Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 99 - Ninety Nine

Lord Vance, feeling that gaze, visibly paled and took a half-step back, as if he had just been touched by a piece of ice.

King Alistair, however, let out a dry, wheezing chuckle. He had seen the look, and he had seen the elder’s fear. "My dear Lord Vance," the King rasped, "do not be so hasty. I still have a son. What’s wrong in merely giving him," he gestured, almost lazily, to Liam, "a chance to prove himself to you all."

" Your Majesty!" Lord Greyson, the practical elder, burst out, his fear of Liam less than his fear of an unstable kingdom. "Don’t listen to Lord Vance. We must be realistic! We must speak of the future of Eudora! We cannot place a skiver on the throne! A drunkard! An unserious man who spends his days in pleasure houses and his nights gambling away his family’s fortune!"

Murmurs erupted in the room. This was the true, core, and terrible debate.

"He is a disgrace!" another elder chimed in. "He does not even respect his own household! He brought his mistress into the estate! He allowed his new wife to be humiliated! If he cannot respect his own wife, his own family, his own home... how will he ever respect this kingdom?"

"His public behavior is a scandal..."

"But Prince Liam’s... illegitimacy... would..."

The final, forbidden word was spoken. Lord Farris, the man who had said it, clapped a hand over his own mouth, his eyes wide with terror, as if he had just unleashed a curse.

The King’s face, which had been pale and weary, flushed a sudden, dark, angry red. His hand slammed down on the arm of his throne again.

"SILENCE."

This time, the word was a roar.

"This meeting is over."

Prince Liam had not moved. His face was still a mask of perfect, cold beauty. He had not flinched. But his hands, which had been resting at his sides, were now clenched into two, tight, white-knuckled fists.

He bowed, a sharp, perfect, and deeply ironic gesture, to his father. And without a word, without a glance at the terrified, cowering elders, he turned on his heel and strode from the throne room, his black, military-style cape swirling behind him like a storm cloud.

The royal archery ground was a long, cold, and empty stretch of perfectly manicured lawn, set against the high, grey, outer wall of the palace. The air here was cold, sharp, and clean. It was a place of solitude, and of precision.

Liam stood at the firing line. He pulled an arrow from the quiver at his hip, nocked it to the great, black bow, and drew the string. He held the pose, his body a perfect, unmoving statue. He was aiming at a simple, wooden, man-shaped statue, a hundred yards away. He held his breath.

THWACK.

The sound of the bowstring releasing was a sharp, angry, musical note. The arrow was a black blur. It struck the wooden statue dead-center, in the bullseye that had been painted over its heart. It hit with such force that the entire, thick, oaken statue shuddered.

He was already reaching for another arrow when a sound broke his concentration. Heavy footsteps on the gravel path behind him.

The Captain of the Royal Guards, the same man who had failed so spectacularly at the Golden Swan, approached. He was terrified. He stopped ten paces behind the Prince and fell to one knee, his head bowed.

"Your Highness," he said, his voice a low, nervous rumble.

Liam did not turn. He nocked the new arrow. He drew. He aimed. His focus was absolute. A skiver. A drunkard. Illegitimate.

THWACK!

The second arrow slammed into the target, striking the very shaft of the first, splitting the wood of its feathers. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

Liam finally, slowly, lowered his bow. He turned to look at the kneeling man. His face was calm, his voice as soft and as cold as the morning air. "Report."

The Captain swallowed, his throat dry. "Your Highness," he began, "we have been watching the Duke, as you commanded. Duke Derek shows no unusual behavior. He has divided his time exactly as we expected. He stays either at the estate, managing his new household, or..."

The Captain hesitated.

"Or," Liam finished for him, his voice flat, "he is drinking and having fun with his mistress at the Golden Swan."

"Yes, Your Highness," the Captain said, relieved that the Prince already knew. "His behavior is... predictable. It is exactly as the rumors say."

Liam turned back to the target. He reached for a third arrow. He nocked it. He began to draw the string, his muscles coiling. He stared at the distant, wooden heart.

"No unusual behavior," Liam whispered to himself, his voice a low, thoughtful, and deeply suspicious sound, "is unusual in itself."

He released the arrow. THWACK. It hit the bullseye again, a third, perfect, impossible shot.

He lowered the bow. He had been watching Derek his entire life. He knew his cousin. He knew the boy who had been his rival, the boy who had been a brilliant, passionate, and fiercely intelligent soldier. The drunken, girl-obsessed "skiver" was a lie. It was a mask. And Liam, a man who lived his own life behind a mask of cold, silent obedience, knew, with an animal’s instinct, when he was looking at another, hidden predator.

"This ’normal’ behavior, Captain," Liam said, his voice quiet, "it is a performance. He is hiding something."

He turned, his cold eyes landing on the terrified, kneeling man.

"Since we cannot, at this moment, enter the estate without cause," Liam said, his voice a soft, final, and absolute command, "you will find an excuse to investigate that dance hall."

"Yes, Your Highness," the Captain said, his head still bowed.

"I want to know who he meets there. I want to know who he talks to. I want to know what messages are being passed in that den of his." Liam’s gaze hardened. "I want to know why my traitor-hunting guards, in the middle of a high-priority manhunt, were unlucky enough to ’coincidentally’ run into him. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Your Highness! Perfectly!"

"Go," Liam said.

The Captain scrambled to his feet, bowed, and practically ran from the archery ground.

Liam was left alone. He reached for a fourth arrow, his movements slow, his mind turning over the pieces: Strathmore. Leon. The massacre. And his cousin, Derek, who was pretending to be a fool.

He knows something, Liam thought, as he drew the bowstring back, his aim perfect. And I will find out what it is.