Chapter nine: Salt and Smoke

Day One in Kavessra – Lift Docks, South Channel Approach

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The first thing Jonah Redlum noticed about Kavessra was the smell.

Not salt. Not brine or blood like the docks back in Seabrook.

No, this was different.

Rusted copper. Scorched oil. Heat-warped stone. And beneath it all, the faint ghost of old magic curling in the gutters like secondhand smoke.

He stepped off the ferry with his scarf drawn up over his face. It didn’t help.

“Home sweet hell,” he muttered.

Kavessra wasn’t built. It was stacked — piled like regret, fused together with ambition and burn scars. Cables sagged between towers. Wards blinked like broken memories. The skyline leaned in ways that made no sense, like it was always one tremor from collapse.

Jonah adjusted the rifle on his back, shifted the satchel at his side, and joined the queue under the checkpoint arch.

The dock officer glanced at his paperwork.

“Redlum?”

“Yeah.”

“Planning to stay long?”

“Depends how fast I find a weasel named Barlow.”

The officer stamped his pass with a smirk.

“You’re not the first.”

Midmorning – Ironridge Tramline

The map spell crashed within thirty seconds.

Too many aether layers. Too many wards piled on top of old enchantments. The interface flickered, stuttered, and gave up. Jonah shut it down.

He didn’t need it anyway.

He navigated the way he always had — by watching.

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Shadows. Movement. Faces.

He moved through the lower tiers like someone who wasn’t afraid to be noticed. Most folks kept their distance. A few didn’t.

A kid tried to lift his coin pouch.

Jonah caught the wrist, hard.

“Pick someone slower.”

The kid bolted. Jonah watched where he went — six turns, three exits, two shadows. Filed them away.

He stopped at a tea stall run from an overturned crate.

“Looking for Barlow,” he said.

The woman behind the counter didn’t flinch.

“If I had, I’d forget it.”

Jonah nodded. Figures. The good ones stayed forgotten.

But he wasn’t here to let Barlow stay good.

Noon – The Tarnished Fang

No signs. No lights. Just rust, soot, and the scent of burnt gears.

But this was the place. He’d heard of it back in Seabrook — half-whispers, half-warnings. Courier bar. Trouble’s waiting room.

Jonah stepped inside.

Warm air. Low lighting. The scent of old tea and engine fumes.

Eyes found him instantly.

He nodded. Didn’t smile.

“You lost, sailor?” asked the bartender, socket-lens flickering.

“Not if this is the Tarnished Fang.”

“It is.”

“Then I’m not.”

He ordered cheap liquor. Didn’t sip it.

A courier dropped into the seat beside him — thumb missing, voice like gravel.

“You’re the one lookin’ for Barlow.”

Jonah didn’t flinch.

“Word travels fast.”

“When it smells like blood money, yeah.”

“He owe you?”

“He owes everyone. Most just gave up.”

“I didn’t come to give up.”

The courier leaned back.

“Try Tinpoint. Old rail station. East side. Might be someone there still dumb enough to deal with him.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. If you find him, nothing good happens after.”

Jonah left a tip anyway.

Afternoon – Tinpoint Wastes

Tinpoint had been grand once. A railway jewel.

Now it was decay wearing a crown. Broken arches. Collapsing signs. The bones of transit.

He walked past rusted murals and sleeping vagrants. The air buzzed with dying wards. He caught the scent of Seabrook gun oil.

His pace slowed.

Burn marks. Shotline residue. Someone had waited here — long enough to mark the stone.

Then:

“Didn’t think you’d come this far for pocket change.”

Jonah turned.

Barlow.

Thinner. Older. Smiling like he’d won something.

“I came for respect.”

“Expensive thing,” Barlow said. “You won’t find it here.”

“Then I’ll settle for closure.”

The Talk

They didn’t fight.

Not right away.

Just words. Old, sharp. Half-truths spun into excuses.

Barlow blamed debts, misfires, betrayals no one owned. Jonah listened like someone listening for a lie he already knew.

And then he punched him.

Not to kill. Just to remind him what he cost.

“Next time,” Jonah said, “I won’t talk first.”

And he left.

Evening – Rooftop Overlook, South Spine

Kavessra didn’t really set. It dimmed. Light faded through smoke and haze. Everything turned bronze and blue.

Jonah stood on a rooftop, watching the spires flicker. Airships passed like ghosts between broken towers.

He didn’t feel better.

But the debt was closed.

For now.

He pulled the charm from under his shirt — a Seabrook guardian eye, worn smooth by salt and years.

“Alright,” he murmured.

“Your turn.”

Because Kavessra had secrets.

And Jonah Redlum had come to listen.