My coat was a liability.
Stained with the dried, rusted map of my vessel's failure, it smelled of iron and weakness.
I held it with two fingers, observing the stiffened fabric where the blood had coagulated.
To a human, this was a sentimental reminder of survival. To me, it was biological waste. Evidence of inefficiency.
I dropped it into the waste chute of the suite. It vanished with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
"Let us go," I commanded.
We descended to the lobby.
The Obsidian Spire's atrium was a cathedral of glass and light, designed to make mortals feel small. Yet, it failed to impress me.
Kael walked behind me. Too close.
Every step I took, I felt the displacement of air at my heels. He was shadowing me with a proximity that violated standard tactical spacing.
When I stopped abruptly at the receptionist's desk, he almost collided with my spine.
"Master," he whispered, his voice holding that new, irritating tremor of devotion.
I ignored him and looked at the receptionist. A woman with a smile so practiced it looked like a facial spasm.
"The bill," I said.
"Of course, sir." She tapped the holographic terminal. "Including the... structural damages to the suite... that will be 6,000 Clons."
She looked at our ragged appearance—Malakor in his dirty robes, me in my shirt sleeves, and Kael in his dusted combat gear.
Her eyes held the glint of skepticism.
I tilted my head toward Kael.
"Pay it."
Kael stepped forward. He tapped his wrist against the payment terminal.
The digital transaction cleared instantly, drawing from the shadow accounts he had set up.
58,000 Clons minus 6,000. We were left with 51,950.
"Receipt confirmed," the machine chirped.
We walked out. The automatic doors slid open, revealing the grey, weeping sky of Zonia.
A sleek, black vehicle hovered at the curb—a luxury gravity limousine Malakor had hailed.
I entered.
The interior was spacious, upholstered in synthetic velvet that smelled of money.
There was enough room for six people.
Kael sat immediately next to me.
He didn't just sit; he pressed his thigh, shoulder, and arm against mine, collapsing the empty space between us as if a vacuum existed there.
I felt the heat of his body through my thin shirt.
"Luggage," I said, my voice cold.
I reached out and grabbed his chin, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of his jaw.
I turned his face toward mine. His blue eyes were wide, swimming with that sickening, puppy-like adoration.
"This behavior," I said, tightening my grip slightly to emphasize the point.
"It is a malfunction. When we exit this vehicle, you will maintain a tactical distance. You will not cling to me like a frightened parasite. Do you understand?"
He nodded slowly, rubbing his cheeks against my grip.
Then, the moment I released him, he leaned his head onto my shoulder.
I stiffened. The audacity of the action was staggering. But as I prepared to shove him away, I felt the coolness of his mind—the void I needed to dampen the noise of the world.
If physical contact increased the efficiency of reducing noise, then... I would tolerate it. For now.
"Malakor," I said, staring straight ahead. "Do not tell me you intend to dress us in rags."
"No, My Lord!" Malakor sat on the opposite bench, shrinking under my gaze.
"I have directed the driver to 'Woshe'. It is the premier clothier in the White City. Only the elite... and the very wealthy... are allowed entry."
I looked out the tinted window as the city blurred past.
I needed to calibrate this weapon. Kael was powerful, but he was currently a raw nerve exposed to the air.
If I didn't insulate him, he would burn out—or worse, explode—at the slightest provocation.
"Do not disappoint me, Priest," I murmured.
…
The vehicle hummed to a halt.
"Stay here," Malakor told the driver. "We shall return shortly."
We stepped onto the pavement. The storefront of 'Woshe' was intimidatingly minimal. No mannequins. No prices. Just a slab of black marble and a door that looked heavy enough to seal a tomb.
We entered.
The interior was silent. Soft, ambient music played from hidden speakers. The air was perfumed with lavender and wealth.
Three staff members stood by a counter. Their eyes scanned us—my shirt sleeves, Malakor's filth, Kael's dust.
The judgment was instant.
"I am sorry," one of them said, stepping forward with a polite, dismissive hand gesture. "Deliveries are in the back alley. This entrance is for clients."
The air in the room suddenly grew heavy.
It wasn't a metaphor. The atmospheric pressure actually dropped.
I felt it before I saw it. The vase on a nearby pedestal rattled.
The hem of the attendant's jacket was pulled downward by an invisible hand.
Kael had tensed up. His blue eyes were glowing with a faint, violet light.
He was leaking the 15th Name again, bending local gravity because he perceived a slight against me.
"You..." Kael hissed, his voice vibrating with a lethal frequency. "You dare speak to my master like—"
"Stop," Malakor interjected, stepping between the boy and the terrified clerk.
The priest was sweating, but his voice was loud, authoritative. He waved a hand dismissively at the staff.
"My Young Lord," Malakor announced, gesturing grandly at me, "has eccentric tastes. He believes that to truly understand the plight of the common man, one must wear their skin for a day."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried across the room.
"But the experiment is over. And his pockets are heavy. Do not mistake a choice of costume for a lack of capacity."
The staff member paused. He looked at Kael's glowing eyes—which he likely mistook for a high-end ocular implant—and then at my posture.
The realization hit him.
"Apologies! Deepest apologies!" He bowed low, his forehead nearly touching the marble. "Please, forgive my blindness. I will summon our Master Stylist immediately."
Moments later, a young man appeared.
He looked no older than twenty-five, with skin so smooth it looked synthetic and a voice like poured silk.
"I am Varen," he said softly. "It is an honor to dress those who understand the value of transformation."
He didn't ask about the gravity nor he did ask about the glowing eyes of Kael. He was a professional.
"Measure us," I commanded.