Book 1 Chapter 9: Uncovered Echoes
The cool dimness of the medical room settled around Motley. Tash, her movements quiet and efficient, moved about the space, preparing instruments and remedies. She didn’t speak, giving him the unspoken permission to process the turbulent day. His gaze, however, remained fixed on the silver badge, now resting on the small wooden chest at the foot of his bed.
He reached out, his fingers tracing its exquisite detail. The snarling wolf, the dense pine forest—every line was a testament to masterful craftsmanship. But it was the unnatural shine that truly held his attention. Even in the room's low light, the silver pulsed with an inner luminescence, a faint, ethereal glow that defied the darkness. It was unlike any gleam he'd ever seen, too steady, too alive for mere metal. A profound certainty settled in his gut: this badge wasn't just metal; it was something else entirely.
"The shine," Motley murmured, his voice hushed, looking up at Tash. "What is it?"
Tash paused, her hand hovering over a vial of clear liquid. She glanced at the badge, then back at Motley, a subtle shift in her hazel eyes. "Hugo and I spoke about this," she began, her voice dropping to a whisper for a single word. "Powers," she breathed, then continued at her normal volume, "some people can imbue items with magical properties. This badge has that shine as a result. For all we know, the properties could just be the shine." She offered a small, dismissive shrug, though her gaze lingered on the badge for a moment longer than necessary.
Tash's eyes settled on Motley, watching him. His gaze was fixed on the badge, unblinking, lost in an intense scrutiny. Her heart hammered a nervous rhythm against her ribs.
"Anything?" she asked, her voice tight with a suppressed anxiety, waiting for his response.
Motley let out a slow sigh, the sound heavy with disappointment. He rubbed his weary eyes, finally tearing his gaze from the badge. "No," he murmured, shaking his head.
Tash slumped, the tension draining from her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Motley." She stood, pulling the wooden stool closer to the bed and sitting beside him. "Maybe we could stop for the night. And in the morning, perhaps some memories will resurface."
"Maybe," Motley replied, the word flat, defeated. He picked up the badge again, turning it over in his fingers. "There was something about this badge that drew me in instantly when I saw it. I was excited to learn it was mine."
Tash paused, choosing her words carefully. "Me too," she admitted softly, looking at the gleaming silver. "I also felt a draw to this badge, and so did Hugo." She glanced at Motley, her hazel eyes serious. "I don't want to deny the possibility, but that draw... it could just be the magic inside it."
Silence settled between them, heavy and lingering. Tash shifted, feeling a prickle of awkwardness. "I can leave the badge with you for a few days," she began, her voice tentative, "but after—" She paused, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as she weighed whether this was the right moment to ask him about its sale.
Motley noticed her hesitation, his mind replaying the fragments of the conversation he'd overheard between her and Hugo just hours ago. He knew what she was trying to ask. "I don't think this badge will resurface any memories," he said, his voice quiet. He glanced at the gleaming silver, then back at Tash. "Sure, it is a beautiful badge, but it has no value to me at the moment. Please, you don't have to ask my permission to sell it. And," he added, his gaze softening, "I don't feel any... anger towards you for selling my badge."
He stood up, the movement fluid despite his recent injuries, and walked to the bookshelf. He gently placed the badge onto the shelf beside a leather-bound volume. His eyes scanned the spines of the other books, noting the mixture of rough, handcrafted covers and professionally printed ones. He turned back to Tash, a hopeful question in his eyes. "Is it okay if I read some of these?"
Tash stood up with him, her eyes roaming over the books. As Motley's gaze settled on the single, worn book titled A Mother's Gentle Alchemy, Tash's world shimmered and fractured, pulling her into the past.
She was there, in her mother's study, the scent of parchment and warm oil lamps heavy in the air. She saw the older woman, her mother, head bent over a rough-hewn table, a quill scratching tirelessly across the page of a handmade book. Hour after hour, Livia wrote, meticulously noting down her research, her discoveries, her warnings, for the generations to remember. Tash felt the familiar warmth of pride swell in her chest.
Then, the vision shifted, darkening. Tash remembered nights spent huddled by that same table after her mother was gone, silent tears blurring the handwritten words. Her small fingers, barely able to span the large pages, traced the familiar loops and curves of her mother's script, not focused on the words themselves, but on the ghost of the hands that had written them. Each trace was a plea, a desperate attempt to reconnect, to understand the void her mother had left.
The raw grief from those nights, the profound sense of loss, pierced her even now. But as her feet carried her closer to the bookshelf, past the threshold of the trauma room and into the cafe's main area, the memories solidified, gaining a new, empowering clarity. This wasn't just sorrow. These books, filled with her mother's knowledge, with her dedication, had shaped Tash into the healer she was today. They were a legacy. A reason. A connection across time. She loved these books, fiercely. They were her mother, still guiding her, still making her the person she was now.
Tash snapped back to the present, standing beside Motley, her eyes fixed on the bookshelf, but seeing it with new, emboldened purpose. "Please, feel free to," she said, her voice soft but firm, a deep conviction settling over her. "I would recommend you start with these." She reached out, her finger tracing the spines of the hand-written books—a series with the same name, followed by numerical numbers indicating their position in the long collection. Motley's eyes moved to the one on the far left, on the second row from the top: Chronos, The Bringer Of Change by Livia Everground.
"Your mum wrote these books, right?" Motley asked, his voice low, his gaze meeting hers.
Tash's eyes still lingered on the books, a private world unfolding within them. Her hands slowly, gently reached out to touch their worn spines, tracing the raised letters. "Yeah," she murmured, her voice distant, lost in memory. "She would disappear for months and months on end. Then, when she returned home, she would write a new book." Tash remained lost in thought for a good minute or two, the quiet hum of the distant cafe the only sound between them. Motley opened his mouth, wanting to ask a question, but he believed he wouldn't get an answer, so he kept silent.
"Okay," Tash suddenly said, her voice cutting through the silence, void of any emotion, yet not sharp or loud. She turned to face Motley. For the first time, he saw small tears glistening in the corners of her eyes, but the emotions had already left her face, leaving it perfectly stoic. She held up one finger. "One, these books do not leave this room." Before Motley could respond, a second finger joined the first. "Two, if I find even one tear, one smudge, one book missing, or one crease in a page, you are a dead man." Her voice remained flat, yet the threat was chillingly clear. Then, a third finger joined the other two. "Three, this rule is more important than the first two." Motley's eyes widened, wondering what could possibly be more crucial. A small smile, almost imperceptible, appeared on her face. "Don't you dare tell Hugo anything you learn in these books."
Motley's face softened, and he smiled. The joke about Hugo's insatiable greed, often a playful jab between him and Tash, was suddenly clear. It was a moment of lightness amidst the heavy revelations.
"I think a little bit of history would be a good start," Tash said, turning back to the bookshelf. Her movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as she reached for the handwritten books. She pulled out the one she'd mentioned, a surprisingly thin volume, its leather cover worn smooth with age. Motley had noticed that each book in this particular series was notably slimmer than the professionally printed ones, almost like journals. Tash handled it with extreme care, as if it were spun glass. She gently handed it to Motley, revealing its full title: Chronos, The Bringer Of Change, Volume 1 by Livia Everground.
"Don't stay up too late reading," Tash called over her shoulder, already walking out of the trauma room. "We have work in the morning."
"Thank you," Motley said, the words sincere, calling after her as the door clicked softly shut, leaving him alone with the silent book and the promise of a hidden past.
Motley then sat on his bed, the excitement of understanding something new about this world clear in his eyes. He opened the book, turning the first aged page. Its corners were worn smooth, the paper itself brittle, yet there was no dust, no sign of neglect. These books were old, older than Motley could possibly imagine, but they were not forgotten by time. He saw the elegant, handwritten, cursive writing that filled the page. A small, carefully penned paragraph was placed in the very center of the first page.
His eyes scanned the words, and a voice, ancient and echoing, seemed to whisper from the brittle paper:
"To thee, seeker of wisdom, who dares to turn these hallowed pages. Know that within these humble bindings lies not merely ink upon parchment, but the very essence of a truth long twisted. Herein shall unfold the chronicle of Chronos, once a man amongst men, gifted with a light he wielded for a golden age. Yet, that light, born of power, held within it the shadow of destruction—a seed of chaos overlooked by all, until it blossomed into the very doom that reshaped our world. Observe, learn, and remember, lest the tapestry of time unravel once more."
Motley turned the page, then another, devouring the words. Livia's account spoke of a time when powers were not just accepted but celebrated, used to advance civilization. She meticulously detailed Chronos's initial rise not as a destructive force, but as a revered figure, a bringer of incredible advancements. He learned that Chronos was once perceived as a benevolent genius, using his unique mastery over time to innovate, to accelerate growth, perhaps even to stabilize the natural order of things. The text described how society had initially embraced these powerful individuals, marveling at their gifts, blindly trusting in their "light." But Livia, even in her seemingly reverent tone, hinted at the subtle shifts, the ignored warnings, the very "seed of chaos overlooked" that led to the eventual cataclysm. Motley read about how people had initially focused only on the immediate benefits of Chronos's gifts, ignoring the potential for unforeseen consequences or darker applications of such immense power.
Motley read on, utterly absorbed, the hours melting away as the room grew dark around him.
The feeling was immediate, intense, unlike anything Motley had ever experienced. The very first book he'd ever truly read was opening up a world of questions and, potentially, answers. Chronos. The name of his mysterious power, the name spoken by the skull, now belonged to a figure from history. Was his power named after him, or was the ancient figure a manifestation of the power itself? His mind reeled with the possibilities, questions tumbling over each other, desperately wanting to understand, to learn, to grow, to dispel the haze of uncertainty that clouded his eyes. He gently turned the page, the action seeming to go in slow motion to his racing mind, his fingers light on the brittle paper. His eyes widened at the sight: two whole pages, filled with small, tight writing, promising a wealth of answers.
He began to read the dense script, his gaze devouring every word. He absorbed intricate details of Chronos’s supposed benevolent acts, his grand projects, the awe he inspired. But then, tucked away near the bottom of the second page, Livia's elegant script posed a chilling question, almost an aside to herself, yet it struck Motley with the force of a physical blow:
‘Are these but the hushed tales of distant tribes, passed down through whispers, filtered by fear or devotion? Or do they speak the unfiltered truth of a god's descent, witnessed by eyes long turned to dust?’
A knot of disappointment twisted in Motley's gut as he read that note. He had spent hours poring over what he believed to be an eyewitness account of ancient events, recorded directly by Livia herself. But these were mere stories, ancient texts uncovered and compiled, folklore passed down through generations. The fire of excitement that had burned so brightly within him, fueling his reading, was suddenly smothered. He felt the full, crushing weight of exhaustion that had been hidden underneath, the physical and mental drain of his prolonged recovery and the day's intense revelations.
With a sigh, he gently re-shelved the book, its worn cover feeling heavier now. It was only the first volume, he reminded himself, a faint thread of hope rekindling. Perhaps something more recent, something "true," might appear in the others. He moved back to his bed, and laid down, the overwhelming quiet of the room embracing him.
A day blurred into another, and the initial weariness that had weighed Motley down began to recede, replaced by a restless energy. He settled into a new routine at The Copper Cactus, his work as a cleaner quickly becoming second nature. The methodical rhythm of wiping down tables, sweeping the packed earth floor, and washing the never-ending stack of mugs was oddly calming, a simple, tangible purpose in his otherwise blank existence. Tash, observing his unnaturally fast recovery, had started to entrust him with more and more tasks, a quiet recognition of his growing strength.
Captain Zeb Hipgrave remained a constant, unsettling presence. He came in every morning, his piercing gaze a familiar weight on Motley’s back. Zeb offered no words, just a silent snarl, a watchful intensity that followed Motley’s every movement. Motley, in turn, avoided eye contact, keeping his responses curt and professional if directly addressed by Tash in the Captain’s presence. They hadn’t spoken since that tense first interaction, the unspoken animosity a cold current in the cafe whenever Zeb was near.
During the quiet lulls in his work, Motley’s mind drifted back to the books. Each night, after the cafe closed and Tash retired to her private room, he devoured the next volume in Livia's series. The initial disappointment lingered—these were indeed compilations of ancient tales, not direct accounts—but a new fascination took hold. He read through contradictory narratives of Chronos, one scroll depicting him as a benevolent god, another as a malevolent tyrant. Each story, however, contained a consistent core: Chronos possessed an unparalleled control over time. Some tales spoke of him using this power for miraculous good, accelerating growth and stabilizing harvests. Others painted him as a devastating force, twisting the very fabric of existence. The specifics of his power varied wildly—from subtle manipulations to apocalyptic distortions—yet the central theme always remained: time. It was a recurring echo, resonating with the mysterious knowledge of his own Chronos Eye.
On the second day, just as the afternoon light slanted across the cafe floor, Hugo’s familiar smirk appeared in the doorway. He spotted Tash behind the counter. "So, is our guest ready for his 'date' tonight?" Hugo asked, a playful glint in his eye. Tash, catching his meaning, returned the cheeky look, a rare, amused smile crossing her face as she gestured towards Motley, who was methodically wiping down the far tables. "He's recovered far faster than I expected," she said, her voice carrying a hint of genuine surprise.
Motley heard Tash speaking and looked up from his task, spotting Hugo for the first time. "Good evening, Hugo, what can we do you for?" Motley asked, his voice even.
Tash walked out from behind the coffee machine, reaching a hand out for the cloth Motley held. "I can finish off here. Go on, get changed and ready for your 'date.'" A slight blush crossed Motley's face. He never really liked being the center of attention, and he said nothing at her intentional jab to embarrass him. He simply handed Tash the cloth and retreated to the trauma room, which had effectively become his personal space over the past week.
"Are you taking him to the bar tonight?" Tash asked, wiping down the table with brisk strokes.
Hugo took a few steps closer, a hint of charm in his voice. "We have a personal room reserved for just the two of us."
Tash chuckled, a soft sound. She knew the 'date' was a playful ploy, a cover for Hugo's true intent. "The badge didn't spark any memories then?" she asked, finishing the table and turning to him.
"So he says," Hugo replied, a subtle glint in his eyes. "A few drinks might... loosen his tongue."
The back door creaked open, and Motley appeared, no longer in his work uniform but dressed in the basic clothes Tash had provided. He looked clean, his dark hair damp from washing.
"Hmm. I guess that will do for tonight," Hugo said, his eyes roaming up and down Motley's appearance, a critical appraisal in his gaze. "But, we'll have to go shopping soon. Hmm, yes, a good suit would look amazing on that body of yours."
Tash's head fell into her hand, and she shook it slowly. "Leave him alone," she mumbled, a mix of exasperation and amusement in her voice.
Motley felt a faint blush creep up his neck. The casual, almost intimate nature of Hugo's compliments, especially after his shocking revelations earlier, left him utterly bewildered and slightly uncomfortable. He wasn't used to such direct attention, let alone from a man like Hugo.
"Say, do you have your badge on you, Motley?" Hugo asked, cutting through Motley's discomfort.
"Ah, no," Motley replied, turning to look at Tash, then back at Hugo. "It's in my room."
"Can you please fetch it and place it in a pocket, but," Hugo adopted a serious tone, his voice dropping slightly, "do not retrieve it from your pocket unless I say so, and unless you know there are no eyes or ears on us. Understood?"
"Yes, of course. I do understand," Motley said, his voice instantly serious. He remembered his conversation with Tash, the hushed words about rare magical properties and immense value. The badge was more than just a piece of his forgotten past; it was a potent secret.
Motley turned and went back into the trauma room. He walked directly to the bookshelf, retrieved the gleaming silver badge, and carefully tucked it into an inner pocket of his trousers. His fingers brushed against the leather spines of Livia's books. I wonder how much Hugo knows about Chronos, he thought to himself, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.
He exited the trauma room and walked back into the cafe, noting instantly that it was a bit emptier than when he left it. Tash was beside him, wiping down another table, her movements brisk.
"He's outside waiting," Tash said from beside him, flinging the cloth over her shoulder and looking back at Motley. "Even though we can both see how much you've recovered over the last few days, I know how much alcohol can affect a healing body." She turned to face the cafe's entrance, her hazel eyes serious. "Don't fall for his charm, please. Pace yourself tonight."
"Thank you," Motley said, giving her a genuine smile. He was actually a bit excited about tonight, finally having a chance to see the town, to be inside different walls. Motley rushed out of the cafe, eager for the evening.
Motley burst out of The Copper Cactus, the jingle of the bell behind him already fading into the crisp night air. A wave of cold, dry air hit his face, sharp and invigorating, a stark contrast to the humid warmth of the cafe. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh, clean scent of the Dustfall night – a blend of distant woodsmoke, mineral dust, and something sweet, like night-blooming desert flowers. An uncontrollable smile stretched across his face, a genuine, unburdened expression that felt strangely new.
He stood for a moment, simply soaking it in, his head slowly turning, eyes wide with wonder. The street, bustling and chaotic by day, was transformed. The vibrant colours of the merchant stalls were muted by the moonlight, replaced by the soft, warm glow of steam-powered lamps casting long, dancing shadows. The rhythmic hum of distant machinery, usually a background drone, now seemed to pulse with a quiet energy, a living heartbeat beneath the city's surface. He saw the intricate network of pipes snaking up the side of a nearby building, faintly steaming, and the peculiar, almost alien shapes of cacti silhouetted against the inky sky, much larger than he'd imagined. The air tasted of freedom, of discovery, and a profound sense of newness. He was finally out.
"And the caged bird is free."
Hugo's voice, low and laced with a knowing smirk, cut through Motley's reverie. He stood nearby, his sharp eyes fixed on Motley, taking in his wide-eyed wonder with a discerning, almost predatory gaze.
In the rush of the moment, a profound confidence suddenly filled Motley's body. He focused on Hugo, his gaze unwavering, and the familiar, booming voice echoed in his mind:
The target is Hugo Swin-Bumble.
Age: 33.
Race: Human.
Power: Yes, Communication.
Memories: None to access.
Motley was stunned. Hugo too, he thought, a fresh wave of bewilderment washing over him. The information, stark and undeniable, left him momentarily reeling.
"What's with the sudden look?" Hugo asked, his smirk still in place, though a flicker of curiosity now danced in his intelligent eyes. "It's just me." He chuckled softly. "Come." Hugo turned and walked past the still-stunned Motley, heading down the main thoroughfare.
Motley turned and followed, his mind a whirl of new information and dawning questions. The initial stretch of the main road, though less chaotic than during the day, still hummed with the energy of lingering vendors, their steam lamps casting pools of warm, orange light. Soon, the merchant stalls began to thin, replaced by tightly packed homes, their wooden and stone facades pressed close, creating a labyrinth of narrow, inky-black alleyways between them. The sounds of the city shifted here – distant laughter, the murmur of private conversations, the occasional rhythmic hiss of a domestic steam-powered contraption.
Then, the city opened up, abruptly giving way to a large, circular plaza. At its heart, a magnificent fountain cascaded water, the spray shimmering like silver dust under the twin crescent moons now high above. A small, vibrant circle of green grass, impossibly verdant in the desert city, ringed the fountain's base. Families and couples were scattered around its perimeter, their voices soft, enjoying the cool night air. The scene was an unexpected pocket of tranquility and domesticity amidst the city's industrial heartbeat.
They continued walking, the path weaving through residential streets that gradually grew wider, homes becoming more substantial, hinting at increasing prosperity. Along the way, strangers greeted Hugo – a constant stream of "Good evening, Master Hugo!" or "Well met, Hugo!" Each time, Hugo offered a warm smile, a nod, and a genuine "Good evening" in return, never breaking stride, never faltering in his easy conversation. Motley watched him, mesmerised by the sheer volume of people who knew him, by Hugo's effortless charisma and the unwavering ease with which he navigated the bustling evening. It was clear Hugo was not just known, but genuinely well-liked, a respected figure whose influence permeated every corner of Dustfall, from the grimiest alley to the grandest plaza. The city seemed to breathe around him.
The gentle incline of the residential streets began to steepen. Motley glanced up, realising they were now walking uphill. At the apex of the rise, a lone, formidable double-story building stood, strong and proud against the moonlit sky. Even from a distance, a cacophony spilled from its open doors and windows – laughter, the clinking of mugs, a low, rhythmic murmur of conversation. As they approached, Motley saw a large, weathered wooden sign splitting the two stories, its bold, hand-carved letters proclaiming: 'Bumble Bar'.
The bar was ancient, undeniably the oldest building in Dustfall Motley had seen yet. It was constructed of rough-hewn, dark stone, so mighty and seamlessly fitted that it looked as though it had been carved from the very bedrock of the hill itself, perhaps by Chronos himself, in some forgotten age. Its exterior, despite its raw, powerful construction, was surprisingly smooth, buffed by decades of the desert's relentless, sandy winds, giving the dark stone a soft, almost polished sheen under the twin moons. Warm, inviting light streamed from its windows, casting long, distorted shadows down the hill, and the aroma of roasted meat, stale ale, and something sweet and spicy, like burning incense, mingled in the crisp night air.
The incline levelled, bringing them directly to the formidable stone structure. As they approached the entrance, Hugo stopped and turned to face Motley, a proud smile spreading across his lips. "Welcome to the Bumble Bar," he announced, gesturing grandly with an open hand.
Motley nodded, taking in the ancient stone, its surface buffed smooth by centuries of wind and sand. He followed Hugo’s gaze to the massive sign above, "Bumble Bar," its letters carved deep into the weathered wood. "This place," Hugo began, his voice taking on the tone of a seasoned tour guide, "is practically the cornerstone of Dustfall. No one truly knows when it was built; some believe the city grew up around it, not the other way around. It's a designated stop on any respectable tourist tour of the town, famed for being older than memory, as mighty and unyielding as the desert itself."
As Hugo spoke, a man appeared from the open doors of the bar, a figure that instantly commanded attention. "Mr. Hugo!" the man boomed, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. He was a colossal individual, his bare chest a canvas of old scars, peeking out from beneath an open, stained white singlet. The air around him smelled distinctly of stale ale and something earthy, like unwashed leather. He possessed a magnificent black beard that flowed down to his sternum, complementing a shaved head. His arms, the largest Motley had ever seen, corded with muscle, ended in hands that looked like hammers. Yet, despite his intimidating physique, a wide, genuine smile split his face.
"Ares," Hugo greeted, a warmth in his voice. "Good evening, my friend."
Motley’s gaze locked onto the giant of a man, and the familiar, booming voice instantly filled his mind:
Target: Ares Rúnvaldr.
Age: 38.
Race: Human.
Power: No.
Memories: None to access.
The information was gone as quickly as it came. Motley was surprised—no power? A man that large, that powerful. It was a stark contrast to Zeb, whose coiled power had been palpable. Yet, the voice was clear. And with a new piece of information, a name, a name that felt like it belonged to a different land entirely, a distant echo of a world Motley didn't know.
Ares's smile widened further as he turned to Motley, extending one of his massive hands. "A pleasure, my friend." Motley took it, and his hand was instantly engulfed. He swore some bones cracked under Ares's surprisingly gentle, yet undeniably powerful, grip.
"Your usual room?" Ares asked Hugo, his eyes twinkling.
Hugo nodded. "Yes, if you please. An important meeting with Motley here."
Ares looked from Hugo to Motley, finally taking in Motley's appearance after Hugo's words. His eyes scanned Motley's still somewhat bruised face, his basic clothes, then he threw his head back and bellowed with laughter, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the ground. "I guess I should never judge a man by his outfit!" he roared, then added, "Follow me," as he turned, leading them, not into the boisterous main hall of the bar, but around the side of the building and up a narrow, worn set of stairs that led to the top floor.
"Ares is one of my oldest friends and the owner of this fine establishment," Hugo said, turning to Motley as they followed the colossal man.
Motley was still gently rubbing his hand, flexing his fingers. "I might need Tash to take a look at my hand," he mumbled, a faint grimace on his face.
Hugo chuckled softly as they stepped onto the top floor, the raucous sounds of the bar below instantly muffled, absorbed by the thick floorboards separating them. The entire upper level was a vast, open space, illuminated by warm, coiled lamps neatly spaced along the rough stone walls. A single, long bar occupied the far corner, its shelves behind filled with dozens of bottled liquids of every imaginable colour. One bartender stood silently behind it, seemingly waiting solely for them. Motley finally noticed the chilling detail: there was no one else here. Dozens of empty, soft leather lounges, each shrouded by its shimmering silk curtain, promised privacy. Ares stood in the middle of the room, beside one such lounge, its curtain already drawn back in an inviting gesture.
"Take a seat, Motley," Hugo said, his voice soft, already walking towards the polished bar. "I'll grab us a drink." As he approached the long, gleaming counter, the single bartender, a man with a meticulously groomed beard and an unblinking gaze, straightened. "Nemean, my good man," Hugo said, his voice carrying easily across the silent, expansive room. "Two glasses of herbed cactus whiskey, if you please."
Motley entered the curtained space, the heavy silk falling back into place behind him. He didn't just sit; he melted into the leather lounge. It was the softest thing he'd ever felt, far surpassing even the comfort of Tash's medical bed. A gentle sigh escaped his lips, and only now, as his body fully relaxed into the plush cushions, did he realise the persistent aches and subtle pains of hours spent on his feet, working with Tash. She would love it here, he thought, a fleeting, warm image of Tash sinking into the same comfort.
"Comfortable?" Ares's deep voice rumbled from the other side of the curtain, betraying a hint of amusement.
"This is amazing," Motley said, letting his entire body succumb to the luxurious softness.
Ares chuckled, a sound like shifting stone. "Very good. I'll leave you be." Motley heard his heavy footsteps recede, then fade as Ares likely exited the building entirely.
Moments later, Hugo returned, holding two heavy glasses. Each was half-filled with a vibrant, bright green liquid, and a single, perfectly circular ball of ice floated within, slowly turning.
Hugo joined him on the lounge, right beside him, his body also melting into the luxurious leather. He handed Motley his glass, the perfectly circular ice ball clinking softly against the thick glass. "Prosit," Hugo said, a quiet toast, before taking a long sip.
Motley watched him, then mumbled "Prosit?" under his breath, a confused frown on his face.
Hugo let out a long sigh, a mix of exasperation and amusement. "It's a little blessing we say before drinking with friends, Motley. It means 'may it be beneficial.'"
"Prosit," Motley repeated, a new confidence in his tone, then took a sip himself. The liquid was surprisingly smooth, a warming current that spread through his chest and limbs almost instantly. It was sweet, with an underlying oaky depth, masking a potent strength that left a pleasant burn in its wake. This was very strong alcohol, yet it carried none of the harshness he'd expected.
A comfortable silence settled between the men as they savoured the moment, the warmth of the herbed cactus whiskey spreading through their chests. Motley, perhaps emboldened by the potent drink or a nascent sense of camaraderie with Hugo, broke the quiet. "You said Ares owns the bar?" he asked, before taking another sip.
"Yes, he does," Hugo answered, swirling the vibrant green liquid around the perfectly circular ice ball in his glass. "It'll be coming up on ten years now under his ownership."
Motley felt a surge of unexpected confidence. "Did you own it before him?" he pressed, his gaze steady on Hugo.
Hugo paused, swirling his drink again, watching the liquid move around the ice. "What makes you say that, Motley?" he asked, a subtle glint in his intelligent eyes.
"The name," Motley replied, a small smile touching his lips. "Bumble Bar. It's named after you?"
Hugo took a long drink, finishing the liquid. He then studied Motley for a few seconds, a small smirk playing on his face. "What makes you say that?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
Motley studied him in return. He didn't know how much he could trust Hugo. Sure, Hugo had helped him in the past, but the glint in his eyes now... did he already know about Motley's power and was testing him? Or was he giving Motley that look, knowing he would think this, just to prompt Motley to reveal more?
"I know your name is Hugo Swin-Bumble," Motley said, his voice even. Then, in a more teasing tone, he added, "Cousin."
Hugo did not react to the joke. The glint left his eyes as he let out a small sigh. "Motley," Hugo said, his voice suddenly serious, the tone a bit unsettling despite the lingering smirk. He raised his left hand, presenting it to Motley. "Only a handful of people know that about me."
To Motley's amazement, Hugo had one less finger on that hand. His outer finger was missing, the raw stump a stark, unexpected detail. How did I not notice this before? Motley thought, a wave of surprise.
"Names are a powerful thing in this world," Hugo continued, his gaze returning to Motley. "One who knows your name knows the path to your knowledge. In my line of business, names are currency... and my name, oh, that is generational wealth there. Secrets are also very powerful. Which is why only four people know my full name; of course, I won't say who." He looked down at his hand, then back at Motley, his expression hardened with a rare solemnity. "But I trust them with my life, and they trust me with their life. I have earned their trust."
Motley, taken aback by Hugo's sudden solemnity, stammered, "I... I won't tell anyone your full name. Not even Tash." He paused, processing the weight of the revelation, then added, "The fact that you used one of your last names to help me... I'm honoured."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Hugo's lips, but he remained silent, his gaze unwavering.
"I promise that no one told me your name," Motley continued, his voice earnest. "I only just found out about it tonight."
"When?" Hugo's voice was a low, steady demand. "When did you find out?"
Motley looked over towards the bar. To his surprise, the bartender was gone, the extensive top floor now utterly deserted. "We are alone, trust me," Hugo said, noting Motley's glance, his voice soft but firm.
I have to tell him. I have to trust him with this secret. Motley resigned himself. "I have a power." He took a deep breath. "When I concentrate on someone, I can see their basic details. Their name, their age, if they have a power... and memories I share with them."
Hugo stared at him, his face suddenly stern, the usual smirk completely gone. After a few seconds, he asked, "Do I have a power?"
"Yes," Motley simply answered, then finished his drink in one long gulp.
Hugo then chuckled to himself. "Well, that proves it. I believe you because I have not told a single soul that I have a power."
Silence settled between them for a few seconds, both men processing the profound implications of their shared confessions. "Thank you for trusting me, Hugo," Motley said, his voice sincere.
"And you," Hugo replied, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Alright. Down to business." He placed the empty glass on the table with a soft clink. "Can you please hand me the badge?"
Motley did so, retrieving it from his pocket. The ethereal gleam of the silver filled the air around them as it appeared, then settled into Hugo's palm.
"Okay, you have to promise me something now, Motley," Hugo said, examining the badge once more.
"Okay, sure," Motley replied, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
Hugo turned the badge over, its back now facing up. "What I am about to show you and tell you has to stay between us. It is as important as my full last name and our powers, okay?" he said, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone.
Motley leaned closer to Hugo, his voice hushed, as if scared the very walls would betray the upcoming secret. "Yes, I promise."
Hugo's nimble fingers moved to the back of the badge, around where it would typically pin to a uniform. He pressed a specific point, a nearly invisible seam, with a precise, almost imperceptible click. Then, with a gentle twist, the centre piece of the badge came loose. The snarling wolf, meticulously encircled by the pine forest, was cleanly separated from the outer shield shape. The magical shine, the ethereal glow that had drawn both Tash and Hugo, remained solely on the now-hollowed shield portion of the badge, leaving the newly separated circular coin utterly dull, its silver surface merely reflecting the oil lamp's mundane glow.
Hugo held up the shield portion of the badge, its silver now glowing with an isolated, ethereal light. "This part," Hugo said, then mused to himself, "Well, I don't know why there's magic imbued into it." He lowered the shield, then raised the dull, circular coin-shaped piece that had detached from its centre. He rotated the coin between his fingers, flipping it to show Motley its blank underside. "But this part... I have never seen this myself."
Hugo's gaze met Motley's. "I know you're from Solara, so I contacted my people there and asked about it. To my surprise, rather than simply sending a response, one of my most trusted contacts came back to me in person." Hugo handed the coin to Motley, his eyes moving from the coin in Motley's hand to Motley's face, which was now reflected in the coin's polished surface. Hugo's expression and tone became serious, losing all trace of his earlier playfulness. "He told me only the top one percent of Solarian society possesses that coin. Only the most important people in power have one. They say only twenty were ever made, and it shows the crest of the royal family in Solara. It's used to show authority when travelling to different nations, a way to prove who they are when questioned."
Motley's eyes met Hugo's. "Why..." His throat felt tight, but he forced out the question. "Why would I have something like that?"
Hugo studied him for a second, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "I was hoping you could answer that."
Motley looked at the coin again, its polished surface reflecting his confused gaze. "I'm sorry, I have no idea."
"Motley," Hugo said, his voice grave. "I've spent hours thinking about this, cross-referencing all the data I have, and I have no idea either." He paused, catching Motley's gaze again. "But something big is going on. The force that attacked, which you were a part of, was significantly smaller than any other over the last few years. And one of its members—you, Motley—held a coin of the royal Solarian family. If someone in that position goes missing or is reported dead, surely there would be a lot of panic in Solara. Search parties would be out here looking for you, right?"
Motley thought about it, then nodded. "It makes sense."
"My informant, the one who came here, said nothing out of the ordinary is happening in Solara," Hugo continued, his voice low. "No word of a missing royal, no panic at all."
"That is very odd," Motley murmured, a chill running down his spine.
Hugo was silent for a few seconds, his intelligent eyes scrutinising Motley's face. "Whoever you are, Motley," Hugo finally said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "you are either very important, or very dangerous."