The Brat with the Atelier

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Brat with the Atelier

"I always thought I'd get accused of theft before carpentry. But hey, life's full of surprises."

— Pepito Espiritu

Author's Note:

You ever have one of those days where you just want to sell shampoo in peace, and instead someone accuses you of running an underground magical Etsy empire? No? Just Pepito? Cool. Strap in. This chapter's got sarcasm, standoffs, and Tak entering his "dad will fight your dad" era.

When I imagined my adult life, I figured I'd get yelled at over bad pricing, maybe accused of cheating on taxes, or ruining someone's soup with my face. You know—normal things. The everyday indignities of a shopkeeper.

But today?

Today I got accused of secretly running a high-level, illegal artisan operation.

A black-market atelier, tucked behind a shelf of citrus-scented shampoo and bargain-bin vinegar.

Clearly, I've been aiming too low in life. My ambitions were woefully inadequate for the grand accusations now orbiting my head like angry bees.

I glanced at my hands. No soot. No sparkle. No forbidden tongs of destiny. Just a sore thumb and the growing suspicion that I was starring in a really dumb play I didn't audition for.

"Atelier operator," I muttered, massaging said sore thumb. "Sure. Next thing I'm the secret inventor of magic dish soap and talking laundry detergent."

Before Torente could ladle another spoonful of smug sauce onto this increasingly bizarre casserole, Mayor Susan stepped forward.

Composed. Unbothered. Sharp enough to cut diamonds just by breathing.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Torente," she said, her voice glassy-calm and edge-of-a-dagger polite. "But this isn't the kind of partnership I envisioned."

Torente blinked, stunned she didn't faint dramatically like some side character in his main-character fantasy. His smirk wavered.

"If your terms include dissolving local guilds, monopolizing small businesses, and stripping our town's autonomy," she continued, voice cool as sea fog and twice as cutting, "then I must respectfully decline."

Boom.

No drama. No yelling. Just a velvet-wrapped guillotine.

But Torente didn't take rejection like a grown-up. He took it like a community theater Dracula who got told he wasn't spooky enough.

"So that's it, huh?" he sneered, voice loud and sticky. "You really think this town has value?"

He gestured to the crowd like a game show host unveiling a particularly disappointing prize.

"This back-end, half-forgotten coastal dump? You think these creaky roads and chicken-infested alleys attract real adventurers? Real money?"

His laugh was a wet sound, like something crawling out of a sewer in formalwear.

"Your biggest export is disappointment. Your motto should be: 'We Used to Have a Port.' Or maybe, 'Come for the Fish, Stay Because Your Carriage Broke Down.'"

The air got heavier. The crowd stiffened. Susan? Still a statue. But behind her eyes? A flicker of flame. A warning.

Torente didn't care. Or worse—he enjoyed it.

"You're not on the edge of innovation," he spat. "You're on the edge of irrelevance. No coin. No clout. Just wishful thinking and a boy selling fire-sticks he doesn't even understand."

And then he looked at me.

"You're not clever. You're not talented. You're just a brat who got lucky."

He hit something deep. That old fear. The raw core of every what-if I tried to hide.

And that's when Tak moved.

He stepped forward, shoulders squared. Tough Dad Mode: activated.

I caught him with one arm across the chest. "Tak, wait. Don't."

He didn't move past me. But he did murmur loud enough for the entire plaza to hear:

"You sure he's not just mad because he couldn't figure out how a lighter works?"

The silence after that was… delicious.

Torente froze. Blinked. The smirk evaporated.

And then… he laughed.

"AHAHAH! Oh, gods, that's rich!" he howled. "This is your crew? Goblins with mouth problems and street rats pretending they're clever?"

He pointed at Tak. Then at everyone. His contempt blanketed the plaza.

"No wonder you're hiding in this dump. You built yourself a fake world—cheap toys, fake fire, and a fan club of misfits who wouldn't last a day in the real world."

And that's when something inside me cracked.

Not an explosion.

Not a scream.

Just a slow, spreading fracture.

Because now he wasn't mocking me.

He was mocking them.

Marikit—who flinched when someone called her "brat."

Tina—who stiffened at the word "half-blood."

Tak—who'd been treated like muscle and nothing more his whole life.

This wasn't just about a fake accusation anymore.

This was about who we were.

What we built.

And the people who believed in me, even when I didn't.

I took a slow breath. My thumb throbbed in time with my heartbeat.

And I knew—

The storm wasn't coming.

It was already here.

[CONTINUED in Chapter 24: The Piledriver Principle]