Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 250 - Two Hundred And Forty Nine

The winter wind howled across the plains of Strathmore, a mournful sound that rattled the canvas walls of the military tents. It had been two months since the Thompson Army had arrived. The golden leaves of autumn were long gone, buried under three feet of hard, white snow. The world was a monochrome of grey sky and white earth.

Inside the main command tent, the air was slightly warmer, heated by two large iron braziers filled with glowing coals. But it was still cold enough that every breath the men took puffed out in a white cloud of mist, lingering in the air like smoke.

Derek stood at the head of the heavy wooden table. He looked different than he had two months ago. His face was leaner, his skin wind-burned and rough. He had grown a short, dark beard that hid the scar on his chin. He wore a heavy cloak lined with wolf fur over his black armor.

He looked down at the map. It was pinned to the table with daggers to keep it from curling in the damp air.

"The plague has reduced," Derek said, his voice rough. A cloud of white vapor escaped his lips as he spoke. "Thanks to the Duchess’s medicine and the cold weather, the sickness is no longer killing our men."

General Rogers, standing beside him, nodded. He was rubbing his gloved hands together over the brazier.

"It is the only good news we have, Your Grace," Rogers rumbled. "The sickness is gone, but the winter... the winter is here to finish the job."

Derek looked at the map markers. The red wooden blocks represented the Mercian army. The blue blocks were his own.

"The first half of the war has ended," Derek stated. "It was a stalemate. We pushed them back at the Whispering Pass. They pushed us back at the river. Now, both sides are retreating to winter quarters."

He moved a blue block back from the front line.

"They are digging in," Derek said. "They are waiting for us to freeze. They are waiting for us to starve."

General Amadeu , who was wrapped in two blankets, spoke up. His teeth chattered slightly.

"Our supplies," Amadeus said grimly. "The barges are still running, thanks to the river not freezing over yet. But once the deep freeze hits... the river will stop. The wagons cannot move through this snow. We will be cut off."

Derek looked at the generals. He saw the fatigue in their eyes. He saw the way they huddled near the fire. Even strong men broke under this kind of cold.

"We cannot wait for spring," Derek said firmly. "If we wait, we run out of food. We run out of wood. And Mercia will just reinforce their lines."

He slammed his gloved hand onto the map.

"We need to end this," Derek declared. "Now. Before the snow gets any deeper."

"But how?" Rogers asked. "A direct assault in this weather? It is suicide."

"Not a direct assault," Derek said. A cold, strategic light entered his eyes. "A raid. A night march."

He pointed to a spot on the map, deep behind enemy lines.

"Their supply depot," Derek whispered. "It is located here, in the valley. They think they are safe because of the snow. They think no army can march through the forest in winter."

He looked at his commanders.

"We can," Derek said. "We have snowshoes. We have the white cloaks. We will move like ghosts. We will burn their food. We will burn their tents. If they have no shelter, they cannot stay. They will be forced to retreat back to Mercia or freeze to death."

The generals looked at the map. It was a risky plan. Dangerous. But it was the only way to win quickly.

"It will be hard," Amadeus warned.

"War is hard," Derek replied. "Prepare the elite units. We move in three days, when the moon is hidden."

The meeting ended. The generals saluted, their breath puffing out in short bursts. They turned and filed out of the tent, heading back into the biting wind to relay the orders.

Derek stayed behind. He walked to the brazier and held his hands over the coals. He stared into the fire, thinking of Marissa. He wondered if she was warm. He wondered if she was safe.

Outside the tent, crouched in the deep snow behind a stack of barrels, was Carlos.

He was miserable.

He was wearing a thick military coat, but the cold seemed to seep right through it, biting into his bones. His nose was running, and his fingers were numb inside his gloves. He had been standing there for an hour, pressing his ear against the thick canvas of the tent, listening to every word.

He shivered violently. His teeth wanted to chatter, but he clenched his jaw tight to keep silent.

"A raid," Carlos thought, his mind racing. "In three days. Through the forest."

He had heard it all. He knew the plan.

He waited until the last general had walked away, their boots crunching loudly on the frozen ground. He waited until he was sure Derek wasn’t coming out.

Then, Carlos moved.

He scrambled away from the tent, staying low, moving like a crab. He slipped between the rows of soldier’s tents, avoiding the patrols. He ran toward his own quarters, his breath coming in ragged, white puffs.

He reached his tent—a smaller, colder structure on the edge of the officers’ ring. He threw the flap open and dived inside.

He collapsed onto his cot. He was shaking, not just from the cold, but from adrenaline and fear.

He sat up and wrapped his arms around himself. He stared at the flickering lamp on his small table.

He stood up and started to pace.

Three steps forward. Turn. Three steps back. The tent was too small for more.

"He is planning a raid," Carlos whispered to himself. "He is going to lead it himself. He will be out in the open. In the forest. At night."

He stopped pacing.

This was it. This was the opportunity.

If Derek died in the forest... if he was struck by a "stray arrow" or "separated from his men"... it would look like a casualty of war. It would be perfect.

But Carlos felt a knot of terror in his stomach. To do that, he would have to go on the raid. He would have to go into the forest. He would have to be the one to do it.

He sat down heavily on his wooden stool. He put his head in his hands.

He remembered the last time he saw Prince Liam.

The memory was sharp and painful, like a shard of glass in his mind.

He remembered the cold hall. The wine. The dagger flying past his ear.

"He already suspects you," Liam’s voice echoed in Carlos’s memory. It was smooth, cold, and terrifying.

Carlos squeezed his eyes shut, recalling the conversation.

"Derek knows you set the trap at the townhouse," Liam had said. "He knows you are the enemy. He is just waiting."

Carlos shuddered.

"If you don’t go after him," Liam had warned, leaning close, his blue eyes piercing Carlos’s soul, "he will come after you. He will silence you."

Carlos looked at his hands. They were shaking.

He had been in the camp for two months. Two months of watching Derek. Two months of pretending to be the dutiful, repentant brother.

And in those two months, he had done nothing.

He had tried to poison Derek’s drink once, but Ian had knocked over the cups by accident. He had tried to loosen the saddle on Derek’s horse, but the stable boy had caught it and fixed it.

He was failing.

"I haven’t found the chance," Carlos whispered, his voice cracking. "I haven’t found the chance to kill him. He is always surrounded. He is always watching."

He stood up again, agitated.

"And now he is going to win the war," Carlos thought. "If this raid succeeds... if he burns the Mercian supplies... he returns a hero. He returns untouchable."

Carlos looked at the calendar he had pinned to his tent pole. He counted the days.

The Prince had given him a timeline. Before the winter ended. Before the victory parade.

"If I go back empty-handed," Carlos asked the empty tent, "how will I answer to Prince Liam?"

He imagined Liam’s face. He imagined the smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He imagined Brooke, the silent aide, stepping out of the shadows with a wire or a knife.

"He will kill me," Carlos realized. "He won’t pity me like Grandmother. He will just kill me."

Panic began to rise in his throat, choking him.

He had nowhere to run. He couldn’t go back to the estate; he was banished. He couldn’t go to Ashlyn; she had no money left. He couldn’t run away; Liam’s spies would find him.

He was trapped between a Grand Duke and a Crown Prince.

He looked at the calendar again.

"I only have a month," Carlos whispered. "Maybe less. If the war ends next week... my time is up."

He stared at the date.

He had to act. He had to use this raid. It was the only chance he would get to catch Derek alone in the dark.

"Three days," Carlos muttered. "I have three days to prepare."

He sat down on his cot, staring at the flickering flame of the lamp, his mind spiraling into a dark, desperate plan.