Chapter 613: Chapter 613: A Useful Disguise

"All right, Trafalgar," Selara said, smoothing the line of her dress with one hand. Today she had finally dressed like a director representing the Academy instead of an alchemist who had escaped her laboratory by accident. "Obviously, that paper was only for appearances. Someone could have glanced over and noticed you holding a blank sheet, so I improvised."

Trafalgar lowered his attention to the folded paper in her hand. "You improvised alchemical breakfast."

"It sounded harmless."

"It sounded like something you’d actually assign."

Her mouth flattened. "Careful."

He let the comment die there. Her clothes, her tone, the empty space where her usual amusement should have lived - all of it told him this was not one of her games.

"So," he said, folding his arms loosely, "what did you want to discuss in private? I’m guessing this is about your master."

Selara’s fingers tightened once around the paper before she tucked it away. "Yes. You are going to help me with an investigation."

"Help you?"

"More precisely, you’re going to pretend to be my assistant."

Trafalgar blinked. "You do realize I’m easy to recognize, right?"

"No," she said, far too quickly. "You’re easy to recognize when you dress like Trafalgar du Morgain, walk like Trafalgar du Morgain, and let that ridiculous presence of yours announce you before your mouth opens. With glasses, a few adjustments, and better clothing, you’ll pass as a young assistant long enough."

"Better clothing?"

"You’re going somewhere important today. That castle-like building isn’t open to ordinary visitors yet, but the most relevant people will be gathering there before the main event. Scholars, investors, committee members, senior alchemists, mana engineers, and a handful of names Aurevane would rather not advertise."

"So that’s why you handed the other students tasks."

"Yes and no. I can’t keep them locked up here for nearly two weeks doing nothing - they need structure, or half of them will panic and the other half will go curious, which is worse." She angled her head toward the dining area. "Go tell Cynthia you’ll be occupied today. Do it properly. The last thing I need is her trailing us because you sounded evasive."

Trafalgar exhaled softly. "You know, most teachers just tell their students where to go."

"Most teachers aren’t hunting the possibility that their master crawled out of a century-old grave with new funding and worse habits. Move."

Fair enough.

Trafalgar found Cynthia near the entrance of the dining area, mid-conversation with another student from their group. When she spotted him, she excused herself and stepped aside.

"You’re not coming to breakfast?"

"Not yet. I’ll be busy today. Director Selara needs my help with something related to yesterday."

Cynthia studied him with more attention than he cared for. She’d always been more perceptive than people credited her with, and after the train, she had fewer reasons to play that down.

"Related to yesterday," she repeated. "And your assignment was... what was it again? Alchemical breakfast?" The corner of her mouth lifted. "That doesn’t sound like a simple task."

Trafalgar gave her a flat stare. "You saw that?"

"I was standing right beside you. I’d have had to be blind not to catch you almost laughing."

"Selara nearly killed me with her face."

"She did. You deserved it."

That almost pulled a smile from him, but Cynthia’s expression shifted before the moment could stay light. Her voice lowered.

"What’s going on, Trafalgar?"

He could have lied. A small one would have done the job. Something about a report for the Academy, or being asked to help because he’d fought during the train attack. It would have sounded reasonable enough, and Cynthia would probably have accepted it outwardly even if she didn’t believe a word.

Instead, Trafalgar gave her the simple version.

"I’m looking for someone. That’s why I’m really here."

Cynthia froze.

Not theatrically - she just lost the reply she’d been preparing. Her lips parted, closed again, and for once she was caught off guard in a way she couldn’t fold away. He understood why. He’d handed her the opposite of what she expected: the bare version, with none of the awkward parts trimmed off for her comfort.

Only the truth.

"Who are you looking for?" she asked at last.

"Selara’s master."

The name itself stayed in his throat, but the weight crossed the gap between them. Cynthia knew enough to grasp that a director’s missing master was not a normal Academy concern, and Trafalgar would not be wading into it unless the thing had teeth.

He pressed on before she could ask more. "Cynthia, I’m telling you this because lying to you here would be too obvious, and I’d rather not insult you with a bad excuse. But I need you not to make me regret saying it. You understand what I mean."

She did.

Her posture shifted, curiosity still alive under it but pinned down by something firmer. "I won’t get involved unless you tell me to."

"Thank you."

Cynthia inclined her head. The answer pleased her more than she let show - not because she enjoyed being left out, but because he’d trusted her with enough of the truth to let her choose the restraint on her own.

"I’ll wait, then," she said. "But when you have time, you’re helping me with my actual assignment. Mine has real words on it."

"Unfair advantage."

"Yours had breakfast."

"It was advanced breakfast."

She huffed softly and stepped back. "See you later, Trafalgar."

"Later."

He tracked her back toward the dining area before turning to find Selara.

The director was waiting near one of the side corridors, arms crossed, impatience already working through her fingers.

"Well?" she asked. "Path clear?"

"Clear enough. She won’t follow."

"Good. I’d rather not have to drug another student before lunch."

Trafalgar paused. "Another?"

She started walking. "Don’t ask questions you aren’t prepared to have answered."

They took a side stair up to a private dressing room the Academy had been assigned. Fifteen minutes later, Trafalgar stood before a mirror and questioned several of the choices that had led him here.

The suit ran darker than what most assistants would wear, fitted close enough to dodge noble attention without quite vanishing into it. Selara had shoved a pair of thin-framed glasses onto his face and rearranged his hair enough to soften the familiar outline. A narrow scholar’s coat completed the disguise, along with a case of false notes and technical diagrams he wasn’t expected to understand.

He resembled Trafalgar du Morgain a little less.

Unfortunately, he also resembled a young noble who had read three books and disliked all of them.

Selara adjusted his collar with quick, ruthless fingers. "Stop judging the disguise."

"I wasn’t."

"Your entire face disagrees."

"Could be the glasses."

"The glasses are doing heroic work."

They left the lodging through a side exit and rode a carriage toward the castle-like venue at the heart of Aurevane’s event district. In daylight, the building looked even more expensive than it had from a distance. High pale walls rose around arched windows, towers trimmed in silver, broad stairs guarded by men in formal armor. Not a fortress, but it had borrowed enough from one to remind visitors that they were being allowed inside.

Selara stepped down first, every inch the Academy director today. Trafalgar followed half a pace behind her, holding the document case like an assistant who knew better than to speak before being asked.

As they neared the grand entrance, Selara leaned closer without turning her head.

"Chin up," she murmured. "You already know this, but you’re a Morgain. Don’t let anyone in there intimidate you. If they ask technical questions, I answer. If they ask who you are, you’re my temporary assistant for the Aurevane review."

"Temporary assistant," Trafalgar muttered. "A glorious promotion."

"Behave."

The doors opened.

Warm light spilled out from the great hall beyond, carrying voices, perfume, mana, polished stone, and the faint sting of expensive alchemy.

Selara took one step forward.

She stopped cold.

Her hand drifted just close enough to Trafalgar’s wrist to count as a warning rather than a touch, and whatever she had walked in expecting, it was not what waited for her on the other side of those doors.