Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 214 - Two Hundred And Fourteen

The morning sun beat down on the canvas roof of the command tent, creating a stifling heat that smelled of dry grass and old leather. Outside, the rhythmic shouting of the soldiers drilling filled the air.

"One... two... three!"

Inside, the atmosphere was just as intense. Derek stood at the head of a large table, a map of the northern territories spread out before him. The generals—Rogers, Amadeus, and a few others—were gathered around, their faces grim.

"We leave on the seventh day," Derek announced, his finger tracing the blue line of the River Swift on the map. "The barges will be ready by then. But I will be going home tomorrow."

General Rogers frowned, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. He looked at the other generals standing at the large table, then back at Derek.

"But today is only the third day, Your Grace," Rogers said, his voice gruff with confusion. "We still have much to prepare. The supply lines aren’t fully secured. Can’t you just leave on the fifth day? That would give us two more days of planning. We need to finalize the camp location."

Derek shook his head firmly. He looked tired, but his resolve was clear.

"I know," Derek said. "But it is urgent I get home. There are... matters I must attend to before we march. Personal matters."

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The generals exchanged knowing glances. They knew the Grand Duke was newly married. A man going to war needed to say goodbye to his wife properly, not with a hurried note.

"Very well," Rogers said, bowing his head slightly. "We will handle the rest."

General Amadeus leaned over the map, pointing to a dense cluster of trees near the border of Strathmore.

"Regarding the camp, Your Grace," Amadeus said. "I suggest we set up the main base here, in the shadow of the Pineview Forest. It will provide natural cover from Mercian scouts."

Derek nodded, appreciating the suggestion. "Good. And the vanguard?"

"The vanguard can secure the old watchtower on the ridge," another general added, tapping a small symbol on the map. "It gives us a clear view of the valley. We can see them coming for miles."

"Excellent," Derek said. "Make it so. Ensure the archers have high ground."

The meeting continued for another hour, discussing grain supplies, wagon repairs, and the health of the horses. Derek listened, gave orders, and approved plans, but a part of him was miles away.

Finally, the meeting ended. The generals saluted and left the tent, their boots crunching on the gravel outside.

Derek was alone. He let out a long, heavy sigh. He walked to his cot and sat down heavily. He removed his uniform top, tossing it onto a chair, leaving his chest bare to the cool air circulating from the open flap.

He rubbed his temples. A headache was beginning to form, a throbbing pulse behind his eyes that had nothing to do with strategy.

It was the silence.

He hadn’t seen a reply from Marissa for three days.

After he left the palace with the King’s command, he had ridden straight to the barracks to begin preparations. He had sent a formal letter to the estate, explaining to his grandmother about his absence and the upcoming campaign. He had been dutiful.

But he had sent a special letter for Marissa. A personal one. He had poured his heart into it, telling her he would be gone for a while, telling her to be safe, telling her he loved her.

And he had received nothing. No note. No messenger. No word.

"Is she mad at me?" Derek thought to himself, staring at the canvas ceiling of the tent. "Did I leave too abruptly? Did she think I abandoned her again after everything we went through?"

His mind spiraled into worry.

"Did something happen in the estate?" he wondered, panic rising in his chest. "Is Ashlyn causing trouble? Is she hurt?"

He stood up and paced the small space.

One, two, three steps. Turn.

Just then, the tent flap opened.

Ian walked in. He was carrying a wooden box. He looked worried. His face was pale, his eyes wide.

"Your Grace," Ian said.

Derek stopped pacing. He looked at Ian. The look on his aide’s face made his stomach drop.

"What’s wrong?" Derek asked, frowning his brow. "Is it the enemy? Have they moved early?"

Ian shook his head. "No, Your Grace. It is not the war."

Ian walked to the table and set the box down.

"I just learnt," Ian said, his voice hesitant, "that Her Grace’s letters have been in the sorting unit for three days."

Derek blinked. "Her letters?"

"Yes," Ian explained. "The camp’s mail system... it was overwhelmed with orders from the capital. The personal letters were set aside by a careless clerk. I went to check if the palace sent any message for us regarding the supplies, and I found this box sitting in the corner."

Derek’s eyes widened. He looked at the box.

Now he understood Ian’s worry. His aide wasn’t worried about the war. He was worried about Derek. He knew how much Derek had been agonizing over the silence.

"Let me see," Derek said, his voice tight.

Ian opened the lid of the box.

Inside, stacked neatly, were letters. Not one. Not two.

Dozens.

In the space of three days, Marissa had written a dozen letters.

Derek reached in and picked up a handful. He looked at the envelopes. They were all addressed to him.

Some of the letters had neat, elegant writing, the script of a calm Duchess.

"To my husband..."

Others looked like they were written in anger. The ink was blotchy, the letters sharp and jagged.

"To the idiot who left without saying goodbye and doesn’t want to return a word..."

One envelope was crumpled, as if she had squeezed it in frustration before sealing it. Another had a small, dried tear stain on the corner.

Derek dropped them back into the box. He ran a hand through his hair, a look of pure terror crossing his face.

"She’ll kill me," Derek whispered.

He looked at Ian. Ian looked back with sympathy.

"When I get home tomorrow," Derek said, his voice filled with dread, "she is going to murder me. She wrote every day. She waited every day. And I didn’t answer."

He looked up at the ceiling of the tent, imagining Marissa’s face. He imagined her cold stare. He imagined her fan hitting his chest. He imagined the silent treatment.

"I’ll be a dead man," Derek muttered, "before the Mercia army could even kill me."

He looked at the box of letters again. He picked up the first one. He broke the seal.

He had a lot of reading to do. And a lot of apologizing.