Chapter 266: Embers Before the Fall

Trafalgar kept his posture steady as Valttair’s final words from the previous scene faded into the tense silence of the hall. The patriarch’s presence alone reshaped the room—pulling all attention toward him like gravity.

He folded his hands behind his back, shoulders broad and unmovable.

"War between two Great Families is a tragedy for the world," Valttair said.

His tone was flat, almost bored—certainly not mourning.

"But for us? It is an opportunity. And opportunities are not wasted."

A few heirs exchanged looks. Darion straightened. Sylvar exhaled slowly. Even Seraphine’s cold golden eyes sharpened, sensing the shift.

Trafalgar watched quietly, feeling that familiar pressure tighten in his chest.

’Right. Let the world burn as long as Morgain gains something. Cold bastard... but predictable.’

Valttair’s gaze swept the semicircle of heirs and wives before landing on Lysandra.

"We will not intervene directly," he continued. "We will move only when provoked—and when the timing benefits us."

His eyes narrowed. "Thal’Zar must lose. And we will ensure it... one way or another."

Lysandra nodded without hesitation. "What are our directives?"

Valttair shifted his stance, the black folds of his coat whispering across the marble. "Maeron will strengthen the border regiments. Helgar will patrol the mountain gates. Sylvar—handle political communications with our neutral allies. Darion, reinforce our intel network in the southern territories."

Each name he spoke straightened like a soldier being assigned a battlefield.

Then—

His gaze turned to Trafalgar.

The room quieted.

Seraphine’s jaw tightened; Rivena tilted her head in a mock-curious way; several siblings watched with thinly veiled disdain.

Valttair’s expression didn’t soften—not even a fraction—but something shifted behind his eyes. Calculation. Expectation. Something Trafalgar couldn’t read fully.

"You," Valttair said, voice blunt and heavy. "Will return to the academy. As planned."

Traf blinked. "...That’s it?"

Valttair’s eyebrow twitched—not annoyance, but impatience. "That is your role for now. Continue your training. Continue your studies. Keep your presence there strong."

The patriarch’s eyes glinted like a blade brushing sunlight.

"The academy will become a battlefield of information. Of alliances. Of leverage. The heirs of the Great Families will return too eventually. Some sooner than others. What happens among you—your generation—will shape the next century."

He let that hang in the air before finishing:

"Your job, Trafalgar, is to survive. Improve. Observe. And wait."

Trafalgar suppressed the immediate sarcastic response rising in his throat. ’Survive, improve, observe... basically: don’t die and don’t fuck up. Got it.’

A dry breath left him. "Fine. Understood."

Valttair leaned back slightly. "Good. You will not remain a passive piece on the board forever. But you are not yet ready to be moved."

Seraphine scoffed softly—barely audible. Rivena smiled like she knew something filthy.

Lysandra shot them both a warning look. "Father is right. Trafalgar’s role is important."

The atmosphere shifted again—war tension mixing with family hostility.

Valttair dismissed them with a flick of his fingers. "Sit. We haven’t finished. After this, you will prepare for departure. The island will not host us much longer."

Trafalgar obeyed, moving toward a corner seat far from the platinum-haired cluster of siblings.

His thoughts churned.

’Back to the academy, huh? Better than being here with these psychos... but why do I feel like the real mess is only starting now?’

As Valttair continued outlining the strategies for the upper heirs, Trafalgar felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned—Lysandra stood beside him, posture relaxed yet alert, the contrast only someone like her could pull off.

"Come," she murmured. "Walk with me for a moment before he assigns you more... ’roles’."

Trafalgar followed her a few steps toward the side of the hall, still within earshot but out of direct scrutiny. The shadows of crystal lamps painted a faint silver sheen across her armor.

She crossed her arms. "You holding up?"

He huffed a breath. "I’m here, aren’t I?"

She smirked faintly. "Barely. I saw your face when Father mentioned the academy."

"Let me guess," Trafalgar muttered, "I looked thrilled?"

"More like you looked ready to throw yourself off the island."

"Close enough."

Lysandra let the silence settle for a moment before her expression shifted—still calm, but sharpened by purpose.

"Trafalgar... you understand the weight of what he expects from you, right?"

Trafalgar leaned against a cold pillar, hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Survive, improve, listen, and keep the Morgain flag from dropping."

"That’s the simple version," she said. "But for someone of your position, it’s more complicated."

He lifted an eyebrow. "My position? You mean the accident of the family?"

"No," she said immediately—too quickly. "I mean someone Father has started to notice."

Trafalgar paused.

Lysandra stepped closer, lowering her voice so the other heirs couldn’t hear.

"He avoided you your entire life since he couldn’t earn anything from you. But now? Your existence has weight. Political weight. Combat weight. Future weight."

Trafalgar stayed silent, unsure how to react to the sudden heaviness in her tone.

Lysandra continued, her eyes fixed on him with cutting clarity:

"Of all the heirs, Father only respects a few of us. Maeron. Myself. And... you."Her green eyes narrowed. "And we both know

why

."

A faint chill crawled down Trafalgar’s spine.

She didn’t say the words aloud.

The SSS talent.

The reason Valttair suddenly cared.The reason everything had changed.

Trafalgar forced out a weak scoff. "So it wasn’t my charming personality?"

Lysandra didn’t smile.

"It’s because you’re... different. Stronger than you should be. Faster. Smarter. Father can sense it. And once someone like him sees value..." She exhaled slowly. "He never lets go."

Trafalgar tried to lighten the moment. "Is that what you saw when we first trained? That I almost died?"

"Wrong," she said firmly. "I saw you get back up. And I saw you learn faster than any untrained kid is supposed to."

His breath shook just a little.

"Lysandra... I’m not trying to be important. I’m literally just trying not to die."

"I know." Her voice softened—a rarity for her. "That’s why I’m telling you this. Father feelings aren’t kindness. It’s preparation. He expects you to move pieces he can’t reach yet."

Trafalgar frowned. "Heir politics?"

"Worse." Lysandra crossed her arms. "Politics between heirs who think they run the world. And now? Everyone will watch every step you take."

The pressure settled in his chest, tight and unwelcome.

"Fantastic," he muttered. "Just what I needed."

Her smirk returned—barely there, but warmer than anything else in this cursed family.

"You’ll handle it. You’re stubborn enough."

Trafalgar looked aside. "...Why do you care so much?"

For a moment she hesitated—just one heartbeat.

"Because," she said quietly, "I chose not to be heir. But if Father ever forces the question again... I’d rather stand beside

you

than anyone else in this room."

He froze.

Lysandra turned before he could respond, her voice steady and controlled once more:

"Come on. Father’s about to assign the rest of the plan."

Trafalgar followed, mind spinning.

’Great. War outside, politics inside, and my sister thinks I’m worth something. What a weird day.’

Valttair didn’t wait for everyone to settle before his voice sliced through the hall.

"Listen carefully," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Everything I assign from this point forward is temporary. When I give the next order, you will follow it—immediately."

The heirs stiffened. Even the wives stopped breathing.

Valttair continued, tone cool and unhurried.

"For now, we prepare. That is all that matters."

He looked over the room once, slow and measuring.

"Stand. We are leaving."

There was no dramatic flourish, no threatening aura—yet every Morgain rose with the urgency of soldiers hearing a battle horn.

Trafalgar moved with them, though not as quickly. His mind was still tangled between Lysandra’s words and the weight of being singled out by Valttair earlier.

As they walked toward the teleportation platform, the quiet in the hall cracked.

Whispers began.

Sharp enough for Trafalgar to hear.

Quiet enough for them to pretend he didn’t.

"Why him? He gets no responsibilities."

"Father’s shielding him."

"Unfair—everyone else has a role."

"He’s... being protected?"

"Ridiculous. He’s the weakest."

Trafalgar didn’t break stride.

’Right. Because I asked to be the family’s emotional support mascot.’

He shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking.

He didn’t look at them or react at all.

Instead, his mind drifted elsewhere.

’The academy... how much will change? Will people be off? Fuck, I hope not. I just want to train, survive, and keep my head down. The plan was simple.’

He exhaled softly, boots tapping against the stone as the group reached the teleportation chamber.

’Still... if war really breaks out, I’ll need to get a hell of a lot stronger. Fast.’

The platform runes pulsed with a soft violet glow, warming the air beneath their feet.

Trafalgar glanced at Valttair.

The patriarch felt his gaze and turned slightly—gray eyes colder than the platform stone.

Trafalgar swallowed, then stepped closer.

"Father."

Valttair didn’t stop walking, but he tilted his head just enough to show he was listening.

Trafalgar continued quietly, voice steady.

"...When we return home, I want something. Something to help me get stronger."

For the first time, Valttair’s expression shifted by a fraction—subtle interest sharpening the edge of his stare.

He didn’t answer. He merely nodded once, curt and decisive.

A silent acknowledgment.

And a promise.

The heirs around them exchanged confused glances.

Trafalgar ignored them all.

’Good. I’ll need every advantage I can get.’

The runes flared brighter.

Lysandra stepped onto the circle first, glancing back briefly at him—a silent reassurance.

Trafalgar followed, trying to steady the mix of dread and determination tightening in his chest.

’War outside. Family bullshit inside. And now I’m asking favors from the last person I ever thought I would.’

He smirked faintly.

’What a mess. But fine. If the world’s going to burn... I’m not planning to die slow.’

With a flash of light, the platform activated—

And House Morgain vanished.