurs died down as the crowd of guards spotted Zeb. Those sitting instantly stood in unison and saluted. Those already standing turned towards him, straightening their postures, and also saluted.

"At ease, men," Zeb commanded, his voice firm, filling the sudden silence.

He continued through the mess hall, making his way to his own office, a small, walled-off room tucked into a quiet corner. Inside, a simple desk groaned under a stack of paperwork. A lone, half-empty mug sat amidst the clutter, and a worn wooden chair awaited. Zeb sank into it, the familiar creak a small comfort. He reached for the top document, a report on supply requisitions, but his mind refused to settle.

Toby. The boy's eager face, his innocent dream of becoming a Guard Captain just like him, burned in Zeb's thoughts. Maybe I can personally train him, he mused, a flicker of protectiveness. I won't be as rough as my... The thought of "Dad" made his face screw up, a grimace of remembered pain and resentment. A chill, unrelated to the evening air, touched his heart. He felt a familiar, deep-seated fear.

His mind then drifted to Motley, his sharp, unsettling eyes. The casual stranger who defied all his instincts, the one Tash had protected. A sudden, cold fury flared within Zeb. It had been building all day, a simmering rage beneath his fatigue. With an abrupt, violent motion, he swept his arm across the desk, sending the entire stack of paperwork, quills, and his mug crashing to the floor with a clatter. The noise echoed in the small room, startling the quiet of the mess hall beyond. He felt a hundred eyes, unseen, snap towards his office. He instantly regretted the outburst, his face tightening. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to control his breathing, to slow the frantic pounding of his heart. I need a shower, he thought, the desire for physical cleansing a sudden, desperate urge to wash away the day's unsettling encounters and his own volatile emotions.

Zeb shoved himself up from his chair, the worn wood scraping loudly across the stone floor. He strode towards the mess hall door, the curious gazes of his men a palpable weight on his back. His outburst was unusual, he knew, but their silent judgment meant nothing. He didn't falter. As he reached the threshold, the door joining the mess hall and the front office burst open. A small woman, impeccably dressed in a crisp receptionist uniform, rushed in, her face pale.

"Guard Captain Hipgrave, you are needed!" she announced, her voice urgent. "A suspicious individual has been captured. He was spotted stealing food; he's unknown, and he wears muddy, torn military-looking pants and no shirt. We strongly believe he is a Solarian survivor."

A potent concoction of anger, righteous indignation, and a bitter thirst for revenge swelled up in Zeb's body. Motley. His mind screamed the name. This was it. He would expose the truth. "Which cell is he in?" Zeb demanded, his voice a low growl as he surged towards the receptionist. He was a ball of tense muscle to her skinny frame, head and shoulders taller, yet she did not flinch.

She sighed, a weary but firm sound, standing strong in the doorway, not allowing him to push past her. "Sir, we just need your help interrogating him."

Zeb's muscles relaxed a fraction, the fury and sudden burst of energy still thrumming beneath his skin. He lowered his voice, forcing a calmer tone. "I will be... gentle. Which cell?"

She rolled her eyes, a flicker of exasperation crossing her face. "If he dies, you will be suspended. Cell 33."

Zeb continued onward, his path now set. He made his way to a set of stone stairs that spiralled downwards into the barracks' depths. With every descending step, the air grew colder, thicker, and tasted faintly of moss and stale, recycled air. He descended two full flights, the murmur of the mess hall fading into silence above him.

He emerged into a dimly lit hallway of damp, cold stone. Rows of tightly compacted steel cells stretched into the gloom, their bars surprisingly strong and polished, a stark, almost unnerving contrast to the ancient, uneven stone floor. As Zeb walked down the corridor, faces appeared at the bars – men and women he knew, individuals he had personally helped arrest. All of them met his gaze with the same angry snarl, their teeth bared, their eyes filled with hatred. Zeb, however, took no notice, his attention solely on the numbers meticulously etched into the steel plate of each cell door.

Beneath the combined snarl of all the prisoners, a low, even voice could be heard. Zeb recognised it. It was his second-in-command, Assistant Guards Captain Hadal. Zeb and Hadal had joined the guard training program on the same day, a lifetime ago. Yet, for all these years, Zeb had never known Hadal's last name. He wasn't even sure if Hadal possessed one; the man was a complete mystery. Hadal never talked about himself, rarely ventured out on rounds, preferring to spend his time buried under paperwork – often Zeb's. He enjoyed doing cell duty, always putting his name down for it. Even though Zeb knew almost nothing about Hadal, he trusted him. He trusted his gut feeling. Hadal was the complete opposite of Zeb: short, skinny, and pale, almost as if he were afraid of the sun. He was quiet, speaking only when directly prompted, a stark, unsettling contrast to the boisterous guards who manned the upper levels.

Zeb reached Cell 33. The heavy steel door stood ajar. Inside, Assistant Guards Captain Hadal stood with his back to Zeb, facing a man seated on the cold stone bench. The seated man had a build similar to Hadal's, but his bare chest and face were a canvas of fresh bruises, streaked with blood. He was young, younger than Zeb had expected, and not Motley. The excitement that had fueled Zeb's grim pursuit drained away, replaced by a surge of frustration. Why was Motley plaguing his mind so much? He'd dealt with hundreds of outsiders, hundreds of arrests in his career. Why was this one man so persistently unsettling him?

Zeb stepped into the cell's entrance. Hadal had just finished reading the man his rights, his voice a low, steady murmur. Hadal looked up, his eyes meeting Zeb's. Deep, dark bags hung under his eyes, and a tight, almost strained smile touched his lips—he truly suited his nickname, "Skeleton."

"He's all yours, boss," Hadal said, his voice soft and low, almost a whisper.

"Thank you, Assistant Guard Captain Hadal," Zeb replied, using Hadal's full title, his voice strong and authoritative, hoping to spark some fear into the captured outsider. "I will take it from here. Can you please process his arrest? I will report back to you on anything I find out."

Hadal saluted sharply, a rare gesture that caught Zeb's attention. He knew Hadal picked up on his ploy, a subtle acknowledgment of the unspoken theatrics. The act worked. The outsider's face, bruised and defiant moments before, now registered a flicker of panic. He knew he was now dealing with someone with significant authority. Hadal turned sharply and left, his footsteps echoing and growing distant down the cold, stone corridor.

Zeb turned his full attention to the man. He remained standing, towering over the cowering figure on the bench, his shadow falling heavily across the cell. His voice, usually gruff, became a low, dangerous growl.

"Alright, let's try this again, vagrant. What's your name?" Zeb demanded, his eyes piercing.

The man flinched, his head snapping up, but his lips remained pressed together. His eyes, wide with fear, darted around the cell as if searching for an escape.

Zeb's patience, already thin, frayed. He took a step closer, the cold steel of his uniform's buckles almost touching the prisoner's bruised knees. "Speak when spoken to! Where did you come from? What camp were you with?"

Silence. The man trembled, a silent sob escaping him, but still, he offered no words.

Zeb let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. "Fine. What about the attack? You were with the Solarians, weren't you? What was your unit? Who was your commander?" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper, laden with a hidden urgency. "Do you know a man named Motley?"

The man's breath hitched. His eyes widened even further, a flicker of something beyond fear—recognition?—crossing his face. He shook his head violently, a silent, desperate plea, unable or unwilling to speak.

Zeb watched him, a cold certainty settling in his gut. The fear was too profound, the silence too absolute. This man wasn't just defiant; he was utterly terrified, paralysed by something deeper than Zeb's presence. He was too afraid to speak.

Zeb’s focus narrowed. "Motley," he growled, the name a low, dangerous whisper. He repeated it, letting the sound hang in the frigid air of the cell, watching for any flicker of recognition, any break in the man’s terrified composure. When none came, a raw fury, long simmering beneath Zeb’s disciplined exterior, finally erupted. He reached out, grabbing the man's arms, his grip like iron. With a grunt of effort, he hauled the prisoner off the bench, lifting him until they were face to face, mere inches separating them. Then, with a savage roar, he slammed the man against the cold stone wall behind him.

Bang! The impact vibrated through the cell. The prisoner's head snapped back, a whimper escaping his bruised lips.

"Do you know Motley?" Zeb bellowed, his voice raw, fueled by a torrent of frustration and a chilling, almost personal, need for answers. "Tell me! Do you know him?"

Fear, raw and absolute, finally broke the man's silence. He choked, a single, terrified nod jerking his head. "Y-yes!" he stammered, his eyes wide and pleading.

The confirmation hit Zeb like a physical blow, igniting the last vestiges of his control. He tightened his grip. "Where is he? What was his unit? What was his rank in that Solara scum army? Tell me!" Each question was a hammer blow, laced with a desperate urgency.

"I don't know!" the prisoner sobbed, tears and blood mingling on his bruised face. "I don't know!"

Bang! Zeb slammed him against the wall again, the sound reverberating through the stone. "Don't lie to me! You just said you knew him! Tell me!"

"I don't know!"

Bang! Another brutal impact, the prisoner's body going limp for a moment before Zeb hauled him upright. The raw violence was a dark counterpoint to the distant hum of the barracks. Zeb’s breath hitched, a desperate rasp in his own throat. His muscles screamed with the effort, his vision blurring at the edges with rage. He was losing control. The thought flickered, cold and detached, even as the red haze of anger consumed him.

He raised the man for another slam, but something stopped him. The prisoner’s eyes, wide with terror just moments before, were now unfocused, distant, like dull glass. His body went completely limp, heavy and lifeless in Zeb’s hands. Zeb swore, the sound a guttural mix of frustration and disgust. He looked down at the unresponsive face, then roughly dropped the man onto the cold stone bench. The limp body slumped, sliding against the wall.

Zeb released the heavy cell door, letting it clatter shut with a final, echoing thunk. The solid clack of the lock filled the silence. He knew, with grim certainty, that physical force was strictly forbidden during interrogations. Yet, the man had arrived battered, bruised; the new marks would simply blend with the old. The thought made Zeb feel sick, a sour taste rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down. It was necessary, he told himself, the cold logic offering a sliver of validation for his brutal actions. As he walked past the rows of cells, the corridor remained eerily quiet. The inhuman intensity of his outburst seemed to linger in the air, silencing every snarl, every hateful whisper from the other prisoners.

He stormed back through the mess hall, barely registering the murmuring guards, his mind already fixed on the showers. He peeled off his uniform, each piece feeling heavy and restrictive, and stepped under the spray. The warm water hit his skin, instantly loosening the knots of tension in his shoulders and neck. He closed his eyes, letting the steam envelop him, trying to wash away the grim scene from the cell. He cupped his hands, catching the warm water, and splashed it onto his face. As he did, he noticed for the first time that his hands were trembling, uncontrollably, the fine tremors betraying a deep, hidden shock.

Zeb stood there, letting the water drum against his bald head, lost in thought. He replayed the confrontation in the cell, the prisoner's desperate nods, the final, terrified silence. His mind drifted back to The Copper Cactus, to Motley's face when they first met, the conflicting innocence and the undeniable sense of danger. He recalled every visit since, Motley always avoiding interaction, always seeming to find a task at the farthest corner of the cafe. Was he scared, or just hiding from me? He thought about what he had just done to the prisoner. He knew, with sickening clarity, that the man's "yes" had been a desperate attempt to make the violence stop, a lie born of sheer terror. The skin on his fingers began to shrivel, pale and puckered from the relentless heat of the water. Zeb had no idea how long he stood there, letting the minutes or perhaps an hour slip away, lost in the unsettling churn of his thoughts.

Zeb finally reached his bed. The soft mattress, the yielding pillow, the comforting weight of the sheets—they were more inviting than anything else in the world. He collapsed onto it, instantly falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

A knock. A voice. "Guard Captain Zeb?" A female voice, sharp and urgent, pulled him from his dreams. He opened his eyes, expecting the oppressive dark of midnight, but a soft, grey light filtered in from a nearby window. It was morning, barely.

"Guard Captain—"

"Yes, I am awake!" Zeb interrupted, a thread of tension already in his voice. "What is it?"

"A power user was spotted in the western district," the voice reported.

That's where the cafe is, Zeb thought, a cold wave of panic surging through his body. Tash!

"Any details?" Zeb commanded, his voice tight with a sudden urgency.

"None," she responded, her tone curt. "This report just came in, and I instantly came to you, as requested, before it goes live."

"Thank you. I'm heading out right away." Zeb, barely dressed, raced past the woman, his mind already spinning. You better not have been caught, Tash, he thought, a cold knot forming in his gut.

Zeb burst from the barracks, the cold morning air hitting him, sharper now with a biting urgency. He ignored the salutes, his eyes fixed on the distant rooftops of the market district. He pushed through the quiet residential streets, his boots pounding a frantic rhythm on the packed earth. Already, he saw the first signs of Dustfall’s daily awakening. A lone guard was making his slow, methodical rounds, collecting fees from the early morning stalls along the main road. The familiar clink of coins, the polite greetings exchanged—it was just a normal day. The citizens moved about their chores, unaware of the raw alarm surging through their Guard Captain, unaware of the taint of power that had supposedly appeared in their city.

Zeb’s mind raced, a terrifying image of Tash, exposed and vulnerable, flashing before his eyes. He had to get there first. He had to be the first one on the scene. If it was Tash, if it was her power that had been spotted, he had to protect her. He would pull rank, throw every ounce of his authority at anyone who dared to touch her. He just had to reach The Copper Cactus before it was too late.

The familiar sign came into view, still in the distance. Zeb's heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. The streets around the cafe were eerily quiet, empty of the usual morning vendors and early risers. A cold dread tightened in his gut. He reached the front door, slammed it open, and burst inside. 

His gaze swept the room, desperately searching. He saw Tash; she was safe. Perfectly safe. No guards in sight, no sign of a struggle, just her and Lory the baker. Relief, sharp and exhilarating, washed over him, a genuine smile breaking through his stern facade.

Then, his eyes landed on Motley. The smile vanished, replaced by a hard frown. The new helper was still here. The man who made his instincts scream.

"You heard the news?" Zeb asked, turning his piercing gaze back to Tash, his voice flat, the question cutting through the sudden quiet of the cafe.

Tash, her face tight, nodded. "Yes, just now. Lory here just informed me. Do you know who it is?"

Zeb sighed, the sound sharp with frustration. He had hoped it was Motley, hoped to confirm his suspicions. "I was hoping I did, but I don't. Sorry." A heavy silence settled, thick with unspoken questions. He looked between Tash, Motley, and Lory. Lory looked utterly bewildered by the palpable unease. Zeb's gaze lingered on Motley for a moment longer.

"Well, I'd better go and help the men with this power user," Zeb finally said, his voice clipped, turning away. Zeb exited The Copper Cactus, the door jingling softly behind him. He didn't race now, the frantic urgency that had seized him minutes ago replaced by a grim, methodical drive. His greatest fear—Tash being the power user—had been momentarily allayed, but his duty remained. He jogged through the waking streets of Dustfall, his eyes scanning for a cluster of his guards.

He found them a few blocks away, gathered around a toppled carriage. Its wooden cages were shattered, and their contents—brightly colored silks, carefully folded hats, and a cascade of unidentifiable clothing—lay scattered across the packed earth. The stall it had belonged to, however, seemed untouched, merely inconvenienced by the chaos. Two guards stood on either side of a man kneeling in the dust. He was a person Zeb had never seen before, a stranger to Dustfall, and visibly much older than himself, perhaps in his late forties or early fifties. His simple clothes were covered in a fresh layer of dust and debris, and held a bewildered, almost childlike confusion on his face.

Zeb approached, his gaze fixed on the scene. "Here he is," the guard to the power user's left said, his voice flat.

Zeb approached, his gaze fixed on the scene. "Report," he said, his voice flat, his eyes boring into the bewildered power user.

The guard to the man's left snapped to attention. "We've spoken to the stall owner and some eyewitnesses, Captain. They all have the same story."

"Continue," Zeb commanded, his focus unwavering.

"The stall owner had her goods delivered on camelback. She wasn't at the stall, so the delivery person left the carriage in the centre of the thoroughfare." The guard gestured to a scuff mark on the packed earth, then looked back at the power user, who remained utterly confused. "The owner came back and tried to move the carriage. Of course, it was too heavy. Then this tainted one"—the guard nudged the kneeling man with his boot—"got behind the carriage and started pushing it towards the stall. No man could have that much strength. The stall owner asked how he was doing that, and he simply said, 'I have a power called...'" The guard pulled out a small notebook, flipped a page, and read aloud, "Ox Strength."

"It's true, sir, I'm not lying!" the power user pleaded, his voice raspy, his bruised face a mask of desperation.

Zeb knelt, bringing himself to the power user's level. "Are you trying to get arrested?" he asked, his voice low and direct.

"No!" the man cried, astonishment warring with fear in his eyes. "I... I was just helping!"

"Where are you from?" Zeb pressed, his gaze piercing.

"Acrewood," the man replied, the name of a small, distant fishing village.

Zeb's brow furrowed. "Acrewood?" He'd never heard of it. He turned to the two guards flanking the prisoner. "Either of you know an Acrewood?" Both shook their heads, their expressions as blank as his own.

The man, sensing their confusion, tried to offer more. "It's a fishing village. We just docked a few hours ago, early this morning, to sell our recent haul. I wanted to have a look around before we started selling." He tried to shift closer to Zeb, a plea in his eyes.

Zeb looked over the man's face, trying to spot any signs of deceit. This makes no sense, Zeb thought, a flicker of confusion. Why would this man openly display his power? And come from nowhere? He pushed himself to his feet. "Let's take him to the barracks for further questioning. Leave him with Hadal while I report to the President."

Zeb turned and walked away, the power user's pleas echoing behind him. He heard the guards roughly pick the man up off his knees, directing him towards the barracks. The pleased voices of onlookers, cheering the capture of the "tainted" man, mixed with the captive's cries.

He reached the President's building, an imposing structure of polished black stone and gleaming brass, its architecture austere yet radiating immense power. He pushed open the large, heavy front door. It swung inward with a soft, almost imperceptible whoosh, revealing an interior that hushed the city's sounds completely. The air inside was cool, scented faintly with exotic incense. Polished marble floors stretched before him, reflecting the soft glow of concealed steam-powered lamps. Ornate tapestries depicting historical battles and allegorical figures hung from soaring, gilded walls. Velvet ropes guided paths past statues of stern-faced founders. It was a space designed to impress, to humble, to convey absolute authority.

A young woman, impossibly beautiful in a flowing, midnight-blue gown that shimmered with subtle clockwork embroidery, glided towards him. Her smile was practised, serene. "Good morning, Captain Zeb," she said, her voice like chimes. "What can we do for you today?"

"I'm here to see the President," Zeb stated, his voice clipped.

The woman's serene smile didn't waver. "Ah, yes. About the tainted one who was caught?"

A small, grim smile touched Zeb's lips. "Of course, you'd already be informed. Yes, that is correct."

She indicated the grand staircase before them with a graceful sweep of her hand. "Right this way, Captain."

They made their way up the wide, polished marble stairs, their footsteps echoing softly in the opulent silence. At the top, they turned down a corridor to the left, its walls adorned with more sweeping tapestries and golden sconces. They reached a pair of large, double white doors. The woman knocked once, softly, then turned and glided away, leaving Zeb alone in the hushed hallway.

He waited, the silence stretching. Then, a voice, deep and resonant, spoke from behind the doors. "Come in, Zeb."

Zeb pushed open the heavy double doors and stepped into the President's office. He had been in this room several times before, yet it never failed to take his breath away. The sheer, vast size of the chamber felt... unnecessary. It was massive and open, designed to humble anyone who entered. Towering bookshelves lined every wall, crammed with countless volumes, some ancient and worn, others gleaming with new covers. Interspersed among them hung intricate paintings depicting stoic figures and dramatic historical events. Large, coiled steam-powered lamps stood at regular intervals, casting a warm, pervasive glow across the expanse.

In the centre of the polished floor lay an enormous, intricately woven rug, easily large enough to cover the entirety of Tash's Copper Cactus cafe. On the opposite side of this grand rug, behind a wide, dark wood desk, sat The President. Behind him, dominating the entire far wall, was a massive glass window, two stories tall and three times as long, offering an unparalleled vantage point over the whole of Dustfall. From here, the President could survey every street, every building, every single one of his "properties."

The President's voice, deep and resonant, commanded Zeb to come forward, to his desk. Zeb began the long walk across the vast, polished expanse of the room, his boots making only the faintest sound on the intricate rug. The President remained seated, unmoving, his face still shadowed by the deep hood, offering no discernible detail, no hint of expression.

As Zeb reached the formidable desk, the President finally spoke. "How can I assist you, Zeb?"

"I have come to ask for advice on what we should do about the power user who was sighted in the western district?" Zeb asked, his gaze fixed on the shadowed face.

"Oh, yes," the President said, turning over a report on his desk and glancing at it with dismissive ease. "I received this a few moments before you arrived." He proceeded to read out the report, every word matching what Zeb had heard from the guards at the scene. Zeb nodded. "That is what I heard," he confirmed.

"It is simple," the President stated, his voice flat, devoid of question. "I will banish the taint from Dustfall. That is the right thing to do, and what I have done in the past to keep my city safe."

"I see," Zeb murmured, a quiet moment settling between them. He felt the weight of the President's unmoving gaze.

"I know you have something to add. Please... speak openly," the President said, leaning forward slightly in his chair, a subtle invitation that felt more like a command.

Zeb cleared his throat. "The power user was confused about why he was being arrested just for helping. I am confused myself, but as to why he would openly use his power."

The President remained silent, not responding, his face a shadowed mask. Zeb felt a prickle of awkwardness, a growing nervousness about questioning this. "That does not matter, Zeb. They are tainted. We don't know how their mind works." The President steepled his fingers together, his voice gaining a chilling finality. "Why bother trying to understand their actions?"

Zeb slightly bowed, a reflex he didn't question. It just felt like the right thing to do. "Of course. I will forget about that." He straightened, a bit anxious under the President's unwavering gaze now.

The President suddenly separated his fingers and reached for another report. "Last night, we captured an outsider who was stealing food. They were interrogated, but I don't have a follow-up report from that interrogation."

"Yes," Zeb responded, his voice tight. "I did not learn anything after questioning him."

The President was quiet... again, waiting. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken judgment. "Two outsiders in one day, Zeb," the President stated, his voice low, almost conversational.

"Yes, sir," Zeb responded.

"That is unacceptable. Am I working you too hard?" The President slowly stood, rising from behind his desk, his voice suddenly laced with venom. "Do you need to have some time off? The first tainted sighted in my walls in five years, and an outsider stealing. Under your watch."

Zeb stood his ground, his face set. "I understand. I am fine."

The President seemed to weigh Zeb's words, his eyes boring into him. "Speak. Openly." He spat out each syllable, each one a lash.

Zeb's heart started to race, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. "I have been a bit distracted," Zeb confessed, the words tasting like ash. "There is someone I have never seen before working at the cafe in the western district. He appeared right after the battle with Solara."

The President waited, his silence demanding more.

"When I checked, he is a local. But," Zeb added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I don't trust him."

"Why are you telling me this just now?" the President asked, his tone cold.

"I did not think this would distract me from my duty."

"What are you going to do about this?" The President's voice, cold and sharp, sliced through the tension.

Zeb was quiet for a few seconds, the weight of the question settling heavily on him. "I don't know."

The President slowly sat back down, his hooded gaze unwavering. "You are soft, Zeb. I can't have that. But I trust your judgment. You should as well. If you don't recognise him, he is an outsider." The President waited, a silent command in his stillness. Then, a chilling hint of amusement entered his voice, a pure, evil delight. "We will use the tainted one as a public statement piece. To show our strength. Then, we will publicly accuse this outsider working at the cafe of being tainted and give him five days to come forward and be tested to prove his innocence."

"Why five days?" Zeb asked, his voice tight.

"If he is tainted, he will flee, which will benefit you." The President's voice held a cruel satisfaction. "If he is tainted... we will publicly execute him."

"Why kill him?" Zeb blurted out the words, escaping before he could stop them. The pronouncement had caught his breath. Execute? That had never happened before, not for an adult.

"You look puzzled, Zeb," the President said, his voice flat.

Zeb instinctively took a step back.

"Two tainted appearing in my city in less than a week. I will not have it. We must be strong. We must be united. We must show our people that we do not accept this!" The President stopped, letting the chilling words echo in the vast office. "I will have bounties printed and posted around as well."

Zeb paused, letting the harsh truth wash over him. The cold, unwavering logic of the President's words began to cut through his personal qualms. He is right. I have a duty to protect Dustfall. Motley is a threat. His internal conflict, for a fleeting moment, resolved itself into grim resolve.

"I am sorry, President," Zeb said, his voice firm. "You are right. Good idea."

"You are dismissed," the President replied, waving Zeb off with a dismissive gesture, his gaze already sweeping down to the other reports scattered across his desk.