Book 1 Chapter 19: First Steps

Motley woke with a lightness he hadn't felt in... well, he couldn't remember. But this morning, there was no fear, no confusion. He felt refreshed, truly rested, and a genuine smile touched his lips—the first time he'd woken up feeling genuinely happy, excited. He knew this would likely be the last time in months he'd sleep on such a soft, kind bed, but even that thought couldn't dim his eagerness to begin.

He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, the familiar ache in his muscles now a mere whisper. He pulled on the clothes Tash had prepared the night before: a loose-fitting, long-sleeved tunic and long, sturdy trousers, all in practical, earthy tones. He'd questioned her choice of attire for the desert. "Why so much fabric in the heat?" he'd asked, his brow furrowed. Tash had simply looked at him with her usual pragmatic gaze. "Protection from the sun, Motley. That's far more important than a bit of warmth." She'd also found him a wide-brimmed hat and a length of woven cloth for a face scarf, explaining it would guard against both sun and the sand carried by the wind. He knew he'd need her help with the scarf; its unfamiliar folds seemed impossibly complex.

Fully dressed, he walked out of the room. The rich, earthy aroma of brewing coffee, tinged with a subtle sweetness, immediately hit his nose. Oh, I'll miss this smell, he thought, a pang of unexpected longing. He considered asking Tash if there was a way to bring some along, perhaps in a drinking pouch, a small luxury for the long road ahead.

Tash was already behind the coffee machine, her movements precise. This wasn't just any morning brew; it was their last coffee in Dustfall, a moment she wanted to savour. She took extra care, hand-picking the best beans from the batch, ensuring the grind was perfectly even and uniform. The weight of the grounds was measured meticulously—not too much, not too little. Most importantly, she tripled-checked the water temperature, imagining the disaster of burning their farewell coffee. Tash watched the golden-brown liquid slowly pull through the ground beans, a mesmerising cascade. It was like magic, the perfect thickness and colour making her lips part slightly in anticipation.

She heard Motley walk into the cafe, his footsteps light. "Good morning," he said, a wide smile on his face.

"It sure is," Tash replied, matching his smile. "Are you ready to taste my best coffee yet?" She presented him with a mug, its steam curling upward.

"Your best?" Motley asked, delicately taking the mug. He watched Tash take a sip, and her body seemed to instantly relax, all tension draining away. Her eyes grew round, and a wash of pure life seemed to bloom across her face.

Motley didn't want to wait a second longer. He took a sip himself. The rich, complex flavour exploded on his tongue, a wave of warmth spreading through his chest. It was unlike any coffee he'd ever tasted, yet deeply familiar, profoundly comforting. A strange energy surged through him. He suddenly felt younger, lighter, as if every ache and weariness had been meticulously erased. The lingering exhaustion from sleepless nights, the phantom soreness from Zeb's assault—all dissolved. He felt utterly new, invigorated, ready for anything.

"Can we please take your coffee machine with us?" Motley asked, knowing it was impossible, but a small part of him hoped Tash would appreciate the absurd remark.

Tash laughed, a clear, delighted sound. "I wish." She had considered it, not the whole setup, of course, but a way to make portable coffee, something small they could add to their water pouches for the journey.

Motley and Tash moved to a table and sat together, the warmth of their mugs a comforting anchor in the quiet cafe. They were waiting for Hugo, the last leg of their plan. "Are you ready?" Tash asked, her voice soft.

"Yes, I am. I don't believe I'm missing anything I haven't already packed." Motley took a sip of his coffee, then asked, "Are you?"

Tash took a few seconds to respond, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her mug. "I think so. I'm excited and nervous. It took me a long time to fall asleep last night because I was trying to work out these feelings." She looked up, her hazel eyes meeting his. "I guess I've done the same thing for so long, and now, my routine is unknown, unpredictable. That's what I'm nervous about."

"I know exactly how you feel," Motley said, a quiet understanding in his voice. "What I realised is that you just have to take the first step forward for the nervousness to fade away." He broke eye contact, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "You will have me... and Hugo," he added in a rush. "To help you on this journey."

Tash's eyes went soft, and a gentle smile touched her lips. "You are right. Thank you."

Motley didn't know why he had said that. You will have me. The words echoed in his head, sounding almost... creepy. Tash didn't need his help. But he felt it was the right thing to say. The way Tash described her feelings – the loss of routine, the unknown, the nervousness – mirrored how he'd felt almost every day since arriving here. Tash's steady support, her allowing him to adopt her routine, had helped him overcome that sense of chaos. And the books in his room had helped too. Those silent, understanding volumes had given him moments of calm, a way to escape his unknown future and dive into someone else's life for a few hours. He had read every book written by Tash's mum, Livia Everground. He had loved her stories – from her meticulous research to her diaries.

"I will miss the books in my room, though," Motley said, a genuine pang of loss. "Will they be safe while you're gone?"

"If there's no natural disaster, or if war doesn't break out within the walls, then they will be safe," Tash replied, a pragmatic edge to her voice.

"That's good," Motley said, relieved.

"If you think about it," Motley murmured, "we are going on one of the journeys your mum did." Her gaze met his, distant, filled with a sudden, profound realisation. "You are right." She said softly, almost to herself. "I wonder if she felt like I did before she left Dustfall, or if she ever was sad to leave us behind."

"Maybe, Motley," Tash said, a faint smile touching her lips. "We could continue her collection. Write about this." She gestured around the cafe, and then vaguely towards the vast unknown beyond Dustfall's walls.

Motley chuckled, appreciating her attempt to keep the mood light. "If anything exciting happens, sure."

The front door suddenly swung open, the bell chiming a bright, clear note. "Good morning, all!" Hugo's voice, in a sing-song tone, filled the cafe, his wide smile infectious. The subtle nervous undertone that had permeated the air, a constant companion to Tash and Motley, vanished with Hugo's vibrant arrival.

"Good morning," Tash and Motley echoed together.

"Would you like coffee?" Tash added as Hugo walked in and placed his large bag alongside theirs by the front door.

"No, thank you. I had tea a little while ago," Hugo replied, walking over and joining them at the table. "How are we all feeling this morning?"

"I'm excited," Motley said, his face alight with anticipation.

"As am I," Tash added, a genuine enthusiasm in her voice. "Are you all ready to leave?" Motley asked.

Hugo leaned back, his usual smirk firmly in place. "I am. I had a short meeting with the Inner Circle this morning. Some interesting information was presented to me." He glanced at Tash, a knowing glint in his eye.

Tash let out a soft sigh. "I'm not paying you anything."

Hugo chuckled. "I thought as much. And anyway, how can we continue your tab if you don't have a coffee machine?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "For old times' sake, I'll share what I know."

Hugo recounted the morning's emergency meeting, the hushed tones of his Inner Circle on the top floor of the Bumble Bar. They had pored over every rumour, every snippet of information, trying to decipher the President's inexplicable change of heart regarding Motley's execution. He told them how the consensus among his most trusted informants was clear: no one knew the true reason for the President's sudden reversal. They all suspected that the public declaration of Motley being "wrongfully convicted as a power user" was a meticulously crafted cover story, designed to maintain public faith in the President's infallibility.

"There was also a report concerning Zeb," Hugo continued, his voice hardening slightly. "He's been formally suspended from his position as Guard Captain for a month. The official reason is for the wrongful capture and pursuit of Motley." Hugo's gaze met Tash's. "The Circle believes this report, too, was produced to give the cover story more legs. Zeb is being used as a scapegoat for this sudden, unexplained change in plans."

"It's wrong that he's being used like that," Motley suddenly said, his voice flat.

Hugo and Tash looked at him in shock. "After everything he did to you, I thought you'd be happy to hear this," Tash asked, her brow furrowed.

"Well, he's being manipulated by the President," Motley replied. Tash still looked a bit shocked, but Hugo nodded, stroking his beard, considering this new perspective. Motley had spent hours replaying the events, the pieces slowly slotting into place. He thought about the President's power, the obvious fear and control he wants over Dustfall, and Zeb's position within Dustfall. He considered what happened when they first met and overheard Zeb for the first time. To Motley, it made sense at first, but after a while, Zeb's desire to capture and expose Motley became an addiction; it did not make sense at the time, and now, seeing the full picture, Zeb was being influenced.

"I believe that the President has a power to influence people. He was influencing Zeb," Motley stated. He leaned forward, his voice dropping, laced with a cold, simmering fury. "What he did was still wrong. I don't forgive him, not at all." His jaw clenched, a muscle working. "But... he's not fully to blame." The distinction was clear in his tone, a grudging acknowledgment of a larger evil, not an absolution for Zeb's actions.

"That does make sense," Hugo said, a new thoughtful expression on his face. "You're a smart kid. There's some potential for you to join my Inner Circle," he added with a wink, a hint of his usual charm returning. Motley chuckled.

Hugo explained the path they will take to their first stop and what they will do in that village. The crowd started to grow outside as Dustfall started to warm, chatter and the sounds of people walking about started to grow.

"The guards will be starting their morning rounds soon. We should go," Hugo said, standing up from the chair, the familiar urgency returning to his voice.

Hugo, Motley, and Tash grabbed their bags and stepped out into the bustling morning, joining the growing crowds already going about their usual day in Dustfall. Tash lagged behind, her gaze fixed on The Copper Cactus. It wasn't just her business, or even just her home. It was where she was born, where she was raised. It was where she discovered her love for fixing people. It was where her mother began her fantastic stories of the outside world, and where her father comforted her while her mother was away. It was where she first saved a life, and where she first felt a man die in her arms. It was where she made her first perfect coffee, and where she saw the first delighted look on a customer's face when they sipped at her brew. Tash let out a long, slow sigh, a final farewell, as she slowly turned and stepped outside. She closed the door behind her, the bell jingling a soft, mournful chime. She locked The Copper Cactus, its polished brass now reflecting only the empty street. She then joined Hugo and Motley, who waited for her, their figures already blending into the flowing tide of people.

"Let's go," Tash said in a quiet voice, and they walked on, leaving the cafe behind.

The trio walked through the streets, a river of bustling humanity flowing around them. "Good morning, Master Hugo!" "Morning, Tash!" calls and waves rippled through the crowd. Hugo returned every greeting with his characteristic warmth, his smirk firmly in place. Tash offered nods and smiles, her hand instinctively finding Motley's arm, guiding him. People's gazes lingered on Motley, the new face, the unmasked giant in their midst, offering more hesitant nods and quick, curious glances. Motley wasn't concerned. Their caution was natural.

He watched them, fascinated. Merchants, already setting up their stalls, meticulously arranged piles of gleaming metalwork, vibrant textiles, and fragrant spices, their voices a continuous hum of bartering and calls. Customers, rising early, already haggled over prices, their faces intent. Delivery drivers, guiding heavily laden donkeys or small, steam-powered carts, navigated the narrow lanes, orchestrating future shipments with quick, precise gestures. The whole city moved with a fluid, intricate rhythm, like a vast, well-oiled machine, every cog dependent on the next. It reminded Motley of working silently with Tash in The Copper Cactus, their tasks flowing, their movements synchronised. A deep satisfaction swelled within him as he realised Dustfall ran not on brute force, but on its citizens relying on each other, on a million small acts of cooperation and trust. This was a new feeling, a profound appreciation for the invisible threads that bound a community, a stark contrast to the singular, terrifying power of the President or the isolated brutality of the battlefield.

"We have one more stop to make before going to the gates," Hugo suddenly announced, pulling Motley from his quiet observation.

"Are we missing something we need?" Tash asked, ever pragmatic.

Hugo turned down a narrow alleyway, his smirk widening. Tash and Motley followed him into the cooler shadows. "You could say that. I have a surprise."

Tash looked ahead, her eyes tracing the familiar turns of the market district. Then, her gaze sharpened, and a flicker of realisation crossed her face. "We're going to Joric's smithy!" she exclaimed.

Hugo chuckled. "I can't keep anything from you for long, can I? You're right."

As they approached Joric's stall, Motley noticed three other people already there, engaged in casual conversation with the metal-smith. He recognised them instantly: Elara, the textile merchant; Kael, the baker; and Lyra, the ceramist—the very group of regulars who always occupied the stools at The Copper Cactus, and whose friendly rivalry had offered Motley a glimpse into Dustfall's quiet normalcy. They all turned as Hugo joined the four. "Good morning, Hugo," they said in turn, their voices a familiar chorus.

"Good morning," Hugo replied, his voice bright. "We're about to leave. Is it ready?"

Joric, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth, grinned. "Yes, it has just finished." He turned from them and faced Motley as he arrived beside Hugo.

"We have a gift for you," Hugo announced, his usual smirk softening into genuine warmth.

"A gift?" Motley responded, confusion warring with a flicker of surprise, looking from Hugo to the four merchants he now knew quite well. They all smiled at him, their expressions open and friendly.

Joric reached to his workbench and produced a dagger. It was unlike anything Motley had ever seen. His eyes went wide. The blade itself was forged from dark, polished steel, honed to an impossibly sharp edge, yet it possessed a subtle, almost organic curve, like a predator's claw. The hilt was wrapped in a strip of rich, indigo-dyed silk, intricately woven and surprisingly soft beneath his touch. Embedded near the pommel, a small, gleaming ceramic shard glowed with a faint, internal light, shaped like a tiny, perfect star. The pommel itself was a simple, yet elegant piece of petrified wood, its ancient grain visible, polished to a smooth finish. It felt balanced, a natural extension of his arm.

"The blade," Joric rumbled, a proud smile on his soot-smudged face, "is from my smithy. Forged from the finest Dustfall steel, folded a hundred times to give it strength that belies its weight. It won't fail you."

Elara stepped forward, gesturing to the hilt. "The silk binding is from my newest shipment. Hand-dyed and woven, strong enough to withstand years of use, soft enough to comfort your grip."

Kael, the baker, chuckled, pointing to the pommel. "And the wood? That's a petrified ancient pine. From my family's old trade routes, deep in the desert. It's solid, unyielding. For a man with no past, we thought a piece of true history might keep you grounded."

Lyra, the ceramist, smiled, her eyes twinkling. "And the star?" she added, gesturing to the gleaming shard. "That's my own. A small piece of hardened clay, painted and glazed. It won't break. To guide you home."

Motley was in utter shock. This was for me? The dagger was... just beautiful. He was hesitant to reach for it, half-expecting its exquisite craftsmanship to shatter under his touch. It looked far too expensive for him to wield, and he feared doing something wrong, somehow ruining their meticulous craft. Only one word touched his lips: "Why."

Elara was the first to speak. "We know about your journey, Motley," she said, her voice gentle, "and we wanted to gift you something that will be useful on your trip home."

"It can help you with preparing food in the desert," Kael added, a wide smile on his flour-dusted face.

"And defending yourself," Joric rumbled, his smithy-forged grin matching Kael's.

Motley slowly reached out for the dagger. Its weight shocked him; it was far lighter than he'd anticipated, yet it felt incredibly sturdy, perfectly balanced. His fingers closed around the silk-wrapped hilt, and it settled into his palm as if it had been made for his hand alone.

"This is the least that we could do for you, Motley," Lyra said, her voice soft. "You are one of us, after all."

Those words, "You are one of us," washed over Motley, sinking deep into his core. He looked up, his gaze sweeping over their faces—Elara, Joric, Kael, Lyra. They all smiled at him, their expressions open, genuine, and accepting. A small knot tightened in his stomach. From the first day he had started working for Tash, these four merchants had accepted him, included him in their banter, and made him feel welcome. For the first time since waking in Dustfall, he felt a tangible sense of loss. He would miss these four.

"You'll also need this," Tash said, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned to face her. She was kneeling on the ground, her open bag beside her. From within, she produced a leather sheath. It looked old, worn, the leather supple with age. "This was my mother's," she explained softly. "You can use it for your new dagger until we find something better."

Motley accepted the sheath, his fingers brushing hers. "Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He then looked to all of them, the circle of faces, the collective kindness. "Thank you, everyone."