Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 216 - Two Hundred And Fifteen

The sounds of the camp were settling down for the night—the distant clang of armor, the murmur of tired soldiers, the crackle of fires. The last of the day’s frantic activity had ended, leaving behind the cool, quiet embrace of the evening.

Derek walked back from the nearby stream, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. He had just finished bathing in the cold, rushing water, scrubbing away the sweat and dust of a day spent shouting orders and reviewing maps. A rough linen towel was slung over his broad shoulder. His dark hair was wet, plastered to his forehead and dripping water down his back. His trousers were slightly damp where they clung to his wet skin, and his chest was bare, the muscles defined in the moonlight, glistening with leftover droplets.

He felt a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. His shoulders ached from the tension of command. His mind was a heavy fog of logistics—supply lines, river barges, troop formations. But beneath the strategy, a constant, nagging worry chewed at him.

Marissa. The silence from the estate. The missing letters.

As he approached his command tent, the largest structure in the center of the camp, he stopped.

The lantern inside had been lit.

A warm, golden glow spilled out from the canvas flaps, cutting a bright square into the night. It was inviting, but it was also wrong. He had left the tent dark.

He saw a shadow moving inside. A silhouette cast against the fabric wall. It moved gracefully, pausing by the table, then moving to the cot.

Derek frowned. He let out a low, frustrated groan, running a hand through his damp hair.

"What did Ian forget now?" he muttered to himself, his voice a tired rasp. "Did he have to turn on the lantern to look for something at this hour?"

The last thing he needed right now was a ruckus. He didn’t want to talk strategy. He didn’t want to hear about grain shortages. He needed peace. He needed quiet to think, to rehearse the apology he was going to deliver to Marissa tomorrow. He needed to figure out a way to pacify her before she descended on him like a beautiful, furious storm. He hoped she would at least hear his explanation about the sorting unit before she started giving him the cold stare.

He walked to the tent entrance, his steps heavy. He reached for the flap, ready to tell Ian to go to sleep and leave him alone.

But before his fingers could touch the canvas, a voice called out from the darkness behind him.

"Your Grace."

Derek spun around, his hand instinctively going to where his sword would be if he were wearing his belt.

Ian was standing there, holding a small torch that sputtered in the breeze. He looked nervous. His eyes were wide, darting from Derek to the tent and back again. He looked like a man who had failed a very important mission and was waiting for the executioner.

Derek’s eyes widened in shock. He looked at Ian, then back at the tent where the shadow was still moving, setting something down on the table.

"Ian?" Derek whispered, confused. "If you are here... then who is inside?"

Ian swallowed hard. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable.

"Your Grace," Ian said, his voice low and apologetic. "Her Grace is..."

Before Ian could finish the sentence, Derek turned and ripped the tent flap open.

He froze.

The inside of the tent had been transformed. The scent of old canvas and ink was gone, replaced by a delicious, mouth-watering aroma. It smelled of roasted chicken with rosemary, fresh-baked bread, and spiced, mulled wine—smells that belonged in a manor house, not a military camp on the eve of departure.

A small table had been set up in the center of the room. It was covered with a pristine white cloth that hid the scratches on the wood. A silver candelabra sat in the middle, the candles burning bright and steady.

And standing there, setting a silver goblet on the table with precise, elegant movements, was Marissa.

She was wearing a simple, dark traveling cloak over a dress of deep blue wool. Her hood was down. Her hair was windblown, a few strands escaping her braid to frame her face, as if she had ridden hard and fast to get here. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, but her expression was calm, composed, and utterly terrifying.

Derek stood in the entrance, water dripping from his hair onto his bare chest, soaking into the waistband of his trousers. He stared at her, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Marissa looked up. Her eyes met his. They were dark, unreadable pools. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She just looked at him, taking in his wet hair, his bare skin, his shock.

Ian stepped up behind him. He leaned in, whispering urgently into Derek’s ear, his voice a frantic hiss.

"Your Grace," Ian whispered. "I tried to turn her back at the perimeter. I told her it was against protocol. I told her the camp was no place for a lady. I told her it was dangerous."

Ian paused, shaking his head.

"But she was adamant," Ian continued. "She said if I didn’t let her in, she would walk into the camp herself and announce her presence to the soldiers. She said she had business with her husband that could not wait."

Derek let out a long breath. He ran his fingers through his hair again, pushing the wet strands back from his face.

"I’m the one in trouble," Derek murmured, more to himself than to Ian. "She didn’t come to visit. She came to sentence me."

He looked at the food on the table. It was a peace offering, or perhaps a last meal before the sentencing.

He turned his head to look at Ian.

"You can leave," Derek said, his voice resigned. "Get some rest, Ian. I will handle this."

Ian bowed quickly, looking visibly relieved to be dismissed from the line of fire. "Good luck, Your Grace."

Ian retreated into the night, his footsteps fading quickly.

Derek stood there for a moment longer. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool night air, trying to steady his racing heart. Then he exhaled slowly. He gathered all the courage he could muster—courage that had faced armies and assassins—and stepped into the tent.

He let the heavy canvas flap fall closed behind him, sealing them in together.

The tent felt small. Intimate. Dangerous.

Marissa didn’t look up immediately. She adjusted a fork on the table, moving it a fraction of an inch to the right. She poured wine into the goblet, the red liquid swirling. Her movements were deliberate, the actions of a woman in total control.

Derek walked forward slowly. He felt the heat of the candles, the warmth of her presence.

He stopped a few inches away from her. He could smell her perfume now, mixing with the scent of the food. It was lavender and rose, a scent that reminded him of home, of safety, and of the nights they share.

He looked at her profile. She looked beautiful in the candlelight. She looked angry.

"Mari," he said softly.