SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

The service lane narrowed between the two administrative buildings, far enough from the main road that Aurevane’s festival noise reached them as a blurred murmur.

Orven von Halbrecht slowed, rubbing two fingers against his brow while he kept walking with the stubborn dignity of a man pretending the wine had not reached his legs.

”I may have underestimated the second bottle,” he said.

”Only the second?” Caelum asked, keeping Edran von Voss’s aged voice mild.

Halbrecht gave him a tired side glance. ”Do not become irritating now, Master von Voss. I was beginning to tolerate you.”

”That would be a shame to ruin.”

Caelum’s hand slipped into the inner pocket of his coat and closed around the small glass vial. With the same motion, he drew out a folded handkerchief, uncorked the vial beneath his sleeve, and soaked the cloth with a few careful drops. The chemical breathed into the cold air, bitter and sweet enough to scratch at the back of the throat.

Halbrecht noticed at once.

His face tightened. ”That scent...”

Caelum moved before the warning finished forming.

He hooked one arm around Halbrecht’s chest from behind, dragged him back, and clamped the soaked cloth over his mouth and nose. Halbrecht jerked hard, one hand snapping toward Caelum’s wrist while the other clawed at the wall, but the wine had already stolen the first proper answer from his body. The chemical stole the rest.

”Mmph—!”

”Save your strength, Master von Halbrecht,” Caelum said near his ear, calm enough to be insulting. ”You will need the headache tomorrow more than the struggle tonight.”

Halbrecht drove an elbow back. Caelum shifted with it, letting the blow scrape past his side before tightening his grip. The engineer’s boots rasped against the stone, once, twice, the sound drowned beneath music and carriage wheels from the main road. His fingers twitched near the ring, searching for a tool, a ward key, anything that could turn this back into a problem he understood.

It did not.

Caelum kept the cloth sealed until Halbrecht’s resistance buckled. The man’s body surrendered in stages, pride leaving last, as if unconsciousness also needed to win an argument before being allowed inside.

When his weight gave out, Caelum caught him before he struck the ground.

He checked the man’s pulse, his breathing, and the flow of mana beneath the skin. Stable. Deeply asleep. Usable. The face remained undamaged, which was the minimum standard. Damaging the face he intended to borrow would have been amateur work, and Caelum had very little patience for amateur work, even from himself.

A rear door opened deeper in the lane.

One of his clones stood inside, wearing the unremarkable face of a night porter. The rented room beyond had been prepared in advance: narrow bed, covered windows, small table, washbasin, and enough dust in the corners to convince anyone that the place existed only because landlords hated empty space.

Caelum hauled Halbrecht inside and laid him on the bed. Boots removed. Coat loosened. Gloves placed nearby, one slightly crooked, because Halbrecht in this state would not have arranged them with his usual irritating precision. A half-empty bottle waited on the table beside a glass. Several documents from Halbrecht’s pocket were spread open near his hand.

A drunk professional, overworked by event week, who had failed to reach his own lodging with dignity.

Caelum took out the Memory Veil and placed one drop beneath Halbrecht’s tongue. The potion would bruise the edges of memory without breaking them. When Halbrecht woke, he would remember wine, fatigue, a walk through Aurevane, and the humiliating possibility that his own body had betrayed him before his workday began.

His pride would complete the lie for him.

The porter-faced clone stayed near the door, quiet and forgettable. Caelum adjusted the dose once more through that spare body, leaving Halbrecht deep enough under that he would not wake before morning. If anyone knocked, the answer was already prepared: Master von Halbrecht had returned unwell after drinking more than was wise, and he had ordered not to be disturbed before the morning review.

A boring explanation survived longer than a clever one.

Caelum removed the ring from Halbrecht’s hand.

Next came the identity plate, the pocket seal, the technical key, the folded schedule, and the small case of ward-inspection tools. Each item was placed in order across the table. Caelum did not hurry. Haste belonged to people who had failed to prepare earlier.

First bell. Western technical gate. Lower ward registry. Lady Ilyra di Nareth. Closed meeting before the afternoon previews.

Everything Halbrecht had said matched the documents.

Good.

Caelum stepped before the narrow mirror and activated his skill.

[Borrowed Face]

A stranger’s face could be made quickly. Halbrecht required more care, because people recognized habits before features. Bone mattered less than rhythm. Skin mattered less than irritation repeated often enough to become familiar.

Caelum pressed his fingers along his jaw, throat, brow, and cheeks. The vampire’s pale features withdrew. Halbrecht’s heavier jaw formed beneath his hands, followed by the trimmed beard, the tired crease near the mouth, and the pressure around the brow. His hands aged by a careful measure, knuckles broadening, veins rising. His shoulders adjusted. His height shifted slightly. His stance took Halbrecht’s uneven weight, that faint drag on the right side wine had made easier to study.

The voice came last.

”Bring me the lower ward registry, not your summary,” Caelum said.

Too smooth.

He touched his throat and tried again, roughening the sentence near the end.

”Bring me the lower ward registry, not your summary. If I wanted guesses, I would ask the event committee.”

Better.

He put on the ring and brushed it once with his thumb. Wrong timing. Again. This time the thumb moved before the sentence, not after it. Better. The gesture had to arrive as if the body had practiced annoyance longer than patience.

He put on the gloves.

Left first. Right second.

By first bell, Halbrecht left the rented room.

Caelum crossed Aurevane with the engineer’s coat, ring, tools, documents, and sour dignity arranged around him. The city had already begun its event-day performance. Carriages rolled toward exhibition streets. Assistants hurried with folders pressed to their chests. Guards checked invitations with the exhausted faces of men already insulted by nobles before breakfast.

The Glass Atrium waited ahead, huge and pale beneath the morning light.

Its western side did not face the public avenue. The technical gate stood between angled walls of reinforced glass and white stone, guarded by four men and a ward plate mounted beside the entrance. A young assistant waited near the gate with a folder clutched against his chest.

He straightened the instant he saw Caelum.

”Master von Halbrecht, good morning. Lady di Nareth has already arrived, and we were informed you would be coming directly for the lower registry review.”

”I should hope you were informed,” Caelum replied in Halbrecht’s voice, thumb grazing the ring. ”If I came all this way and no one expected me, Aurevane would owe me an apology and a better administrative staff.”

The assistant flushed and lowered his head. ”Of course, sir. The registry has been prepared for your inspection.”

”Prepared properly, or prepared in the way administrators use the word when they mean placed on a table?”

The young man swallowed. ”I believe it has been prepared properly, sir.”

”Belief is not a technical standard. Open the gate and let us find out before Lady di Nareth mistakes waiting for supervision.”

The guard accepted the identity plate and pressed it against the ward panel.

Glass runes brightened.

The wards scanned him, tasting mana, plate, posture, and permission. Caelum kept Halbrecht’s breathing steady, Halbrecht’s impatience visible, and Halbrecht’s hand near the ring as if the delay itself offended him.

The ward accepted the lie.

The western technical gate opened, and Caelum walked into The Glass Atrium with another man’s name clearing the path ahead.