SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

Trafalgar caught the brush of Selara’s hand near his wrist a heartbeat before she withdrew it.

”Did something happen?” he asked, voice pitched low enough that no one nearby would mistake it for interest.

Selara withheld the answer. Her attention prowled across the hall, sweeping past every object to trace the bones of the place itself - the arches, the reinforced glass ribs, the mana channels braided through the pillars, the careful geometry concealed beneath all that expensive beauty. Whatever had ambushed her at the entrance was not a single clue. It was memory pressing against architecture.

”No,” she said at last, the word slack of any real conviction. ”He helped design parts of this place. A long time ago. Certain structural habits are hard to forget when you spent years having them hammered into your skull through lectures.”

Trafalgar followed her sweep across the hall. ”Your master worked on this building?”

”In part. Aurevane used to summon him whenever they wanted something impossible, illegal, or expensive enough to pretend it was neither.” Selara tugged one of her gloves straight and dragged the public version of herself back into position. ”Don’t make that face. We aren’t discovering anything yet. This place is old, and old work leaves fingerprints in every corner.”

”I wasn’t making a face.”

”You were absolutely making a face.”

”Must be the glasses again.”

”It is never the glasses.”

Before he could answer, a broad figure shouldered through the current of guests with the confidence of someone who’d known half the room since before their hair turned gray. Short, thick at the chest, planted in the world like a foundation stone, he carried himself with such density that the crowd parted around him on reflex. His white beard had been threaded with silver bands, his matching hair pulled back in tight plaits that fell across a dark formal coat reinforced at the shoulders. A dwarf - one who’d dressed for ceremony without surrendering an inch of comfort.

His face cracked open into delight the instant he registered Selara.

”Well, well. If it isn’t our genius alchemist and director of the greatest Academy in the world.” The voice rolled out warmly, gravel underneath. ”Selara, how has the world been treating you?”

Her expression shifted with surprising ease into something warmer than her usual register. ”Bjorn. Still breathing, still loud, and still pretending you don’t enjoy these gatherings?”

Bjorn barked a laugh. ”Someone has to pretend. If we all admitted we love watching old rivals squirm in expensive clothes, the entire profession would collapse from honesty.”

”That would be a tragedy.”

”A costly one.” His attention swung to Trafalgar, and the old dwarf’s brows climbed. ”Before I wander into a story no one requested, who’s your companion? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Trafalgar stepped forward and offered his hand. ”Pleasure to meet you, Bjorn. I’m Tom, Selara’s personal assistant these past few years.”

Bjorn clamped his hand with a grip that would have punished ordinary fingers. Trafalgar returned just enough pressure to pass without making a point of it.

”Oh?” Bjorn pivoted back to Selara, genuinely caught off balance. ”Our little genius finally hired herself an assistant after all this time? Good. We told you for years that you needed someone to keep you from doing everything alone.”

Selara’s smile carried the exact measure of danger required to remind him she was nobody’s child. ”I appreciate your concern, Bjorn. Tom has been very useful. He has good hands, a steady head, and enough sense not to interrupt me while I’m working.”

Trafalgar held his face courteous.

’Good hands and a steady head. Wonderful. I’ve been promoted from the chef role.’

Bjorn gave him a satisfied nod. ”That’s already better than most assistants. Half of them either faint near fumes or pepper you with questions while something is boiling.”

”Tom only does one of those,” Selara offered.

Trafalgar cut her off before she could enjoy that too much. ”I try to choose my mistakes carefully.”

Bjorn roared with laughter. ”Good. Good. You might survive her, then.”

Selara folded her arms loosely. ”You say that as though I lose assistants.”

”Selara, you once forced three senior researchers off a committee because they couldn’t pronounce an ingredient correctly.”

”They should have learned before opening their mouths in public.”

”See? This is why I missed you.”

The exchange drew a few glances from neighboring guests, none of them suspicious. Old colleagues greeting one another made for harmless social noise, the perfect cover for less harmless intentions. Trafalgar held half a step behind Selara, listening, letting the disguise breathe.

Bjorn lowered his voice a notch - though not enough to manufacture drama. ”Are you presenting anything during the event? I’d love to see something of yours again. Your work always manages to leave everyone else either jealous or furious, and both are excellent entertainment.”

Selara’s smile thinned. ”You’ll see when the time comes. I can’t say anything yet.”

”A pity. I was hoping for a warning, at least.”

”If my work requires a warning, you’ll recognize it quickly enough.”

”That is exactly what worries me.” Bjorn touched two fingers to his brow in a relaxed salute. ”I won’t rob more of your time. There are too many old faces in here, and if I don’t greet them now, they’ll accuse me of arrogance instead of age.”

”That has never stopped you before.”

”No, but age provides better excuses.” Bjorn dipped his chin toward Trafalgar. ”Master Tom. Try not to let her torch any official building unless the speeches are genuinely unbearable.”

”I’ll do my best.”

Bjorn chuckled and dissolved into the flow of velvet, polished shoes, and professional pride.

Once he was gone, Selara angled her head just enough to murmur under her breath.

”Tom? Really?”

Trafalgar kept his attention on the hall. ”I had to improvise. It’s simple and easy to remember. That makes it useful.”

”It makes you sound like a stable boy from a children’s play.”

”Better than choosing something ridiculous and forgetting it halfway through. Also, I didn’t expect you to be capable of that much etiquette.”

”I am your director, Trafalgar.”

”Right. That explains the threats and forged homework.”

”Keep going and I’ll improve both.”

He almost smiled - almost - though the hall around them was busy with important people pretending they had gathered for science and business alone. Every conversation carried edges. Every laugh trailed a sponsor.

Trafalgar dropped his voice. ”Changing the subject - our actual objective. If anyone in this room knows whether your master is truly in Aurevane, who would it be?”

Selara held her reply. Her attention combed the room again, this time hunting for a face rather than a memory.

”Matteo.”

”Matteo?”

”Matteo was a close friend of my master. One of the few who could argue with him for over an hour without either of them reaching for something lethal.” Her mouth tightened a fraction. ”If anyone here has heard a rumor worth taking seriously, it would be him.”

”And he’s present?”

Selara angled her chin toward the far side of the hall. ”Eastern gallery. Gray coat, gold clasp, pretending he doesn’t want anyone to notice he’s chosen the most visible corner in the room.”

”Subtle.”

”Matteo has many virtues. Subtlety was never on the guest list.”

They threaded into motion through the hall.

Selara claimed the lead, returning greetings with the polished grace of someone who’d survived decades of academic politics and learned exactly where to deposit every smile so it could cut later if needed. Trafalgar trailed as Tom, temporary assistant, balancing the document case and offering small nods whenever someone acknowledged him. A few guests glanced twice, perhaps catching something familiar beneath the glasses and rearranged hair, though none lingered long enough to brew trouble.

The hall widened as they crossed it. Displays occupied raised platforms between clusters of guests. Alchemical vessels revolved inside protective fields. Mana instruments hummed across velvet-backed stands. A trio of engineers argued over a conduit model beside a crystal diagram large enough to bankrupt a small town. Everything glimmered, hummed, refracted, and announced wealth with immaculate posture.

Selara ignored most of it, and that revealed more to Trafalgar than any explanation could have. She halted only once, beside a glass column where a thin line of mana pulsed through a spiral casing. Her fingers twitched at her side, but she pushed past before the reaction could carve itself into her face.

’So - not proof,’ Trafalgar thought. ’Memories, and annoying ones at that.’

They reached the eastern gallery, and there he was.

Matteo waited beside a long table of refreshments, draped in a gray coat with a gold clasp shaped like a split feather. Tall, narrow-faced, weathered into that particular shape wealthy scholars wore once age caught them - carefully preserved, expensively tired, convinced posture could outduel time if negotiated with firmly enough. Silver hair combed back from a high forehead, hands folded over a cane he almost certainly didn’t need.

And the second his attention caught Selara crossing the floor toward him, something in his expression locked into place. Recognition - and beneath it, the particular stillness of a man who already knew exactly why she had come.