Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 251 - Two Hundred And Fifty

The Day Of The Raid....

The night was a canvas of deep, icy blackness, the kind of dark that felt heavy and suffocating. The moon, a thin, indifferent sliver, was hidden behind a thick blanket of snow clouds, leaving the forest in absolute, profound darkness.

The air was so cold it hurt to breathe, freezing the moisture in the nostrils instantly and turning every exhale into a cloud of white mist.

Derek moved through the trees. He was dressed in white winter camouflage over his black armor, a ghost in the snow. His steps were silent, his boots wrapped in fur to muffle the sound on the frozen crust. Behind him, fifty of his best men—the Elite Shadows, the Thompson’s army and his most trusted veterans—moved in perfect sync, shadows flitting between the old snow-laden pines.

They were deep behind enemy lines. The mission was critical. The Mercian supply depot lay ahead, the beating heart of the enemy army. If they could destroy it, the invasion would stall. The war could end before winter truly set in.

Ahead, through a break in the trees, the glow of the camp was visible—a cluster of large canvas tents and wooden storehouses, guarded by sleepy guards huddled around fire pits, trying to keep warm.

Derek raised his hand, a sharp, silent signal. The column of soldiers stopped instantly, melting into the snow and the shadows of the trees.

He peered through the darkness, his eyes narrowing. The camp seemed quiet. Too quiet.

A prickle of unease ran down his spine. It was the instinct that had kept him alive for years, a whisper in the back of his mind that said something is wrong.

The guards were too relaxed. The perimeter was too open. It felt like a stage set for a play, not a military encampment.

"Where are the patrols?" Derek thought.

He pushed the feeling aside. There was no time for doubt. The mission was simple: burn the food, burn the tents and force the retreat.

He signaled the advance.

"Now," Derek whispered into the freezing air.

The Thompson soldiers surged forward. They moved like the wind, silent and deadly. They reached the perimeter of the camp, bypassing the outer guards.

Derek drew his sword. The steel hissed softly against the scabbard, a deadly whisper.

He stepped into the light of the nearest fire.

"Attack!" he roared, his voice shattering the silence of the night.

His men charged. They threw torches onto the tents. Fire erupted, bright orange tongues licking up the canvas, consuming the fabric greedily.

But the camp didn’t panic. There were no screams of surprise. There were no sleepy soldiers stumbling out of their beds in their underclothes.

Instead, a horn blew.

It was a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the valley, bouncing off the cliff walls.

Booooooom.

From the shadows of the storehouses, from the dark tree line surrounding the camp, hundreds of Mercian soldiers emerged. They were fully armored. Their swords were drawn. Their bows were nocked. They formed a perfect circle of steel around Derek’s small raiding party.

They were waiting.

Derek froze. He looked around. It was a trap. A perfect, deadly trap.

"It’s a trap!" Ian shouted, cutting down a Mercian soldier who lunged at him from the shadows. "They knew we were coming!"

"Ambush!" another voice cried out as arrows began to fly from the trees.

Derek’s heart slammed against his ribs. How? How did they know? The plan was secret. The timing was secret. Only his inner circle knew the details.

His eyes scanned the chaos. He saw the Mercian commander, Sir Malakai, standing on a crate near the largest storehouse. Malakai was a giant of a man, clad in red armor that gleamed in the firelight. He was laughing.

"Welcome, Grand Duke!" Malakai shouted over the roar of the fire and the clash of steel. "We have been expecting you! I was beginning to think you wouldn’t grace us with your presence but here you are now and you are right on time!"

Derek parried a blow from a soldier, his mind racing. Expecting us?

Someone had betrayed him. Someone close.

(Flashback: Two Days Prior)

Carlos sat in his tent, a piece of parchment in front of him. His hand was shaking so hard he could barely hold the quill. The ink blotted on the page.

He looked at the small, dark bird in the cage on his table—a carrier pigeon he had bought from a shady merchant in the rear guard.

He wrote quickly, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"To the Commander of the Mercian Forces," he scribbled. "The Thompson Army plans a night raid on your supply depot in three days. They will come through the Blackwood Forest. They will strike at midnight. Be ready. The Grand Duke leads them himself."

He didn’t sign it. He didn’t need to. The information was the currency.

He rolled the paper up tight. He tied it to the bird’s leg with a piece of twine. He walked to the tent flap and opened it. The cold wind bit at his face, stinging his eyes.

He threw the bird into the air. He watched it fly north, disappearing into the darkness toward the enemy lines.

"I’m sorry, brother," Carlos whispered, his face twisted with a bit of guilt and fear. "But it’s you or me. Prince Liam promised me the title. And I choose me."

(Flashback ends)

The realization that there was a traitor hit Derek like a physical blow. The rage gave him strength. It burned hotter than the fires around him.

"Retreat!" Derek bellowed to his men. "Fall back to the tree line! Move! Fighting withdrawal!"

His soldiers, disciplined and brave, formed a defensive wedge. They fought their way backward, step by bloody step, shielding each other with their shields.

Sir Malakai jumped down from his crate. He drew a massive greatsword, a weapon that looked too heavy for a normal man. He charged straight for Derek.

"I want his head!" Malakai roared. "Bring me the head of the Thompson wolf!"