SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

- Orven Von Halbrecht POV -

Orven von Halbrecht woke in his room and stayed still, staring at the ceiling. The first thing that reached him was thirst. Not mild discomfort, not the usual dry mouth after wine, but a brutal, urgent need that swallowed every other thought. His throat felt scraped raw, his tongue thick against his teeth, and for a few seconds the whole world narrowed into one demand: water. Nothing else existed. Nothing else had permission to exist until he drank.

He pushed himself out of bed in one sharp motion and immediately collapsed. His legs failed him almost at once, refusing to answer properly, and he hit the floor hard enough to drag a curse out of his mouth.

For a moment he stayed there, gripping the edge of the bed, furious at his own body for behaving like an apprentice after his first tavern night. It took several breaths before his knees remembered their function, and even then he stood like a man negotiating with badly maintained machinery.

He reached the kitchen as fast as his body allowed, one hand scraping along the wall, his head pounding with every step. He opened the nearest cabinet, found a glass bottle of water, tore the stopper free, and drank without caring how much spilled.

Glup! Glup! Glup!

It was less drinking than devouring the water. His throat worked greedily, the bottle tilted so high that liquid ran down his chin and into his beard. The sight would have been shameful if anyone had been there to witness it. When he finally stopped, he looked like a damned French bulldog drooling after eating something it had no business touching.

Orven lowered the bottle, but his fingers slipped before he could place it on the counter. The glass fell, struck the floor, and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces that scattered across the kitchen tiles.

”Shit… now I have to clean this. Tch.”

The annoyance was plain in his voice, but he did not bend down to collect the glass. His hand went to his head first. Pain pulsed behind his skull in ugly waves, each one landing after the other like a hammer tapping from inside his bones.

It felt less like a hangover and more like a migraine with a personal grievance. He pressed his fingers against his temple, trying to force the ache into silence, and that was when another thought pushed through the thirst and pain.

He remembered.

A man had spoken with him near the street, joining the conversation when they were discussing the Atrium. A polite old vampire by appearance, irritatingly informed, and far more pleasant to speak with than he had any right to be. One conversation had led to another. Wine. Wards. Complaints about committees, conduits, architecture made by people with decorative arrogance and no technical conscience.

’Tch. This is why my mother told me not to trust strangers.’

The rest returned with the scent. A vial. A handkerchief. That bitter-sweet chemical in the air. He had realized something was wrong, but the man moved before warning could become action. Orven remembered the arm around his chest, the cloth pressed over his mouth and nose, his own hand trying to reach for the ring, his elbow striking back and finding nothing useful. The wine had slowed him. The chemical had finished the insult.

He remembered the last words too. His mouth moved before he could stop himself, murmuring them aloud in the empty kitchen.

”Save your strength, Master von Halbrecht. You will need the headache tomorrow more than the struggle tonight.”

Orven stood there among the scattered glass, water dripping from his beard, head throbbing, dignity murdered in his own kitchen. He drew one long breath.

”DAMNED SON OF A BITCH!!!”

His shout cracked through the house, and of course no one answered. The bastard had not stayed to be shouted at, which proved he had at least one surviving instinct. Orven avoided the thousand glittering pieces of broken bottle and marched out of the kitchen. Cleaning could wait. His headache could wait. His dignity would have to recover on its own. Right now, he needed to report what had happened.

He did not know how long he had been asleep, but when he stepped outside, Aurevane had already fallen into night. That alone made his jaw tighten. Noise rolled through the streets from every direction: voices, carriage wheels, late vendors, distant music, and the thick movement of a city pretending its important day had arrived without incident. People were moving in the same direction, all dressed for the grand event, heading toward the castle-like venue where the main presentations would be held.

Orven looked at the stream of guests and felt his headache sharpen.

’Oh, no. They cannot be celebrating today after what happened to me. Safe city, my ass. I was kidnapped! Kidnapped!! I will report to everyone.’

With that thought burning hotter than the pain in his skull, Orven marched toward the castle. The walk did nothing to calm him. Every banner, every guard, every polished lamp made the insult worse.

Aurevane boasted of control, security, access checks, administrative wards, and official protection, yet a stranger had drugged him, stolen his time, and left him to wake in his own house like some drunk clerk who had misplaced the floor.

After a while, he finally reached the venue. The great doors were closed, and two guards stood before them with spears crossed, one beastkin and one dwarf, both wearing formal armor as if ceremony could make obstruction more acceptable.

The beastkin guard raised his spear a little higher. ”Master von Halbrecht, the event has already started. Please wait outside until the current presentation ends and the judges decide a winner.”

The dwarf beside him added, ”No one is allowed inside while a presentation is active.”

Orven looked at the spears. Then at the guards. Then at the closed doors beyond them.

”No.”

Before either guard could decide whether that was refusal or warning, Orven drew a small flask from inside his coat, cracked the seal with his thumb, and threw it at the floor between them. Gray smoke burst upward in a choking cloud. The beastkin recoiled with a curse. The dwarf coughed, spear dropping half an inch as the smoke crawled over his face.

Orven did not wait for permission.

He pushed through the doors and entered the hall furious.

Inside, the presentation broke apart as hundreds of heads turned toward him.