SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant - Chapter 273

Chapter 273: Chapter 273: War Council
Aubrelle inhaled slowly, adjusting her grip on her cane as she let Pipin’s vision settle over the room with crystalline clarity.

The hall had changed.

Moments ago, it had been a hum of scattered voices and wandering footsteps.

Now—

Now it pulsed with purpose.

Six families filled the chamber beneath the towering crystal chandeliers. Sylvanel druids conversed in hushed tones beside Rosenthal summoners whose spirit familiars floated like soft lights above their heads. Watercallers shaped drifting bubbles the size of pearls as they spoke with envoys from two human clans. Elven nobles exchanged ceremonious bows, all rigid with composure but tense around the eyes.

War had turned even polite gatherings into battlegrounds of subtle calculation.

Pipin’s sight painted everything for her in strokes of soft white-blue:

—Lady Elenara au Sylvanel, surrounded by faintly glowing vines, speaking with two patriarchs from the human families.

—A trio of dwarven artificers laughing gruffly over a table of metal trinkets.

—A group of elven sisters weaving illusionary butterflies as a form of greeting magic.

—Austere guards lining the walls, each trying—and failing—to hide the anxiety rattling beneath their professionalism.

Aubrelle stood still, letting the shifting images flow into her mind like ripples on a pond.

Her father lifted a hand toward her from across the room.

Idran, standing at her side, leaned down and nudged her elbow lightly.

“Looks like it’s about to begin,” he murmured.

Aubrelle nodded softly, though her throat felt tight.

“Mm. I can hear it… everything feels heavier today.”

Idran exhaled. “Three months of war will do that.”

Pipin hopped once on her shoulder—an impatient, feather-light tap.

Aubrelle reached up and stroked his chest with two fingers. “I know, Pipin. We’re going.”

But she didn’t move right away.

Instead, she let herself stand a moment longer, listening—truly listening—to the hall:

The clink of glasses, the murmur of fears half-swallowed, the quiet determination threading through every voice.

Tonight would shape the next chapter of the war.

Aubrelle felt the shift in the air the moment her father stepped away from her side.

Through Pipin’s eyes, she watched as Lord Thaleon crossed the hall—straight-backed, composed—and joined Lady Elenara au Sylvanel and the other patriarchs and matriarchs near the grand archway.

One by one, the six heads of family separated from the crowd.

A soft chime rang through the hall: the signal.

Aubrelle stiffened slightly. ‘That means it’s time…’

The gathered nobles straightened. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Spirit familiars stopped drifting and hovered in still curiosity.

Six figures walked toward the private strategy chamber beyond the arch:

Elenara au Sylvanel, emerald eyes calm but carrying a storm beneath.

Thaleon au Rosenthal, her father, composed and strong.

The Dwarven Matriarch of Stonehearth, beard braids clinking with tiny metal charms.

The Human Watercaller Patriarch, robes shimmering like flowing waves.

Lord Vaelith of the Moonweave Elves, lean and silent, aura like silver threads.

Lady Seris of the Crest Elves, surrounded by faint drifting petals of conjured flora.

They entered the war room without a word.

The heavy door sealed behind them with a low, echoing thud.

A wave of silence washed across the hall.

Aubrelle’s breath caught. ‘This is it. Something’s going to happen, I imagine Dad will tell us what it is later.’

Idran shifted at her side. “Looks like they want absolute privacy.”

“Of course they do,” she murmured. “The lives of thousands may turn on whatever decision is made in that room.”

Her younger brothers, stood nearby with wide eyes—nervous despite trying to look mature. Marie whispered something reassuring to them while gently combing a hand through Fenric’s hair.

Aubrelle lowered herself into a nearby seat with practiced grace.

She had no desire to mingle right now, no energy for polite smiles.

Pipin perched higher on her shoulder, gaze fixed on the sealed war room.

Aubrelle’s fingers curled lightly around her cane.

The heavy silence of the hall dissolved the moment the war-room door sealed.

Inside, the atmosphere changed—denser, older, laced with power and responsibility.

A long rectangular table dominated the center of the chamber.

Maps were spread across it: overlapping territories, shifting borders, ley-line routes, marked Gates, and small carved figurines representing battalions.

Six chairs surrounded the table—two at the narrow ends, four along the sides.

Elenara au Sylvanel took her place at the head without hesitation, emerald eyes sharp.

Across from her, Thaleon au Rosenthal settled into the opposite end—calm, disciplined, both hands folded before him.

The remaining four heads of family assumed their seats:

The Stonehearth Matriarch, stocky and immovable, fingers drumming against her axe-shaped pendant.

The Watercaller Patriarch, face serene but eyes turbulent as waves in storm.

Lord Vaelith, Moonweave Elf, silver hair falling like threads of moonlight as he examined the map.

Lady Seris, Thorncrest Elf, petals drifting lazily around her wrists with each breath.

Elenara was the first to break the silence.

“Thank you for coming,” she began, voice smooth but edged in steel.

Her gaze swept across each leader, lingering on no one for long. “It is time we discuss our first offensive move. The three months of defense have given us enough information to act.”

Thaleon nodded. “Our scouts confirm the same. Thal’Zar has lost over five hundred soldiers—nothing decisive but enough to tilt the pressure.”

“And more importantly,” Elenara added, eyes narrowing, “their formations have stabilized. Which means their next strike is planned, not improvised.”

The Stonehearth Matriarch leaned forward. “Aye. And we’ve done our part. Crafted explosives, enchanted traps, and forged the blades ye requested. All sitting in our vaults, untouched. We’re itching to see them used.”

No one objected; the dwarven clan had always been direct.

Elenara’s expression did not change. “We will use them soon. Our target is clear.”

She reached out, tapping a region on the map—a well-marked forest clearing deep in Thal’Zar territory.

“Their Ritefield of Beasts. A sacred ground they never abandon, even during war. Their traditions anchor them there.”

A low murmur rippled among the heads.

“That place?” the Watercaller Patriarch murmured. “Bold.”

“Necessary,” Elenara replied. “If we strike during their upcoming family rite, we will break their morale before breaking their lines. In two weeks, they will gather there. That is when we strike.”

Her eyes flicked to Thaleon.

“And I will need your strongest summons.”

Thaleon’s jaw tightened slightly. “You will have them. All of them. Including my daughter.”

A few glances shifted.

Lady Seris raised a brow. “You mean the blind child? Are you certain—”

Thaleon’s aura spiked like a blade drawn.

“Say another word,” he said softly, “and this table will have one less head present.”

A beat of silence followed.

Seris quickly lowered her gaze, murmuring an apology.

Thaleon exhaled, but his eyes remained sharp. “My daughter is stronger than most here. She has earned her place in this war.”

Elenara inclined her head. “We trust her ability. And yours.”

The meeting pressed on, the gravity increasing with every detail shared.

They spoke of battalion movement, illusion wards, coordinated strikes, the order of retreat, and backup plans if Icarus personally intervened.

The tension in the room thickened as Elenara unfurled a second map—this one older, marked with faded runes and swirling ley-line routes that pulsed faintly with natural magic.

“Three months of restraint,” she said, tapping the parchment, “have strengthened our position. But now, our next step must be precise. If we miscalculate even once… Thal’Zar will seize the initiative.”

Lord Vaelith leaned forward, silver hair brushing his shoulder.

“Your scouts mentioned unusual mana concentrations near their eastern ridge. Illusions? Traps?”

“Both,” Elenara confirmed. “Icarus is restructuring their battlefront. His influence is unmistakable.”

A ripple of unease crossed the table.

Even the dwarven matriarch stiffened.

“SSS-talents ruin battlefields,” she muttered, shaking her head. “One of ’em can turn a victory into a funeral pyre if ye’re not careful.”

Thaleon spoke calmly, though everyone could sense the weight behind his words.

“We will not underestimate him. But neither will we allow him to dictate the pace. Our offense must strike before he anticipates it.”

The Watercaller Patriarch traced a pattern over the map with a watery sigil that hovered above the table.

“Our battlemages will reinforce the front. We can redirect their ground troops into the clearing using controlled floods, forcing their formation to break.”

“Good,” Elenara said. “And the Moonweave?”

Vaelith’s violet gaze sharpened.

“We will handle aerial illusions. Their lycan scouts will see whatever we want them to see.”

“Perfect.”

The Thorncrest Matriarch—Seris—cleared her throat quietly. “If I may… my bloomguard can set up thorns along the perimeter. If they try to retreat or regroup, they will bleed for it.”

Elenara did not smile, but her eyes glimmered faintly. “A fitting response for their vandalism of our sacred grove.”

A moment of respectful silence followed—the memory of Thal’Zar’s attack on the Tree still raw for every Sylvanel in the room.

At last, Thaleon straightened, resting one palm on the table.

“It seems our pieces are aligned. But we must discuss what comes after the first strike. They will retaliate.”

“Aye,” said the dwarven matriarch grimly. “Ye hit a beast in its den, ye better be ready when it pounces back.”

Elenara’s gaze swept across each head of family—measuring, weighing, binding them.

“We will win the first battle,” she declared, “but the war will not end there. After our strike, the true conflict begins.”

While the six heads of family continued shaping the next chapter of the war, the atmosphere in the grand hall outside had shifted.

Aubrelle sat with her hands curled loosely around the stem of her glass, Pipin perched on her shoulder like a second heartbeat. Through him, she saw the room’s subtle changes—the stiffness in posture, the darted glances toward the doors, the way conversations turned to murmurs.

Someone approached.

Light, practiced steps. The scent of blooming dusk-lilies. The faint shimmer of glamour magic brushing at the edges of the air.

An elf.

From the Moonweave family—the illusionists.

A young man, bowed respectfully before her.

“Lady Aubrelle,” he greeted, voice warm but edged with caution. “May I join you for a moment?”

Pipin tilted his head, red eyes narrowing as he evaluated the newcomer.

Aubrelle lifted her chin slightly, expression composed.

“…You may,” she replied.

“My Lady,” he continued, lowering his voice just enough, “I wished to offer my respect. Your presence here tonight—despite these times—is a reassurance to all our allied families.”

Aubrelle listened quietly, her fingers brushing the smooth wood of her cane. Pipin’s gaze remained fixed on the elf, feathers subtly ruffling.

The envoy smiled faintly.

“And perhaps,” he added, “we may speak of the days ahead.”

Aubrelle turned her head toward him.

The conversation was about to start.