Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 232 - Two Hundred And Thirty One

The noon sun hung high and cruel in the Strathmore sky, baking the stone square of the capital. The air was mixed with the coolness of the coming winter and the warmth of the sun above.

Carlos leaned against a wagon wheel, his chest heaving. His fine uniform was stained with sweat under the arms and down the back. His hands, which he had tried to protect, were dusty and sore. He felt like a dog that had been run too hard.

He wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief that was already damp. He looked around the busy square. Soldiers were carrying crates. Derek was directing the flow of the line, his energy seemingly endless.

Carlos felt a prickle on the back of his neck.

It was a familiar sensation. The feeling of eyes boring into his skin. He had felt it since they left the capital. He looked around furtively, scanning the faces of the soldiers, the villagers, the guards. Everyone seemed busy, but the feeling persisted. Someone was watching him.

He couldn’t take it anymore. The heat, the work, the scrutiny.

He pushed himself off the wagon and walked toward Derek.

Derek was lifting a heavy sack of grain, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the muscles of his arms. He didn’t look tired. He looked like a bull.

"Brother," Carlos said, his voice weak and pitiful.

Derek set the sack down and turned. He wiped his hands on his trousers. "What is it, Carlos?"

Carlos touched his forehead with the back of his hand, wincing as if in great pain.

"I am having an unbearable headache," He whined. He swayed slightly for effect. "This sun... this work... it has exhausted me. I am not used to this climate. I can’t hold on much longer. I feel faint."

He coughed into his handkerchief, a dry, pathetic hacking sound. He kept his hand pressed to his temple.

"I need to lie down," He murmured. "Before I collapse and cause a scene."

Derek looked at him. His gaze was unreadable. He saw the sweat, the flushed face. He knew Carlos was weak, but he also knew his brother was lazy. Still, having the Second Master pass out in the middle of a plague relief effort would be a distraction he didn’t need.

"We will handle the rest," Derek said, his voice clipped. "Go. Find a place out of the sun and rest a bit. Drink some water."

Carlos smiled, a look of immense relief washing over his face.

"Thank you for your understanding, brother," Carlos said quickly. "You are too kind."

He didn’t wait for Derek to change his mind. He turned and hurried away from the main square, heading for the large stone building that was being used as a temporary storeroom and command center. It was cool inside. It was quiet.

He slipped through the heavy wooden doors and into the dim interior. The room was filled with barrels of wine, sacks of flour, and stacks of spare weapons. It smelled of dry grain and dust.

Carlos found a sturdy crate in a shadowed corner. He sat down heavily, groaning as he stretched his legs. He pulled a small flask of wine from his inner pocket—a secret stash he had bought from a local merchant while pretending to work.

He uncorked it and took a long swig. The wine was cheap and sour, but it was alcohol. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the stone wall.

"Finally," he muttered. "Peace."

A shadow fell over him.

Carlos opened his eyes. He jumped, startled, nearly dropping his flask.

A figure was standing right in front of him.

It was a soldier. He wore the standard uniform of the Thompson Army—a grey tunic, leather armor, a simple helmet. He looked like every other man in the square. He blended in perfectly.

But his eyes were cold.

"You really think you are here to supervise?" the soldier asked. His voice was low, devoid of respect.

Carlos scrambled back on the crate. His heart hammered. He knew that voice. It wasn’t a soldier’s voice. It was the voice of a predator.

"Who... who are you?" Carlos stammered.

The man didn’t answer. He just stared at him. And in that stare, Carlos saw the truth.

This was the spy. This was the man Prince Liam had sent to watch him. The feeling he had moments ago in the square—the prickle on his neck—it was real. He had never been alone.

"I am resting," Carlos said, trying to regain some authority. "My brother gave me permission."

The spy ignored the excuse. He took a step closer, invading Carlos’s space.

"When will you strike?" the spy asked.

Carlos blinked. "Strike?"

"The target," the spy said impatiently. "The Grand Duke. You have had opportunities. In the carriage. In the tent. Now, in the chaos of the square. Why is he still breathing?"

Carlos looked away. He clutched his flask.

"Don’t rush me," He snapped, his voice defensive. "These things take time. I have to find the perfect moment. I can’t just stab him in front of his army."

He took another sip of wine, gaining false courage.

"Besides," Carlos said, gesturing vaguely toward the door. "Look at this place. The plague is raging. People are dropping like flies. He is out there, touching the sick, breathing the air."

Carlos smirked.

"With this plague raging," he said, "he might just die from illness. Why should I risk my neck when nature might do the job for me? It would be cleaner."

The spy looked at Carlos with open contempt. He looked at the flask, the slouch, the laziness.

"You are a fool," the spy said.

Carlos bristled. "Watch your tongue."

"He brought medicine," the spy hissed. "Loads of it. Crates and crates of herbs that are actually working. I have seen the reports. The fever is breaking in the soldiers who took the Duchess’s cure."

The spy leaned down, his face inches from Carlos’s.

"If he cures the plague," the spy whispered, "and then wins the war against Mercia... he will be a hero. He will gain fame and fortune beyond anything he has now. The people will love him. The army will worship him."

The spy’s eyes hardened.

"Which will be bad for our master," the spy said. "Very bad. If His Grace becomes the savior of the Strathmore, the Royal Court might start considering His Grace for the throne again. They might see him as the strong leader the King needs."

He grabbed Carlos’s wrist, squeezing hard.

"Do you think His Highness, Prince Liam, will still tolerate you then?" the spy asked. "Do you think he will need a useless, cowardly man like yourself if the Grand Duke becomes a rival king? He will discard you, Carlos. He will erase you."

Carlos flinched. The fear of Liam was a cold knot in his stomach. But the constant pressure, the constant watching, the constant demands... it was making him angry.

He yanked his wrist free. He stood up, facing the spy.

"I am doing my best!" Carlos shouted, though he kept his voice low enough not to be heard outside. "I am the one risking everything! I am the one betraying my blood!"

He was fed up with the lecture. He was fed up with being a pawn.

"Handle this yourself then!" Carlos spat. "If you are so eager for blood, you kill him! You are the assassin! I am just the politician!"

He pointed a finger at the spy’s chest.

"Stop using Prince Liam to pressure me," Carlos warned. "I will do it when I am ready. Not a second before."

He sat back down on the crate, turning his back on the spy. He raised the flask to his lips and drowned the rest of the wine in one long gulp. He wiped his mouth.

The spy stood there for a moment. He looked at Carlos’s back. He looked at the trembling hands.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t threaten again. He had seen enough.

He realized that Carlos was not a weapon. He was a liability. A coward who would wait until it was too late.

The spy didn’t say another word. He turned and walked silently out of the store room, blending back into the army of men outside.

Carlos sat alone in the dim light. He stared at the empty flask.

He told himself he was being smart. He told himself he was being careful.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He was afraid. And he was running out of time.