Book 1 Chapter 13: Hearthglow's Call

Motley drifted into sleep, and the familiar shift occurred. The suffocating weight of his recent thoughts, the cold dread of an impending execution, the gnawing uncertainty of his past—all faded, replaced by the profound, echoing silence of the dream cabin. He found himself standing before the crackling fireplace, its warmth a stark contrast to the relentless snow outside the single, thick-paned window. The tan leather chairs, unnaturally sleek against the rough-hewn wood, seemed to hum with a silent energy, positioned exactly as he remembered them.

His gaze swept the familiar interior, confirming every detail was as it was during his first visit. Yet, a chilling thought struck him: the fire. He remembered the hay exploding into a dangerous inferno, right where he stood in this very spot. He looked down at the wide, smooth wooden planks of the floor – not a single scorch mark, no stray wisps of burnt hay, nothing but the polished, ancient wood. How? His mind, though fractured, grappled for logic. Was the fire not real? Was this truly just a dream, so vivid it fooled his senses? Or did the cabin itself simply... erase what occurred within its walls? The mystery, far from comforting, only deepened his unease.

He turned to the tall, narrow bookshelf built directly into the wall. This time, it wasn't nearly empty. His eyes widened. Where there was once only one book, now there were many. The first, its spine still invitingly familiar, was indeed Tash Everground. Beside it, another stood, its title visible: Zeb Hipgrave. And next to Zeb’s, a third: Hugo Swin-Bumble. Below them, the second shelf, once bare, held a scattered collection of other volumes, each named after individuals he had interacted with in Dustfall over the past week – Elara, the sharp-witted textile merchant; Joric, the gruff smith; Kael, the baker; and Lory, the frantic baker's wife who had brought the news of the captured power user. Motley’s mind replayed the fleeting images the Chronos Eye had given him from some of them – Elara's boastful grin, Joric's genuine grumble. He felt a strange pang of connection to these ordinary people. By his estimate, the shelf was only about five percent full of books.

He thought back to his time in Dustfall, the supposed answers about his identity. Instead, each new encounter, each piece of information, seemed to leave him with more questions than answers about himself. He was a Solarian, an enemy. He had a power. He was an "outsider" in a city that hated anything "tainted." He was supposedly from a mine. He was Motley Swin, cousin to Hugo. The fragments spun, disjointed and contradictory, leaving him exhausted by the sheer uncertainty. The weight of his unknown past pressed down on him, amplified by every supposed "fact" he'd learned in the waking world. He mentally replayed his earlier decisions: his agreement to Tash’s job offer, his refusal to question the initial kindness. Should I have demanded more? Should I have tried to force a memory from Tash the moment I knew? Would anything have been different? He couldn’t see a better path, only the same two dire outcomes: staying and facing execution, or fleeing into the vast, indifferent desert with no direction, no map, no guide.

Then, a faint, rhythmic tap-tap-tap drew his attention. He finally noticed a new doorway in the cabin, almost imperceptible against the wooden wall he hadn’t noticed before. It led into deeper shadow. Curiosity overriding his despair, Motley cautiously walked towards it, pushing through an unseen threshold. The new room was a vast, circular space, illuminated by the soft, ambient glow that seemed to emanate from the very air. This was a library. Three massive walls curved around him, reaching up higher than the main cabin, all lined from floor to ceiling with empty shelving. In the center sat one large, inviting leather chair, mirroring the black and tan aesthetic of the ones by the fireplace. The emptiness of the shelves was almost as profound as the silence.

Then, the familiar, high-pitched yet undeniably powerful whisper filled the cabin, a voice resonant and utterly alien, grating against the natural order, its very presence a sin on nature itself. "We meet again, little spark."

Motley turned from the new library room, the chill of the skull’s presence pulling him away from the comforting spines of the books. He walked to the tan leather chair by the fireplace and sank into its unnatural softness beside the bone-white skull. A talking skull. Why is there a talking skull in my head? This is absurd. None of this makes sense. He wanted to ask, to understand this impossible obscurity, but the skull spoke again, cutting through his bewildered thoughts.

"What do you want?" the skull rasped.

Motley blinked, a flicker of confusion. "I... I want a lot of things."

The skull's voice gained a sharper, higher pitch, a dry, unsettling chuckle following. "Surely you have some dying questions; otherwise, you would not be here." The word "dying" hung in the air, a cold promise, reminding Motley of the imminent execution, of his battlefield awakening, of the desperate choices he faced in the waking world.

Motley ignored the chilling word, focusing instead on the urgent questions in his mind. "Do you know what is happening outside at the moment?" he pleaded, desperate to bridge the gap between this strange refuge and his terrifying reality.

"I only know what you know, little spark," the skull replied, its voice a flat, noncommittal echo. The non-answer deepened Motley's frustration, a familiar prickle of irritation. He knew the skull often gave non-answers, making him decipher meaning, but now, with his life on the line, he had no patience for riddles.

"So, what should I do?" Motley asked, a desperate plea in his voice.

"What do you want?" the skull demanded, its voice suddenly loud, booming within the confines of the cabin, echoing the question that plagued his waking hours.

The question cut through Motley's confusion, slicing through the jumble of fear and uncertainty. Only one thought rose to the surface, clear and undeniable. "I want to know who I am."

The skull chuckled, the sound dry and rattling at first, then growing louder with each beat, filling the entire room with its high-pitched, uncontrollable cackle. "It is easy, little spark. Use your Chronos Eye. We both know how mighty this... gift is." The skull's voice was laced with amusement, emphasising the word "gift," making Motley wonder again at its meaning. Gift? What are they hinting at?

"You have made slow, but effective, progress so far," the skull continued, oblivious to Motley's internal question. "With this progress, in a few years, you will have mastered the Chronos Eye... Maybe closer to a decade."

"What do you mean by gift?" Motley interjected, his voice tight, refusing to be distracted. He had days, not years, before his execution.

The temperature in the cabin subtly shifted, becoming a degree or two hotter than it had been, the air growing still and heavy. "You focus on the wrong words, little spark," the skull rasped, its voice suddenly firm, devoid of its previous amusement. It can't hurt me, can it? Motley thought, a chill running down his spine. This is my dream, after all. But the thought offered no comfort. An unease, a prickle of genuine danger, settled over him, sharpening his awareness of the skull's subtle control even here, in his mind.

"Use the Chronos Eye as much as you can, little spark. Progress. Become strong. Through this, you will understand who you are," the skull demanded, its voice firm.

Motley stood up from the leather chair and began to pace, the soft cushions yielding under his weight. Sure, being able to see people's names and if they have a power is useful, but I don't know how that will help with my amnesia, he thought, his gaze sweeping over the cabin's familiar wooden interior. He did a mental "lay of the land," assessing the room, then his thoughts drifted to his current predicament. And how would my power help me in my current situation? I'll be executed soon. The absurdity of it all, of being given a "gift" he couldn't control to solve a problem that would kill him in days, was infuriating.

"Sit down, little spark," the skull rasped, its voice breaking Motley from his thoughts. "You are literally thinking in circles."

Motley obeyed, sinking back into the soft leather lounge. The skull was quiet for a few seconds, the only sound the gentle crackling of the forever-burning fireplace, little sparks dancing and vanishing in the warm air.

"What do you know of this country?" Motley finally asked, his voice low.

"I know many things," the skull rasped, its voice a low hum. A prickle of irritation sparked within Motley at the non-answer. He knew the skull often gave non-answers, making him decipher meaning, but now, with his life on the line, he had no patience for riddles.

"Is there a place the President has no control over?" Motley pressed, a desperate hope in his voice.

"No," the skull said instantly, its voice flat, definitive.

A heavy sigh escaped Motley, the sound a physical manifestation of his growing dread. The certainty of his impending execution, just four days away, became terrifyingly real. He buried his face in his hands, squirming uncomfortably in the luxurious leather, the soft cushions offering no solace from the weight of his impossible situation.

The skull watched him, its empty eye sockets seeming to observe his despair with a detached amusement. "Can you just help me, tell me what I can do to survive?" Motley pleaded, his voice muffled by his hands.

"Yes, little spark, I know much of what you seek," the skull replied, its voice gaining a dry, mocking quality. "But knowledge freely given is rarely valued. It is a lesson best learned through your own struggles."

Silence returned, thick and oppressive, as Motley wrestled with the skull's cryptic words. Knowledge freely given has no value. The phrase echoed in his mind. He knew the skull never gave straight answers; he had to search for the hidden meaning, the truth buried beneath the surface. It was a test, a frustrating, terrifying test, but perhaps the only way forward.

"Little spark, I have two paths for you. You must choose one." The skull's sudden words cut through the quiet. Motley looked up, his eyes fixed on the bone-white form. "Let me ask you, would you like to understand more about your power, or would you like the opportunity to use it more?"

Motley considered the options. Understanding my power might give me the tools I need to survive for now, he thought, to simply live past the next four days. It's the only real chance I have. He looked at the skull. "Understand the power more."

"Okay then," the skull rasped. "No."

Motley stood up, frustration coiling in his gut. "Stop playing with me!" he demanded, his voice raw. "If I don't do anything soon, I will die in a few days. If I stay here, I will die. If I escape, I will die out in the desert, wandering around, trying to find a safe place!"

"Hearthglow," the skull simply stated.

The single word, utterly unknown to Motley, cut through his outburst, freezing him mid-stride. He stared at the bone-white form, trying to decipher the meaning. The silence stretched, and for a long moment, Motley's mind was blank, devoid of desperation, filled only by the unfamiliar sound. Hearthglow? A small, tentative spark ignited within him. A place? A name? The despair began to recede, replaced by a dawning curiosity.

The skull chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Yes, little spark. Hearthglow. That is where you will go to escape. It is where you grew up, where your roots lie. There, you will learn about your past, understand the mysteries that plague your mind. And there, you will have the opportunity to use your power, the Chronos Eye, as much as you want to and to its full effectiveness."

"Hearthglow," Motley murmured, the word feeling foreign yet strangely comforting on his tongue. He repeated it, letting each syllable form, letting the sound settle in the quiet cabin, making it more real. Hearthglow. My home. The concept, abstract and undefined, suddenly held a tangible hope.

"Where is Hearthglow?" Motley asked, his voice barely a whisper, afraid to break the spell.

"I have given you a path, little spark. Make your own way there," the skull replied. Its voice sharpened, gaining an edge of finality. "I have given you more than I should have already. You'd better survive." Motley sensed the skull grinned with those last words, a mocking challenge.

A genuine smile, wide and unburdened, stretched across Motley's face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd truly smiled. He had a direction now, a haven. He would live. "Thank you," he said, his voice thick with a gratitude that surprised him.

"Good," the skull replied, its voice flat.

Motley turned from the skull and looked towards the bookshelf. While I'm here, I might as well do some reading, he thought, a newfound purpose settling within him. As he started to walk towards the books, the skull spoke again.

"I will leave you with one more thing," it rasped. Motley stopped, turning back to face the bone-white form.

"The soul’s deepest chronicle is etched not in flesh, but in the gaze. For the eye, unmoved by facade, mirrors the passage of every lived hour, laying bare the truth time thought hidden." In a lower voice, almost a conspiratorial whisper, it added, "Trust your gift."

Motley turned back, letting those words soak over him. Gift, he thought, the word echoing in his mind with new meaning and chilling implications. He continued his walk to the bookshelf, his gaze sweeping over the spines, then his hand settled on the volume beside Tash's. He picked out the book with the name Zeb Hipgrave etched into its leather cover.

With the book in hand, Motley turned, drawn by the newly revealed doorway. He walked through the unseen threshold, leaving the crackling fireplace and the unsettling presence of the Skull behind in the main cabin. The air in this new room was noticeably colder, carrying a faint scent of old parchment and distant pine, yet he found it surprisingly comforting, a tranquil coolness that invited introspection. This was the library, a vast, circular space illuminated by a soft, ambient glow that seemed to emanate from the very air itself. Three massive walls curved around him, reaching up higher than the main cabin, all lined from floor to ceiling with empty shelving. In the center sat one large, inviting leather chair, its black and tan aesthetic mirroring the ones by the fireplace. He sank into it, the soft cushions cradling him, the silence profound.

The city of Nexus rose from the landscape like a celestial beacon, its spires and domes reaching for the stars, a sprawling testament to power and advanced civilization. At its very heart, dominating the horizon and piercing the night sky, stood Zar. Its towering facade stretched hundreds of stories, a colossal structure of polished stone and shimmering glass, each of its thousands of windows blazing with light like spilled constellations. The building pulsed with an inner luminescence, a silent, formidable presence that seemed to breathe with ancient knowledge. Outside its vast, illuminated panes, fat, silent snowflakes drifted past, painting the cold air with white specks, accumulating on the ground below in a thick, undisturbed blanket. This was the heart of Aethel, a land where magic flowed openly, where powers were revered, and where the world's myriad races lived in towering cities.

Inside Zar, within an office perched impossibly high above the sprawling city, Headmaster Silas sat behind a grand, obsidian desk. He was an imposing figure even seated, with a magnificent white beard that tapered to a perfect point, reaching his chest, and slicked-back white hair that gleamed faintly. The desk itself was a landscape of the arcane and the technological: stacks of ancient, leather-bound books stood sentinel beside intricate, alien-looking moving devices that whirred and clicked with unseen mechanisms. Silas’s gaze was fixed on a complex diagram, his thoughts weaving through intricate theoretical constructs.

A soft chime from a hidden mechanism announced an arrival. A young girl, a student in her last year, stepped quietly into the office. Her robes, though simple, marked her as one about to graduate, poised for a future among the professorial ranks within these very walls. Silas did not scold her for interrupting; instead, he looked up, a welcoming smile softening the lines of his ancient face.

"Headmaster," she began, her voice respectful, "it is time for dinner with the teachers."

Silas offered no immediate answer to her prompt. His smile lingered, thoughtful, as he tilted his head. "Tell me, my dear," he mused, his voice rich and deep, "if a mage, like ourselves, was given all the resources in the world, and all the time to study, could we, eventually, understand our own future down to the finest details? Predict what could happen, so precisely that we might choose our own path for the best outcome?"

She smiled, a faint, familiar amusement touching her lips. Every night, she was tasked with this ritual: to direct the Headmaster to his dinner, knowing that if she didn't, he would remain in his study for days, oblivious to food or rest. It was common for him to ignore her prompts, to instead ask for her input on some grand, esoteric question. This was their student-master relationship, his unique way of teaching. So, she would humor him for a bit, as always, before gently redirecting him towards dinner.

The student thought for a moment, her brow furrowed in contemplation. "That would be impossible, Headmaster," she replied, her voice firm with conviction. "There are simply too many variables. The future is ever-changing from outside sources, from every tiny choice made by every soul."

Silas's smile widened. "Yes," he agreed, a faint, almost imperceptible gleam in his eyes. "I came to the same conclusion." He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the myriad of moving devices on his desk. "But what if, my dear, one had control over someone else's future? Could you then control theirs, so precisely, that it might impact your own?"

The student's gaze sharpened, a flicker of uneasy recognition in her eyes. She looked over the vast desk, her eyes falling on some of the older, rougher leather-bound books in a prominent stack. She saw the familiar, unsettling name etched into one spine: "Chronos." Another, smaller inscription below it read: "L. Everground." Her eyes snapped back to Silas. "Are you still... trying to understand Chronos?" she asked, a subtle tremor in her voice.

Silas chuckled, a low, dry sound that seemed to hum through the ancient office. "Just an experiment, my dear. Something to do to pass the time. Dinner, you say? I am ready."