Book 1 Chapter 17: The President's Visit

Motley came to with a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes, a familiar pulse of pain that eclipsed all other sensations. He lay on a cold, unyielding surface. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the gloom. He was in a cell. The air was thick with the stagnant smell of damp stone, stale desperation, and something faintly metallic. Above him, a low, vaulted ceiling of rough-hewn rock arched into the shadows, dripping moisture in slow, rhythmic plinks that echoed in the oppressive silence. A single, narrow slit of a window, high above, offered only a sliver of distant, muted light, too faint to illuminate the details of his confinement. The walls were solid, unforgiving blocks of stone, scarred with the passage of untold hands. To his left and right, he could make out the dark, tightly packed bars of neighbouring cells, and the distant, muffled sounds of other prisoners – a cough, a low groan, the faint clinking of unseen chains.

He remembered. Flashes of moments, stark and brutal, assaulted his mind: the cold fury in Zeb’s eyes, the bone-jarring impact of his knee against Zeb’s uniform, the raw pain in his head as Zeb’s fist connected with the gash above his right ear. He remembered the swift, crushing weight as he was forced to the ground, the taste of dirt on his lips, the sudden, terrifying blackness. He reached up, his fingers tentatively finding the fresh, clean bandaging around his head. A relief, but a small one. He felt weak, profoundly so, almost like he was back to square one, waking up in Tash’s trauma room for the first time.

His thoughts drifted to Tash. He remembered her cries, desperate and raw, pleading for him. Get off him! Please, Zeb! Please! The memory of her ferocity, her selflessness, sent a pang through him. He felt a profound guilt, a heavy shame, for the strange, perverse sense of happiness that had flickered within him, seeing her fight for his life. She was a good person, brave and loyal. He would miss her. He closed his eyes, letting the cold reality wash over him. There was no escape this time. No hidden passage, no sudden burst of power. His movements were slow, weighted, as if his muscles had given up all pretence of resistance. A strange, almost serene calm settled over him. It was over. He had tried. He had fought. And now, he accepted his fate.

Time stretched, an endless, silent void. Finally, a flicker of defiance stirred within him. He wouldn't simply lie there and wait. With immense effort, Motley pushed himself up. His muscles screamed, protesting the movement, but he persisted, slowly gaining his footing. He could stand up straight, a small mercy in his confinement, but the cell was tiny – only three steps to cross from the back wall to the grimy, cold bars at the front.

His eyes, slowly adjusting to the gloom, roamed over his new environment. He peered into the neighbouring cells, making out the forms of other prisoners, people he’d never seen before. Men and women, young and old, in varying states of health. Some looked relatively robust, their faces merely grim. Others were frail, their skin drawn tight against bony frames, almost like skeletons wrapped in parchment, their eyes sunken and distant. It was obvious some had been here for many, many years, left to waste away in the damp cold.

A soft scrape of movement came from the cell beside him. A voice, hoarse and weary, whispered, "What did they get you for?"

Motley looked over. Standing just behind the bars that separated their tiny confines was a blood-stained man. He was young, perhaps in his early twenties, but his face was a swollen, bruised mess. His eyes, though still clouded by pain and exhaustion, held a raw edge of defiance that hadn't been completely broken. He wore only torn, muddy military pants, his bare chest a canvas of purple and green contusions. He was a smaller man, noticeably shorter than Motley, his build lean where Motley's was broad and powerful. Even through the dim light and the bars, Motley could see the man's ribs starkly defined beneath his skin, hinting at days of starvation even before his capture.

Motley peered at the Solarian soldier, his mind racing. What should he share with this man? He could spill everything, every detail of his impossible situation, for he was going to die soon anyway; it wouldn't matter. But then, the thought of Dustfall, of Tash, flashed through his mind. Could his words, even from a cell, somehow impact the residents he would leave behind? Or this boy, little more than a man, so brutally beaten, might die before he ever spoke a word. Motley remained quiet for a second more. No. He would share some truths, a curated version. Having someone to talk to, even in this grim place, would be a small comfort.

Target: Mikey Galen. 

Age: 19. 

Race: Human. 

Power: No. 

Memories: None to access.

"I'm here for just being me, I guess," Motley finally responded, his voice low.

He heard a slight, pained chuckle come from the boy before he groaned, a raw sound of agony.

"My name is Mikey," Mikey said, his voice raspy. "I've been in here for two or three days. It's hard to keep track... or is it four by now?" A strained smile, almost a grimace, twisted his bruised lips. He crept closer to the bars separating them.

Motley's eyes, ever observant, noted the dark, torn fabric of Mikey's uniform pants. "Solarian," Motley whispered, the word a heavy realisation.

Mikey's smile instantly dropped, and he took a step back from the bars, a flash of fear replacing his weariness. Motley saw the resigned look in his eyes, the understanding that he'd been found out.

"My name is Motley," Motley quickly said, desperate to keep the fragile conversation from ending.

Mikey froze, then stepped forward again, his gaze sweeping up and down Motley's tall frame. "I've never seen you before," he said, confusion warring with caution in his bruised eyes.

"I get that a lot," Motley responded, a bitter humour in his tone.

"The Guard Captain," Mikey whispered, his voice dropping, "he thought I would know you by name. He did this," he added, indicating his swollen, discoloured face and bare chest, "trying to get information out of me about you."

Realisation, cold and sharp, crossed Motley's face. Zeb didn't buy his backstory at all. "I'm sorry that happened to you," Motley said, his voice low, wanting desperately to steer away from the dangerous topic.

"When are you getting out?" Motley asked, trying to change the subject.

Mikey looked from Motley, his gaze sweeping around his cramped cell. "I don't know," he mumbled, a strained smile returning. "But I feel this will be my home for a very long time."

Echoing steps suddenly broke the still air of the cell block. The sound made every prisoner freeze, their low murmurs dying out. The sudden, tense silence made Motley's skin prickle. He instinctively stepped back from the cold bars of his cell door. He noticed Mikey doing the same, shrinking into the corner of his own confinement. The footsteps grew closer, measured and deliberate, a chilling rhythm against the damp stone.

A shadowed figure approached Motley's cell, its silhouette gradually resolving into Assistant Guard Captain Hadal. He was unnervingly thin, his body almost skeletal beneath his impeccably clean uniform. His face was pale, almost translucent in the dim light, and deep, perpetual black bags hung beneath his eyes, giving him a perpetually weary, almost ghostly appearance. He moved with a quiet, efficient grace, his gaze unblinking as it swept over the row of cells, a stark contrast to Zeb's boisterous energy.

As Hadal stopped directly before Motley's cell, Motley's eyes fell on the scroll in the Assistant Guard Captain's hand. With slow, deliberate movements, Hadal uncoiled the parchment, its crisp rustle echoing in the sudden quiet of the cell block. His voice, when he spoke, was measured and calm, utterly devoid of emotion, a chilling contrast to the words he read.

"Motley Swin?" Hadal asked, his eyes lifting from the scroll to lock with Motley's, waiting for a response.

Motley instinctively nodded his head.

Hadal looked back down at the scroll and began to read, his voice clear and flat, each word a hammer blow against Motley's fragile hope:

"NOTICE OF PUBLIC EXECUTION: By order of the President of Dustfall. Be it known that Motley Swin, an unregistered outsider, has been found guilty of being a Tainted individual, a threat to the purity and safety of our esteemed city. Therefore, on this day, at sunset, he shall be conveyed by carriage to the President's estate and publicly executed before all loyal citizens, as a solemn statement against the corruption of power."

Hadal smoothly scrolled the notice back up, the slight rustle of parchment loud in the sudden silence. "Do you have any questions?" he asked, his voice measured and calm, utterly detached.

Motley tried to compose himself, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He knew this was going to happen; Tash and Hugo had warned him. But the cold, hard reality of the situation still weighed on him, heavy and suffocating. This was it. He was destined to die, and very soon. If he were going out, he would meet his executioner. He wanted to know who this man was. "Can I meet the President?" Motley asked, a thread of defiance, thin but distinct, weaving into his voice.

Hadal did not react to Motley's tone. He took a second, his pale eyes distant in thought. "I will try to arrange something for you. This is a unique situation, so there is no protocol to follow." Hadal, deciding the matter had concluded, moved to the cell beside Motley's. He looked into the cell and examined Mikey. Hadal, with an economy of motion, pocketed the scroll, then produced another with a pencil. He unrolled it and glanced over it, marking down some notes. He moved to the next cell, marking more notes. He continued his way down the cells, his footsteps echoing, slowly growing distant.

Mikey approached the bars, his eyes wide as he stared at Motley. "You are tainted?" he whispered, disbelief and a hint of terror in his voice.

Motley looked at him and nodded. "It's a part of why I'm here."

Motley and Mikey kept their conversation going for the next few hours, a fragile lifeline in the dim, cold cell block. Mikey was fascinated by Motley, his questions relentless: What could his power do? How did it feel to be tainted? What had he done with it? Motley, wary of revealing too much, politely but firmly refused to elaborate, keeping his unique ability and the dream cabin secret.

The conversation eventually lulled, and Motley, eager for any glimpse into the world beyond his amnesia, asked, "What is it like there, in Solara?"

Mikey was idly drawing circles in the dirt at his feet, lost in thought. He looked up from his doodling, a soft, wistful smile touching his bruised lips as he remembered home. "From the little I've seen, it's very different from here," he began, his voice taking on a melodic, almost reverent tone. "Imagine a city of soaring grey stone and polished iron, built into the side of a massive, black mountain that reaches to the sky. Not like Dustfall, all flat and sprawling. In Solara, everything climbs. The buildings are sharp, angular, catching the sun, and they glint with hundreds of thousands of steam-powered lamps, even during the day, making it always feel bright and alive."

He gestured vaguely. "The streets aren't packed dirt. They're paved with dark, smooth stone, wide and clean, always moving with columns of soldiers marching in perfect rhythm, their black uniforms stark against the grey. You hear the constant, rhythmic clang of smiths working with steam hammers, the distant shouts from training grounds. Even the air feels... crisp, somehow. Like metal and discipline." Mikey's smile widened. "And the sky, above the mountain, is always clear. You can see the stars even from the busiest plaza, and the twin moons shine so bright it almost feels like day."

Motley thought about this. It sounded like a formidable, powerful place. A nice place, in its structured way, far removed from the dusty chaos of Dustfall. "You were in the army, right?" Motley asked, making the connection to Mikey's uniform.

Mikey nodded. "Everyone born in Solara is required to go through the Training Academy. Then, they join the army for at least two years. It's how we serve our nation." His eyes held a flicker of pride. "I was in my first year. I enjoyed it. I made some good friends, and we were respected by the public. We were protectors."

The conversation died down again, the silence in the cell thick with unspoken thoughts. Motley's mind, restless, drifted from the President to Zeb, then to Tash and the cafe. He let out a sigh.

"I'm going to try and sleep for a bit," he said to Mikey. Mikey didn't respond.

Motley made his way to a single, thin mat in a back corner of his cell. The thing, rough and smelling faintly of stale material, was a small upgrade from the bare ground. He gently lowered himself onto it and stared up at the low, vaulted ceiling. Not long now, he thought. I wonder if Tash will be there? Surely she wouldn't be, and Hugo. He could be at the meeting point, waiting for him by now.

His thoughts drifted to the outside, to the vast desert beyond the city walls. Then, he thought about seeing the stars, the twin moons, remembering the moment he first woke up on the battlefield and saw the night sky. He saw again the thousands of tiny white stars in a deep black sky, an impossible number spread across the cosmic canvas like spilled diamonds. He found himself drawn to the thick, luminous clusters that swirled in the deep black, a strange, inexplicable sense of calm settling over him – a feeling of rightness he couldn't explain. He followed a flowing line of brighter stars, his gaze drifting across the vast expanse, until two faint crescent moons, barely more than slivers, drifted into his vision. Their slender arcs were like the ghostly smiles of twin blades, reflecting so little light that they only emphasised the profound darkness of the night. It calmed him. Motley felt himself slowly drifting off to sleep.

Zeb made his way down the stone stairs to the cells, a subtle perk in his step, a grim smile settling across his face. He had done it. Finally. The person who had plagued his thoughts, unsettled his city, and even disrupted his favourite cafe was caught. He was proud of the service he had rendered Dustfall. He reached the last cell, peering through the bars. Motley was there, curled up on a thin mat, looking pathetic, weak. Only two more hours until this was all over with.

This morning, Zeb had been tasked with overseeing the final preparations for the execution platform in the town square. He’d met the executioner, a man as grim and unyielding as the heavy oak of the scaffold itself. The executioner had brought his own axe, a massive steel blade that glinted wickedly even in the dim pre-dawn light. It was the sharpest tool Zeb had ever seen; he felt as though he could be cut just by staring at its polished edge for too long. Everything was ready.

When Zeb arrived back at the barracks, he’d been informed that Motley was to be transported directly to the President’s first meeting room in the tower, not the public square. A private transfer. Zeb felt a surge of grim satisfaction. He would be delighted to perform this task himself. He moved closer to the bars, his gaze hardening.

"Wake up, tainted," Zeb commanded, his voice low, looking down on Motley as he slept.

Motley startled awake, his eyes snapping open and locking onto Zeb. He saw the sudden shock in Motley’s gaze, then the narrowing of his own eyes, sharp and defiant. Still, after all I put you through, in a cell at my feet, you dare to give me that look, Zeb thought, a flame of anger burning away the joy he'd felt just moments ago.

"Get up, we are going," Zeb spat, unlocking the cell door and swinging it open with a loud clang. He watched Motley slowly push himself off the cold ground, his arms trembling under the strain. Zeb marched over, took one long step, and cocked his foot back. He aimed for Motley's ribs, exposed as the man tried to stand, then released. A sickening crack resonated through the cell as Zeb's foot impacted Motley's ribs. A choked groan escaped the pathetic man's lips, and the force rolled him over onto his back.

Zeb stood over him, looming. Grim satisfaction crossed his face as he watched Motley groan in pain, clutching at his ribs. He would etch this sight into his mind. Sadly, playtime was over. For all he wanted to spend hours down here, he didn't want the President to wait.

"Get the fuck up," Zeb yelled, still towering over the tainted thing that lay at his feet. Motley was not moving. Zeb snarled as he bent down and pulled Motley up onto his feet by his arm. The man cried out in pain as his torso stretched, pulling at his broken rib. Zeb hauled Motley out from his cell, his grip firm. "Stand!" Zeb demanded. "I am sick of dragging you around." Zeb waited, watching Motley right himself. He had stopped groaning, and as he stood up straight, Zeb saw the same look in his face, the same piercing eyes, and stoic resolve, like a coiled viper. What is wrong with him? Zeb thought. He's either stupid, stubborn, or… No, he was pathetic. "Walk," Zeb demanded, suddenly stepping behind Motley and shoving him forward, watching him stumble. Zeb smiled.

Zeb steered Motley through the thinning crowd, their pace quick but deliberate. The massive President's building loomed ahead, an imposing structure of polished black stone and gleaming brass, standing sentinel behind the very platform where Motley's public test was to occur. A few early onlookers, drawn by the unusual activity, were already gathered in the courtyard, their hushed whispers barely audible. The carriage came to a stop at the grand front door.

Zeb exited first, his movements crisp, then waited for Motley. The prisoner's arms and legs were now shackled, heavy iron cuffs binding his wrists and ankles, clinking softly with every shift. Zeb had personally ensured it; he couldn't risk the "special guest" fleeing before tonight's show. Motley stumbled out from the carriage, his powerful frame struggling with the unaccustomed restraints, his earlier defiance replaced by a weary grimace. Zeb stood there, unmoving, watching him struggle, a silent, grim satisfaction on his face.

The front door slowly parted. A young woman, impeccably dressed in a flowing, midnight-blue gown, stood in the doorway, her smile serene. "Hello, Zeb," she said, her voice like chimes, "The President is waiting for you two."

"Thank you," Zeb replied, his voice clipped. He reached out, his hand closing around Motley's shackled arm, seizing it tight. With a firm tug, he propelled Motley forward, guiding him through the grand entrance and into the opulent silence of the President's hall.

Motley stumbled through the grand entrance of the President's building, every jarring step sending fresh waves of agony through him. His head still throbbed, a dull, relentless drumbeat behind his eyes. His ribs, a constant pulse of sharp, fiery pain, made each breath a shallow, agonising effort. But even the searing discomfort couldn't distract him from what he was seeing.

He was in a space designed to humble. Polished marble floors stretched endlessly, reflecting the soft glow of unseen steam-powered lamps in the cool, silent air. Ornate tapestries depicting stern-faced founders and dramatic historical battles hung from soaring, gilded walls. Velvet ropes guided paths past imposing statues, their cold eyes seeming to follow him. He was shackled, still wearing the dirty, blood-stained, sweat-soaked clothes from last night's brutal encounter, and the young, beautiful woman who had greeted them at the door had given him a look of polite revulsion that spoke volumes. He knew he must reek of grime and despair. He did not belong here.

He followed Zeb, the Captain's grip on his arm like a vice, deeper into the opulent silence. They passed a massive glass window, and Motley couldn't help but look out. Below, in the vast courtyard, people were already gathering around the raised wooden platform. His stomach twisted. He saw the executioner standing there, a grim silhouette, a massive axe resting beside him. The sight sent a cold wave of nausea through him.

"You are about to meet the President," Zeb's voice rumbled from beside him, cutting through the rising panic. "If you don't show him respect, I will break a few more ribs." Motley heard the grim satisfaction in Zeb's words, a promise of pain. But he clenched his jaw. He had a plan, a desperate, internal resolve. He would not give Zeb the upper hand. He knew Zeb wanted authority over him, wanted him to break, but Motley would never give him that. He would offer no weakness.

They reached a set of large, double white doors, with an etched sign on the wooden frame reading 'Meeting Room One'. Zeb knocked once. "Come in, Zeb," a voice sounded from within. It was the President.

Zeb pushed open the heavy double doors, and Motley stumbled into the President's meeting room. It was a room far larger than Motley had expected, easily the size of Tash's entire cafe. A long, polished table stretched across the centre, large enough to seat a few dozen people. But only one figure occupied the vast space. The President sat at the head of the table, a monumental painting of his cloaked self looming on the wall behind him. He was draped in his usual voluminous robe, his face a shadowed, impenetrable darkness beneath the cowl.

Motley’s eyes instantly fell on the hooded figure. This was it. The man with the chilling voice, the ruthless power. He had to know. He focused, his mind reaching out, pushing his Chronos Eye to activate. He stared at the face hidden in shadow, concentrating with all his might. Nothing. An immense frustration welled within him. His plan, his desperate hope of discovering the President's identity and power, was ruined by a simple cloak. Why isn't it working? he thought, his mind racing. The merchants… Zeb… Hugo… He replayed each time he had used his power, a slow-motion cascade of moments. His eyes widened slightly. Eye contact. That was it. He needed to see their eyes. The realisation hit him with a cold certainty. The President's concealed face was not just a show of authority; it was an impenetrable shield against anyone who would dare to look.

Zeb closed the doors behind them, the soft click echoing in the cavernous silence, and stood rigidly beside Motley. The President indicated two chairs at the far end of the table with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Sit," he commanded.

Zeb walked forward, pulling Motley along by the arm. Zeb's gaze was fixed on the chairs, but Motley's never left the President. He could feel the President's eyes, sharp and dissecting, measuring him as he stumbled, shackled and bruised, behind Zeb.

"You requested to talk with me, Motley?" the President asked, his voice resonating with an unnatural clarity. "But you are here because I want you here," he added, before Motley could even begin to respond. "I will be asking you some questions, and you will answer only when I want you to, and of course... You will answer with the truth." The President's voice dropped, becoming a low, dangerous command. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," Motley responded, his voice filled with a defiance and confidence he didn't know he possessed. He felt Zeb's gaze, a palpable heat of surprise or disapproval, on him.

"You are tainted, yes?" the President asked, his voice flat.

"I am a power user," Motley corrected, his gaze unwavering.

"What is the name of your power?" the President demanded.

This is a problem. Motley's mind raced. He had to keep this a secret from as many people as possible. From his limited experience, most power names were skills, self-explanatory: Tash's Alchemy, Hugo's Communication, Zeb's Unarmed Combat. He had never met anyone with a power named after a person, especially not a figure like Chronos, a myth used to scare children. What could happen if someone as influential as the President found out about his power's name? He couldn't lie.

"Don't you dare lie to me now, and answer." The President's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp as a blade. Motley's heart stopped. A deep chill ran through his body, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air. He felt a profound shift in his mind, not a command but a gentle, insidious suggestion. Tell him the truth. It's the only path to safety. The words were not his own, yet they resonated with an irresistible logic. They offered a warm comfort, a promise of peace that settled over his panic. He could fight it, yes, but why? It felt so right, so natural, to simply comply. His will did not abandon him; it was subtly, expertly guided. He let his lips part, the name forming on his tongue, a willing confession.

"Chronos Eye."