Book 1 Chapter 2: Recognition

The door clicked shut, plunging Motley's world into silence and a sudden, terrifying darkness. Tash was gone. Oh shit. What have I done? The thought echoed in his mind, sharp and accusing. He was alone again, left with nothing but the chilling word she'd just uttered: "Amnesia."

His mind raced, a frantic, desperate search through an empty house. Amnesia. The word felt cold, sterile, but the reality was a suffocating void. He didn't just not remember what happened; he didn't remember who he was. No face, no name, no past beyond the nightmare of the battlefield. Why would Tash ask if he'd hurt her? Why did his body just move like that, ready to strike, without conscious thought? Was this amnesia the explanation for it all? Or was it just an excuse?

Panic began to coil in his gut, a tight, sickening knot. It wasn't the raw, animal fear of the battlefield, but a deeper, existential dread. He tried to fight it, to latch onto anything familiar. He ran through the basic facts Tash had given him: Dustfall, trade city, safe as long as he didn't stir trouble. But the details felt like words spoken in a foreign tongue. He wasn't a citizen. He was a stranger. And now, he was a stranger without a past, utterly adrift. A profound sense of vulnerability washed over him, a crushing weight of helplessness. He was broken, shattered, and Tash, his only link to this new reality, had just left him.

His mind latched onto the last words she'd spoken, a lifeline in the swirling chaos. "Motley is your name, it is stitched on the front of your shirt." Motley. The word, a foreign sound just moments before, now resonated with a strange, undeniable truth. Motley. He repeated it internally, over and over, letting the sound settle in his mind, a singular, undeniable fact in a sea of unknowns. Motley. Motley. Motley. The repetition became a balm, slowly, steadily calming the frantic beat of his heart. It was a single, sturdy anchor in his personal storm.

As the panic subsided, replaced by a dull ache of disorientation, he finally looked around the room. It was surprisingly basic, starkly utilitarian. The walls were a plain, unadorned plaster, rough to the eye. The only furniture, besides the soft bed he lay on, was a simple wooden stool positioned beside him – the very seat Tash had occupied when he'd first awakened. Against one wall, a tall bookcase dominated the space, filled to overflowing. Some volumes were rough-looking, their covers of hand-cut leather hinting at ancient origins and handwritten pages. Others were professionally printed, their spines neat and uniform, a jumble of practical knowledge and forgotten lore.

Motley’s eyes focused on the spines of the books, pointing out towards him. He faintly noticed a name written on the spines, some handwritten and some printed. Motley tried reading the name on the book closest to him, but the words were too far away to make sense of. Even though, from this distance, they were a jumble of lines, Motley was certain that each spine was branded with the same name. Motley gave up on his quest to uncover the mysterious author, and his focus rested back on his situation. What am I going to do now? Motley took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. He took a few seconds to organise his thoughts. Can I stay here with Tash? Was I allowed to? If not, where would I go?

Tash followed Hugo into the back of his stall, stepping from the sun-baked chaos of the market into a surprisingly vast, dim space. A canvas roof, stretched taut between massive timber poles, billowed gently overhead, muting the din of the city. The area was easily triple the size of her entire cafe, and nearly sixty percent of it was crammed with towering stacks of crates, shelves laden with bolts of fabric, barrels of spices, and countless other goods she couldn't immediately identify in the dim light. The air here was heavy with the scent of burlap, exotic woods, and dried fruit.

In the centre of a cleared circle, a round wooden table sat, flanked by four simple chairs. A large oil lamp cast a warm, flickering glow over its surface, illuminating an assortment of cups, a jug of wine, and a woven bowl brimming with dried fruit, nuts, and flatbread.

Hugo gestured to one of the chairs, then settled into his own, his smile unwavering. The light glinted off his gold-rimmed glasses, making his intelligent eyes seem even sharper. He took a sip of wine, his gaze unwavering as he met Tash's.

"Before we begin, my dear Tash," Hugo started, his voice shifting, losing its playful edge and adopting a formal, almost theatrical cadence, "we must observe protocol. All words, gestures, and suggestions made from this moment, until you leave this room, can and will be used as monetary goods by The Hugo Corp without your permission. No threats or powers will be used to force information out of you, with or without your permission. If you agree that no words can be unsaid during this meeting, observed only by mighty Chronos himself, please say 'agree.'"

Tash leaned back in her chair, a faint smile playing on her lips. She had heard this exact preamble hundreds of times over the years. It was Hugo's standard verbal contract, a meticulous, utterly binding ritual that had cemented his reputation as Dustfall's most reliable, albeit expensive, information broker. She waited patiently for the familiar cadence to finish, then, without a hint of tension or boredom, simply stated, "Agree."

"What do you know about the ranking system of the Solarian Army?" Tash asked, her voice cutting straight to the point, devoid of hesitation. She leaned forward slightly, her hazel eyes fixed on Hugo's.

Hugo picked up a single dried fig from the woven bowl, his fingers deftly pulling it apart as he considered her question. "The Solarian military, for all its aggression, is quite traditional in structure. Not unlike our own Faph Army, in essence." He popped the fig into his mouth, chewing slowly. "You have your common foot soldiers, of course. No authority beyond their immediate orders." He paused, taking a sip of wine from his cup. "Then, above them, the Legionnaires. They oversee tactics during a battle, direct smaller units." He set his cup down with a soft clink. "And then there are the Strategos. They command the entire battlefront, making the major strategic calls. They're usually only found at the heart of the conflict."

Hugo leaned back, a familiar knowing smile playing on his lips. "Above them, only a handful of High Commanders exist. They report directly to the Solarian generals who manage the army's overall operations. These High Commanders usually stay in the headquarters, relaying critical feedback to the Captain—the one in charge of all personnel and grand strategy, answerable only to the Solarian President itself."

Tash made no immediate response. Her gaze dropped, and her right hand instinctively drifted to her pocket, her fingers brushing against the cool, hard metal of the badge she'd placed there. Hugo's intelligent eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine intrigue crossing his face as he observed her quiet action.

Slowly, deliberately, Tash drew the silver badge from her pocket. The polished metal caught the soft lamplight, throwing back an ethereal, almost living gleam across the wooden table. It seemed to shimmer even in the still air of the room, drawing the eye with an unnatural brilliance. With steady fingers, she placed it in the centre of the table between them, the snarling wolf and the intricate pine forest seemingly pulsing under Hugo's startled gaze.

"Do any of those ranks," Tash asked, her voice low, "wear a badge... like this?"

Hugo didn't answer immediately. His eyes, usually so calculating and composed, went wide with undisguised glee. His hand, reaching for another piece of dried fruit, froze mid-air. He leaned forward, utterly mesmerised by the object, his face paling slightly. "Tash," he whispered, his voice hushed, almost strained. "Are you... Are you feeling quite alright?"

Tash blinked, confused by the sudden, bizarre question. "Of course, I am Hugo. Why—"

Before she could finish, Hugo cut her off, his eyes still fixed on the badge. "There's... there's a strong magical aura coming off this. A very strong one. It's almost singing."

Tash’s gaze snapped back to the badge. The unnatural shine she'd dismissed on the battlefield, the invisible light she'd noticed in the storage room – it all clicked into place. Not just craftsmanship. Not just rare metal. Magic.

Hugo’s eyes, still wide with a mix of shock and avarice, darted from the badge to Tash’s face. "Where... where did you find something like this, Tash?" His breath hitched, and his gaze snapped back to the badge, then instantly back to her. "The recent battlefield? Was it there?"

Tash met his questioning gaze, her features unreadable as she measured him. For a few long seconds, a heavy silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant murmur of the market. Tash cupped her hands together on the table, her fingers interlacing, her mind working furiously. Could he truly be trusted with this? With what she was about to reveal?

Suddenly, Tash pushed back her chair, the legs scraping loudly on the packed earth floor. She stood, a flicker of raw decision in her eyes, then hurried to the exit of the stall. Her hand reached for the canvas flap, but then, just as quickly, she spun around and strode back, taking her seat directly across from Hugo.

"The verbal contract," Tash stated, her voice low and strained, "is no longer valid."

Hugo, sharp as ever, instantly understood the implication. His face, which had hardened with renewed calculation, softened with a dawning comprehension. He knew Tash. He knew the weight of what she was about to do. "Wait, Tash," he said, holding up a hand, his tone unusually gentle. "Please. Whatever it is, I can see it’s important. Information of this magnitude, the kind you’re about to share... I could sell it to someone very important.” Hugo said with a rush, then thought to himself, perhaps even the President. 

Tash leaned forward, her voice a desperate, almost frightened whisper. "Wait, Hugo, please. I want to talk to a friend now, not a businessman. Please. This has to stay between us."

Hugo saw the raw, pleading desperation in her eyes, a look that rarely broke through Tash's stoic facade. It touched a part of him that almost no one ever reached anymore, a distant echo of the idealism that had first drawn him to the business of information – the desire to help, to connect, to understand. He met her gaze, his own eyes unwavering. "Of course, Tash," he said, his voice surprisingly firm. "This is off the books. It stays between us, no matter the price."

Tash took a deep, shuddering breath, the tension that had coiled in her gut for hours slowly beginning to unravel. "I found him on the battlefield, Hugo." Her voice was low, raw with the memory. She recounted the horror of the imploded siege engine, the agonising mercy she'd given to the dying, and then, the impossible gleam of the silver badge that had drawn her to Motley. "He was wearing a Solarian army uniform," she confessed, the words tasting bitter. "Black as midnight. He was an enemy."

She described the brutal injuries, the gash on his head, and the countless hours she'd spent in her trauma room, fighting for his life. "He almost died, Hugo. Twice. I poured every remedy I had, every resource I could spare, into him. It took everything." Her gaze drifted, lost in the grim memory. "I don't know why. I found myself caring for him. An enemy. A soldier from their army. It made no sense." She was usually so pragmatic, so clinical, but with Motley, something had shifted, pulling her beyond her usual boundaries.

Her eyes met Hugo's, a flicker of that raw fear returning. "And then, last night… When I went to show him his uniform, he was sitting up. His eyes, Hugo, were cold. Piercing. Like nothing I've ever seen outside of a seasoned killer." She shivered despite herself. "He was ready to attack. He froze me. I thought I was dead. And then… just like that, the look was gone. He was just a confused, broken man again."

Hugo remained utterly silent throughout her confession, his usual calculating demeanour replaced by a solemn stillness. He watched Tash's face, his gaze empathetic, understanding that these weren't just facts she was relaying, but a torrent of deeply unsettling experiences she needed to vocalise. This wasn't a transaction; it was a release, a heavy theory session where she was trying to make sense of the chaos in her mind.

A full minute passed after Tash finished speaking, the silence in the backroom thick with the weight of her words. Hugo finally broke it, his voice quiet. "Where is he now?"

Tash let out a quick, almost disbelieving chuckle. "Still at my cafe. Recovering." The absurdity of it, the colossal risk she'd taken, hung in the air.

Hugo's solemn stillness fractured. His intelligent eyes, which had been empathetic moments before, widened with a fresh wave of shock and concern. "Still there?" he echoed, his voice rising, a sharp edge of alarm cutting through the quiet. He pushed forward, leaning over the table, his usual composure shattered. "Tash, why is he still living in the same building as you?" His gaze darted to the closed canvas flap of the stall, as if the monster she described might appear at any moment. "He's too dangerous, Tash. Not just to the city, but to you. To your life." The genuine fear for her safety was palpable, overriding his usual cool calculations.

Tash held his gaze, her expression resolute. "He's in a weak state, Hugo. A profoundly weak state, even a monster is harmless when it is as close to death as Motley. If I had simply dropped him back out into the desert right now, he would die within a few days." 

Hugo studied her, the raw conviction in her hazel eyes. He saw the blend of her healing instinct and that strange, almost protective bond she'd confessed to. His shoulders, which had tensed with alarm, slowly sagged in resignation. A long breath escaped him. He trusted Tash, trusted her judgment, even when it defied common sense. The concern in his eyes softened, not vanishing entirely, but receding behind a familiar glint of practicality and, then, pure opportunism.

His usual smile slowly turned into a cunning smirk, not quite avarice, but the unmistakable flicker of a brilliant idea taking root. He leaned back in his chair, picking up another dried fruit from the woven bowl. "Well then," he mused, his voice regaining its usual playful cadence. "If he's no immediate threat, and you're the only one who can patch him up properly..." He popped the fruit into his mouth, his smile widening. "It only makes sense. He stays here, with you, until he's fully healed. And," he added, a distinct gleam entering his eyes, "once he's on his feet, healthy, and perhaps even a little grateful, we can question him. An obvious high-ranking Solarian like him... the inside information we could glean about their army... about their strategies..." He chuckled, a low, self-aware sound. "He could be a valuable asset to me, I mean, to us. Very lucrative."

Tash looked at him, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. The absurdity of it, Hugo's thinly veiled profit motive mixed with a strange, undeniable logic, brought a moment of levity to the grim situation. "I suppose he could," she conceded, the faint smile remaining. The decision was made. Motley would stay.