Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 256 - Two Hundred And Fifty Five

A week had passed.

Seven days.

To Marissa, it felt like seven years.

Every morning, she had woken up before dawn, her heart racing, her hand reaching for the empty space in the bed beside her. Every morning, she had rushed to the foyer, waiting for the sound of hooves, waiting for a messenger with the crest of the Thompson Army.

And every morning, there was nothing.

No rider appeared on the horizon. No letter arrived with Derek’s handwriting. The reports from the north had stopped coming. The silence was absolute, a cold void that seemed to grow larger with every passing hour.

Marissa sat in the Thompson family carriage as it rattled over the frozen cobblestones. The wheels slipped occasionally on patches of black ice, causing the vehicle to lurch. She gripped the leather strap by the window, her knuckles white.

She was heading to the Golden Swan. It was her only distraction. The household accounts were balanced. The servants were disciplined. Ashlyn was just there. There was nothing left to do at the estate but pace the floors and worry. So, she went to the dance hall, telling herself it was for business, telling herself she needed to check the books. But in truth, she went because it was the place where she had felt closest to him during the festival.

The carriage slowed.

"We are here, Your Grace," the footman called out, his voice muffled by the thick wooden door.

Marissa took a deep breath. She steeled herself against the cold. She wrapped her heavy fur robe tighter around her shoulders, pulling the collar up to her chin. It was a luxurious coat, lined with silver fox, a gift from Derek’s own treasury, but today it offered no comfort. It felt heavy.

The door opened. A blast of icy wind rushed into the warm carriage, stinging her cheeks and making her eyes water.

Marissa stepped down. Her boots crunched on the frost-covered pavement.

She looked up at the Golden Swan. It looked different in the harsh light of winter. The festive lanterns that had swung gaily in the autumn breeze were gone. In their place, long, sharp icicles hung from the eaves like crystal daggers, dripping slowly onto the street. The windows were frosted over, opaque and blind, hiding the interior from view.

She walked toward the entrance. Her head was down against the wind.

Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain spiked in her left temple.

"Ah," Marissa gasped softly, pressing her gloved hand to her forehead.

It was the headache. It had started a week ago, a dull throb that had grown into a persistent, hammering rhythm. It beat in time with her heart.

She stopped just outside the heavy double doors, closing her eyes for a moment, trying to will the pain away.

"What is happening?" she murmured to herself, her breath forming a white cloud in the air.

It wasn’t just the headache. It was everything.

"For a week now," she whispered, the words lost in the wind, "I have been having nightmares."

They were vivid, terrifying dreams that woke her up screaming in a silent room. She dreamed of falling into darkness, an endless, black pit. She dreamed of cold, rushing water filling her lungs. She dreamed of an arrow flying through the night, a black streak against the snow, striking something warm and alive.

She rubbed her temple harder.

"And this..." she thought, touching her left eye. "My eye keeps twitching."

It was a small thing. A muscle spasm. But in the folklore of Eudora, a twitching left eye was an omen. A sign of bad luck. A warning that tragedy was approaching, walking toward you with silent steps.

"Could something be wrong?" she asked herself. The fear, usually kept locked away in a box in her mind, began to leak out. "Is he hurt? Did something...did something happen to him?"

She shook her head violently. She opened her eyes.

"No," she scolded herself sternly. "What am I thinking? Stop it, Marissa. You do not believe in old wives’ tales."

She forced herself to think logically.

"Derek is fine," she whispered, reciting the words like a spell. "He is busy. He is the Commander. He is winning the war. They are marching. Soldiers on the march cannot write letters every day. The roads are blocked by snow. That is all."

She took a deep breath of the freezing air. She straightened her spine. She put on her mask of calm authority.

She pushed open the doors of the Golden Swan.

She stepped inside.

The warmth hit her immediately. The massive hearths at either end of the main hall were roaring with fire, sending waves of heat through the room. It should have been a relief. It should have been welcoming.

But Marissa stopped dead in her tracks.

Something was wrong.

Usually, at this time of day—just past noon—the Golden Swan was bustling. It was the premier establishment in the city. Wealthy merchants came here for lunch meetings. Travelers stopped to warm themselves with spiced wine. Musicians tuned their instruments for the evening show. There was always noise—the clatter of plates, the hum of conversation, the tuning of lute strings.

Today, it was silent.

The hall was empty.

The round tables were set with pristine white cloths. The crystal glasses sparkled in the firelight. The floor was polished to a mirror shine. But there were no customers. No merchants. No travelers.

The chairs were empty. The stage was empty.

The only sound was the crackle of the wood in the fireplaces and the howling of the wind outside the thick walls.

Marissa frowned. The unease in her stomach, which had been a quiet murmur, suddenly screamed.

"Why is it so empty?" Marissa asked aloud, her voice echoing slightly in the room.

It felt abandoned. It felt like a stage set after the actors had gone home.

"Your Grace!"

A voice called out from the shadows near the kitchen. Footsteps hurried across the wooden floor.

Lily ran toward her. The maid looked flustered. Her apron was slightly askew, and her face was flushed, as if she had been running around in a panic.

"Lily," Marissa said, relief washing over her at seeing a familiar face. She resumed walking, moving toward the grand staircase that led to the private rooms. She tried to look businesslike, inspecting the room as she went.

"I told you to deliver more coals to the dancers’ quarters," Marissa said, her voice echoing the practical concerns of an owner. "I felt the draft in the hallway. Their rooms are on the upper floor. It must be freezing. We cannot have them getting sick before the winter gala."

Lily fell into step beside her, matching her mistress’s pace. But she was wringing her hands.

"I did, Your Grace," Lily said quickly, her voice breathless. "I took the coal myself. I filled every scuttle. But..."

Lily hesitated. She glanced around the empty hall nervously.

"But what?" Marissa asked, not breaking her stride.

"They said they wouldn’t be needing much heat today," Lily explained. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in close to Marissa. "The dancers... they are all in their rooms. They are not coming down."

Marissa stopped walking. She turned to look at her maid.

"Why not?" Marissa asked. "We are open for business."

"Because," Lily said, her eyes wide, "a VIP reserved the entire venue today."

Marissa stared at her. "The entire venue?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Lily nodded. "He arrived an hour ago. He paid double the daily rate in gold coins. He sent everyone away. The merchants, the guests... he cleared the hall. He said he wanted privacy."

Marissa’s frown deepened. This was unusual. Extremely unusual. To rent a private room was common. To rent the entire Golden Swan in the middle of the day cost a fortune.

"And..." Lily added, swallowing hard, "he asked to see you."

Marissa felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. It was a physical sensation, like a stone dropping into a well.

A wealthy stranger. A private reservation. An empty hall. And a request for her, specifically.

It didn’t feel like a business meeting. It felt like a trap.

"VIP?" Marissa asked, her voice sharp. "Who is it? Did he give a name?"

Lily shook her head. "No, Your Grace. He didn’t say his name. I haven’t seen him before."

Lily looked up toward the balcony.

"But he is dressed extravagantly," Lily whispered. "Like... like royalty. His coat is velvet. His boots are polished. He walks like he owns the floor."

Marissa went still. Royalty.

She looked up. Her eyes traveled up the grand staircase, past the polished banister, toward the VIP balcony on the second floor. It was the same balcony where Derek had stood during the raid. The same balcony where they had laughed.

Now, someone else was standing there.

Marissa stopped breathing.

Her face went pale, draining of all color until she looked like a marble statue.

Standing at the top of the stairs, leaning casually against the railing, was a man.

He was tall and slender. He wore a coat of midnight blue velvet, trimmed with silver fur—the colors of the royal house. The coat was tailored perfectly to his frame.

He held a glass of wine in his hand. He swirled the red liquid slowly, watching the vortex, before lifting his gaze.

He looked down at her.

He had pale skin and sharp, beautiful features that were almost too perfect. His eyes were blue, a cold, piercing blue that reminded Marissa of the ice on the windows.

And he was smiling.

It was not a friendly smile. It was a smile of possession.

It was Prince Liam.

Marissa’s breath caught in her throat. Her headache spiked, a blinding flash of pain behind her eyes that nearly made her stumble.

"Why is he here?" she thought, her mind racing with a sudden, frantic panic. "Why is he seeking me out? He should be at the palace. He should be running the kingdom while the King is ill. He should be... anywhere but here."

His presence was wrong.

Liam raised his glass in a silent toast, staring at her, savoring her shock. His smile widened, revealing white teeth, but his eyes remained cold, calculating ice.

"Duchess," Liam called out.

His voice was smooth, like silk sliding over a blade. It carried effortlessly across the empty, silent hall, echoing in the rafters.

"You kept me waiting," he said.

Marissa stared at him. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She knew, with a terrible, sinking certainty, that the bad omen wasn’t just a twitch in her eye or a nightmare in the dark.

The bad omen was standing right in front of her, holding a glass of wine, and smiling at her.