Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 233 - Two Hundred And Thirty Two

The moon was hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds, leaving the military camp in total darkness. The fires that usually burned bright had been allowed to die down to low embers.

The soldiers, exhausted from days of marching and drilling and the ones exhausted from helping the plague, were asleep in their tents. The only sound was the wind rushing through the tall grass and the distant hoot of an owl.

Prince Liam’s spy moved through the shadows. He wore the grey uniform of a common foot soldier in the Thompson Army. He had stolen it from a laundry line hours ago. It fit him well enough to pass inspection in the dark, but his eyes were too sharp, too alert for a tired soldier.

He crept toward the large supply tent in the center of the camp. This was not the weapons armory. It was the medicine storage.

He stopped outside the heavy canvas flap. He looked left. He looked right. He held his breath, listening for the footsteps of the patrol.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The patrol passed two rows away. They didn’t see him.

The spy exhaled slowly. He reached under his cloak and pulled out a heavy clay jar. It was filled with high-grade lamp oil.

"This will burn hot," he thought to himself. "And it will burn fast."

He slipped inside the tent.

The air inside was thick with the smell of dry herbs—willow bark, fever root, and mint. It was the smell of healing. But to the spy, it just smelled like a target.

He walked down the rows of wooden crates. He saw the labels written in Marissa’s neat handwriting. These were the packets meant to save the people of Strathmore from the plague.

The spy didn’t care. He had his orders from the Prince. "Destroy the advantage. Break their morale."

If the medicine was gone, the plague would spread. Derek’s army would get sick. The people would die. And Derek would fail.

He uncorked the jar. The sharp scent of oil overpowered the smell of herbs.

He began to pour.

The dark liquid splashed over the wooden crates. It soaked into the canvas covers. He moved quickly, splashing the oil in a wide arc, making sure to coat the driest boxes.

He reached the end of the row. He had emptied half the jar.

He smiled. It was too easy.

He reached into his pocket for his flint and steel. He was ready to light the spark. He imagined the fire roaring up, consuming the tent, the panic of the soldiers as they woke up to an inferno.

He raised his hand, preparing to strike the flint.

Thwip.

A sound hissed through the silent tent. It was fast. It was sharp.

THUCK.

An arrow flew out of the darkness at the back of the tent. It struck the spy’s hand—the one holding the heavy oil jar.

The arrowhead pierced his flesh, pinning his hand against the wooden crate for a split second before tearing free.

"Argh!"

The spy gasped. The pain was sudden and blinding. His fingers went numb. He lost his grip.

Crash.

The clay jar fell to the floor. It shattered into pieces. The remaining oil spilled out, pooling around his boots.

The spy clamped his other hand over his mouth. He stifled the scream that tried to tear its way out of his throat. He couldn’t scream. If he screamed, he would be caught by the whole camp.

He breathed hard through his nose, his eyes watering. He looked at his hand. It was bleeding freely, the blood mixing with the oil on the floor.

"I have been found," he thought, panic exploding in his chest. "Who is here?"

He didn’t wait to find out. He turned and ran toward the tent flap. He had to get out. He had to disappear into the dark.

He reached the exit. He threw the flap open.

And he ran straight into a wall of steel.

Ian was standing there.

Ian didn’t look tired. He looked wide awake. He held a sword in his hand, the blade resting casually against his shoulder.

The spy tried to dodge. He tried to duck under Ian’s arm.

But Ian was faster. He moved with a blur of speed. He grabbed the spy by the collar of his stolen uniform and slammed him backward.

The spy stumbled back into the tent. Ian followed him in.

Before the spy could regain his balance, Ian spun him around. He kicked the back of the spy’s knee, forcing him down.

The spy fell to his knees in the puddle of oil and broken clay.

Ian stepped behind him. He placed the cold, sharp edge of his sword against the spy’s neck.

"Don’t move," Ian whispered.

The spy froze. He felt the steel biting into his skin. He swallowed, his throat bobbing against the blade.

Then, the flap of the tent opened again.

Derek walked in.

He was not wearing his commander’s coat. He was dressed in dark hunting leathers. In his hand, he held a large black bow. He reached over his shoulder and pulled another arrow from his quiver, nocking it to the string.

He looked at the spy. He looked at the shattered jar. He looked at the oil soaking into the medicine crates.

Derek’s face was a mask of cold fury.

"This," Derek said, pointing his bow at the crates, "is life-saving medicine."

He walked closer, his boots heavy on the ground.

"These herbs were gathered to save children," Derek said. "To save old men and women. To save my soldiers from dying in their own filth."

He looked at the spy with disgust.

"And you," Derek growled. "You want to reduce it to ashes."

The spy looked up. He held his bleeding hand to his chest. He tried to look brave, but his eyes betrayed his fear. Ian left to stay by the entrance, giving them space.

"Your master wants to harm me," Derek continued. His voice rose, filled with anger. "He wants to stop me from winning this war. I understand that. We are enemies."

Derek lowered the bow, but his eyes were still deadly.

"But," he said, "by disregarding commoners’ lives? By burning the cure for a plague? Isn’t that too low even for him?"