Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 197 - Hundred And Ninety Seven

The morning light streamed through the tall windows of the drawing room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

Three days had crawled by since the disastrous banquet, and the Thompson estate was still holding its breath. The servants moved like ghosts, whispering in corners, their eyes wide with speculation about the family’s fate.

The sound of wheels crunching on gravel broke the silence. A royal carriage, emblazoned with the golden crest of the King—a roaring lion on a field of azure—had arrived at the gates. The Royal Herald, a man of solemn duty dressed in velvet and gold, stepped out. He carried a scroll sealed with the royal wax, the red seal gleaming like a drop of blood.

Beatrice, the Dowager Duchess, sat in her high-backed chair, her hands gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles were white.

She looked older than she had a week ago. The weight of her family’s shame, the public humiliation of Carlos, hung heavy on her shoulders like a heavy cloak.

Ashlyn stood to her left. Her face was pale, her eyes dark with sleepless nights. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her dress, her fingers twisting together. She looked like a woman waiting for the executioner’s axe.

Marissa stood to the right. She was calm, composed in a gown of yellow silk. Her posture was perfect, her face serene. She looked like the only anchor in a storm.

The Herald cleared his throat. The sound echoed in the quiet room. He unrolled the scroll with a snap of parchment.

"By order of His Majesty, King Alistair the Fourth," the Herald announced, his voice booming with authority. "The Thompson family has received the acknowledgment of the King."

Beatrice leaned forward, hope sparking in her tired eyes. "Acknowledgment?" she whispered.

"To be the Commander of the Thompson Army," the Herald continued, reading from the script, "and the Royal Army of the North. To lead the defense of the realm and secure the borders against all threats."

Beatrice gasped. Her hand flew to her chest. Her face lit up with a joy she hadn’t felt in days, a relief so profound it made her dizzy.

"What an honor!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling. "To lead both armies? It is more than we dared hope for. The King has forgiven us."

"Indeed, Your Grace," the Herald replied, bowing his head respectfully. "It is a position of great trust and power. The highest military honor in the land."

Ashlyn’s heart skipped a beat. A flicker of desperate hope ignited in her chest, burning bright and hot.

"Could it be?" she thought, her mind racing. "Could Carlos have been forgiven? Perhaps the King saw past the bribery? Perhaps he realized that a man willing to pay for power is a man who wants it badly enough to fight for it? Perhaps he saw the potential I promised?"

She stepped forward slightly, a tentative, hopeful smile touching her lips. She looked at the Herald with wide, pleading eyes.

"Could it be that my husband’s case has been overturned?" Ashlyn asked, her voice breathless. "Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding. Perhaps the King saw the truth of his talent and decided to give him a second chance."

The Herald looked at her. His expression was pitying but firm. He shook his head slowly.

"No, My Lady," he said gently but with absolute finality. "Not Lord Carlos. His disgrace stands."

Ashlyn’s smile vanished. The hope died instantly, leaving a cold, hollow feeling in her stomach. She felt as if the floor had dropped out from under her.

"But..." she whispered, confused. "Then who?"

"The commission is granted to Grand Duke Derek," the Herald declared.

Ashlyn looked disappointed, her shoulders slumping. "But why him?" she muttered, almost to herself, bitterness seeping into her tone. "He is a skiver. He is lazy. He spends his days drinking and his nights... elsewhere. He is not a soldier."

"Why not me?"

The voice came from the doorway. It was deep, resonant, and filled with a power that made everyone turn. It wasn’t the voice of a drunkard. It was the voice of a commander.

Derek stood there.

He was not wearing his usual loose shirts or velvet coats. He was not even disheveled.

He was wearing his full Commander’s attire. A black military coat with silver buttons that shone like stars. High leather boots that gleamed. A sword at his hip, its hilt worn from use. He looked dark. He looked dangerous. He looked exactly how Marissa loved him—capable, strong, and ready for war.

He walked into the room, his strides long and confident. The "skiver" was gone. In his place was a warlord who had just won a silent battle.

He walked toward his grandmother, his gaze steady. He didn’t look at Ashlyn. He didn’t look at the Herald. He looked at the woman who had raised him.

"During your banquet," Derek said, his voice calm but carrying a weight of steel, "I was also undergoing my own assessment. I was not hiding and I was not drinking."

He stopped in front of Beatrice.

"Didn’t you notice my absence?" Derek asked gently. "I’ve been gone for four days. While you were celebrating a false victory with hired actors, I was securing a real one with the King. I was proving my worth on the field, not with gold, but with strategy."

Marissa watched him. Her heart swelled with pride. She saw the man she loved, finally stepping into the light, finally claiming his place. She saw the husband who had protected her now protecting his family’s honor.

She didn’t wait for permission. She walked to him.

"You are back," she said softly.

Derek turned to her. His stern expression melted instantly. The warlord vanished, replaced by the man who had made a flower wreath. He opened his arms.

Marissa stepped into his embrace. He hugged her tight, lifting her slightly off the ground. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the scent of lavender.

"I missed you," Derek whispered against her skin, his voice thick with emotion. "Every hour. The palace was cold without you."

Beatrice watched the happy couple. A tear rolled down her cheek. She saw the strength in Derek, the support in Marissa. She realized that she had been looking for a savior in the wrong grandson. She had been blinded by a false star when the sun was standing right in front of her.

They broke the hug, though Derek kept his arm around Marissa’s waist, a possessive, protective gesture.

The Herald stepped forward and handed Derek the scroll.

"Congratulations, Commander," the Herald said.

"Thank you," Derek replied, taking the scroll. It felt heavy in his hand. It was the weight of responsibility. It was the weight of his father and brother’s legacy.

The Herald bowed one last time and left the room, his duty done.

Derek looked at the scroll, then at Ashlyn. His gaze was cold.

"After my brother’s shameful act," Derek said, his voice hard, "which brought disgrace to this family, as the elder brother, I have to restore it. I have to clean the stain he left on our name. I have to show the kingdom that a Thompson earns his rank."

Ashlyn flinched. She looked down at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. She was defeated. Her husband was exiled, her money was gone, her reputation was in tatters, and now, Derek was the supreme commander. The man she had rejected for being "useless" was now the most powerful man in the North and the Capital after the Royal family.

Derek turned back to Beatrice. He offered her his arm.

"You have done well, my boy," Beatrice said, her voice thick with emotion. She took his arm, leaning on him for support. "You have made me proud. You have saved us."

She looked at him with new eyes.

"Come," Beatrice said. "Come with me. Let’s go and pay respects to the ancestors. Let us tell them that the Thompson line is safe. Let us tell them that the true heir has risen."

Derek nodded. He looked at Marissa one last time, a silent promise in his eyes that he would return to her soon, that their celebration was just beginning.

Then, he led Beatrice out of the drawing room, walking toward the ancestral hall, leaving Ashlyn alone in the silence of her failure.