Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 164 - Hundred And Sixty Four

The moon hung high over the palace, a cold, indifferent eye watching the world below.

Inside the royal dungeon, the air was damp and heavy, smelling of stone, rust, and the lingering despair of countless prisoners.

Marissa paced the length of her cell. Five steps forward. Turn. Five steps back.

The cell was surprisingly comfortable—a courtesy of the Prince’s "protection." There was a bed with a clean wool blanket, a small table, and a single, barred window high on the wall that let in a shaft of moonlight. But it was still a cage.

"According to the witnesses at the establishment," Marissa muttered, her voice a low whisper in the silence. She was putting the pieces together, her mind working furiously to find the flaw in the trap. "I arrived in the afternoon. I went straight upstairs after entering."

She stopped pacing and leaned her forehead against the cold stone wall. The chill seeped into her skin, grounding her.

"This person knew my whereabouts," she said softly.

She closed her eyes, visualizing the timeline.

"They knew I was at the festival with Derek," she reasoned. "They knew I would be absent from the estate and the city center at that precise time. They knew I wouldn’t be able to contradict the story immediately."

She pushed off the wall and resumed her pacing.

"They dared to impersonate me openly," Marissa thought, her eyes narrowing in the darkness. "Wearing my a dress that look like mine. Wearing my hair. Walking through the front door of my own establishment."

It was bold. It was reckless. But it had worked.

She replayed the testimony she had heard from the weeping dancers.

"Then this imposter met with Mira," she continued, her voice gaining a harder edge. "Comforted her. Helped her back to the room. The witnesses said Mira was afraid. They said she tried to run."

Marissa paused.

"But if unwilling," she asked the empty air, "why did Mira comply? Why did she walk back into that room without screaming until it was too late? Why didn’t she fight on the stairs?"

Marissa tapped her finger against her chin.

"Was she controlled?" Marissa wondered. "Was she drugged?"

"Magic," She whispered. "It has to be. A drug or a spell."

While Marissa paced in her cell, Derek was conducting his own investigation under the cover of darkness. The Golden Swan was silent now, closed by order of the Royal Guard. The doors were sealed, but Derek had his own keys.

He entered the room of the incident—Lord Basil’s private suite. It still smelled of stale wine, violence, and the lingering scent of death.

He looked around, his eyes scanning every inch of the space. He saw the overturned chair. He saw the scratches on the doorframe where Mira had been dragged. He saw the stain on the rug.

"So many people claimed they saw Marissa," Derek said to Ian, who stood by the door with a lantern, his face grim. "Dancers. Patrons. They were sure. They swore on their lives."

He walked to the balcony where Mira had jumped. He looked at the railing. It was low, easy to climb over.

"This imposter used disguise art," Derek concluded, his voice echoing in the empty room. "It wasn’t just a dress. It wasn’t just hair. It was a face. A mask. They copied Marissa’s features."

He turned back to the room. He walked to the window at the back. It was unlocked. He opened it and looked down at the narrow ledge outside. It was a dangerous climb, a sheer drop to the alley below.

"This person knew the establishment layout," Derek said. "To be able to escape this way, without being seen by the guards in the hall... they knew the hidden paths. They knew the architecture. They knew the blind spots."

He looked at Ian.

"Who knows this building better than anyone?" Derek asked himself.

Back in the palace dungeon, the night deepened. The guards had changed shifts, their heavy boots fading down the corridor. The dungeon fell into a deep, oppressive silence.

A shadow moved in the hallway.

It wasn’t a guard. It wasn’t a servant bringing water. It was a figure dressed in the black uniform of the palace staff, but moving with the silent, deadly grace of an assassin.

The figure stopped in front of Marissa’s cell.

He pulled a small, thin piece of metal from his sleeve. He inserted it into the lock. He worked it gently, carefully.

Click.

The heavy iron door swung open silently. The hinges had been oiled beforehand.

The assassin slipped inside. He held a length of thin, strong rope behind his back.

Marissa was lying on the bed. She had finally laid down, exhausted by her pacing and her worry. She was facing the wall, her back to the door, her breathing slow and even. She seemed to be asleep.

The assassin crept closer. He made no sound on the straw-covered floor. He reached the side of the bed. He raised the rope, preparing to loop it around her neck and squeeze the life out of her.

But Marissa was not asleep.

The moment she heard the faint scuff of a boot on the stone floor—a sound so quiet most would have missed it, a sound that didn’t belong in the rhythm of the dungeon—her eyes snapped open.

She didn’t freeze. She didn’t scream. She reacted.

She rolled.

Just as the assassin lunged, bringing the rope down toward where her neck had been, Marissa threw herself off the other side of the bed.

The rope hit the pillow with a soft thump.

The assassin cursed silently. He vaulted over the bed, moving fast, like a wolf springing on its prey.

Marissa scrambled to her feet, backing into the corner. She looked for a weapon. There was nothing but the heavy clay water pitcher on the table.

She grabbed it.

The assassin was on her in a second. He was strong, much stronger than her. He grabbed her wrist before she could swing the pitcher, twisting her arm until her fingers went numb.

She dropped it. The ceramic shattered on the floor, shards flying.

He shoved her back against the wall. His hand clamped over her mouth to stifle her scream.

He brought the rope up again.

Marissa fought. She kicked. She scratched at his mask. She bit his hand. She fought with the desperation of a woman who refused to die again.

But he was a professional. He ignored the pain.

He whipped the rope around her neck. He pulled tight.

Marissa gasped, her air cut off instantly. The rough hemp burned her skin. She clawed at the rope, her fingernails breaking, her lungs burning for air.

The assassin leaned in, tightening his grip. His eyes were cold and dead.

"Quiet," he whispered. "It will be over soon."

Marissa’s vision began to blur. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. She felt her strength fading.l