Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 253 - Two Hundred And Fifty Two

The embers of the supply depot fire were still glowing in the distance, casting a faint, eerie orange light over the Thompson camp. The wind had picked up, howling through the valley, carrying the smell of smoke, burnt pine, and victory.

Carlos stood by a small, hidden fire pit at the edge of the camp, far away from the celebrating soldiers. He held a carrier pigeon in his hands, its small heart beating rapidly against his palm, a frantic rhythm that matched his own. He had tied a tiny, rolled scroll to its leg—a message meant for Prince Liam.

"It is done. The arrow found its mark. The Grand Duke has fallen."

He released the bird. He watched it spiral up into the dark, cloudy sky, disappearing toward the south, toward the capital, toward his reward.

When the bird was finally out of sight, swallowed by the night, Carlos turned back to the fire.

He took a big gulp from the wine skin on the table. The cheap, sour wine burned his throat, his hands were shaking violently.

He looked down at the object lying next to the wine skin.

It was a bow. A simple, black yew bow, unadorned and deadly. It was not his. He had stolen it from the armory hours ago, ensuring no one saw him. It was the bow he had used to release the poisoned arrow that struck his brother in the chest.

He picked it up. The wood felt cold and accusatory in his hands. He ran his fingers over the string, remembering the tension, the release, the sound of the impact.

"Brother," Carlos whispered to the flames.

He didn’t feel triumph. He didn’t feel the surge of power he had expected. He felt a sick, hollow emptiness in his stomach. He had done it. He had killed the only person who had shared his blood.

"Don’t blame me," Carlos said, his voice cracking. He was justifying it to himself, speaking to the ghosts he knew would haunt him. "It was you or me. Liam would have killed me if I failed. He would have erased me. I had no choice. You were already dead the moment you crossed him." 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

He stared into the fire, seeing Derek’s face in the dancing flames.

"If you have grievances in the afterlife," Carlos murmured, his eyes hardening, "seek revenge from Prince Liam. He is the one who wanted you dead. He is the architect. I was just a pawn."

He threw the bow into the fire.

The dry wood caught instantly. The flames licked up the limbs of the bow, turning the weapon into ash and smoke. Carlos watched it burn, the varnish bubbling, the wood cracking, until the string snapped with a sharp pop.

It was gone. The evidence was destroyed.

He poured himself more wine. He drank until the world blurred, until the sharp edges of his guilt softened, until he could forget the look in Derek’s eyes when the arrow hit.

In the morning, the sun rose over a battlefield that was silent. The news came into the camp with the first grey light.

Victory.

The Mercian army had been routed. Their supplies were gone, their commander, Sir Malakai, was dead, and their morale was broken. They were retreating back across the border, a beaten force. The first half of the war took a lot of the Thompson’s soldiers but now the war was finally over.

Cheers erupted from the tents. Soldiers hugged each other, weeping with relief. They had survived. They had won. They were going home.

But the victory quickly turned into mourning.

A rider galloped into the center of the camp. He was one of the Elite Shadows, his black uniform torn and stained with snow and mud. He didn’t shout "Victory!" He shouted for the generals.

The news spread like a plague through the ranks. The Grand Duke is missing. The Grand Duke has fallen.

The cheers died. The laughter stopped. A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the thousands of men. The victor couldn’t receive praise for his achievement because he was gone.

Inside the commander’s tent, the atmosphere was like that of a funereal.

General Rogers, General Amadeus, and the other high-ranking officers stood around the map table. The maps were still there, the plans still laid out, but the man who had drawn them was gone. The victory tasted like ash.

"Send for Lord Carlos," Rogers ordered, his voice heavy with grief.

A few minutes later, the tent flap opened.

Carlos entered.

He had washed his face and changed his clothes, putting on a clean uniform. He looked pale, his eyes red-rimmed. He walked with a heavy, somber mood, playing the part of the worried brother to perfection.

"Generals," Carlos said, bowing his head.

He looked around the tent. He saw the grim faces. He saw the empty chair at the head of the table where Derek usually sat.

"Where is my brother?" Carlos asked. His voice trembled perfectly. "Why is he not here to receive the report?"

The search party leader, a young captain with red eyes, stepped forward. He held a small, velvet cloth in his hands, cradling it as if it were a holy relic.

"Your Lordship," the captain said, his voice choking. "We searched the woods. We searched the cliff face where he fell."

He paused, swallowing hard.

"His Grace was attacked," the captain reported. "There were signs of a struggle. Blood in the snow. Footprints of an assassin."

He looked down at the cloth.

"We couldn’t find his body," the captain whispered. "The cliff is steep. The river below is cold and fast. If he fell... the current would have taken him."

He opened the cloth.

Lying on the black velvet was a silver locket. It was battered, scratched from the fall. The latch was broken, so it hung open, revealing the cracked glass and the miniature painting of a smiling woman. Marissa.

Carlos stared at it. He recognized it. He had seen Derek holding it in private moments, looking at it with a softness Carlos had never understood and secretly despised.

Carlos reached out. His hand shook. He took the locket.

He ran his thumb over the surface. It was cold. It kept opening because the latch was broken, swinging loosely like a broken heart.

"It is indeed my brother’s," Carlos said softly. "It belonged to him. He never took it off. He said it was his luck."

He clutched the locket in his fist, the metal biting into his palm. He raised his head up, looking at the ceiling of the tent, blinking rapidly to hold back the fake tears he had summoned.

"It seems," Carlos said, his voice choking with emotion, "my brother is..."

He held the last word. He couldn’t say it. He let the silence say it for him.

The generals bowed their heads. They removed their helmets.

"My condolences, My Lord," Rogers said, his voice rough. "The Thompson family has lost a great lion."

"He saved us all," Amadeus added. "He led the charge when we were surrounded."

"He was the best of us," another general murmured.

Carlos nodded. He looked at them, accepting their grief as his due. He felt a strange sense of displacement. They were mourning a hero. He was mourning a brother he had murdered.

"I must... I must go," Carlos said, stepping back. "I must go back to Eudora. I must deliver the news myself to my family. To the Dowager. To his wife. They must know."

"Of course," Rogers said. "Take whatever you need. The army is yours to command until the King appoints a successor."

Carlos nodded. He turned and left the tent.

He walked out into the sunlight. He took a deep breath of the cold air.

He felt a weight lift from his shoulders. It was done. Derek was gone. The body was lost, which was perfect. No evidence. No arrow to examine. No way to prove it wasn’t a Mercian archer.

He walked to the stables. The horses were restless.

"Prepare a horse for me," Carlos ordered a stable boy. "A fast one. I ride for the capital."

"Yes, My Lord."

Carlos mounted the horse. He looked back at the camp one last time. He saw the flag flying at half-mast. He kicked the horse into a gallop.

He rode out of the camp, heading toward the capital of Strathmore before going back to Eudora.