SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant - Chapter 272

Chapter 272: Chapter 272: The Summoner’s Frontline
– Aubrelle POV –

Warm evening air drifted through the slightly opened balcony doors of the Rosenthal border estate, carrying the scent of blooming spirit-flowers and distant incense from the summoning gardens. Aubrelle could not see any of it—her world was darkness behind a silk-white bandage—but Pipin perched on the vanity table, pale feathers ruffling softly, saw everything for her.

Three months.

Three months since the Sylvanel–Thal’Zar war erupted like a forest fire across the world.

Aubrelle ran her slender fingers through her hair, smoothing the golden strands while Pipin relayed the reflection in the mirror: the fall of her curls, the neatness of her braid, the faint tension in her own shoulders. Every detail arrived in flashes, impressions, shapes edged in red glow—his vision, not hers.

War had changed everything.

Gates between neutral cities and contested territories were closed. Trade routes dried up. Merchant caravans vanished overnight. Even Velkaris—grand, sprawling Velkaris—had grown hostile in places, beastkin and elves clashing in alleys and marketplaces as old wounds resurfaced under the excuse of war.

The Council of Elders had tripled the number of patrols to maintain order.

But the most unsettling part?

Neither Sylvanel nor Thal’Zar had broken a single law of war yet.

No civilian massacres.

No large-scale assaults.

Nothing that allowed the six neutral Great Families to intervene.

A war fought in shadows and strategy.

A war sustained by patience, not rage.

Aubrelle gently tightened her bandage.

On the Thal’Zar side, Icarus di Valtaron—yes, that Icarus—had taken the public role of commander. Kaedor had practically vanished from sight, letting the SSS-rank talent move soldiers and rally beastkin clans.

On the Sylvanel side, Lady Elenara stood untouched, her defenses absolute, her supporting families increasing with each passing week. Among them, Rosenthal.

Her own bloodline.

Behind her shoulder, Pipin let out a soft, low croak—an image of campfires, tents, and vibrating ley-lines from summoning rituals flashing into Aubrelle’s mind. The frontlines were stable, but the tension was coiling tighter every day.

Aubrelle exhaled softly and rose from her seat.

“Three months…” she murmured. “And it feels like the world is holding its breath.”

Pipin hopped onto her shoulder, feathers brushing her cheek.

The war had already swallowed cities in preparation and fear.

Aubrelle stood before her open wardrobe, fingertips brushing along rows of fabrics she could not see but Pipin showed her—soft whites, muted golds, pale blues, each one captured in the red-tinted images he projected into her mind. The estate around her hummed with activity: footsteps hurrying down polished corridors, distant voices giving orders, the faint pulse of summoned beasts outside preparing for night patrol.

Tonight was important.

Extremely important.

Rosenthal had summoned every heir back to the border estate, along with four supporting families and, of course, the Sylvanel delegation. A war meeting disguised as a polite dinner. Decisions would be made today—real ones. And Aubrelle, as one of Rosenthal’s strongest heirs, was required to attend.

She reached for a gown, letting her hand pause as Pipin chirped sharply twice.

“Not that one?” she asked, lips curving slightly.

The bird fluttered upward, circling once before landing on a pale dress with pearl-silver embroidery. Instantly, an image bloomed in her mind: herself standing tall, composed, her golden hair falling over the white fabric like sunlight over winter frost.

Aubrelle nodded. “You’re right. That one.”

Carefully, she slipped into the gown. The fabric was cool against her skin, perfectly fitted, subtly elegant—just enough to honor the Sylvanel without seeming ostentatious. Her fingers found the white bandage around her eyes, smoothing it gently.

Her mother had sewn this one before she passed; even after all these years, the texture brought her comfort.

Pipin took flight again, circling her twice, projecting impressions of approval—symmetry, softness, dignity.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Before stepping out, Aubrelle invoked her support staff with a flick of her wrist. The polished wood materialized into her palm, humming faintly with familiar spirit energy. She leaned on it just enough to maintain balance—no more. She refused to look helpless. The bandage covered her eyes, but she would walk with her own strength.

A knock sounded softly.

The Rosenthal butler—old, steady, and unfailingly respectful—waited just outside.

“You look radiant, Lady Aubrelle,” he said warmly, voice dipped in genuine admiration. “Your father will be proud. The gathering begins shortly.”

Aubrelle smiled, gentle and polite. “Let’s hope the night isn’t too stressful.”

“Shall I lead the way?”

“No need. Pipin guides me.” She raised her chin, posture composed, staff tapping lightly against the polished floor.

The butler bowed in understanding and walked a respectful distance ahead, perfectly aware that she hated being held or supported.

Aubrelle headed toward the grand hall—toward six families, two races on the brink of destruction, and decisions that could shape the entire war.

The hallway leading to the main hall opened into a vast foyer alive with restrained tension. Soft music drifted from a corner ensemble, but it did nothing to hide the undercurrent of unease—the whispered exchanges, the stiff postures, the flicker of summoned familiars perched discreetly near their masters.

Pipin’s vision filtered into Aubrelle’s mind, showing her a mosaic of colors and outlines: clusters of nobles in ceremonial attire… glowing spirit sigils etched into the marble floor… and the silhouettes of four visiting Houses mingled with Rosenthal and Sylvanel banners.

‘So many voices,’ Aubrelle thought as she slowed, letting Pipin sweep the room with his keen eyes. ‘And yet each one carries the same weight: fear wrapped in formality.’

Her staff tapped once against the floor.

“Lady Aubrelle?” A guard stepped aside respectfully as she approached the threshold of the grand hall.

She inclined her head in acknowledgment and crossed the doorway.

The hall itself was massive—a cathedral-like space supported by pillars carved with spirit motifs. Six long tables formed a loose circle around a central platform where discussions would take place. The air shimmered faintly with Sylvanel protective magic, a subtle testament to how seriously they were taking the war.

Pipin’s vision sharpened, guiding her attention to a figure standing at the far end—broad-shouldered, brown-haired with streaks of silver, golden-red eyes glowing faintly with summoning aura.

Her father.

Lord Thaleon au Rosenthal.

A powerful summoner, dignified and stoic—yet Pipin revealed the small, private smile that crossed his face the moment he saw her.

Aubrelle moved toward him with practiced grace.

“Aubrelle,” he greeted, voice warm in a way few warleaders ever allowed themselves. “You look well. You resemble your mother more every day.”

She offered a soft smile. “Thank you, Father. Am I early?”

“You’re the first of your siblings to arrive,” he said with a faint laugh. “A pleasant surprise. The others are… preparing themselves.”

Meaning stressed.

Meaning panicked.

Pipin confirmed as much, showing flickers of her older brothers pacing in another room.

Aubrelle tilted her head slightly. “I wanted to gauge the atmosphere.”

Her father’s smile faltered—barely. “I know. Every time you say you ‘see,’ I remember what was taken from you. And I—”

She cut him off gently. “Tonight isn’t the night to dwell on regrets, Father.”

He inhaled sharply, guilt sinking beneath his ribs.

“You’re right,” he conceded.

Pipin hopped lightly on her shoulder, letting out a soft crystalline chirp—approval, encouragement.

Aubrelle reached out, finding her father’s arm with practiced ease, resting her hand briefly atop his forearm. “Let’s focus on the future. The Sylvanel will expect strength from us tonight.”

“And they will have it,” Lord Thaleon replied, posture straightening.

A sudden ripple of familiar mana brushed against Aubrelle’s senses—warm, lively, unmistakably Rosenthal.

Pipin’s vision snapped toward the entrance just as a cluster of figures crossed into the hall: four boys of varying ages and two elegantly dressed women following behind them. Aubrelle’s lips curved softly.

Her family.

Her oldest brother, Idran—tall, broad-shouldered, with wind-tossed brown hair—spotted her first. Son of the First Wife, and heir to inherit Lord Thaleon’s mantle someday. He grinned and strode toward her with heavy, confident steps.

“Aubrelle! There you are.” Idran’s voice carried warmth that could wrap mountains. “You beat us here this time.”

Pipin chirped proudly on her shoulder.

Behind him came Eldric, her full-blooded brother, just a year older than her, quiet but steady as oak bark. Aubrelle felt him long before he spoke—his calm presence was unmistakable.

“Aubrelle,” Eldric said softly, touching her arm in greeting. “It’s good to see you.”

She smiled at the familiar touch. “It’s good to be home.”

Then the younger ones barreled into her space—two boys around ten or eleven, practically buzzing with energy and awe.

“Aubrelle! You look so cool!”

“Your dress is awesome!”

“Pipin winked at us!”

“He did not, stupid.”

“Did too!”

Pipin let out a chirp of sheer resignation.

Aubrelle laughed, light and honest. “Calm down, you little storms. Pipin isn’t winking, that’s just how his eyes glow.”

Behind the boys, the two Rosenthal wives arrived—Lady Marie, Idran’s mother, with her elegant composure and silver-blue robes, and Lady Renia, mother of the younger children, wearing warm earth tones that matched her gentle smile.

Renia placed a soft hand on Aubrelle’s arm. “How are you feeling? Long weeks, I imagine.”

“I’m well,” Aubrelle replied warmly. “And happy to see you all.”

The hall around them pulsed with noise now. Six families mingled under crystal chandeliers—Sylvanel druids whispering with Rosenthal summoners, envoys exchanging quiet greetings, spirit familiars drifting like lanterns in the air.

The air tingled with polite formality and hidden tension.

Pipin’s eyes showed her the room clearly:

—Lady Elenara speaking with two allied patriarchs, vines curling peacefully around her feet.

—A Watercaller family communing with floating spirit-fish.

—Guests talking with other guests

Aubrelle’s father lifted a hand, signaling her toward him.

Idran nudged her lightly. “Looks like we’re about to begin.”