SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

”Then let’s see what kind of history you’ve decided to hide underground.”

The man walking beside Selara did not answer.

That was wise of him.

They left the tower through a side passage rather than the main entrance, which already told her enough. Aurevane adored ceremony when ceremony helped it shine. If they were avoiding marble stairs, reception desks, and public corridors, it meant they did not want anyone asking why Director Selara was being escorted back toward the Glass Atrium by administrative guards.

The route curved through a covered walkway of pale stone and dark glass. Outside, Aurevane carried on with its usual expensive performance: carriages moving between venues, scholars crossing plazas with assistants at their heels, banners snapping softly in the morning wind. Everything above ground looked polished, scheduled, harmless.

Selara had never trusted harmless things that required this many guards.

The man beside her adjusted his cuffs as they walked. ”I understand your reaction, Selara. Truly, I do. But you should know we did not make this decision lightly. Aurevane has evaluated thousands of submissions over the years, and very few have demanded this level of discretion.”

”Demanded,” Selara repeated. ”Interesting word. Creations do not demand discretion. People do.”

His mouth tightened, though he recovered quickly. ”The creator requested privacy until the main presentation. Given the quality of the work, the committee agreed to respect those conditions.”

”Respect. Another beautiful word. Aurevane keeps choosing pretty ones today.”

”You are interpreting this with hostility before seeing the work.”

”I am interpreting it with experience.”

The guards behind them kept their steps even. Two in front, two behind, all dressed in formal administrative armor that had been polished recently enough to smell faintly of oil. They were not escorting her as an honored guest. Not entirely. They were escorting her as a problem they had failed to keep upstairs.

The man tried again, softer this time. ”No one is asking you to approve anything blindly. Your opinion carries weight here. That is why I accepted your request.”

Selara almost laughed. ”You accepted because refusing me would have become more inconvenient than opening the door.”

”That is an unfair assessment.”

”It is an accurate one. There is a difference.”

He released a slow breath through his nose and continued down the walkway. ”The work is stable. That much I can assure you. It has passed every safety review submitted to us.”

”Submitted by whom?”

”The creator and the assigned technical staff.”

”Wonderful. A man marks his own exam, and Aurevane claps because the handwriting is elegant.”

His jaw shifted. ”You are being difficult.”

”I have been called worse by better alchemists.”

They reached a narrow checkpoint between the administrative route and the service entrance leading beneath the Atrium. Two more guards waited there. One examined the authorization slip handed to him by the official, while the other studied Selara with the strained caution of someone who had been warned about her.

The guard placed the slip against a ward panel. Pale symbols crawled over the paper, verified the seal, and vanished.

”Access approved,” he said.

The door opened.

Warm, damp air touched Selara’s face.

The passage beyond sloped downward.

They descended into the lower levels through a corridor lined with reinforced glass on one side and stone on the other. Mana lamps glowed from recessed strips along the floor, giving the whole place a gentle, professional light.

As they walked, the man spoke again, clearly determined to guide her reaction before she had one.

”You must understand the context. The event this year has attracted more attention than usual. After the train incident, confidence is fragile. A creation of this scale could reassure sponsors, guests, and scholars alike that Aurevane remains at the center of innovation.”

”Ah. There it is.”

He turned his head slightly. ”There what is?”

”The real word you wanted. Sponsors.”

”That is not what I meant.”

”It is absolutely what you meant. You simply took another route.”

The corridor opened into a lower preparation level.

Selara recognized the structure at once. Not from current plans, but from old habits. The Atrium’s lower body had been built to support controlled displays, private testing, and fragile work that could not survive public curiosity. Glass above, machinery below. Beauty on the surface, pressure underneath. Aurevane had always loved metaphors it did not realize it was making.

Rooms lined both sides of the hall. Some doors were open. Inside, alchemists refined substances under warded hoods, engineers adjusted conduit frames, and assistants carried sealed trays with the tense care of people handling things that could stain reputations along with floors. The place looked busy, legitimate, even impressive.

That was probably the point.

Her escort noticed her attention moving over the rooms.

”As you can see, nothing here is improper. Participants prepare delicate items below because the mana density is better controlled. We have always allowed limited private work before major demonstrations.”

”I know how preparation levels function,” Selara said. ”I helped design better ones.”

”Yes, of course. I only meant that this is not unusual.”

”No. Most of this is not unusual.”

The man heard the trap and chose not to step into it. Smart enough.

They passed one room where a young researcher adjusted a suspended crystal frame while whispering calculations under his breath. Another held rows of sealed botanical samples, each marked with careful tags. Farther ahead, two engineers argued over pressure tolerance in a tone that suggested friendship had died somewhere between the second and third equation.

Ambitious and normal work. Work that wanted applause.

Selara had no issue with ambition. Ambition built tools, medicines, devices, protections, cities. Ambition, properly disciplined, could save lives.

Undisciplined ambition learned to call people materials.

Her escort slowed near a junction and gestured left. ”The chamber is not part of the public route. We placed it deeper to prevent speculation before the main day.”

”You mean you hid it where people would not ask questions.”

”We protected it from premature attention.”

”You keep handing me polished stones and expecting me not to notice the blood under them.”

His courtesy finally cracked by a hair. ”Selara, please. I am trying to explain the situation before you see it, because I know you. You can be severe when you believe a line has been crossed.”

”I am severe when people pretend the line moved by itself.”

He stopped walking for half a step, then resumed. ”The creator insisted that the work remain undisturbed. No touching, no interference, no alchemical probing, no mana contact. Observation only. Aurevane agreed.”

”So he gave orders, and the committee obeyed.”

”The committee recognized expertise.”

”Did it recognize responsibility?”

They continued through a narrower corridor where the walls changed. Less glass now. More stone. The wards here had a thicker pulse, not aggressive, but layered. Sound dampening, temperature control, containment pressure. Expensive work. Not the kind used to protect a pretty prototype from dust.

Selara’s fingers flexed once inside her gloves.

The man saw it.

”We are close,” he said. ”I need you to control your reaction when we enter.”

At the end of the corridor stood a plain door without a public label, framed by black glass and pale metal. It did not gleam like the displays above. It did not advertise anything. That alone made it uglier than the rest.

Two guards stood in front of it. They were not decorative.

Their hands rested near their weapons, their backs straight, their faces emptied of the polite boredom common to men guarding public exhibits. A ward plate burned softly beside the door, its symbols folded inward, hiding more than they revealed.

The man beside Selara swallowed once.

”This is the chamber,” he said. ”Remember our agreement.”

Selara looked at the door.

Then at the two guards.

”I remember everything.”