Book 1 Chapter 16: The Gatekeeper's Challenge

The Dustfall afternoon was a sweltering blanket, pressing down on the city as Tash stepped out of The Copper Cactus. The market thrummed with its midday chaos, the air thick with the scent of spices, hot dust, and the incessant hum of thousands of voices. Her hazel eyes, usually warm behind the counter, were now sharp, analytical, as she began to meticulously map out their escape route. This wasn't about coffee or pastries; this was about survival.

Her plan was simple, audacious, born from years of childhood games played with Zeb: stay hidden, move fast, and use the city's own blind spots against it. The cafe sat close to the North/Western gate, and the docks—their destination—were on the South-Eastern border. A diagonal sprint across a city, now fully awake and watchful. She envisioned the path in her mind's eye, a ghost of her younger self running through the shadows.

She moved quickly, hugging the darker sides of the buildings where shadows offered scant relief from the sun, her soft-soled boots making barely a sound on the packed earth. The route would take them first through the labyrinth of narrow alleyways that snaked behind the main market district, past the stalls Motley had worked just yesterday. These were tight, winding passages, easy to get lost in, but familiar to Tash. They'd need to avoid the occasional steam vents that hissed unpredictably, and the stacked crates that could easily topple with a misplaced step. No guards patrolled these internal arteries regularly, not unless a specific incident drew them in.

As she navigated a particularly crowded stretch, a strange thought, unbidden, flickered into her mind. What if I went with him? The idea was as sudden as it was perplexing. She, Tash Everground, the bedrock of The Copper Cactus, is leaving Dustfall? She’d never harboured a desire to leave, never felt the pull of the outside world. Yet, the thought resonated with a peculiar echo, a feeling she recognised from the battlefield—that inexplicable urge, that deep, almost primal instinct that had made her save Motley's life against all logic.

She continued, turning south, passing the back alleys of familiar residential homes. She pictured Motley beside her, his confusion in the cafe, his raw vulnerability when he admitted his amnesia. Her life had been predictable, comforting, but perhaps… a little too quiet. Motley, despite the danger he brought, had made it interesting, unpredictable. The desert, the journey, the unknown… it would be an adventure. He was healthier now, stronger than she expected, but still far from fully recovered. He'd need her help, her remedies, her practical mind in the wilderness. The pull intensified, a quiet yearning for something different.

Then, the cold reality of her life in Dustfall asserted itself. Leave Dustfall? For a long time, months, maybe years? Her cafe, her customers, her routines, her established life. The people here needed her, her healing, her coffee. She was the one constant, the one reliable source of comfort and aid. And Hugo would be with Motley; he was resourceful, capable. They'd be fine together. She'd give him supplies, of course, a generous store of her healing pastries and potent cactus juice, enough to sustain them through the first leg of their journey.

Tash finally reached the docks, the salty tang of the sea air biting at her nostrils, the rhythmic creak of moored ships a dull backdrop. She traced the final, critical steps towards the hidden gap beneath the docks, the one she and Zeb had discovered so many years ago. Why did I even think of going? The question echoed in her mind, confusing her. Did she like Motley? Was it the excitement of a journey? Did she truly want something different in her life? No, she concluded, her resolve hardening with the salty breeze. I will stay. Dustfall needs me.

Then, a sharp clatter. A glass bottle, knocked from a precarious perch, hit the stone, the sound echoing, painfully loud, in the cold night air. Tash froze. Behind her, Motley, with a large, supply-filled bag slung over his shoulder, was a statue of terror, utterly motionless. He was stiff, paralysed by fear. They were only a few minutes from his freedom; they couldn't get caught now.

Tash whirled around, light-footed and quick, her fear sharpening into desperate action. She rushed back to him, crouched low, and grabbed his hand, her fingers closing around his clammy skin. "Breath, Motley," she whispered, tugging him forward. "Relax. We are almost there." She felt his resistance, his sheer terror making him rigid.

Every second now was a lifetime. They were already behind schedule. Tash knew they only had a precious ten-minute window to use this particular hole. A guard would be making their way back soon. Maybe even sooner now with that bottle sound.

Tash could visually see Motley let out a long and soft sigh, his body instantly relaxing and his eyes now sharp. Tash smiled, impressed. This was what she liked about Motley: he could easily adapt in tense moments. She had seen this same thing while they worked. During their morning rush, Motley could easily get swept up in the chaos and start to make mistakes. But all it took was for him to stop, take a few seconds, and breathe. Afterwards, he became fluid like water, easily flowing through the motions. "I am ready. Let's go," Motley whispered back.

They continued their journey. The path under Tash and Motley turned from the packed dirt to the thick timber of the docks. The boards softly creaked under their weight. During the day, no one would hear the boards move, but in these minutes till midnight, anyone within a few dozen meters from them would hear. They had to be quick. They turned onto the main path of the dock. To their right was a line of stalls, usually manned by locals accepting merchandise shipped in, authorities checking all barrels and crates, and small inns for sailors. To their left were boats of all sizes, from small cargo vessels to larger transport ships, carrying both goods and people. Their destination was at the very end of this path, where the wall of Dustfall met the wooden docks. The further down this main path they went, the darker it became; boats and stalls became more and more sparse. Tash could feel Motley beside her, easily keeping pace with her.

Almost there, she thought, her heart starting to race, a smile crossing her face as she saw the edge of the dock looming ahead. They made it.

"Is this it?" Motley said between pants, his voice hushed.

"Yes, we made it," Tash whispered. They slowed as they reached their destination and walked side by side. It was an open area. The packed sand of Dustfall sloped down, underneath the dock, forming a natural walkway.

"Go down there," Tash said, indicating the walkway. "You'll see a gap in the wall that you can squeeze through. Zeb and I could easily both walk through that gap as kids." Tash could see Motley looking at her, his face and body just illuminated enough by the moonlight to reveal a wide smile.

"Thank you, Tash," he said, and then, without warning, he hugged her. It was the first time he had ever initiated such an intimate gesture. Tash was shocked for a second, feeling his solid, powerful body against hers. But she hugged back, her arms wrapping around his massive frame, barely touching each other on his broad back.

As they broke away from the hug, a voice, deep and resonant, broke the still night. It was Zeb's voice, a voice she had known her whole life.

"I knew it," Zeb said, his voice flat and grim.

Motley’s blood ran cold. He had felt it even before the voice reached them—a cold chill running over his skin, despite the still, unbreezy night at the docks, where, ironically, the air was supposed to always be in motion. But the voice itself, deep and resonant, confirmed his dread. They had been caught, and by the worst possible person. He had tried so hard to keep his distance from Zeb at the cafe, convincing himself that his absence would be less suspicious than his presence. Now, he replayed every interaction, every averted gaze. Could he have done anything differently? He thought not. His life had been a series of calculated risks since waking up with no memory.

Motley turned, watching Zeb emerge from the deep shadows of the wall. He moved with a grim purpose that sent a fresh shiver down Motley's spine. As Zeb approached, Motley's gaze locked onto his. The Captain was in his usual immaculate uniform, making Motley suspect he was on duty, posted here, waiting. It was obvious.

Zeb stopped a few paces away, then turned to face Tash, his jaw tight. "What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice a stern, low rumble.

Tash didn't respond. Motley looked at her, seeing her utterly terrified. Her jaw worked, silently, desperately, trying to produce words that wouldn't come.

"I know you are fleeing the city," Zeb added, his gaze snapping from Tash to Motley. His eyes were sharp, piercing, his fists clenched at his sides as he started to walk towards Motley, slowly, deliberately. "The only reason you would flee is if you are a tainted person, like I suspected." Zeb was furious, like a chained lion just waiting to burst from its bonds.

Motley did not back down. He couldn't. Not now. This was his chance, his only roadblock. "And you drag her into this," Zeb continued, “you put her in danger."

Zeb was now nose to nose with Motley, both unblinking, staring each other down. Tash watched on, paralysed, unable to move, unable to help.

"Please, resist," Zeb growled, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. "It would make retraining you a lot more satisfying."

Before Motley could retort, Zeb's hand flashed out, seizing Motley by the collar. Then, suddenly, as if a primal reaction to the impossible situation, Motley's heart instantly sped up, a frantic drumbeat in his chest. His tense body relaxed, muscles turning to fluid. His mind went utterly blank. The desperate cry from Tash dimmed, and the salty tang of the air vanished. All that broke through Motley's awareness were flashes of brutal reality: Zeb's fist narrowly missing his head; the sickening crunch of Motley's knee slamming into Zeb's cross guard, shielding his chest; the feel of warm blood, his own, running over his ear, then blackness.

Motley woke to a crushing weight on his back, pressing him hard against the ground. He could taste dirt on his lips, gritty and metallic. A blinding pain resonated from his reopened head wound, a relentless bell ringing through his skull. He could hear cries, raw and desperate. Tash. She was crying, yelling.

"Get off him! Please, Zeb! Please!"

Motley struggled, trying to free himself, but his arms were secured tightly behind his back. He was trapped. He couldn't escape. Hearthglow, so close, felt impossibly distant now.

"I thought I had knocked you out," Zeb choked out, his voice strained, then he spat blood onto the ground, narrowly missing Motley's face.

"Zeb, please. Why are you doing this?" Tash continued to beg, her voice breaking.

Motley struggled, trying to pull his arms free, kicking his legs, grasping for a moment to escape. The more he moved, the harder it became. He felt his body slowly becoming weaker, each futile twitch draining his remaining strength. Zeb's weight on his back pressed down like a stone slab, heavy and unyielding. His vision started to blur, darkness creeping in from the edges, slowly obscuring the gritty details of the dirt path underneath him.

He heard Tash continue to beg, her voice raw and desperate. Just run, Motley thought, a silent plea. It's too late for me. Tash's cries grew distant, muffled, like he was hearing her from behind a thick wall. The salty air of the docks faded from his senses, replaced by the warm, metallic tang of blood. He felt it trickle down his face, a viscous stream pooling around his nose and mouth, pressed hard against the cold, unforgiving ground. The world spun, sounds fading, colours blurring into an indistinct swirl. The feeling of the void, vast and silent, reached out, beckoning, and a strange, unsettling wave of nostalgia washed over him as it seized his soul. His struggles ceased, his limbs went limp, and he surrendered to the encroaching darkness.

The night air, once so still, exploded with the sound of flesh on flesh, grunts, and the harsh rasp of laboured breaths. Tash watched, paralysed, her mind screaming but her body frozen by the sheer, brutal efficiency of the fight. It was over as quickly as it began. Motley, a blur of unexpected speed, dodged Zeb’s initial, furious blows, weaving and striking with a ferocity that belied his injured state. He landed some hits, hard impacts that made Zeb grunt and stumble.

But Zeb was relentless. He pressed forward, a grim, determined force. Tash's breath hitched as she saw his fist connect. Not to Motley's body, but precisely to the gash on his head. Motley instantly collapsed, his massive frame folding onto the rough ground with a sickening thud. Zeb, now straddling his back, began securing his arms.

A wave of crushing despair washed over Tash, cold and absolute. It's over. Motley would die, and it was all because of Zeb. Tash felt a pang of bitter guilt, a sickening realisation that twisted in her gut. Zeb must have known. He must have read her, known this would be the best place for their escape. Their childhood games, their shared secrets of the city's hidden passages, had been used against them, against Motley.

She saw the exact moment Motley’s body became limp under Zeb’s weight, the life draining from him. It was heartbreaking, a sight that tore at her. It's over.

"Zeb, please. Why are you doing this?" Tash continued to beg, her voice breaking, but Zeb did not react. He was solely focused on Motley, his face grim but set with a disturbing satisfaction.

Tash watched him, a cold dread twisting in her stomach. He wasn't listening. He was pleased. Satisfied. She knew Zeb. She knew how that rigid focus, that hardened resolve, could consume him. She had to do something. There was still hope, a desperate, fragile thread. Maybe, just maybe, guilt would make him stop.

She slowly approached, her feet almost silent on the dusty ground, until she was directly behind him. "Are you only doing this because he's a power user?" Tash asked, trying her best to hide the tremble in her voice, but failing.

Zeb paused for a single, fractional second. "He is a danger to us. All tainted are," he stated, his voice flat, resolute. As he uttered the word "tainted," it sounded exactly like the President, carrying the same chilling venom, the same absolute conviction. It made Tash's skin crawl.

This was the moment. She had to risk it, not only for Motley's life but for Zeb's very soul. She could see the path, the dark, irreversible descent that lay before her childhood friend. If Zeb had a prominent hand in the public execution of Motley, there would be no turning back from that dark path. He would become corrupted, no, tainted by the President's influence, utterly lost to the rigid, brutal interpretation of the law. Tash reached out a trembling hand, her fingers finding his shoulder.

"Would you also do the same to me?" Tash whispered, her voice raw with a desperate plea that cut through the silence. "Would you allow the President to execute me?"

"What are you talking about?" Zeb spat back. He finally turned away from Motley, his gaze snapping to Tash. His features, usually hard, visibly softened as his eyes met hers, seeing her terror. "I will never let anything bad happen to you," he vowed, his voice low, earnest. "I can protect you. I can protect Dustfall."

Tash wanted to step back, to escape the intense scrutiny of his gaze. She felt so small under his unexpected tenderness. "If you allow Motley to be executed," she forced out, her voice trembling, "it will open the door to the same thing happening to others." The words hurt, a prophecy of dread she felt would surely come true.

Zeb's fist slowly balled at his side, his jaw clenching. Tash instinctively took a step back. "We have to set an example. Sacrifice one to save many. This is the way."

Sacrifice? Tash thought, a cold wave washing over her. This is wrong. The echoes of a forgotten past, of a similar sacrifice, a similar dark justification, resonated within her. The city she loved, the city she had always loved, had suffered this very way. This has to stop.

"If that is the way it has to be," Tash said, her voice trembling with a new resolve, "then take me in as well. I am a power user, just like Motley."

Zeb did not flinch. He did not waver. His face remained a mask of defiant authority, powerful and unyielding as he looked down at Tash. It was not the reaction she expected. He simply turned away from her, reaching down and grabbing Motley by his shirt collar.

"No, no! It can't end like this!" Tash raced over, her heart pounding. "You have to take me as well! If you want to execute Motley, you have to execute me as well! Do you want that, Zeb?" Tash was desperate, saying whatever she could, pleading, just to make him stop, to break through his corrupted duty.

Zeb started to pull Motley's lifeless body behind him. The sight was from a nightmare, a silent, terrifying tableau as Zeb marched towards a place Tash knew she could not follow. She had to stop this. Tash lunged forward, grabbing onto Zeb's free arm in a desperate attempt to halt his progress.

Suddenly, Tash's world blurred. A sharp, pounding pain ran up her side as she landed hard on the ground. She looked up, dazed, to see Zeb continue his relentless path away from her, dragging Motley's limp form. Tash pushed herself up with immense effort, her teeth gritting against the pain in her side. He was still in reach, she thought, a fragile thread of hope pulling her forward. She rushed, but two figures emerged from the shadows at her sides. Two guards. They grabbed her arms, their grip firm, halting her desperate charge.

Tash struggled, twisting and pulling against their hold, her desperation mounting. Zeb was still in sight, dragging Motley's body towards a waiting carriage. A guard stood by the door, opening it. The last thread of her hope started to fray. Was this the end? Tash kicked out, hitting the guard to her left. His grip wavered for a precious second, and Tash pulled her arm free. "Zeb, stop!" she screamed, her voice raw. But before she could gain any ground, the guard regained his grip on her arm, his fingers now painfully tight. She screamed again, a desperate, begging sound, pleading for someone, anyone, to intervene.

Motley was pulled into the carriage. Zeb walked forward and joined the driver at the front, his back ramrod straight; he did not look back. Tash's screams fell on deaf ears. The guard closed the door on the carriage with a dull thud, and the last thread of hope snapped. Tash went silent. The guards loosened their grips, allowing her body to fall limply. She collapsed to her knees, the pain in her side nothing compared to the desolation in her heart. She didn't know how long she stayed there; no more tears fell. A gentle warmth spread across her back as the sun started to rise, painting the sky with the promise of a new day, but it brought her no comfort. The guards were gone, replaced by merchants who began setting up their stalls, their morning routines a stark contrast to her shattered world. She vaguely remembered merchants coming up to her, their voices a concerned hum, asking if she was okay, but they eventually left as she did not respond. It was over. There was no more hope. No more reason to be here.