Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 234 - Two Hundred And Thirty Three

He shook his head.

"That is not war," Derek spat. "That is slaughter. That is the act of a coward."

The spy gritted his teeth. He remembered his training. He remembered Prince Liam’s threat. If you are caught, deny everything.

"I..." the spy stammered. "I only did this for my personal reasons."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Personal reasons?"

"Yes," the spy lied. "I... I have a grudge against the Thompson family. My brother... he was punished by your father years ago. I wanted revenge. No one else was involved. I acted alone."

The spy looked at Derek, hoping the lie would hold.

Derek stared at him for a long moment. The tent was silent, save for the spy’s ragged breathing.

Then, Derek chuckled.

It was a dark, dry sound. It wasn’t amusement. It was the sound of a predator who has cornered its prey.

"You acted alone," Derek repeated.

He walked up to the kneeling man. He looked him up and down. He inspected the stolen uniform. He saw the way the man held himself, the way his muscles were tense. He saw the callus on the man’s finger—the mark of an archer, not a common foot soldier.

"You are lying," Derek said softly.

He leaned down.

"You are one of Prince Liam’s men," Derek stated.

The spy’s eyes went wide. He flinched. The shock was plain on his face. How did he know? He was wearing a disguise. He had no crest.

"How..." the spy whispered.

Derek straightened up. He looked around the tent.

"Do you think changing a uniform will fool anyone?" Derek asked. "Do you think putting on a grey coat makes you a Thompson soldier?"

He pointed at the spy’s boots.

"Those boots," Derek said. "They are Royal Guard issue. Soft leather soles for palace floors. Not the hobnailed boots my men wear for marching in the mud."

He pointed at the spy’s bleeding hand.

"And your hands," Derek said. "They are clean. My men have been digging latrines and building wagons for three days. Their hands are stained with dirt and grease. Yours are soft."

Derek sneered.

"You smell like the palace," Derek said. "You smell like polish and secrets."

The spy slumped. He knew he was caught.

Derek’s expression hardened. The analytical look vanished, replaced by the cold judgment of the Grand Duke.

"I know there are more of you," Derek said.

He looked at the shadows in the corners of the tent.

"Liam didn’t send just one rat," Derek said. "He sent a pack. He sent you to spy on me. He sent you to find Nigel. And now he sends you to burn my supplies."

Derek gripped his bow tighter.

"I will find them," Derek promised. "I will weed you all out. I will hunt you down."

He looked the spy in the eye.

"And I will kill each and every one of you."

The spy opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to beg, perhaps to curse.

Derek didn’t give him the chance.

He dropped the bow to the ground. His hand moved to his belt.

Shing.

He unsheathed his sword. The metal gleamed in the lantern light.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask for a confession. He didn’t call for a trial. This man had tried to kill thousands by burning their cure.

Derek lunged.

He thrust the sword forward.

The blade pierced the spy’s stomach. It went in deep, cutting through the stolen uniform, cutting through muscle and bone.

The spy gasped. His eyes bulged.

He coughed up blood. It splattered onto Derek’s hand and the hilt of the sword.

Derek held the sword steady. He watched the light fade from the man’s eyes. He watched the life drain out of him.

"If you eventually live, tell your master," Derek whispered to the dying man, "that fire burns both ways."

He yanked the sword back.

Squelch.

The spy groaned. He fell forward. He collapsed onto his face in the oil-soaked dirt. He twitched once, and then he was still.

He dropped dead.

The tent was silent again. The smell of blood mixed with the smell of oil and herbs.

Derek stood over the body. He breathed heavily. He took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the blood from his blade.

He sheathed the sword and turned to Ian.

Ian was still standing by the entrance, his face grim. He hadn’t moved during the execution. He was used to Derek’s justice.

"Clean this mess," Derek ordered. His voice was flat.

He pointed to the body.

"Dispose of this."

He pointed to the spilled oil.

"Clean the crates. Check every packet. Make sure the medicine is safe."

He walked to the tent flap. He paused.

"And send people," Derek said, looking back at the crates. "Send some of the Elite Shadows. I want them to watch over the medicine day and night."

He looked at Ian.

"If a single rat gets in here again," Derek warned, "I will hold you all responsible."

"Yes, Your Grace," Ian said.

Derek pushed the flap open. He stepped out into the cool night air.

~ ••••• ~

The night was very quiet, the only sound was the gentle rustling of the tent flaps in the breeze. Derek sat at his small, portable desk, the light of a single oil lamp illuminating the cramped space. He held a piece of parchment in his hand, his eyes scanning the elegant handwriting for the third time. It was a letter from Marissa, filled with updates on the estate, news of Ryan’s progress, and subtle words of affection that warmed him more than the fire.

The tent flap lifted, and Ian slipped inside. He looked tired, his uniform dusty, but his expression was calm. He had finished the grim task of cleaning up the spy’s mess.

"Your Grace," Ian said quietly, bowing his head.

Derek looked up. He folded the letter carefully, treating it like a precious artifact, and placed it gently on the corner of the desk.

"Ian," Derek acknowledged. His voice was low, mindful of the sleeping camp outside. "Is it done?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Ian confirmed. "The body has been disposed. The crates are cleaned and secured. The shadows are posted."

Derek nodded, satisfied. "Good."

He leaned back in his chair, his face becoming serious again. The spy was dealt with, but the threat remained.

"What is the situation at Eudora?" Derek asked. "Have you heard from the Shadows stationed at the estate? Anything unusual?"

Ian straightened up. He pulled a small scroll from his belt.

"According to the report I received this morning," Ian said, unrolling the paper, "the estate is safe. The guards are vigilant. The Dowager is well."

He glanced at the report.

"And Prince Liam," Ian continued, "has not been seen around there. Since he announced that Lord Carlos would be joining us, he has kept his distance. His spies are quiet."

Derek let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It was a relief. Liam was focusing on the war, or perhaps he was plotting something else, but at least he wasn’t at Marissa’s door.

"Good," Derek said. "That is good."

He looked at Ian. He saw the dark circles under his aide’s eyes.

"Go get some rest, Ian," Derek ordered gently. "You have done enough for one night. We march again at dawn."

Ian bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Grace."

He turned and left the tent, the flap falling shut behind him, leaving Derek alone in the warm, lamp-lit silence.

Derek picked up his quill. He dipped it into the inkwell. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him.

He pulled out the locket and opened it, staring into Marissa’s picture, staring at that beautiful smile that was made only for him. A smile plastered itself onto his face, softening the hard lines of the commander.

He closed the locket and put it back inside his tunic. He began to write.

"My dearest Marissa..."

The scratch of the quill on paper was the only sound in the tent as he poured his heart out to the woman who held it, miles away in the safety of their home.