Chapter 354: The Gathering [I]

The flying vessel slowed as it reached the upper airspace of the Morgain stronghold, its engines humming low as frost-laced wind swept across the hull. Below—or what should have been below—there was nothing but mist. Thick, endless fog swallowed the mountain’s depths, hiding the ground entirely, as if the castle itself floated above the world rather than being carved into it.Snow fell constantly here. Not in violent gusts, but in an unbroken descent, soft flakes catching in the air before settling against stone, metal, and cloak alike.

Alfred’s ship descended through it all and touched down in the main landing courtyard.

The moment the ramp lowered, Trafalgar felt it.

Activity everywhere.

Other flying vessels occupied the outer edges of the courtyard, some sleek and refined, others heavy and utilitarian. Wyverns were tethered along reinforced platforms, their wings folded tight against the cold, breath fogging the air as handlers moved around them. There were more modes of travel than he could count—proof that this wasn’t a simple reception.

It was a gathering.

Trafalgar stepped forward, boots crunching softly against snow-dusted stone, and let his gaze sweep across the courtyard.

Too many people.

Faces he didn’t recognize at all—members of distant branches, retainers, blood relatives so far removed from the main line they barely mattered. And mixed among them, faces he did recognize.

People who had stood at his uncle Mordrek’s funeral.

People who had watched the coffin descend without speaking, measuring what his death might mean for them.

Seen together like this, the pattern was impossible to ignore.

The snow continued to fall, settling on shoulders and cloaks alike, uncaring of rank or bloodline. No one laughed. No one spoke loudly. Conversations were muted, restrained, as if everyone understood that this wasn’t a reunion.

It was an assessment.

Trafalgar lifted his gaze slightly, eyes narrowing as he took in the scale of it all. The castle walls loomed above the courtyard, black stone etched with silver veins, disappearing upward into fog just as dense as the one below. From this height, the world felt distant—irrelevant.

Here, only Morgain mattered.

A familiar pressure settled into his chest.

Snow brushed past his face as he took another step forward, fully aware now that the moment his feet touched this ground, he had entered a space where every glance weighed him, judged him, and calculated his worth.

Trafalgar lifted his gaze, letting it move beyond the mass of nameless figures until it caught on someone familiar.

Anthera stood a short distance away.

Her red hair was impossible to miss, even beneath the muted light and falling snow, pulled back just enough to keep it from the wind. She wore a heavy coat lined with thick fur, suited for the cold that ruled the upper reaches of the Morgain mountains. At her side stood her other two children—and just behind them, slightly removed but unmistakably present, was Sylis.

She looked... different.

Not weaker. If anything, the opposite. There was a firmness to her posture now, a composure that hadn’t been there the last time Trafalgar had seen her. She carried herself like someone who had endured loss and come out the other side sharper for it.

’She’s grown,’ Trafalgar noted silently.

His eyes shifted again.

A man stood a short distance away, silver hair falling loose against the dark of his cloak. He wasn’t much taller than Trafalgar, but the weight of his presence made the space around him feel denser, as if the air itself resisted movement near him.

Armand du Morgain.

His face was bare, skin marked by time yet held in check by something far stronger—raw power pressed so deeply into his frame that age had been forced to compromise. There was no wasted motion in him, no unnecessary tension. He simply stood there, and the world adjusted accordingly.

Trafalgar felt it instinctively.

Pressure.

His gaze moved once more.

Lady Seradra du Morgain stood apart from the others, tall and unmistakably imposing. Light blond hair streaked faintly with silver was tied into a high ponytail, practical and severe. Her crimson eyes swept across the courtyard, not lingering on faces so much as weighing them.

She wore heavy, fur-lined garments in her colors—black, silver, crimson—and almost no jewelry. Just a simple chain at her neck. A single ring bearing the Morgain crest.

Trafalgar looked away from Seradra, his thoughts pulling inward.

’I suppose I’ll be able to ask my grandfather about his son,’ he thought. About Magnus.

’But after I speak with Valttair.’

That part was clear to him. Whatever answers he was going to get, whatever version of the truth existed inside this mountain, Valttair would speak first. Trafalgar needed to hear his side before going any further.

What came after that... was uncertain.

He didn’t know how he was supposed to explain what he knew. Not really. The information didn’t come from reports, or spies, or anything that could be easily traced. It wasn’t something he could simply place on the table and say this is how I learned it.

’Maybe I’ll have to make something up,’ he admitted to himself.

’Or maybe I’ll only tell part of it.’

Either way, it wouldn’t be clean.

He could already feel it—the tension that came with unspoken truths inside a family like Morgain. Every word mattered here. Every omission carried weight. Say too much, and he would expose things better left buried. Say too little, and he would look weak, or worse, deceptive.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly.

Snow continued to fall around him, silent and indifferent.

Whatever Valttair was planning, whatever his grandfather already knew, Trafalgar understood one thing clearly now: This conversation was coming.

Caelum was already gone.

There was no sound, no ripple in the air to mark his departure—one moment he had been there, the next he wasn’t, slipping away like a shadow that had never truly belonged to the light. By the time Trafalgar registered his absence, Caelum was far beyond the reach of any eyes gathered in the courtyard.

Footsteps crunched softly behind him.

Alfred came up at an easy pace and stopped just close enough to matter. A heavy hand landed on Trafalgar’s shoulder, firm, familiar.

"Good luck, kid," Alfred said roughly. "Don’t make yourself small now. Show some spine, like you did against that leviathan." He snorted. "Honestly, you surprised me. Thought you were a lot softer than that."

Trafalgar turned his head slightly, already recognizing the tone. That was just Alfred. That was how they talked.

He smirked. "I’m heading in, old man. Try not to die of loneliness while I’m gone." His eyes flicked over Alfred deliberately. "And see if those bones of yours can hold out for another year."

Normally, Alfred would have laughed. Or fired back instantly.

This time, he didn’t.

For the first time since Trafalgar had stepped off the ship, Alfred’s expression was serious.

Trafalgar noticed.

Alfred had made it clear long ago—he didn’t involve himself in Morgain family matters. He worked for them, yes, but the internal disputes, the blood and politics, had never interested him. Trafalgar knew that. He also knew something else.

Alfred was a close friend of Armand.

That was why he was here. Loyalty, not ambition.

Alfred leaned in just enough for only Trafalgar to hear.

"Be careful," he murmured.

Trafalgar heard it perfectly. His Primordial Body made sure of that—every word reaching him with unnatural clarity.

He pretended not to.

"What was that, old man?" Trafalgar asked loudly. "Did you say something?"

Alfred’s face twisted immediately, the seriousness snapping away. "Nothing, you little bastard," he snapped. "I said you might end up dying before I do today. Try not to come back even softer than when you left."

Trafalgar let out a short laugh. "I’ll do my best."

He turned and finally started down the ramp toward the courtyard, snow crunching under his boots.

Behind him, Alfred stayed where he was.

Trafalgar descended the ramp at an unhurried pace, boots crunching softly against snow-dusted stone. With every step, the courtyard seemed to tighten around him.

He felt it before he fully saw it.

Eyes.

They followed him openly now, no longer pretending disinterest. Some were sharp, others curious, a few openly hostile

Maeron stood near the inner ring of the courtyard, posture rigid, gaze fixed and unreadable.

Rivena lingered a short distance away, her attention veiled but no less intent.

Anthera watched him closely, her children at her side.

Beyond them were the collateral branches of the Morgain—those who carried the name but sat so far from the heart of the bloodline that they were nearly irrelevant. Nearly. Their interest was obvious. Relevance was a currency here, and Trafalgar had suddenly become expensive.

And then there were the three wives.

Each stood apart in her own way, observing him from different angles, expressions carefully controlled. None spoke. Their presence alone added weight to the moment.

Trafalgar took it all in without breaking stride.

Then he noticed what wasn’t there.

Seraphine.

The first wife was nowhere in sight.

That alone was unsettling.

She never missed gatherings like this. Not ones where the family assembled so completely, not ones where judgment hung this thick in the air. Her absence wasn’t an oversight—it was deliberate.

’Valttair did something at the end?’ Trafalgar thought.

The snow continued to fall, quiet and relentless, as if the mountain itself were holding its breath. Trafalgar felt it then, he wasn’t being welcomed. He was being examined.

Trafalgar didn’t need to look up to know.

Still, he did.

High above the courtyard, behind the massive window that dominated the highest tower, a lone figure stood in shadow.

Valttair.

He watched from above, removed from the noise, from the cold, from the cluster of blood and ambition gathered below. He simply observed.

Trafalgar felt the shape of it then—the full scope of what he had stepped into.

’I knew it,’ he thought. ’I was always going to be the center of this.’

The realization settled calmly, without panic.

He was surrounded.

Like carrion birds perched on the edges of a battlefield. Like vultures circling overhead, patient, waiting for weakness. Or crows lining the branches, silent and watchful, counting the seconds until something fell.