“We don’t do dead bodies in the taproom.”
The words were a distant echo, like sand rattling through a broken engine, before the darkness swallowed Kanza again. The next sensation was a throbbing ache in their skull and the distinct smell of medicinal herbs, not grit. Kanza blinked as midday glare angled through a grimy pane. They were lying on a surprisingly soft cot, covered by a roughspun blanket, in a small, simply furnished room carved from the same ruddy stone as the Inn’s exterior. A chipped ceramic mug sat on a bedside table, steam curling from its lip.
Kanza’s hand instinctively went to their hip. Empty. Their chest. No familiar weight of the ’Skinner Mk. III blaster. Instinct took over, stripping away the residual haze. Every weapon, every hidden blade and dart, was gone. Even Dalko’s armored coat was nowhere in sight.
Before Kanza could even swing their legs off the cot, the door creaked open. The innkeeper filled the frame. He carried a tray with a bowl of something vaguely stew-like and another mug, his silhouette momentarily blocking the light. His eyes, the color of weathered river stone, were direct, unwavering.
“Awake then,” he rumbled, his voice like gravel on metal. He set the tray on the table, his movements precise despite his bulk. “Good. Thought you might try to haunt the place.”
Kanza ignored the food. “My gear,” they demanded, their voice raspy, laced with an edge of growing fury. “Where’s my gear?”
Oakh leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The movement stretched the thick fabric of his tunic across a formidable chest. “Secured. Like any sensible barkeep would for a guest who collapses on their floor with a bullet wound near the collarbone.” He pointed a thick thumb at Kanza’s bandaged arm joint. “You were leaking like a burst coolant line. Someone had to patch you up.”
“I need my guns back,” Kanza snarled, pushing themselves upright. The cot groaned under their sudden movement. Sparks flared across Kanza's collarbone, but went unheeded. The thought of being disarmed, vulnerable, was a far greater torment than any physical wound. “Now.”
Oakh’s expression didn’t shift. “You’ll get them when you leave. Or when I decide you’ve earned them back.”
“Earned them back?” Kanza scoffed, pushing off the cot. They stalked towards Oakh, adrenaline surging. Years of underworld discipline, honed to crush perceived threats on contact, sparked hot. Their hands curled into fists, ready to strike, to incapacitate, to reclaim what was theirs by force. Oakh was big, but Kanza had faced bigger, faster, meaner. “You think you can keep me from my property?”
Kanza lunged, aiming for Oakh’s solar plexus, a quick jab designed to wind and then follow with a debilitating strike to the knee. But Oakh moved with a speed that defied his size. It wasn’t a block, nor a dodge in the traditional sense. His hand, open and flat, met Kanza’s chest, not pushing, but deflecting Kanza’s momentum sideways. Kanza stumbled, momentarily off balance. Before they could correct, Oakh’s other hand snaked out, hooking Kanza’s ankle. A swift, almost imperceptible twist, and Kanza was airborne for a fleeting moment, then slammed onto the rough stone floor with a jarring impact that knocked the breath from their lungs.
Kanza gasped as friction burned their skin. They tried to push up, but a heavy boot pinned their wrist to the floor, and Oakh’s knee pressed firmly, utterly immovable, across Kanza’s collar. Kanza thrashed, their anger boiling, but Oakh was a mountain. Kanza couldn’t budge. The raw power, the effortless control, spoke of a silent, brutal efficiency Kanza recognized from the Vayan family’s elite enforcers. This wasn't just some innkeeper.
Oakh leaned down, his face a foot from Kanza’s, his breath smelling faintly of roasted coffee beans and wild mint. “You think I haven’t seen a hothead before? You think you’re the first one to limp into my inn looking for trouble? This isn’t Oura, stray. This is the Hollow-Rock. We have rules. One of them is: you don’t threaten the man who just pulled a bullet out of your back.” His gaze was chillingly calm, utterly devoid of malice, yet held the sharp edge of a honed blade. “Now, you can work off your stay, or you can pick yourself up, grab a broom, and clean the muck out of the courtyard. Your choice. Your gear stays put until you’ve earned a measure of trust.” He then stood, released the pressure on Kanza’s wrist and shoulder, and stepped back.
Kanza lay there, humiliated, burning with a rage that had no outlet. To be so easily overpowered, disarmed, pinned like a child. The former heir of the Vayan outfit, flattened like an amateur. The shame was a bitter taste. But the fight was gone, replaced by a grudging, painful recognition. Oakh Tevran was not to be trifled with. Kanza pushed themselves up, careful not to look at Oakh, and stalked back to the cot, defeated.
“Broom,” Kanza muttered, rubbing their wrist. “Fine. Get me a broom.”
Weeks blurred into a rhythm Kanza hadn’t known existed. The sterile routines of the old crime ring and the constant tension of the flats receded. Kanza swept dust from the cantina floor at dawn, polished the scarred timber bar, hauled crates of supplies from the cavernous storerooms, and scrubbed the grime from the engine bay where the Inn’s power generators hummed. Oakh rarely spoke, but when he did, his instructions were clear, concise, and expected to be followed. He was a silent, watchful presence, his eyes missing nothing.
Kanza learned the house routines: the roar of skiffs arriving at dusk, the rough barter of scavengers, and low whispers over cactus brew. The brew, a sweet, potent elixir that warmed the belly and quieted the mind, became Kanza’s unlikely companion. They sat by the hearth after their shift, nursing a mug, listening to the crackle of reclaimed engine parts burning in the grate, and for the first time in years, the knot of tension in their chest began to loosen. Oakh would often join them, settling into his own chair, silent, sometimes sketching in a worn leather-bound book, other times simply watching the flames.
One evening, while clearing crates from the storeroom, Kanza found the coat. It had been washed, the punctured hide neatly patched. Kanza rubbed the coarse hide, recalling the unconscious drifter and the stolen identity. Reaching into the inner pocket, where they’d tucked away the few items Dalko had possessed, Kanza’s fingers brushed against something hard and metallic. Not Dalko’s worthless ID chip. This was heavier, colder. Kanza pulled it out. A data drive. It was sleek, military-grade, with no visible ports or markings, just a single, almost invisible indicator light that glowed a faint, steady green. Highly encrypted. Dalko, the supposed nobody mercenary, had been carrying something far more valuable, and dangerous, than anyone at the Inn would suspect. Kanza pocketed it, a new layer of unease settling over their nascent calm.
Another night, the wind howled outside, a true Dune-Sea sandstorm, rattling the reinforced windows. Kanza and Oakh sat by the hearth, the only two awake. The Inn was quiet, bathed in the warm glow of the fire. The spiced brew was particularly strong tonight, its warmth spreading through Kanza’s chest. The silence between them, once a barrier, had become a comfortable space. Kanza found themselves looking at Oakh, at the quiet strength in his profile, the subtle scars on his hands. This man, who had effortlessly subdued them, who had given them a broom instead of a death sentence, was now the closest thing to an anchor Kanza had ever known. A confession, heavy and raw, formed on Kanza’s tongue. They needed to tell him. About the Vayan syndicate. About the stolen identity. About the danger that was undoubtedly still hunting them, and by extension, this quiet sanctuary. The words were on the precipice, about to tumble out. “Oakh, there’s something… something you need to know about me. My name, it’s not really Dalko. I’m Kanza Va—”
Before the name could fully form, a shrill, piercing shriek tore through the night. The Inn’s perimeter alarms. Red emergency lights immediately flashed through the taproom, bathing the walls in an urgent, pulsing glow. The roaring wind outside intensified, now accompanied by the unmistakable, guttural thrum of powerful engines. A deafening crunch vibrated through the very foundations of the Inn as something massive slammed into the reinforced courtyard gates.