Chapter 259: The Second Council of Trafalgar du Morgain

The winter morning pressed quietly against the stone walls of Morgain Castle, snow drifting past the tall windows in slow, silent curtains. Trafalgar walked through the main corridor, guided by two maids who kept a respectful distance behind him. Their steps were light; their gazes lowered.

"Right this way, Lord Trafalgar," one of them said softly.

He still wasn’t used to that—Lord Trafalgar.

Before Euclid, these same corridors might as well have been empty whenever he passed. Maids pretended not to see him, guards didn’t bother saluting, and servants only spoke to him when duty forced them to. He was a shadow in his own home.

Now?

Every servant he crossed moved aside immediately.

Every guard straightened, fist to chest. "Good morning, my lord."

Every maid dipped her head with careful precision.

Trafalgar kept his expression flat, eyes forward. ’Great. I went from invisible to... whatever the hell this is. Well, at least now I have the respect I deserve.’

They turned a corner, entering a long hallway toward the dressing chamber. The air inside the castle felt heavier than usual—an uncomfortable, coiled tension crawling under every breath, every footstep, every murmur.

This Council wasn’t like the last.

The previous one—months ago—had only been called because of a misunderstanding in a damn mine. There was a mine that formed the border between both territories, the Morgain and the Zar’khael, and Valttair was not in the mood to organize a meeting to decide the matter; the Zar’khael attacked to give a warning, and that led to the first council of Trafalgar.

A mess, sure.

But a contained mess.

Today?

This Council was about war.

The kind that changed borders.

The kind that erased families.

Trafalgar followed the maids into a side room lit by pale blue mana lamps. Formal pieces of Morgain attire were already laid out: black tunic with silver lining, cloak clasped by an obsidian crest, gloves trimmed in dark steel thread.

One of the maids stepped forward. "Allow us to assist you, my lord."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Just do it quickly."

"Yes, my lord."

They worked silently—efficient, precise. Adjusting the collar, securing the cloak, fixing the cuffs. He said nothing, but his eyes drifted toward the frosted window.

Beyond the mountains, beyond the snow... the Council awaited.

He exhaled slowly.

’Last time was a headache. This time... someone might not walk out alive.’

When the maids finished, Trafalgar rolled his shoulders once, loosening the fabric.

"Let’s go," he said.

The maids led Trafalgar steadily through the colder wings of the castle, the air tightening as they descended deeper underground. Mana lamps pulsed faintly along the stone walls, their pale glow stretching long shadows that moved with each step. The silence wasn’t oppressive, but expectant—like the entire castle was holding its breath for what was about to begin.

Two armored guards opened the final set of iron doors with a synchronized bow as Trafalgar approached.

"May your path be clear, Lord Trafalgar."

He didn’t bother responding and simply walked past them.

The teleportation chamber unfolded before him: wide, circular, and carved entirely from dark stone, the central platform glowing with violet runes. The Morgain family was already gathered.

His siblings stood in scattered clusters, each one absorbed in their own conversations. Seraphine whispered something sharp to Maeron; Verena maintained a rigid military posture; Helgar and Darion spoke in low, blunt tones; Rivena adjusted her frost-colored gown while checking her reflection in a polished blade; Nym lingered quietly at the edge, half-hidden; Elira talked loudly to anyone who would listen; Sylvar kept his gaze down, clasping his trembling hands.

Not a single one of the siblings noticed Trafalgar’s arrival.

Not a glance. Not a nod. Not even a sneer.

Exactly like always.

Only two people turned toward him.

Lysandra—calm, focused—caught his eye from across the chamber and lifted her hand in a small, silent greeting. It was steady and genuine, the kind of gesture only a real sibling would give. Trafalgar raised his chin slightly in return.

And Valttair, standing near the front, spared him a single cold, assessing glance—brief but sharp—before returning his attention to the platform.

The maids who escorted him retreated to the walls, becoming part of the background.

No Mayla to tie his hair, no familiar concern hovering at his shoulder. Just strangers maintaining the obligatory respect earned after Euclid.

Trafalgar stepped to the far edge of the room, keeping distance between himself and the clusters of blond heads. ’Same shit as always,’ he thought, though without bitterness. ’At least they’re consistent.’

Lysandra walked over, boots tapping lightly against the stone. Her armor was polished this time, not stained with monster blood, but she carried the same calm authority. "Morning," she murmured. "You good?"

"As good as someone heading into a political minefield can be," he replied dryly.

Her mouth curved faintly. "Just stay sharp. This Council isn’t a misunderstanding in a mine. It’s war."

Before Trafalgar could answer, Valttair stepped forward. His black cloak moved like a shadowy blade behind him, his voice slicing through the room.

"On the platform. Now."

The siblings straightened immediately, conversations dying mid-sentence.

One by one they stepped onto the circular platform.

Trafalgar took his place at the edge—just like last time.

The runes flared violet beneath their feet, humming low and deep.

And then, with a burst of light, the world vanished.

The light faded slowly, like embers dying in reverse. Cold air rushed across Trafalgar’s face, carrying with it the faint scent of ozone and cloud moisture. His vision cleared, and the world around him sharpened into focus.

They were no longer in the underground chamber of Morgain Castle.

A vast stone platform stretched beneath their feet—identical in shape to the one they had departed from, but carved from pale marble rather than black stone. The runes glowed a soft gold instead of violet. Beyond the platform’s railing, the world opened into an endless expanse of sky.

They had arrived at the floating palace.

Trafalgar stepped forward slowly, the wind brushing past his cloak as he approached the railing. The clouds below churned like a living sea, endless and weightless. In the distance, sunlight pierced through the mist, illuminating tall spires of gold and glass that seemed to drift on the horizon.

It was the same place he had visited months ago...

yet somehow completely different.

More soldiers. More constructs. More tension.

Armored guards lined the bridge ahead—elves, dwarves, beastkin, humans—each wearing the insignia of the Council rather than any Great Family. Their expressions were stoic, but their weapons were drawn and ready. Arcane barriers shimmered faintly above the entrance archway, sealing the palace under layers of protective spells.

’Last time, it felt like a fancy party,’ Trafalgar thought. ’This time... it feels like a fortress.’

Servants in crisp white uniforms bowed deeply as the Morgains stepped off the platform.

"Welcome, House Morgain," they said in unison, voices practiced and calm but lacking the warmth of the previous Council.

Trafalgar didn’t miss the way a few of them looked uneasy when Valttair passed.

Or the way their gazes lingered for a second too long on him—the only black-haired Morgain among a sea of platinum and gold.

Lysandra came to his side, her hand resting briefly on the pommel of her sword. "Stay close," she murmured. "Not everyone here wants peace."

Trafalgar nodded, keeping his posture relaxed as they followed Valttair across the bridge. The palace grew clearer with each step—golden towers, floating gardens, crystal lanterns lighting the path like stars caught in daylight.

The doors of the grand palace closed behind them with a low, resonant boom, sealing the noise of the outside world away. Inside, the halls were silent—eerily so. No chatter, no music, none of the festivity Trafalgar remembered from the previous Council. Only controlled breaths, soft footsteps, and the faint pulse of ancient mana streaming through golden walls.

Valttair walked ahead without slowing, his presence cutting through the silence like a blade. Lysandra stayed just half a step behind him, while the rest of the siblings kept their distance. Trafalgar followed near the rear of the group, sticking to the shadows as naturally as breathing.

Servants stationed along the corridor bowed as the Morgains passed.

"Welcome," they murmured. "The Council is already awaiting the Eight."

As they approached, the massive obsidian doors loomed ahead—eight sigils carved into the stone, each one glowing faintly in response to the mana signature of the approaching Morgains.

Only Valttair continued forward.

Everyone else—wives, siblings—stopped several meters before the door. An invisible pressure emanated from the chamber, a barrier that made the rule unmistakable:

Only the eight heads of the Great Families may enter.

Trafalgar slowed to a stop with the rest, watching as the doors opened on their own, revealing nothing but darkness inside.

Behind them, he could sense the presence of hundreds of wives and heirs spread throughout the surrounding halls and side rooms. None of them were allowed past this boundary. They waited in designated chambers, some sitting silently, others pacing with tension, while a few lingered near the balconies or inner gardens, unable to see or influence anything happening inside.

Trafalgar’s eyes drifted to the shadows of those auxiliary halls.

’So this is how it works... the world’s strongest families deciding the fate of millions, and everyone else stuck outside waiting for scraps of information.’

Valttair entered without hesitation.

The obsidian doors closed behind him with a heavy, echoing finality.

And the Council Chamber sealed itself.

’So that’s how it is,’ Trafalgar thought dryly. ’The world’s strongest decide everything... and the rest sit outside waiting for crumbs.’

Lysandra gave him a small nod of reassurance before stepping back with the others. "We stay here until it’s over."

– Valttair POV –

Eight chairs formed a perfect circle around a polished obsidian table. No banners decorated the walls. No unnecessary ornamentation—this was a chamber built for decisions, not spectacle.

Valttair stepped into the room with the same controlled confidence he brought to every Council.

Nyssara di Myrrhvale was already seated, serene as flowing tides.

Roderic au Vaelion lounged casually, crimson eyes gleaming with faint amusement.

Malakar du Zar’khael sat rigid, horns catching the pale light.

Lady Lysaria au Nocthar smiled faintly, fangs barely visible.

Kaedor du Thal’Zar radiated beastlike pressure even in human form.

Grumhald au Dvergar grunted in curt acknowledgment.

Elenara au Sylvanel rested her hands on her staff, vines curling lazily at her feet.

And then—Valttair’s gaze sharpened.

A man stood beside Kaedor’s seat.

Tall. Violet hair brushing his shoulders. A deep maroon coat. Lilac eyes calm, unreadable... and completely devoid of any detectable mana.

Valttair’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the obsidian armrest.

A decade.

Ten years since the world had last heard of him.

Ten years since his disappearance shook every major faction.

Icarus di Valtaron.

One of the only five bearers of SSS-rank talent.

A man whose existence alone shifted the balance of power... and whose sudden return now threatened to break it.

’Why is he here? Why stand behind Thal’Zar...?’ Valttair kept his expression perfectly carved from ice.

But the room itself reacted before he could.

Grumhald slammed a gauntleted hand against the table.

"What in the stone-rotted hell is that bastard doing here?" he barked, beard trembling with outrage. "He shouldn’t be allowed inside this chamber—only the Eight sit here!"

Roderic raised an eyebrow, amused. Lysaria’s smile sharpened. Malakar’s eyes narrowed. Even Kaedor’s jaw tensed.

The air thickened with a dangerous, electric pressure.

Valttair did not rise.

He simply observed.

Because Grumhald was right— Icarus had no seat among the Eight... but power enough to overshadow them anyway.

Just as the tension reached the breaking point, the obsidian doors opened again.

Ten Elders entered in perfect formation, robes gliding like living shadows.

Their leader stepped forward, voice steady and ringing through the room:

"With this, we officially begin the 143rd Council Gathering."

Silence swallowed everything.