Buying Time
693 Words
Bran’s mind raced. *Tomorrow? That’s far too soon! She’s nowhere near ready—there’s still blood to harvest, and the state she’s in...* His thoughts spiraled, and he struggled to come up with an excuse. A bead of sweat formed on his brow as he grasped at straws. "I... I must advise you to hold off on leaving so abruptly. At least three days," Bran said, his voice quickening, the words coming faster than he could control. "You see, there are... certain matters that need to be addressed here, finalizing some logistics, and ensuring everything is in order for Lyra’s transfer as well as making sure she’s well enough from being sick to travel."
Kestrel’s gaze narrowed slightly. "Three days?" He asked, his tone skeptical. "What exactly would take three days?"
Bran faltered but quickly forced a smile. "It’s the harvest season. Very delicate timing. Lyra has been assisting with some... internal matters related to the process." He paused, thinking on his feet. "It’s critical that she sees this through before leaving. Without her, well, it would create unnecessary delays. I wouldn’t want to send her to you while she’s in the middle of something so important."
Kestrel crossed his arms, unconvinced. "I see. And how does the harvest require her specific involvement?"
Bran’s heart raced, his mind scrambling for a convincing explanation. "She’s been responsible for overseeing the inventory of medical supplies and assisting with the final stages of certain treatments that are time-sensitive." He gestured vaguely with his hands as though that would make the lie more believable. "It’s a vital role, and I assure you, once this is finished, she’ll be more than ready to depart. You’ll get the best of her, not someone who’s left her tasks half done."
Kestrel was silent, his eyes locking onto Bran’s, the air thick with tension. He wasn’t fooled by the excuses but was weighing the situation. He knew something was off, though Bran wasn’t giving him enough to pin down exactly what. Still, forcing the issue now could complicate matters. He had already secured Lyra’s release, and pushing Bran too hard too soon might backfire.
Finally, Kestrel inclined his head, though his tone remained guarded. "Two days," he said. "But no longer.”
Bran visibly relaxed, though not entirely. His lips twitched into a nervous smile. "Of course. Two days, no more," he echoed, nodding. "I’ll ensure everything is in order."
"Good," Kestrel said, his voice edged with finality. He stood from the table, his gaze briefly flicking toward the door. "I’ll still need to speak with Lyra before I retire for the day. A short conversation to prepare her for what’s expected."
Bran’s throat tightened. He had barely managed to buy himself time, and now Kestrel wanted a meeting with Lyra immediately? His mind scrambled again. If Kestrel saw her in her current state—drained, bruised, barely able to stand—it would raise far too many questions. "Ah," Bran began, his voice light but strained. "That might be... a bit difficult today. Lyra’s been working tirelessly. I’m afraid she’s resting at the moment, recovering from her duties. You know how taxing protocols can be."
Kestrel’s gaze hardened. "I won’t keep her long. It’s important that she understands the expectations before she arrives at SilverCrest."
Bran swallowed, trying to mask his panic. He couldn’t afford to refuse outright, not without further arousing Kestrel’s suspicions. "Very well," he said slowly, "I’ll make sure she’s informed of your request. I’m sure she’ll be ready for a short conversation later tonight, after she’s rested." He forced another smile, praying Kestrel would accept the delay.
Kestrel’s eyes lingered on Bran for a long moment, then finally, he nodded. "Tonight, then. I’ll wait." With that, he turned and headed toward the door, leaving Bran standing there, his heart pounding, the weight of his lies crushing down on him.
As Kestrel left the room, Bran slumped back into his chair, exhaling shakily. *Two days,* he thought. *That is barely going to be enough time to finish harvesting Lyra’s blood and get her cleaned up. Then maybe—just maybe—Kestrel won’t ask too many questions.*
- Writer
