SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

Matteo di Ravelle spotted Selara approaching and tightened his grip on the cane. That alone was already an answer.

Selara halted in front of him without offering a smile, a greeting, or any of the polite scraps people scattered around halls like this one to avoid saying anything useful.

”Has my master come to Aurevane?”

Matteo’s mouth twitched. He had aged well, or expensively, which in Aurevane usually meant the same thing. His gray coat had been cut with moneyed taste, his gold clasp polished enough to throw the hall’s light back at it, and his face wore the weathered patience of a man who’d spent too many years outlasting clever people.

”That is a rather unusual topic for a gathering like this, Selara. And a rather unique way to greet an old friend, I’ll grant you - no preamble at all.”

”You heard the question.”

”I did. So did everyone within three steps, which is precisely why I’m choosing not to answer it in the same tone you used to ask it.”

Selara’s fingers hung loose at her side, but Trafalgar caught the tension humming under them. She was holding herself back. Barely.

Matteo’s attention slid to Trafalgar. ”And this is?”

”My assistant,” Selara said.

Matteo gave Trafalgar a brief inspection and dismissed him almost at once, the same way old scholars discarded junior staff hauling folders and ink. Trafalgar kept his mouth shut. The glasses, the case in his hand, the rearranged hair, the role of Tom - all of it required a certain quota of humiliation. Apparently today’s portion had arrived wrapped in a gray coat.

”A young assistant,” Matteo remarked. ”You must be feeling sentimental.”

”He listens better than most men your age.”

”That is an easy victory. Most men my age stopped listening the moment people began calling them respected.” Matteo returned his attention to Selara. ”And because he listens, perhaps you should choose what you say with more care.”

”I asked whether he has come here.”

”You know he hasn’t been seen in years. Everyone knows that. You know it better than anyone, considering he left you to pick through the wreckage of his choices.”

Selara didn’t flinch. ”Don’t pretend you’re telling me something new.”

”I’m reminding you of something useful. He was a brilliant researcher, yes. A ridiculous alchemist, an even more ridiculous engineer, and a genius back when genius was still a compliment. But brilliance doesn’t wash blood off old tools.”

”He had methods,” Selara said.

”He had obsessions,” Matteo corrected. ”Methods are what sane people call procedures other sane people can repeat. What he did fit inside sealed rooms and bad dreams, nowhere else. You know that.”

”I know what he was.”

”No, Selara. You know what he taught you. The rest of us had the privilege of watching what he did when no student was admiring him.”

That bit deeper than Trafalgar had braced for, though Selara’s expression did not break. It simply shed every last degree of warmth.

”Has he come to Aurevane?” she asked again.

Matteo vented a breath through his nose and tipped a glance toward the center of the hall, where polished displays and important guests conspired to make the whole place feel tidier than it deserved.

”Here? If that bastard were alive, he wouldn’t stroll into this hall and greet old colleagues under chandeliers.” Selara said nothing, and Matteo grimaced, as if irritated by his own sentence. ”No. Wait. That is what a reasonable man would do. Your master was never reasonable when an impossible thing happened to be standing behind a locked door.” He drummed one finger against the head of his cane. ”Aurevane has money, old infrastructure, committees with more pride than caution, and enough private rooms to bury mistakes until they learn to breathe. So yes - if he were alive, this city would tempt him.”

”Have you seen him?”

”No.” The answer arrived faster this time. ”Unfortunately. Or fortunately, depending on how honest I feel.”

Selara’s voice dropped. ”Choose honesty.”

”Fine. Unfortunately, because if he is alive, someone ought to know before he starts turning theory into corpses again. Fortunately, because if I met him face to face, I might forget my age and try to pull his teeth out with my bare hands.”

”Does your assistant require clarification?”

Selara fired back without missing a step. ”My assistant understands more than most people who speak in this hall.”

”How fortunate for him. Understanding is much easier when one isn’t responsible for anything.”

Trafalgar bit down on the answer before it could leave his mouth.

Selara’s head tilted by a fraction. ”Matteo.”

”What? I’m being polite.”

”Your polite is rusted.”

”Age does that.” Matteo leaned slightly closer, enough for the next words to stay between them. ”Listen to me. I haven’t seen him. I haven’t received a letter, a coded note, a vial with his ugly handwriting attached, or any other theatrical little proof that he’s breathing. But if you’re asking because you smelled his work somewhere - don’t ignore that.”

Selara’s jaw locked. ”You think I imagined it?”

”I think you wanted him dead for a century and feared he wasn’t for nearly as long. That combination makes ghosts out of machinery.”

”And if it isn’t a ghost?”

Matteo’s fingers tightened around the cane. ”If it isn’t, he won’t be upstairs. He won’t be in the public halls, nor beside a display with his name politely engraved below it. He always despised applause when there was work beneath the floor.”

Beneath the floor. Trafalgar filed the phrase away, and Selara caught it just as fast. ”Do you know a place?”

”No. And if I did, this would be a terrible place to say it.” Matteo straightened his coat and let his public face flow back into position, weary and pleasant enough to fool anyone who hadn’t overheard the conversation. ”Enjoy the event, Director Selara. Try not to dig up a corpse that learned to walk.”

”You know me better than that.”

”Yes,” Matteo said. ”That’s why I’m leaving before you ask me a third time.”

He dipped his head with lacquered courtesy and walked away, cane striking the marble with soft, metronomic taps. Selara watched him dissolve into the crowd while Trafalgar held beside her, silent as promised.

They walked out of that exchange without a location and without proof, though Matteo di Ravelle had handed them something almost as useful. If her master was alive, Aurevane wouldn’t display him - it would hide him below.

At the far end of the eastern gallery, a staff door opened just long enough for two attendants to carry a sealed case through. Behind them, Trafalgar snatched a fleeting glimpse of stairs descending into the bones of the building before the door snapped closed again. Whatever Aurevane kept under its polished floors, the city was working very hard to make sure no one looked twice.