SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 711: A Seat Near the Center

The doors opened onto the whole of House Morgain, and every head in the hall turned toward him.

The room had been dressed for a formal gathering, the long table laid, every place marked, the family banners hanging heavy down the walls. It was a large hall, and large halls held the cold well, but the chill in this one owed less to the stone than to the people filling it. Two years had passed since he last stood among most of them. He took the measure of the room in a single pass, and the room took the measure of him right back.

A handful of chairs stood empty.

The most obvious was Valttair's, the high seat at the head of the table, waiting on a patriarch who had not yet come down from two years of seclusion.

Rivena's place was empty as well.

Trafalgar had known it would be, though knowing did nothing to answer whether she would appear before the day was out. If she failed to, Valttair's temper would be a thing worth stepping back from.

Six months gone, no word to anyone, no accounting of where she had been or what she had done with the time, and every hour of that absence a possible knife aimed at the family's back.

Whatever mood the patriarch arrived in, his second daughter's empty chair would do nothing to improve it.

Another seat that should have been filled was Sylvar's. For half a breath the sight of it wrong-footed him, some old reflex expecting the pale, fragile figure to be there in his usual quiet. He was not, and he never would be again. Sylvar was two years dead.

The last two empty places were Lysandra's and her mother's. Lady Seraphine, the first wife, had called Lysandra away before the gathering, for reasons Moses had passed along without explaining. Trafalgar had no idea what the woman wanted with her daughter. He would learn it if Lysandra chose to tell him when she returned, and not a moment before.

Everyone else had come, and every one of them had grown.

The war had done most of that work. He could read it in the way they carried themselves, harder and surer than the siblings he had left behind, and he could read something else beneath it as well, an old resentment that had not aged out of them. It had stung, back then, that the weakest brother at the table walked away from that war with more glory than any of them. Of course, weakest was a word that no longer applied to him. He suspected that stung worse.

Maeron had finally crossed into his thirties. Word had reached Trafalgar that the first heir had taken another wife and already had two small children underfoot, busy seeding the next generation while he still had the years for it.

A pale beard framed his jaw now, the same washed-out gold as his hair, and he wore it the way he wore everything, like a man who had never once doubted the room was owed to him.

He carried more weight than he used to, more presence, more of the quiet authority that comes to men who have been tested and did not break. Whatever the years had put him through, they had hardened him into someone worth respecting.

'I hope my children never have to share a table with his,' Trafalgar thought, with a clarity that caught even him off guard. Whatever this family was, he wanted his own blood as far from it as the world would allow.

Maeron studied him for a long while across the table and said nothing at all.

Lady Verena had taken her seat with the flat patience of a soldier waiting out a briefing. Rivena was her daughter, gone six months into the dark, and if that troubled her she gave the table nothing to feed on.

Her scarred hands rested loose on the arms of her chair, her grey eyes level. How long that calm would hold once Valttair walked in and found one of his heirs missing was another question entirely. For now she watched Trafalgar with a soldier's caution, and he understood the arithmetic behind it well enough.

His rise did not threaten her. It threatened her children, Helgar and Rivena both, and a mother like Verena counted threats to her children the way other people counted coin.

Helgar had changed the most of any of them, at least where a glance could reach. He had always been built large. Now he was built like something that broke down doors for a living, taller and heavier, fresh scars written across the skin above his collar, and the aura pressing off him carried a weight it had not owned before.

Two years of training, fighting, and marching soldiers had turned the family's blunt instrument into a genuinely dangerous one. Of all the siblings he had climbed the furthest in raw military strength, and he wore it in every line of him, harder and blunter and far more certain of himself than the brother Trafalgar remembered. Trafalgar gave him that much.

The man had grown, truly grown. He was also one of the most irritating people Trafalgar had ever had the misfortune of sharing blood with.

Lady Naevia looked calm, and her calm was the worst thing in the room. Two years had gone by since Sylvar died, and she had not made her peace with it so much as learned to fold it out of sight.

It showed in one place only, in the way her attention kept drifting back to Nym, checking, returning, checking again, far more often than a mother watches a child who is fine. Nym was the only daughter she had left now. Worse, Nym had grown into the very age Sylvar had been the day he died, and Naevia guarded her like a woman who had already lost that gamble once.

Nym herself had shrunk. She spoke less than she used to, kept to the edges, her blond head bowed over the table in front of her. She took no part in the cold stares aimed his way, and she made no move toward him either. If anything, she looked like a girl trying very hard to become invisible inside a room that would not allow it. Trafalgar felt no pity for her. He did note, with the detachment of a man reading a familiar page, that House Morgain had done to Nym exactly what it always did to those who could not hold their ground. It had made her small.

The last branch of the family had gathered near the far end. Lady Ysolde regarded him with an expression closer to calculation than hate, her amber eyes moving over him the way a merchant sizes up a shipment. Her son Darion managed far less gracefully. The younger man tensed the instant Trafalgar crossed the threshold, and no amount of control kept it off his face. Darion remembered, in precise detail, what Trafalgar could do, and he wanted no part of learning it a second time.

Elira, a year older than Trafalgar and a good deal steadier than her brother, read the room faster. Where Darion saw a threat, she saw an opening, and she had clearly already run the sum: staying on good terms with Trafalgar would serve her far better than crossing him. Ysolde had reached the same answer.

Her branch lacked the weight to stand against Maeron, Helgar, Rivena, and Trafalgar all at once, so she would aim instead to keep him friendly, or at the very least uninterested in her ruin.

Trafalgar crossed to his own place at the table, and that alone told a story. Years ago they had put him at the very edge, as far from the head as the wood allowed, a boy parked where he could be forgotten.

Not this time.

His place had been set well toward the center, close to the rest of them, near enough to be part of the room, with a clear gap of empty chairs holding him apart on either side. Close, but not touching. The family had a talent for saying two things at once.

He had barely reached the chair when Helgar's voice came across the table.

"Looks like Father finally decided to reward absence." The big man leaned back in his seat, unhurried, and let the words hang. "You have done nothing to earn that place."

Trafalgar turned his head toward him.

So Helgar wanted to go first.