SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

By the next morning, Trafalgar had already told Selara what Cynthia had found.

He kept it brief: Lower Conservatory, close to the Glass Atrium, open during the morning, public enough to enter without forcing a door and private enough to have staff passages guarded by men who did not smile for tourists. Selara listened without interrupting, which meant she cared. When he finished, she only asked two questions: who had heard it, and whether Cynthia understood the importance of the name.

Trafalgar answered both honestly.

Cynthia had heard enough to be useful, not enough to be dangerous.

Selara accepted that with poor grace, mostly because she had no better option. She had an important meeting with two event committee members, Lady di Nareth’s office, and some representative who apparently believed paperwork could defeat suspicion if stamped hard enough. She also made it clear that if Trafalgar found anything strange, he was not to break into a restricted passage before informing her.

Trafalgar had promised nothing of the sort.

Caelum had not sent another message.

That bothered him more than he let show.

The Shadowlink Echo had stayed quiet through breakfast. There was no clipped explanation in Caelum’s calm voice. It could mean nothing. It could mean he was busy, blocked by wards, or somewhere deep enough that even a simple report had become inconvenient. With Caelum, inconvenient usually meant useful. So Trafalgar went with Cynthia.

The Lower Conservatory stood near the eastern side of the event district, lower than the grand halls and glass towers around it, half-sunk into terraced stone as if Aurevane had tried to bury a garden and changed its mind halfway through. Its roof curved in overlapping panes of green-tinted glass, supported by pale ribs of metal and mana-treated wood. Warm mist drifted behind the panels, blurring the plants within into shapes that shifted with every breath of light.

Cynthia paused near the entrance, assignment paper in hand.

She looked… pleased.

Not giddy. Cynthia did not do giddy. But the way her attention moved across the displayed arrows, reagent charts, cultivation notes, and glass cases made something in her sharpen with interest. Professional curiosity, maybe. The sort people got when a tool promised to make them better at what they already cared about.

Trafalgar watched her for longer than he intended.

Cynthia noticed.

”What?” Cynthia asked, turning slightly toward him.

”Nothing,” Trafalgar replied. ”I just didn’t expect you to look that interested in a conservatory.”

Cynthia gave him a dry stare. ”It’s not just a conservatory. Half the things here can be turned into coatings, powders, oils, or toxins if someone knows what they’re doing. For an archer, that is a little more useful than walking around and admiring expensive leaves.”

”Right. My mistake. You’re not here for the plants. You’re here because half of them can ruin someone’s day from a distance.”

”That sounds much closer to the truth,” Cynthia said, and there was a small trace of satisfaction in her voice as she turned back toward the entrance. ”Besides, if the Academy wants me to write about non-lethal projectile effects, this is probably the best place in Aurevane to do it. I’d rather learn something useful than copy words from a guidebook.”

”That actually makes sense.”

”How generous of you to approve.”

”I’m known for being generous.”

”Sure,” Cynthia said, tucking the assignment paper under one arm as they began walking. ”Then be generous enough to help me ask the right questions. You’re here already, so you might as well pretend you came for my assignment.”

”I can do that. Pretending to be helpful is one of my strongest academic skills.”

”Only pretending?”

”Let’s not aim too high this early.”

Cynthia shook her head, but the smile stayed for a few steps. ”Fine. Today, you are my temporary assistant. Try not to stare too hard at anything suspicious.”

”No promises.”

They entered with the flow of morning visitors.

The public section of the Lower Conservatory smelled of damp earth, bitter herbs, floral sweetness, and alchemical preservatives. Long tables divided the hall into displays, each one arranged with Aurevane’s usual expensive patience. Medicinal roots floated inside glass cylinders. Venomous blossoms rested behind faintly glowing wards. Students moved with notebooks in hand, merchants murmured prices under their breath, and attendants guided guests away from plants that apparently disliked fingers.

Cynthia headed straight for the projectile reagents.

A woman in a green uniform greeted them with professional brightness. ”Good morning. Are you here for the Academy assignment?”

Cynthia lifted her paper. ”Yes. I’m cataloguing materials used for arrow coatings and restraint effects. I need practical notes, not just names and pretty descriptions.”

The attendant’s smile warmed a little, probably because someone had finally asked a question that did not involve whether the flowers were safe to touch. ”Then you’ll want the second row. We have several cultivated reagents used for sleep mixtures, muscle-slowing compounds, and binding extracts. Please don’t open the sealed samples. Last year, a visiting student decided to test a pollen vial directly and missed an entire afternoon of scheduled lectures.”

Trafalgar glanced at Cynthia. ”That almost sounds like a successful product.”

The attendant hesitated, caught between professionalism and agreement. ”It was effective, yes. The student’s teacher was less impressed.”

Cynthia covered a small laugh by adjusting her paper. ”We’ll avoid direct testing.”

”Wise choice.”

The attendant guided them forward and began explaining the samples. Cynthia asked about preparation methods, coating stability, wind exposure, and how long certain compounds lasted once applied to metal. Trafalgar stayed near her shoulder and listened, playing the part of someone there to help while letting his attention move past the display.

Cynthia was better at this than most would expect. Her questions did not wander around the topic. She asked what an archer would need to know: how fast the coating dried, whether it ruined balance, whether rain weakened it, and how much contact was required before the effect began.

Trafalgar let her work.

The attendant pointed toward a tray of pale resin sealed beneath glass. ”This one is more reliable for restraint than sleep. It reacts with mana on impact and tightens around the affected area. Against stronger opponents, it won’t hold for long, but it can buy enough time to reposition.”

Cynthia leaned closer without touching the glass. ”Would it work on arrowheads with a narrow impact point, or does it need a wider surface?”

”A narrow point works, but the coating has to be layered properly. Too thin, and it breaks before activation. Too thick, and the arrow loses speed.”

Cynthia nodded and wrote that down.

Trafalgar’s attention drifted toward the rear of the hall.

There, behind an arch of carved stone and reinforced glass, two doors stood guarded by men in dark green uniforms. They did not carry themselves like decoration. Their hands rested near their weapons, and their bodies angled just enough to block the path without making a scene. Every visitor who approached was turned away with the same polite phrase.

”Staff access only.”

Beyond those doors, the floor dipped downward.

Cynthia finished writing a note and followed his attention. ”That’s where the workers I overheard came from yesterday.”

”You’re sure?”

”Yes. One of them had that same uniform, but with a silver line on the sleeve. He was arguing with another worker about deliveries being sent through the wrong route.”

”Different clearance, then.”

”Probably.” She lowered her voice while pretending to compare two entries on her paper. ”The attendant said the public section only shows prepared samples. The cultivation beds and storage rooms are behind staff access.”

”That makes sense for dangerous reagents.”

”It also makes sense if someone wants to move things without guests asking questions.”

Trafalgar gave her a brief glance. ”That was my line.”

”I’m learning.”

”That’s worrying.”

”It should be.”

One of the guarded doors opened.

Two workers emerged carrying a narrow metal crate between them. Condensation clung to its sides despite the warm air inside the conservatory. The guards checked a tag, murmured something, and allowed them through. The workers crossed the rear path and disappeared into a side corridor heading toward the Atrium district.

Cynthia’s pen paused over the paper. ”That crate had the same route color I saw yesterday.”

Trafalgar did not answer.

A second figure stepped through the staff doors behind the workers.

Tall, older, broad-shouldered, dressed in a gray-brown engineer’s coat. A trimmed beard framed a severe mouth, and a ring glinted on one gloved hand as his thumb brushed across it with irritated familiarity. The guards straightened at once. The attendant beside them dipped her head.

”Master von Halbrecht,” one guard said. ”The lower passage is ready.”

The man gave him a dry, impatient tilt of the head. ”I would hope so. If it wasn’t ready, that would mean someone wasted my morning and lacked the courtesy to warn me first.”

Cynthia shifted beside Trafalgar. ”That must be the engineer people keep mentioning.”

Trafalgar kept his face calm.

Master von Halbrecht walked past the public displays with the sour dignity of a man surrounded by inferior workmanship. To anyone else, he was simply an important engineer heading through a restricted route.

To Trafalgar, the disguise was almost offensive in how well it moved.

As the man passed, his attention crossed Trafalgar’s for the briefest instant.

But Trafalgar knew.

’He already found a path below.’

Master von Halbrecht continued toward the guarded stair.

The door opened for him.