Chapter 295: The Question That Crossed the Line

"I wanted to talk about your... unique talent."

The words simply stayed there—suspended between them, heavy and unmistakable.

For half a heartbeat, Trafalgar didn’t move.

Then every instinct he had screamed at once.

Danger.

His senses sharpened, the world narrowing to Selendra au Nocthar sitting across from him—her posture relaxed, her hands resting lightly on the table, her expression composed to the point of politeness. No tension in her shoulders. No shift in her breathing. Not even the slightest hint that she’d just crossed a line no one was supposed to see.

’How does she know?’

’Since when?’

’Who else knows?’

’Her family?’

’Is this why she’s here?’

’Was Carac just an excuse?’

’Am I the target?’

Thoughts collided, stacked, reorganized themselves in the span of barely two seconds. Trafalgar’s mind moved with ruthless efficiency, discarding panic, isolating variables, calculating outcomes.

Selendra waited.

She didn’t press.

Didn’t clarify.

Didn’t retract the statement.

She simply smiled.

That smile was wrong.

Before logic could interfere, before restraint could slow him down, Trafalgar acted.

Mana surged.

Widow’s Whisper materialized in his hand in utter silence, its blade forming as if it had always been there. His body moved on instinct honed by survival, not etiquette.

One step.

A sharp turn of the wrist.

The table shuddered softly as Selendra was pinned back against it, Trafalgar’s weight and momentum controlling the angle perfectly. The dagger hovered a breath away from her throat—close enough that the air shifted when he exhaled.

Millimeters.

That was all.

His grip was steady.

If he decided to end her life in that instant, he could.

And she knew it.

Yet Selendra didn’t flinch.

Her eyes didn’t widen.

Her pulse didn’t jump.

Her breath didn’t hitch.

If anything, she looked... intrigued.

Crimson eyes met his without fear, without challenge. Just calm awareness.

"And?" she asked softly. "Can we talk about your unique talent?"

The question landed harder than the blade ever could.

Something didn’t add up.

Anyone else—anyone—would have shown it by now. Fear. Anger. Mana fluctuations. Hostility. Something. But Selendra remained exactly as she was moments ago, as if a dagger at her throat was nothing more than an inconvenience.

’She’s not bluffing,’ Trafalgar realized. ’And neither am I.’

That was the problem.

Slowly he eased back.

The pressure vanished. Widow’s Whisper dissolved into motes of mana, the blade unraveling as if it had never existed. The air between them felt colder without it.

Trafalgar stepped away, posture returning to neutral.

Inside, his thoughts were anything but.

’I can’t kill her,’ he admitted to himself. ’For now that’s it.’

And it wasn’t because he lacked resolve.

It was because whatever Selendra au Nocthar was playing at... it reached further than a quiet corner of a casino in a neutral city. Killing her wouldn’t end the threat.

It would ignite it.

Selendra adjusted her position slightly, smoothing her dress, completely unbothered.

For the first time since she’d arrived, the atmosphere truly shifted—not with violence, but with implication.

This wasn’t a casual encounter.

This was a line crossed.

The silence stretched.

Trafalgar let it sit between them, heavy and deliberate, his expression calm enough to pass for indifference. Selendra watched him with the same polite patience as before, fingers resting lightly against the edge of the table.

"How do you know?" he asked at last.

Three words. Minimal. Precise.

It was a blade of a question—sharp enough to draw blood if she slipped, vague enough to give her room to hang herself if she lied. Either she knew something... or she didn’t.

Selendra tilted her head slightly, crimson eyes glinting with amusement. "Hmm..." she murmured. "How do I know?"

She didn’t answer.

She let the silence work instead.

Trafalgar felt his patience thinning. He hated games like this—not because he couldn’t play them, but because they wasted time. Time was leverage, and she was spending his.

He pushed his chair back and stood. "If you don’t know," he said flatly, "then we’re done here."

He turned, already taking a step away.

A soft sigh followed him.

"You’re no fun at all," Selendra said, faintly amused. "Sit."

He paused.

For a heartbeat, Trafalgar considered ignoring her. Walking away. Ending the interaction on his terms.

Instead, he turned back and sat down.

His posture was different now—straighter, colder. No pretense of ease remained.

"Then tell me," he said. "How do you know?"

Selendra’s smile widened just a fraction. "Guess."

His eyes narrowed.

"Your class."

For the first time, Selendra’s smile became genuine.

"Bingo."

The word landed heavier than it should have.

Trafalgar leaned back slightly, studying her face. ’So that’s it,’ he thought. ’She really does have something.’

"A unique one," Selendra continued casually. "Blood Oracle. That’s the name."

He scoffed quietly. "And you expect me to believe that?"

"Why not?" she replied smoothly. "I don’t see lies written on my face."

She leaned forward a little now, lowering her voice—not out of fear, but intent.

"My class allows me to see fragments," Selendra explained. "Information tied to a person’s status. Not everything. Not always. Just... pieces." She tapped a finger against the table. "Sometimes past. Sometimes potential. Sometimes something in between."

Trafalgar’s gaze hardened. "When."

Her eyes met his without hesitation. "At the Council," she said. "The first time we met. Months ago."

A chill settled in his chest.

"What did you see?" he asked.

Selendra laughed softly and shook her head. "No."

His fingers curled slightly. "You brought this up. You don’t get to stop there."

"I do," she replied pleasantly. "And I will."

She leaned back again, smile returning to its polite curve.

"I liked what I saw," Selendra said simply.

That answer was worse than silence.

"What does that mean?" Trafalgar asked.

The question carried weight. He remained standing. Every muscle was ready, every sense sharpened, his presence coiled rather than aggressive.

Selendra tilted her head slightly, studying him the way one might examine a rare artifact.

"It means exactly what it sounds like," she replied. "Curiosity."

Trafalgar’s eyes narrowed. "That’s not an answer."

"It is," she said calmly. "Just not one you like."

She folded her hands atop the table, posture elegant, unhurried. There was no tension in her body, no preparation for violence. She wasn’t negotiating. She wasn’t probing for weakness.

She was simply... observing.

"I’m not here to threaten you," Selendra continued. "Nor to recruit you. And certainly not to make a deal." Her lips curved faintly. "I just wanted to see for myself."

"See what?" Trafalgar pressed.

Her crimson eyes flickered—just for an instant—with something sharper.

"The Cursed Heir."

The words hit harder than any blade.

Trafalgar didn’t react outwardly. Inside, every alarm detonated at once.

Selendra went on, unbothered by the shift in the air.

"The ninth child of House Morgain. Born irrelevant. A bastard in everything but blood. No expectations. No backing." She smiled lightly. "A statistical footnote."

Her gaze never left his.

"Late core awakening. Fifteen years old. Already a mark against you in most records." She tapped a finger once on the table. "And yet—"

She paused, savoring it.

"You defeated Alfons au Vaelion in a public duel at the Council. Cleanly. In front of witnesses who matter."

"You did it despite your disadvantages," Selendra continued. "Despite the whispers. Despite the labels. That alone made you... interesting."

’She knows,’ he realized. ’Enough to be a problem.’

"And since then," Selendra added softly, "you’ve continued to move. Quietly. Efficiently. Always forward."

"What do you want?" Trafalgar asked.

She blinked, genuinely surprised.

"Nothing," Selendra said. "That’s the point."

She rose slowly from her seat, smoothing the fabric of her dress.

"I’m not your ally," she said. "And I’m not your enemy."

She met his gaze one last time.

"I’m just someone who noticed."

Trafalgar remained still.

’That’s worse,’ he thought grimly. ’Much worse.’

Enemies declared themselves. Allies bargained.

But someone who simply watched—someone who saw too much and wanted nothing in return, it was to strange for Trafalgar.