SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

Pipin appeared before they could take another step.

The pale bird Aubrelle used to see stood in front of the apartment door, small claws planted on the floorboards, crimson gaze fixed on Trafalgar and Cynthia with the unnerving patience of something far smarter than its size suggested. Its head tilted once, feathers ruffling faintly as it inspected them both from head to toe, as if deciding whether Cynthia counted as guest, problem, or both.

Cynthia stopped at once.

”That is Aubrelle’s bird, right?”

”That’s right,” Trafalgar confirmed. His suitcase rested at his side while he watched Pipin with mild amusement. ”Looks like they already know we’re here, so this won’t be much of a surprise.” He glanced at Cynthia and lowered his voice a little. ”Relax. Everything will be fine. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

Cynthia took a few careful breaths, trying to pull herself together before her nerves betrayed her any further. She knew Mayla and Aubrelle. She had spoken with both of them before, had been honest about what she felt, and neither woman had treated her cruelly. That should have helped.

It did not help nearly enough.

This was different.

It was one thing to speak in pieces, away from Trafalgar, with room to retreat if the conversation became difficult. It was another to arrive at Mayla’s apartment with Trafalgar beside her, after Aurevane, after the train, after everything between them had shifted into something neither of them could pretend not to see.

Trafalgar noticed her hesitation.

Before she could convince herself to stand outside for another minute, he reached down, took her hand, and began pulling her forward.

Cynthia stiffened so hard she nearly tripped over her own luggage. ”Tr-Trafalgar!? Wait. I’m not ready yet.”

Trafalgar rolled his eyes and kept walking. ”You’re overthinking this.”

”I am thinking the correct amount!”

”No, you’re thinking for three people and a courtroom.”

Pipin gave a small chirp from ahead, which Cynthia had the dreadful suspicion was agreement.

Trafalgar guided her through the entrance and into the apartment with the unbothered confidence of someone who had already decided the disaster in Cynthia’s head did not deserve legal recognition. His hand was warm around hers, rougher than she expected, larger too. She had noticed it on the train when he held her hand, but here, being led through another woman’s home, the feeling struck harder.

Cynthia closed her eyes without meaning to.

Ridiculous. She knew it was ridiculous. She had faced danger before. She had watched Trafalgar walk into situations most people would rather die than approach. Yet this quiet apartment, with two women waiting somewhere deeper inside, made her stomach twist as though she were being escorted toward judgment.

The room opened before them.

Pipin flew past them and circled the living area, pale wings cutting through the warm light. Mayla stood near the kitchen counter with an apron tied around her waist, hands dusted lightly from whatever she had been preparing. Aubrelle waited at the table, elegant as always.

They had been talking before Trafalgar entered. That much was clear from the two cups on the table and the faint warmth in the room, the calm domestic rhythm Cynthia had been too nervous to imagine.

Aubrelle spoke first.

”See? I told you. I knew he would appear with Cynthia the first time he returned from Aurevane.”

Trafalgar stopped, brow furrowing. ”What are you talking about?”

Mayla huffed from the kitchen, disappointment written across her face with theatrical offense. ”We made a bet.”

”A bet?”

”About what would happen in Aurevane,” Mayla said, wiping her hands on a cloth. ”Whether something would finally happen and you would take a step forward, or whether you would continue exactly as before, pretending the entire thing wasn’t right in front of you.”

Cynthia opened her eyes properly at that.

The scene waiting for her was not hostile. Mayla did not appear wounded or angry. Aubrelle was not cold. Pipin was making another slow loop above the table, red gaze flicking between them with far too much interest for a bird. Everything was ordinary. Warm, even.

The relief hit Cynthia so strongly that her shoulders loosened without permission.

Trafalgar glanced at her. ”See? Nothing to worry about. Besides, this situation apparently entertains them.”

”It does a little,” Aubrelle admitted, lips curving.

Mayla’s expression softened as she turned toward him. ”Welcome back, Trafalgar.” Her voice gentled around his name. ”Are you all right? Did something happen? Aside from the obvious thing I can see.”

Trafalgar released Cynthia’s hand, though his fingers lingered for a brief instant before he let go completely. ”Yes. Well, it was long. There are several things I want to talk about.”

That answer drained some of the humor from Mayla’s face, but she did not push yet.

Trafalgar turned to Cynthia and gestured toward the table. ”Go ahead. Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

Cynthia obeyed, though she did it with the care of someone entering a room where every movement might be remembered later. Aubrelle’s head tilted faintly toward her, and Cynthia could feel the older girl’s attention through Pipin.

Trafalgar left his suitcase near the wall and crossed into the kitchen as if he had done it a hundred times before. Mayla was preparing food, and without asking, he stepped beside her to help. He took one of the plates, glanced at what she had been arranging, and adjusted himself into the rhythm of the small task with a tired ease that made the apartment feel even more lived-in.

Mayla watched him approach, and for an instant the softness in her face became something deeper.

Trafalgar leaned down and kissed her.

It was brief, but not careless. A kiss with familiarity behind it, with the weight of time missed and comfort regained. Mayla’s hand rose to his arm, fingers pressing lightly into his sleeve before he drew back.

”Everything all right?” she asked, quieter now.

”Exhausted,” Trafalgar said. His mouth twitched faintly. ”But better now.”

Mayla’s cheeks warmed, though she tried to hide it by turning back to the food. She failed. Cynthia noticed. Aubrelle, through Pipin, noticed even more.

Aubrelle folded her hands on the table with a graceful patience that lasted exactly long enough to make her point. ”I believe you are forgetting someone.”

Trafalgar glanced over his shoulder.

Aubrelle’s expression was calm. Too calm, which somehow made the accusation worse. Pipin landed on the back of her chair, feathers puffed in quiet support of his mistress’s complaint.

Trafalgar gave her a flat stare. ”I did not forget.”

”You certainly remembered Mayla with impressive speed.”

Mayla turned away, but her shoulders betrayed the laugh she was trying to swallow.

Cynthia pressed her lips together. She was not sure whether laughing would make her situation better or end her life socially before dinner.

Trafalgar exhaled through his nose. ”I was helping with the plates.”

”How noble,” Aubrelle replied.

”I am surrounded by unreasonable women.”

”And yet you keep finding more,” Mayla said sweetly.

That earned her a brief glance from Trafalgar, the sort that admitted defeat without granting anyone the pleasure of hearing it. He finished helping Mayla carry the plates to the table, arranging them with more care than his expression suggested. Once everything was ready, he stepped behind Aubrelle’s chair.

Aubrelle’s chin lifted a fraction.

Trafalgar bent and kissed her.

This one was gentle too, but different from Mayla’s. Less familiar in habit, more careful in the way he held her shoulder and let her recognize him before his lips touched hers. Aubrelle’s fingers brushed the back of his hand, and her expression lost its practiced serenity for a small, pleased warmth she did not manage to hide.

”There,” Trafalgar said as he straightened. ”Satisfied?”

”For now.”

”Terrifying answer.”

Cynthia watched all of it from the table with her hands clasped together on her lap. The nervousness had not vanished, but it had changed shape. She was no longer waiting to be rejected. Now she was witnessing what already existed here: affection, teasing, history, trust. None of it small. None of it fake.

And somehow, they had made room for her to be present.

That realization almost frightened her more.

Trafalgar took his place at the table last. Mayla sat near him, Aubrelle across from them, and Cynthia found herself drawn into the square of warmth created by food, lamplight, and three people who had already decided the conversation would happen without cruelty.

Mayla served the food. Aubrelle asked about the journey from Aurevane in a light tone, and Cynthia answered part of it before Trafalgar could make everything sound drier than old parchment. Pipin hopped from the chair to the table edge, earning a mild warning from Aubrelle that he was not invited to steal anything before the meal even began.

The ordinary noise helped. Cups moved. Plates shifted. Mayla asked Cynthia whether she wanted more, and Cynthia accepted with a quiet thank you. Trafalgar ate like someone who had forgotten proper meals existed for several days, which Mayla noticed and filed away with visible displeasure.

”You skipped food again, didn’t you?” she asked.

”I ate.”

”That is not an answer.”

”It is technically an answer.”

”It is technically useless.”

Aubrelle nodded. ”I agree with Mayla.”

”You agree with Mayla often when it is against me.”

”Because she is usually correct when it involves your habits.”

Cynthia almost smiled into her cup.

Trafalgar saw it. ”You too?”

”I said nothing.”

”Your face did.”

Cynthia lowered the cup, trying to recover dignity she had lost somewhere between Pipin judging her at the door and Trafalgar dragging her into the apartment by hand. ”Maybe your habits deserve criticism.”

Mayla’s smile brightened. Aubrelle made a pleased little sound.

Trafalgar stared at all three of them, and for the first time since entering the apartment, some of the fatigue under his expression eased.

”Wonderful,” he said. ”You’re already forming alliances.”

The meal continued a little longer, but the larger conversation waited at the edge of every exchange. It was there when Cynthia’s fingers brushed the edge of her plate. It was there when Aubrelle’s hand rested near Pipin, when Mayla’s attention kept returning to Trafalgar with that quiet concern she wore whenever he tried to hide exhaustion behind dry comments.

Trafalgar eventually set his utensils down.

The small sound was enough.

Mayla stopped moving first. Aubrelle’s face angled toward him, Pipin going very quiet on the back of her chair. Cynthia straightened without meaning to.

Trafalgar rested one hand on the table. He did not dress the moment in ceremony, did not delay with careful noble phrasing, and did not look for a softer path around what he had already decided to say. His gaze moved from Mayla to Aubrelle, and finally to Cynthia.

”I like Cynthia.”