How to Lose a Head (and Gain an Advantage)

"Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity."

— Seneca the Younger

———

The morning sun painted the western training yard in gold that would have been romantic if not for my impending humiliation before twenty-odd students. I stood at the edge, wooden sword trembling in my grip like I'd never held a weapon before.

Which, technically, the original Kaelen hadn't. Not properly, anyway.

The yard buzzed with activity. House Aurum students claimed prime spots near the weapon racks, moving with confidence through forms learned since childhood. House Argent clustered in animated discussion groups, analyzing techniques with academic intensity. House Vermillion practiced in perfect silence, maintaining their characteristic aloofness.

And then there was House Onyx, scattered around the periphery. We got the practice dummies with loose stuffing and the nicked training weapons. Perfect for my purposes.

I shuffled toward my designated area, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. The wooden sword felt awkward in my hands—not entirely an act. The original Kaelen's muscle memory was lacking.

"Leone."

I nearly jumped at Professor Blackthorne's bark. The combat instructor stood nearby, arms crossed over his scarred chest, iron-gray eyes filled with disgust.

"Y-yes, Professor?"

"Try not to kill yourself today. The paperwork would be irritating."

Nearby students snickered. I ducked my head, letting my cheeks flush. "I'll... do my best, sir."

Blackthorne grunted and moved on. Perfect. Nothing like a professor's contempt to establish me as harmless.

I approached the training dummy Lyra's intelligence had identified as Vance Thorne's preferred target. I raised the wooden sword, letting it wobble in my grip. The blade traced an unsteady arc before connecting with the dummy's shoulder with minimal force.

"Pathetic," someone muttered behind me.

I turned to see Vance Thorne approaching with two sycophants. His golden hair caught the light, expensive training gear gleaming with the polish of privilege. His blue eyes held the cruelty of someone who'd never faced consequences.

"Perhaps you should try needlework instead, Leone," Vance suggested loudly. "I hear it requires less... coordination."

His followers laughed on cue. I let my face crumple.

"I'm just trying to get better," I stammered. "Professor Blackthorne says practice makes—"

"Practice makes adequate. And some people will never be even that."

He gestured toward the dummy. "You're using my station. Find somewhere else to embarrass yourself."

I blinked. "Your station?"

"This dummy. I've been training here since term began. Surely even you understand precedence."

His lackeys nodded sagely.

I glanced around, noting our audience. Rhys Blackwood stood near the eastern fence, his father's spear in a defensive position as he watched. His green eyes held sympathy and wariness—someone who'd been in my position before.

Perfect. An audience.

"I'm sorry," I said, stepping back. "I didn't know it was yours. I'll just—"

My heel found a divot in the earth that wasn't there. My arms flailed wildly. The wooden sword slipped from my grasp, spinning through the air before connecting with the dummy's neck with a sickening crack.

The dummy's head tilted further, held by a few stubborn straws and canvas that groaned under the strain.

Dead silence fell.

"Oh no," I whispered, horrified. "Oh no, oh no..."

Vance's face changed colors. "You broke my training dummy."

"I didn't mean to! It was an accident! My foot—the sword—"

"You incompetent fool! Do you know how long it takes to properly condition a practice target?"

I scrambled toward the dummy. "Maybe I can fix it? I could get some twine? Or—"

The dummy's head fell off entirely.

The silence stretched. Someone coughed. A bird chirped in the distance.

"I'm dead," I moaned, dropping to my knees. "My father's going to kill me. This is probably expensive, isn't it? What if they charge my family for damages?"

Vance looked torn between strangling me and walking away in disgust.

"Just get out of my sight," he finally managed, "before you break something else."

I gathered my sword, shot one last anguished look at the headless dummy, and fled.

Behind me, Vance explained to anyone listening why commoners and failures shouldn't be allowed near proper equipment, his voice carrying the righteousness of someone who'd never fixed their own mistakes.

Hook, line, and sinker.

The afternoon found me reviewing Lyra's intelligence reports. The servant's network she'd infiltrated was proving remarkably effective. According to her notes, Vance would spend the day complaining about the broken dummy and demand a replacement, which would take days to process. He'd need alternative training arrangements—perhaps the western woods, where trees provided natural targets and privacy allowed for more creative practice.

A soft knock interrupted my planning. "Come in," I called, hiding the papers.

Lyra entered with a tea tray, her expression a perfect mask of concern. To observers, she was simply attending her master after his embarrassment. But her red eyes held anticipation I'd learned to recognize.

"Your tea, Young Master. I thought you might need something to settle your nerves after... the incident."

I slumped, playing the defeated third son. "Word travels fast."

"The servants are talking about little else. They say Master Vance was quite upset."

"I didn't mean for it to break," I said, accepting tea with trembling hands. "It was an accident."

Lyra's lips curved in what might have been sympathy if you didn't know her nature. "Of course, Young Master. No one could plan something so beautifully ruinous."

"Will you be studying in the library this afternoon?" I asked.

"I thought I might. The head librarian mentioned needing help organizing returned texts."

"How unfortunate," I murmured.

When she left, I returned to my window to wait.

The academy grounds spread below like a living map. Students moved in predictable patterns. House Aurum traveled in glittering groups, House Argent in animated clusters, House Vermillion like secrets between destinations.

And there was Rhys Blackwood, heading toward the library with determination.

I'd been watching him for three days, mapping his routines. Every morning, he trained alone before others awoke. Every afternoon, he spent hours in the library's reference section studying advanced texts beyond his supposed level. Every evening, he maintained his equipment with a soldier's devotion.

Smart, dedicated, desperately alone. Perfect for my plans.

Hours passed. Finally, Lyra emerged from the library's side entrance carrying books that justified her presence. She moved across the courtyard with an unhurried pace that disguised her calculated purpose.

She disappeared into the service paths connecting the academy buildings, then reappeared near the western edge where manicured grounds met forest. Her route would take her past the grove where Rhys practiced privately.

Lyra paused at the grove's edge, checked she was unobserved, then withdrew a torn page from her apron. She placed it on the ground, weighted it with a stone, then vanished into the service paths.

I smiled. The board was set. Soon, Rhys would finish studying and find the torn page about rare Iron-Root herb in the western woods. He could ignore it or investigate, hoping a valuable alchemical component might solve his family's financial crisis.

I knew which he'd choose. Desperate men always chose hope over safety, especially when they believed the decision was their own.