“I’m afraid you won’t have the time to nap,” Marc said flatly.

“What do you mean?” the Comtesse asked.

“You need to pack.”

“Pack? What?”

During this exchange, Bertrand distanced himself to whisper something into the ears of a nearby guard. After a quick nod, that man melted into the crowd and disappeared.

“You’re supposed to be—” the Comtesse said.

The fire burning in those eyes would have made Lucifer uncomfortable. How many knew of my supposed death? 

“Dead?” Marc replied. “Bertrand, that’s the second who told me that I should be dead. Does that stike you as peculiar?”

“It does, my lord,” Bertrand replied.

Marc gave the man a side glance before a grin crept over his lips. He could have remained a soldier and avoided this entire fiasco, so there was no one else to blame. Watching her squirm does have value…

“You have your orders,” Bertrand said in a calm tone. 

Upon hearing confirmation the guard sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and after taking a deep breath then moved towards the Steward. The moment he touched Théodore, the reaction was violent, upon realising no one would step forward to assist, the Steward hung his head and followed the guard away from the scene.

As though rehearsed, two new guards took their place at the front gates. Marc used the opportunity to sheath his sword and dismount, handing the reins over to one of the stablehands nearby. He made an impression showing up here. That had been necessary to gain the upper hand, but now it was time to be stately.

The crowd could no longer be contained. At first there was the occasional whisper, but that grew in frequency and volume until it became a dull roar. Meanwhile, Marc bit the inside of his cheek, fighting against the urge to cut the man down. At least this one deserves it. 

“Guard,” Marc said to rouse the guard behind the Steward. “Escort this man off the premises.”

“You can’t do—”

“I can and it’s done.” Marc turned to face the fate guard, “That’s an order from your Comte.”

The guard’s lower lip trembled and beads of sweat formed just below his sideburns. The man clearly appeared torn as those eyes went from Marc to the Steward. He imagined the guard weighing who he had the most to fear, be it the old man that ran the household, or the one claiming to be the Comte.

The Steward struggled to get back on his feet. He even batted away the hand of a guard who reached down to assist him. The humiliation may have been self-inflicted, but those narrow eyes burned bright as funeral pyres. I’m sure he blames me for all of this.

“Do you have proof?” Théodore asked. 

“I do. I carry a letter from Archbishop Judoc with testimonials from my uncle the Baron of—”

“Lies!”

“Lies?” Bertrand said. “This from the man who hinted that the heir to the Comte had been murdered?”

“It’s nice to see someone else caught that,” Marc said.

To escalate matters, Marc drew his sword. The sight of the blade caused anyone in striking distance to back away. The Steward was so panicked that he tripped on his feet and fell on his rump. 

Bertrand moved forward, past the row of guards, some of which were armed, while others lacked the experience to bring their weapons. Without concern Bertrand walked into the inner-circle.

“You still haven’t learned patience,” Bertrand said, using that tone he often adopted when mentoring Marc. 

“Oh,” Marc began. “I have, but this is more fun.”

“There’s only one of us that looks like a corpse, Théodore.”

That voice trembled a ough his reality had been shattered by a cannonade. His father must have sent an assassin to make the problem go away. Marc supposed that had his Uncle to thank for making the problem go away. I’ll be sure to send him something nice for our wine stores…

“You can’t be here…” Théodore said. “Guards!”

As the guards roused themselves from their collective stupor, Limos neighed and stood on his hind legs. It was never a good idea to spook a warhorse. However, Marc kept his cool and calmed Limos down.. 

“You dare challenge your Comte?” Marc challenged.

When the Steward recovered, his eyes darted towards Marc. Those grey eyes were glassy, lacking any sign of recognition. The uniform would have thrown the man off, but Marc’s sunburnt skin and sharp features should have been a clue. After as the man rolled back the years, he took in a sharp breath. 

Blood drained from his face, leaving behind greyish skin that reminded Marc of a desiccated corpse. This was not helped by the whin wiry hair that refused to be tamed. At least, I’m witnessing your true form.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Théodore said softly as though he were confessing his sins to the parish priest. 

“There’s only one of us that looks like a corpse, Théodore.”