Chapter Seven: Silk Teeth, Iron Smog

Day of Arrival – Kavessra Upper Dockside Terminal

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The airship dock coughed steam as it locked into the mooring clamps — a long, hissing exhale that sounded more like a threat than a welcome.

Atlus Veneral stood at the threshold of the gangway, coat too pale for the smog, expression carved from expensive boredom.

He hadn’t slept.

Hadn’t eaten.

Hadn’t asked for this.

And still — here he was.

Kavessra loomed in layers.

A city built on top of itself, stacked like unpaid debts and stitched together with rail-lines, aether veins, and politics too tangled to cut.

A place of collisions.

Of bad decisions made permanent by rust and profit margins.

Atlus didn’t step down.

He descended — like a bad omen delivered in silk.

A port agent met him at the bottom of the ramp, holding a scanner and a soot-smeared tablet.

“Veneral Holdings, right?”

Atlus raised a brow.

“I’m wearing the crest, aren’t I?”

“Could be fake. We’ve had worse.”

The agent waved the scanner across Atlus’ wrist-signet. It beeped. Begrudgingly.

“You’re cleared. Your office logged you in six hours ago. You’re late.”

“I was pacing myself,” Atlus said flatly.

“Didn’t want to overwhelm the city with my radiant enthusiasm.”

The agent didn’t smile.

“Take the liftbridge west. Down three tiers. You’ll smell it before you see it.”

Then he turned and started shouting at a cargo team, as if Atlus had been luggage all along.

He adjusted his gloves.

The air tasted like grease and old spells.

Lavender and civility had no place here.

Perfect, he thought grimly.

Maybe I’ll finally earn a scar.

Level Nine, Merchant Ridge – Noon

The office for Veneral Holdings looked like a crime scene where bureaucracy had gone to rot.

Three floors of concrete and cracked polyglass.

The family crest — a proud falcon — was flaked down to something resembling a chicken.

Atlus paused outside for a full two minutes, watching a kid try to siphon charge from a conduit. The kid sparked, yelped, and ran off smoking.

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“Charming,” he muttered, and stepped inside.

The interior wasn’t worse than expected.

But only because he expected fire.

One secretary. Two crates of backlog. A fan that sounded like it was crying.

She didn’t stand.

“You’re the kid?”

“That’s an interesting way to greet your new boss.”

“Only if the boss plans to do more than get in the way.”

“Then I’ll make sure my uselessness stays elegant.”

She pointed toward a stairwell, unblinking.

“Top floor’s yours. Don’t sit near the left window. Birds nested there. They bite.”

Atlus climbed without touching the handrail. It was sticky with something that might’ve once been soup. Or sin.

The third floor was half-abandoned.

One crooked desk.

Three mismatched chairs.

A dying terminal, duct-taped to the wall.

A view of Kavessra’s industrial scar — cranes, smoke, and one shriveled rooftop garden.

On the desk sat a thin envelope with his name pressed in wax.

He opened it.

Inside: one page, handwritten.

“Your budget is listed in columns.

Your failures are listed in whispers.

Do not confuse the two.

— F.”

He crumpled it. Missed the bin. Didn’t pick it up.

Afternoon – Freight Spoke Seven, Outer Sector

Atlus Veneral did not enjoy walking.

His shoes were not made for it. Neither were his lungs.

He coughed twice stepping off the trolley into what someone had optimistically labeled an expansion zone.

Buildings here were stitched from junk and threat.

Vendors sold spells with unknown origins.

Children hawked charms shaped like knives.

Adults wore expressions shaped like regret.

Atlus entered the textile facility first.

The manager scanned his sigil three times before waving him inside.

Half the workers weren’t human.

He didn’t mean species.

He meant state of being.

A thread-spirit wove cloth with no hands. Atlus suddenly felt very underdressed.

“You’re from upstairs,” said the manager, offering a chipped cup of steaming green.

“Aeralis, technically.” Atlus set it down untouched. “But yes.”

“Then know this — we don’t need oversight. We need clean water. And hex insurance.”

“I’ll pass that along.”

“You won’t.”

“No. I won’t.”

“Good. At least you’re honest.”

Mid-Afternoon – LuxBond Boutique, Trade Sector 5

The luxury wing of Veneral Holdings was a mistake.

LuxBond was wedged between a dueling pit and a shrine to the god of poor decisions.

Inside: spiraling perfume bottles, ambient glamour spells, and flattery charms that triggered headaches.

“Welcome to transcendence,” said the clerk. Her smile could slice glass.

“Is that your slogan?”

“No. Just what the store does to weak minds.”

She held out a bottle.

“Aether Desire. Makes enemies envious and lovers compliant.”

“I’ve had enough of both. What’s your return policy for shame?”

She didn’t answer.

He left before something hexed his blood.

Sundown – East Bridge Promenade

Atlus leaned against a public overlook, arms folded, coat smudged with city dust.

Above him: cables snapped between towers.

Airships blinked like angry stars.

Somewhere higher — Aeralis floated, pure and smug.

He spit over the railing.

The wind caught it. Missed.

“I’m not going back,” he said aloud.

Not to his aunt.

Not to his father.

Not to another day of expectation dressed as destiny.

He didn’t know what forward meant yet.

But it wasn’t them.

Evening – Temporary Quarters, Relay Hub

Veneral Holdings called it “transitional housing.”

What it meant was: a loft above a shipping terminal with a mattress that whispered interrogation cell.

One light crystal. One half-sink. One working lock.

On the wall, aetherglass blinked.

He tapped it.

A voice crackled through the static:

“You’re being watched, heir.

Be careful where you walk.”

Then silence.

No second message.

He sat on the mattress, back against the wall.

From his pocket, he pulled a photo.

Three kids. One pier. Summer sun. Laughing like nothing could break them.

On the back, in fading ink:

Don’t forget who you were, brat.

He stared at it for a long while.

Then tucked it away.

Outside, Kavessra throbbed.

Not in rhythm.

Not in harmony.

Just alive.

Unapologetically.

Maybe he wouldn’t survive this place.

Maybe that was the plan.

But maybe — just maybe —

He’d finally found somewhere that couldn’t tell him who to be.