Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 100 - Hundred

The main hall of The Golden Swan was a sea of bodies, a thick, pressing fog of expensive perfume, sweat and spilled wine. The music was a thrumming pulse, loud enough to make the floor vibrate. On the stage, a dozen dancers moved in a swirl of bright, revealing silks, their bodies catching the light.

High above the chaos, in the private room, Derek stood on the private balcony, a heavy, unopened bottle of wine in his hand. He was not drinking. He was watching. His face, in the shadows, was not the lazy, indulgent mask of the "skiver." It was the cold, hard, and patient face of the Grand Duke. He was waiting.

A soft knock came from the door behind him. He didn’t turn. "Enter."

Ian stepped into the room, his uniform immaculate, his face a mask of grim duty. He bowed.

"Your Grace."

"Report," Derek said, his voice a low, flat command, his gaze still fixed on the dancers below.

"Our spies have reported," Ian said, his voice a respectful murmur. He pulled a small, tightly folded piece of paper from his pocket. "The new priest of the High Cathedral of Strathmore. It is Priest Adams the Second."

Derek turned, his eyes suddenly sharp, his interest captured. He took the paper. He read the few lines of cramped, coded script. A low, cold, and utterly humorless chuckle escaped him.

"Adams," he said, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "Three years ago, he was just a low-level assistant to the former priest. A man who fetched books and cleaned candle wax. Now, just months after the ambush, he is the High Priest of the High Cathedral?" He handed the paper back to Ian, his expression one of pure, cold, and satisfied suspicion. "Such a rapid promotion is... very suspicious."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Investigate his connections," Derek commanded, turning back to the balcony. "I want to know where his money comes from. I want to know who his master is."

"It will be done, Your Grace," Ian said. He carefully tucked the paper back inside his pocket.

It was at that exact moment that the music, the laughter, the entire, pulsing, chaotic roar of the establishment below, suddenly died.

It was not a gradual silence. It was a sudden, terrified, cut-off sound, as if a great, heavy blanket had been thrown over the entire building. The silence was followed by a woman’s high-pitched, terrified scream.

And then, a new voice, a man’s, cold, loud, and full of an authority that was not of this place, boomed from the main entrance.

"Official investigation! By order of The King, we are searching for a fugitive! No one leaves! No one moves!"

Derek’s face hardened. He looked down. The main floor was in a state of pure panic. Patrons were scrambling, overturning tables. Dancers were screaming. And through the doors, a wave of familiar, silver-and-blue uniforms was pouring in. The Royal Guards. They were led by the same, sharp-faced Captain who had chased him from the monastery.

Fugitive, Derek thought, his mind a cold, clear, and sudden engine of calculation. He’s not looking for a fugitive. He’s looking for me. Or he’s looking for my spies. This is Liam’s dog, off his leash, and he’s here to tear my house apart.

He turned to Ian, his voice a low, urgent, and absolute command. "They look suspicious. They are not here for a random fugitive. They are here for us. This is a raid. Quickly. Remove all evidence of the Thompson army massacre. My private ledgers, the maps of the northern border, the letters from Leon. Everything. Get it out of this building. Bury it if you have to. But they cannot find it."

Ian’s face was grim. He bowed. "Yes, Your Grace."

Across the street, Marissa pulled her silk gloves to fit her fingers. She had been here for ten minutes, watching. She had come tonight to follow up on the ledgers, to see for herself the place that was draining her new household accounts dry.

And she had arrived just in time to see the Golden Swan surrounded.

She entered and watched as the Royal Guards, their swords drawn, their faces hard, stormed the entrance. Patrons, their faces pale with fear, were being herded like sheep, their hands raised.

These are the same men, she thought, her heart giving a single, hard, anxious thud. These are the same guards from that night. The ones who were hunting Derek.

She watched, her eyes scanning the chaos. What is happening? Are they still after him? Or is this a new case?

Her gaze flickered from the chaotic front door to a small, dark, servants’ entrance on the side of the building. And she saw movement.

A man, dressed in the simple, rough-spun tunic of a kitchen worker, was trying to slip out. He was carrying a heavy, bulging, cloth satchel, and his head was down, his movements fast and furtive.

Marissa’s eyes narrowed. She knew that walk. She knew that strong, broad-shouldered build.

That’s Ian, she thought, her blood running cold. Why is Ian disguised as a servant? What is in that bag that he is so desperate to get out of here?

It was at that exact moment that a new, loud, and completely different sound erupted from the Golden Swan.

"WHAT HAPPENED TO THE MUSIC?"

The voice was a loud, drunken, and arrogant roar. It came from one of the private balcony. Marissa’s head snapped up.

She saw him. Derek.

But it was not the Duke she had come to know. He was different. He was slouched over the balcony railing, his hair deliberately, wildly messed up. He was holding a wine bottle by the neck, and he was swaying, dangerously.

"WHY AREN’T YOU DANCING ANYMORE?"

He bellowed at the terrified, silent hall below. "I paid for a show! I want my music! I want my girls!"

Marissa stared, her mind, which had been a fog of confusion, suddenly clearing with a terrible, sharp, and undeniable understanding.

He’s pretending, she thought. He’s pretending to be a drunk, arrogant fool. She looked from Derek, who was now obnoxiously shouting for more wine, to Ian, who was using the distraction to try and slip, inch by inch, out of the side door. They are coordinating. Derek is creating a distraction. Ian is removing evidence.

This was not a raid for a "fugitive." This was a political attack. And they were in deep, deep trouble.

The Captain of the Royal Guard, his face, masked in frustrated fury, looked up at the "drunk" Duke on the balcony. He clearly had to deal with this, but his orders were to find something, anything in that hall. His men were still tearing the place apart, checking the patron, the study, the servants area.

And then, he saw him.

He saw the movement at the side door. He saw the "servant" with the heavy bag, trying to flee the scene. Someone suspicious would, after all, try to flee.

"YOU!" the Captain roared, his voice like a trumpet. "HALT! STOP RIGHT THERE!"

Ian froze. His back was to the Captain. He was a few feet from the door.