The Insurance Policy

"Distrust and caution are the parents of security."

— Benjamin Franklin

———

I returned to the map, forcing myself to focus on logistics rather than sentiment. "The cave-in will happen at 14:30, approximately four hours into the assessment. My team will be assigned to the Crystal Caverns section, which connects to the Collapsed Mine through a maintenance tunnel."

My finger traced the route on the weathered parchment, the ink lines representing tunnels where lives would hang in the balance. Each passageway was a potential death trap, each intersection a crucial decision point. The faded markings showed where support beams had been installed decades ago, now likely rotted and ready to give way at the slightest disturbance. Small notations in the margins indicated water seepage points and unstable rock formations—details that would mean life or death when the moment came.

"If I can separate from my team at the right moment, I can reach Team 7's position just as the trap triggers. The timing has to be perfect—early enough to prevent casualties, late enough to avoid suspicion." I tapped a specific junction where the tunnels narrowed dangerously. "Here. This is where Rhys and his team will be when the first tremors start. The main collapse will block their primary escape route, forcing them deeper into the unstable section where the secondary cave-in is designed to finish them off."

"Your team," Lyra said. "They are loose ends. How will you control them?"

"Marcus will be consumed with proving his tactical knowledge. Thomlin wants to redeem himself after his family's disgrace. Seraphina..." I paused, recalling those penetrating grey eyes that seemed to strip away pretense. "Seraphina is the variable. She sees too much."

Lyra made a careful note in her leather-bound book. "I could arrange a distraction. Something to draw her attention at the critical moment."

"No. Too obvious. If she's as perceptive as I think, she'll notice any manipulation." I lowered myself back into my chair, unable to hide a grimace as my ribs protested. "Better to give her something real to focus on. A genuine emergency that requires her healing skills."

"You're going to injure yourself again." Her voice was flat with certainty.

"A minor wound. Something that requires immediate attention but won't compromise my mobility. A deep cut on my sword arm, perhaps, or a twisted ankle that needs stabilization."

Lyra's hands balled into fists, her knuckles whitening. "Master, you've already sacrificed enough. The broken ribs, the constant pain you're hiding—how much more can your body endure?"

The raw concern in her voice caught me unprepared. When had Lyra evolved beyond a convenient zealot? When had her worship transformed into something resembling genuine care?

Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous feelings.

"My body is a tool," I replied, my tone harsher than intended. "Tools get damaged in use. What matters is accomplishing the objective."

Her shoulders tightened, a barely perceptible flinch, but she didn't look away. The fire in her crimson eyes didn't waver. "And what happens when the tool breaks completely? What becomes of our plans then?"

"Then you continue without me." I delivered the words with clinical detachment. "You have the intelligence network, the skills, the connections. The Twilight Society doesn't depend on any single person."

"It depends on you." Her voice diminished to barely above a whisper. "I depend on you."

Her whispered confession wasn't a weight in the air; it was a crack in my armor. I had forged a perfect weapon, an extension of my will. But the weapon was beginning to think. To fear. And a fearful weapon is an unpredictable one.

I turned away, pretending to study the maps spread across my desk. The pain in my ribs throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of how fragile this body truly was. How fragile all my plans were.

"Your loyalty is noted," I said finally, keeping my voice neutral. "But sentiment is a weakness we cannot indulge. If I fall, someone else must take up the mantle. The narrative doesn't care about individuals—it cares about roles. And roles can be filled by anyone with the right qualities."

Lyra's fingers tightened around the leather-bound book she always carried, her knuckles turning white with suppressed emotion. "You're not just a role to me," she whispered, the words so soft I almost missed them.

The admission hung between us like an unsheathed blade. I'd crafted Lyra to be the perfect weapon—loyal, capable, merciless when necessary. But weapons weren't supposed to develop their own attachments, their own fears about losing their wielder.

Another complication. Another variable to manage.

I made myself meet her crimson gaze. "Then make sure nothing happens to me. Watch my back in the warrens. Be ready to extract me if things go wrong."

"How? I'll be here at the academy while you're underground."

A slow smile spread across my face as the final piece of the plan locked into place. "No, you won't. You're going to volunteer for the support staff."

Lyra blinked, confusion displacing worry. "Support staff?"

"Every assessment has emergency personnel standing by—healers, extraction specialists, communication mages. They need servants to assist with equipment and logistics." I pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward me and began sketching. "You'll volunteer through normal channels. A dedicated servant wanting to support her master's first real test."

Understanding bloomed in her eyes. "I'll have access to the warren entrance. If something goes wrong..."

"You'll be positioned to help. But more importantly, you'll be my insurance policy. If the professors get too close to the truth about my abilities, if Laurana's investigation threatens to expose everything..." I fixed her with a direct stare. "You'll know what to do."

The predatory gleam returned to her eyes. "Yes, Master. I'll know exactly what to do."

Good. Let her believe I'm suggesting eliminating threats. Sometimes the most effective orders are those never explicitly given.

I returned my attention to the warren map, already calculating angles and timing. Seven days to prepare. Three days before Laurana received the entrance records that could unravel everything. One afternoon to save four lives and steal whatever skills I could from the ensuing chaos.

The original story had Team 7 dying to fuel Leo's character development. But narratives could be rewritten. Characters could be saved. And if I executed this correctly, I'd emerge from the warrens more powerful than ever while appearing as nothing more than a fortunate survivor.

The story wanted Rhys Blackwood dead in seven days.

I smiled.

Let's see it try.