My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 267

Chapter 267 Autumn Stalemate

Emperor Aldric smiled, as though the board already showed his inevitable victory. “Blaze is more than capable of carrying great burdens now. Stay in Jexburgh a little longer and restore your health. The Zonfrillo family already enjoys my highest favor–surely you do not wish to climb higher still.”

Higher than royal grace? That path led only toward treason’s cliff.

“My heart beats solely for Duflana, Your Majesty. Never have I harbored disloyal thoughts,” Alexander said firmly.

Aldric’s smile softened into something almost paternal. “I believe you. But I cannot allow you to exhaust yourself. Should you persist, I will assign Broadmoor’s affairs to others and force you to rest.”

The warning rang clear; Aldric would yield no further ground. “Then I shall draw my salary and idle, as commanded,” Alexander replied.

Aldric nodded, voice mellow as aged wine. “You have done so much for Duflana. Caring for you into old age is the least I can do.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Your Majesty,” Alexander murmured.

Once outside the palace gates, courtesy slid from his features; clouds of anger gathered, heavy with unspoken thunder.

Aldric’s intent was plain: if Alexander left for Broadmoor, the knife would fall on the Zonfrillo family. Ministers might fear choosing sides, yet many would gladly split the family’s wealth for a share.

The clash with the Steppe Nomads had thinned Broadmoor’s ranks. Even the joined forces of Prince Jinks and General Yeats could now outweigh Alexander’s diminished army.

Outwardly, both commanders served the Fourth Prince, yet Cornelius had already betrayed the country by leaking intelligence to the Steppe Nomads. That act of treason meant that it was no longer possible for him to ascend the throne. Therefore, could the emperor really be keeping Cornelius alive just to keep Zephyr in check? Or was it a tactic to shackle the Zonfrillo family?

Zephyr, flawed as he was, remained the only son fit for the throne; Cornelius existed now as counterweight–a leash held against Alexander’s ambitions.

If Alexander risked everything to help Soren, he would wear the brand of a rebel. Victory might wash the stain clean, but defeat would drag all generations of the Zonfrillos into the grave.

So Aldric had set the board: remain in Jexburgh and the family might yet survive; step beyond the walls and mercy would be the first piece sacrificed.

Alexander stood at the window of the dim war room, rain streaking the lattice like drawn blades. For the sake of every steward, maid, and soldier living under the Zonfrillo banner, he had no choice but to place his son’s safety second.

“His Majesty fears the strength you might lend, Your Highness. This decree severs Lord Soren’s last retreat,” a senior adviser murmured. “When do we leave Jexburgh?”

“Soren is ready. There is nothing for you to fear,” Alexander said, his voice deliberate and calm.

The terse assurance was, in truth, a silent verdict–Alexander had chosen not to leave the capital.

The adviser’s expression flickered–alarm, resignation, obedience–yet he remained silent.

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Far across the city, Fiona jolted upright in her narrow bed, a cry trapped in her throat. Cold sweat crawled down her spine like icy fingers.

In the nightmare, a single blade glimmered–pale as moon–ice–then drove straight through Soren’s abdomen. Around him, corpses carpeted the battlefield, their armor catching the dying light of a blood–red sunset.

Yet Soren seemed beyond pain. He wrenched the sword free, swung, and sliced clean through his assailant’s throat–one stroke, final, terrible.

Fiona could only stare, frozen, her face drained of color, as though the dream held her hostage even after waking.

Long moments later, she watched him–still in that dream–draw the blade from his own torn flesh. Blood dripped in thick scarlet ropes to the dust, while he stood unmoving, eyes emptied of all feeling.

That was Soren from her former life: remote, proud, a man who appeared to care for nothing and no one.

The Soren who now walked this timeline was different–so different she could recognize the change at a glance.

Then, in the dream, he turned and saw her.

His gaze rippled, softening with something like sorrow. Tears welled in her eyes as he dropped the weapon, clamped a trembling hand over the gushing wound, and took one halting step after another toward her. He spoke–but the words dissolved before she could hear them.

Fiona snapped awake at last, her nightdress plastered to her skin, soaked with cold perspiration.

In the life before this one, Soren’s abdomen had indeed carried a wound. At times, it ached; she had traced that thin scar with her fingertips, asking when it hurt the most.

“It hurts now,” he had said then, moving her hand aside with cool detachment.

“It hurts and yet…” Her cheeks had burned; she could not finish the thought–that he still sought their nightly passion.

“Weren’t you the one anxious for an heir?” Soren had replied, letting his gaze flick toward her.

“You want one, too, Hubby. Do not lay the desire solely at my feet, she whispered.

“At present, I am in no hurry for children,” he answered, voice flat.

He wanted only her body. When she pressed again about the origin of his wound, he turned away. “Some things are not yours to

know.”

Those words had cut deeper than steel, and she never asked again.

If that injury is destined to happen this very year, I have to be ready. Perhaps that single year forged the chasm in his nature–turned him from the warm man I know into the frigid stranger of my memories. But what could twist a soul so sharply?

A battlefield wound alone could not have wrought such coldness. Something else–something intolerable–must have happened

to Soren.

A dozen possible explanations fluttered through Fiona’s mind, none of them landing. With a small shake of her head, she let the puzzle dissolve, deciding the morning air was too crisp to waste on fruitless guessing.

Autumn care, and with it Jexburgh’s grand autumn hunt–a spectacle that, ever since the year the emperor had invited the noble

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ladies to ride, had hardened into a tradition no courtier dared miss.