Chapter Two: The Weight of Air

One Day Before Arrival in Kavessra – Aeralis, Caldrith

The sky was always the right color in Caldrith — burnished gold in the morning, lavender by dusk. It never smelled like oil or soot. Even the wind felt... curated. Filtered through crystal towers and layered with calming spells so subtle no one noticed they were breathing someone else’s idea of peace.

Atlus Veneral noticed.

And hated it.

He stood barefoot on the marble balcony of his family’s east manor, robe unbelted, holding a crystal flute of morning tonic he’d forgotten to drink. Somewhere in the courtyards below, servants were rehearsing for another arrival ceremony.

More ambassadors. More obligations.

He scratched his head and sighed. His hair was already too perfect.

He hated that too.

Behind him, a letter lay open on a glass desk. Formal parchment. Red wax. Family seal:

"You will oversee Veneral Holdings in Kavessra.

Your father believes this will instill you with the discipline and foresight expected of your station.

Do not return until profits are stable."

He hadn’t even been given a choice.

Not that he would’ve said no.

Just… complained louder.

Breakfast was a silent affair, broken only by the clink of silverware and the occasional update from the estate steward. The entire dining hall could fit a small skycraft, and only Atlus sat at the table.

He scrolled through the morning ledger on aetherglass, blinking past updates about business fronts he didn’t care about.

His aunt passed behind him.

"You look pale, Atlus."

"I’m indoors, Aunt Selice."

"You should be grateful your father entrusts you with this."

"I should be grateful I’m not being sent to shovel sewage in the Ironroots."

"That can be arranged."

The rest of the morning was a blur of tutors, grooming rituals, and half-hearted packing.

By afternoon, Atlus escaped to his favorite place in Caldrith: the underdocks.

Not the sleek upper hangars for ambassadorial craft — the real docks, where courier skiffs and merchant haulers came and went, cluttered with crates and old stories.

He liked it there.

No one expected him to be polite. Or princely. Or useful.

He liked watching the runners — people who worked because they had to. Not because someone told them to pretend.

A deckhand bumped into him, eyes wide.

"Apologies, my lord."

Atlus waved it off.

"You didn’t call me ‘brightwing heir of House Veneral,’ so you’re already my favorite person today."

The deckhand blinked, nodded awkwardly, and left.

Atlus watched the airships shift in the distance, cables creaking, sunlight glinting off hulls as they prepared for launch.

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One was his.

Kavessra.

He sighed.

He had wealth. He had sky. He had everything they said was worth having.

And still, it all felt weightless.

Like waking up in a dream you didn’t ask for.

Caldrith, Underdocks – A few hours later

The dirigible waiting for him at Dock 17 looked like it had been polished just for spite. Gold trim along the fins. Blue glass windows that mirrored the sky too perfectly. An unnecessary amount of crests and sigils stamped across the hull.

"Subtle," Atlus muttered, dragging his satchel behind him like a condemned man’s chain.

The steward at the ramp offered a shallow bow.

"Lord Veneral. We’re prepared to depart at your leisure."

"My leisure’s asleep. Let’s pretend this was all your idea."

"Of course, my lord."

Inside, the airship was quieter than expected.

The walls were enchanted for noise cancellation, and the scent of lavender lingered like judgment. Aether conduits ran along the floor — soft blue pulses keeping everything stable, sanitized, safe.

Atlus threw his bag onto the nearest seat, flopped down beside it, and kicked off his shoes.

A decanter of chilled citrus wine waited on a tray beside a plate of pressed fruit and sea-glass candy.

He ignored them.

Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, travel-worn photo — a relic, really. It showed three kids standing on a pier, grinning like idiots. The one on the left had the same too-perfect hair he still wore today.

He turned it over.

"Don’t forget who you were, brat."

The handwriting was his mother’s.

Atlus tucked it away before he could think too much about it.

The ship’s engines hummed to life beneath him — low and steady, like a yawn. Outside the glass, docking clamps unlatched with a hiss. The world tilted as the dirigible rose from its mooring, pulled gently toward the upper drift channel.

Caldrith shimmered below — all towers and light and expectation.

He stared down at it for a long moment.

He wasn’t sure what he’d miss.

He wasn’t sure if he’d miss anything at all.

A chime sounded as they entered outbound airspace. A stewardess approached with a clipboard.

"Lord Veneral, estimated time to Kavessra is fourteen hours. Will you be requiring company?"

"Do I look like I want to talk to anyone?"

"...No, my lord."

"Then no."

She bowed and left.

He leaned his head back, watching the clouds drift past like lazy ghosts.

Somewhere below was a city he’d never bothered to think about.

A city of soot and streetrats. A city without manners or ceilings.

And somehow, his father expected him to make money there.

Atlus closed his eyes, one hand absently reaching up to fix a flyaway strand of his own hair.

Old habit.

Hours passed.

Atlus dozed and woke and dozed again. Even sleep was curated here — gentle rocking, temperature spells, soft music woven into the walls.

It annoyed him how effective it was.

He wandered barefoot into the viewing lounge around the seventh hour. Massive glass panels gave a full panorama of the drifting world below.

The sky had shifted to a cooler blue, and the Cloudspine — the endless chain of jagged peaks that separated Caldrith’s soft skies from the rest of the continent — spread out beneath them like the ribs of a buried titan.

Beyond that horizon: Kavessra.

A flicker of color caught his eye. A courier ship zipped by on a diagonal vector, steam trailing from its underjets. It was patched in places and bore no House sigil.

Freelance. Gray route.

Atlus envied it immediately.

He heard footsteps behind him. Not the stewardess. He didn’t recognize the rhythm — too confident. Too casual.

A man stepped into the lounge — late 30s, maybe early 40s, lean, dressed like someone who belonged on deck, not inside a noblecraft. A shock of silver at his temples, heavy gloves clipped to his belt.

He didn’t bow.

Just nodded.

"Thought you’d be taller."

Atlus blinked.

"I didn’t know I had height expectations."

"You’re a Veneral. People expect you to fill a room."

"I’d rather not. Rooms are loud when I’m in them."

"Mm. Kavessra’s not going to care who you are."

"I don’t care either."

"That won’t protect you."

There was a pause.

"You’re not crew," Atlus said.

"Nope."

"You’re not my steward."

"Gods, no."

"Then who—"

"Call me Rese. I work logistics for the Holdings down in Kavessra. Your father sent me to brief you before landing."

Atlus raised an eyebrow.

"This is a briefing?"

"More of a courtesy warning."

Rese pulled something from his coat — a heavy disk of burnished brass. It unfolded into a miniature projection of Kavessra’s central sector: staggered towers, smoke belching from alley stacks, lightlines tangled like spiderwebs.

"East Ridge is under Veneral control. Technically. Locals still report to guild chairs first."

"Good to know where I rank."

"You’re above sewage inspectors. Below street judges. Way below gang liaisons."

"How flattering."

Rese pointed to a sector near the base.

"You’ll be living here. No floating manors. No skybridges. Ground-level vault residence. Fortified, but not flashy. Better that way."

"That’s the better option?"

"It’s what’s available. You’ll get two staff. One driver, one general assistant. They’re not spies. I made sure."

"How thoughtful."

Rese finally turned to face him.

"This isn’t Caldrith, brightwing. Out there, someone’s always watching — but no one cares if you bleed.

You want to survive? Stop acting like the worst parts of your family."

Atlus didn’t respond.

Not immediately.

He just stared out at the clouds and let the silence answer for him.