SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

- Trafalgar POV -

The first thing Trafalgar did after waking was check the Shadowlink Echo.

The item surfaced in his palm through a small ripple of mana, weight familiar against his skin. He’d used it enough by now that even the grain of it felt known. A breath of mana into the device and a recorded message stirred inside.

Caelum’s voice came through, even and precise.

”Young master, I did what I could during the first night. My investigations and preparations are in place. As you suspected, the Atrium appears to be the point of interest. By the time you hear this, I’ll already be inside, working. Tonight I’ll report everything I find.”

Nothing more.

The Shadowlink Echo dimmed in his hand before dissolving into mana particles and slipping back into his inventory.

Trafalgar was bare from the night before, having dropped into sleep without bothering to undress. He reached for his clothes while his mind ran the next move.

’So Caelum’s already in. Good. Speed matters here, and if he can hand me something tonight, we’ll finally have a thread to pull.’ He fastened his shirt one button at a time, jaw drawing tight. ’If Selara’s master really is in this city, that’s a find worth the risk. A dangerous one. But worth it.’

He’d barely closed the last button when knocks rattled the door.

Trafalgar crossed the room while adjusting his collar. He hadn’t finished putting himself together, but that was going to have to be someone else’s problem. It might be Selara on the other side, and waiting politely with her was rarely the winning strategy.

He opened the door.

Cynthia.

”Good morning,” Trafalgar said. ”Did you come to get me?”

Cynthia’s attention caught on him before she remembered how to speak. For one foolish breath, she forgot whatever she had planned to say. Trafalgar had answered half-dressed, hair loose, shirt arranged more in concept than in practice, and apparently that combination was enough to derail her in a way she immediately wished it hadn’t.

She cleared her throat and pulled herself back together, though not as smoothly as she’d have liked.

”Yes. Director Selara asked me to come find you,” she said. ”Today is our first real day here, so apparently we’re not just on vacation. She has something arranged for us while we’re in Aurevane and said she’d explain downstairs.”

Trafalgar gave a small huff through his nose and finished with the collar. ”Of course she does. I doubted they’d give us two weeks off for nothing. Although after the train, I’d argue we’ve earned one peaceful breakfast.”

Cynthia stepped aside as he moved into the corridor. ”After the train, most people would agree.”

They walked together.

The lodging corridor was quieter than the night before. Doors stayed shut, and the few students already awake moved with the low energy of people who had slept badly and were doing their best not to confess it. Aurevane might be safer than the rails, but fear didn’t tidy itself away because someone posted guards at the entrance.

Cynthia glanced sideways. ”By the way, I heard the First Concord showed up after the attack. What are they like?”

”Efficient, at least,” Trafalgar said. ”They didn’t waste time, and they knew what they were doing. If anything goes wrong again, having them nearby beats relying on local guards alone.”

”That’s good to hear.” Her shoulders eased a fraction. ”After yesterday, no one wants to find out the city’s security is ornamental.”

”Ornamental security is a very Aurevane idea.”

She nearly smiled. ”You’ve been here one night.”

”That was enough.”

By the time they reached the lobby, several students had already gathered, with more trickling in from the stairs and side corridors, voices kept low. The mood had improved compared to the train, though only on the surface. A handful of students still wore their shoulders too tight. Others kept tracking the entrances, as if breakfast might arrive with company.

Trafalgar understood it. Everyone here had lived through the same thing yesterday. A few were processing it better than the rest. A few were faking.

Selara waited near the center of the lobby with several Academy staff at her back. When Trafalgar walked in, she acknowledged him with a brief tilt of her head. Her face wore none of the playful sharpness she usually paraded around in. No teasing curve at the mouth, no bright, dangerous amusement.

Something was off.

He couldn’t put a name to it yet, only the shape. Selara wanted to speak with him after this; she held herself like the public explanation was only an annoying wall standing between her and the real conversation.

Once the last students filtered in, Selara stepped forward.

”Good morning, everyone.” Her voice carried through the lobby. ”First, I’m glad to see all of you here. Yesterday’s attack wasn’t something students should have had to live through on an Academy trip, but you handled it better than most trained adults would have.”

The room hushed.

Selara went on, less playful than usual without sliding into cold. ”This lodging is protected. Aurevane’s authorities have reinforced the area, and the First Concord is active in the city. I won’t insult you by claiming there’s no danger at all, but none of you have been left exposed.”

That helped. Not completely, though enough that a few students finally released the breath they’d been hoarding since the rails.

”Now,” Selara continued, lifting one hand as an Academy assistant began passing out papers, ”we remain here for academic reasons. You’ll receive individual tasks tied to the event, Aurevane’s facilities, and the exhibitions you’ll be visiting. These are not punishments, and they’re not built to bury you. Treat them as structured work for the time we’re here.”

The papers worked their way through the group.

Trafalgar received his and lowered his attention to it, expecting some minor assignment cobbled together to keep appearances tidy.

What he found was nonsense.

The page wore enough official formatting to pass for legitimate at a glance, but the actual content was a graveyard of random terms. Ward alignment. Historical glasswork. Alchemical breakfast. Rotational etiquette. Three lines down it asked about comparative window pressure in a sentence that didn’t even pretend to understand itself.

Trafalgar nearly laughed.

Selara’s attention snapped onto him at once, and the temperature of her expression dropped several degrees.

He pulled his face back into shape in the space of a heartbeat and held the paper as if it carried a perfectly normal task. No one else appeared to catch the exchange, though Cynthia’s mouth twitched beside him in a way that said she’d caught more than enough.

’Traitor.’

Selara resumed as though nothing had passed between them. ”You’ll have time to eat before starting. Stay in groups unless told otherwise, report anything unusual, and do not wander into restricted areas because curiosity briefly defeated your survival instincts.”

A few students shifted at that one.

”Good,” Selara said. ”Breakfast first. Work after.”

The group splintered, drifting toward the dining area in loose clusters. A handful compared assignments. Others looked relieved to have any kind of direction at all. Even busywork carried weight when it pointed somewhere.

Trafalgar held his ground near the edge of the lobby with Cynthia.

Selara crossed to them once most of the students had peeled away.

”Student Cynthia,” she said, tone polite but final, ”I’d like to speak with Trafalgar privately. It concerns what happened on the train yesterday. He was of great help, as you know, and there are a few details I need to go over with him.”

Cynthia accepted it without protest. ”Of course. I’ll wait outside.”

Trafalgar gave her a small nod. ”I won’t be long.”

She left them, though not before sliding one last glance toward the absurd assignment in his hand. This time she let a small smile slip.

Once she was gone, Selara turned fully toward him.

Trafalgar lifted the paper between two fingers. ”Alchemical breakfast?”

Selara plucked it from his hand and folded it once with unnecessary violence.

”It was the first thing I wrote that sounded harmless,” she muttered.

Her voice dropped out of its public register on the next breath. The playful edge was gone, packed away somewhere it would not be needed for what came next.