My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 268

268 Autumn Hunt Tensions

Mindy, now properly betrothed, had withdrawn from such outings; her absence left a faint gap in the line of brightly plumed riders waiting at the palace gates. Most of the remaining ladies were unfamiliar to Fiona, their smiles polite yet distant, and without old companionship, the prospect felt more duty than delight.

Still, Emperor Aldric himself had named Fiona to the hunting party; her presence was not a choice but an edict bolstered by the weight of the throne.

The procession set out with Alexander riding tall beside Zephyr, their banners snapping like small thunderclaps above the horses. Among the younger men, Fiona recognized only two others–Xavier, lean and quiet, and Rowan, forever eager for a laugh.

Zephyr’s striking face, all sharp angles warmed by easy mischief, drew waves of breathless glances from the young ladies; at such an age, beauty eclipsed every pedigree. Xavier, reserved yet undeniable, attracted almost as much whispered appraisal, names fluttering through silk fans like birds startled from a cage.

Being several years their senior, Fiona could not comfortably sink into the ripple of giggles that followed Zephyr, she let the tide of gossip wash past her boots without catching at her skirts. Hillary, meanwhile, slipped away with bow and quiver, choosing the quiet beyond the walnut trees where only the thrum of practice arrows kept her company.

At dawn, Fiona had crossed Hillary’s path more than once; the girl’s wrists shone raw and red from repeated drawing, yet not a single complaint left her lips, every arrow released with a pilgrim’s devotion. In the crisp hush, Fiona detected an echo of Soren’s fabled precision buried within those fledgling shots.

Emperor Aldric happened upon the practice as well, his fur–lined cloak stirring fallen leaves before he stopped beside the target stands. “Hillary shows such diligence that I cannot help remembering how fiercely you once practiced, Fiona. The sight tugs my heart toward the past,” he said, the words wrapped in genial warmth.

“Your Majesty, my skill is nowhere near Fiona’s,” Hillary replied, lowering her gaze yet holding her bow upright. “Still, I hope one day my arrows may fly even truer than hers.”

Emperor Aldric nodded toward Xavier, who stood a pace behind the group, hands folded behind his back. “Xavier trained alongside Blaze under the same master. Let him offer you guidance; he once taught Fiona as well.”

A prickle of disagreement crawled beneath Fiona’s collar. She did not resent Hillary’s ambition, yet the idea of Xavier schooling another only to eclipse her left a faint, possessive ache she could neither justify nor suppress.

Instinctively, she sought Xavier’s eyes. His expression remained composed, but Fiona knew the emperor’s request was ironclad; courtesy alone would bind him before he could even consider refusal.

Xavier stepped forward, bowing with measured grace. “Your Majesty, I am honored, yet two days ago I split logs for my mother and strained my hand. I fear I cannot guide Ms. Chambers until it has healed.”

Fiona’s mouth flicked upward, a discreet spark of satisfaction lighting her gaze.

“In that case, I’ll let Zephyr coach you instead,” Emperor Aldric decided, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Hillary bowed again, voice steady despite the shuffle of expectations around her.

The emperor’s gaze swung back to Fiona, suddenly paternal, as though the hunt were secondary to more personal concerns. You’re seventeen now, Fiona. Among your peers, only you remain unbetrothed. Your father’s situation delayed matters, but I cannot watch them worry forever.”

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Xavier’s brow tightened, the movement slight but unmistakable.

Zephyr’s half–smile lingered, yet his eyes drifted toward Fiona, suddenly clouded with private calculation.

Alexander, sensing tension, cleared his throat. “If Mr. Niven is in a hurry to marry Fiona off, he would already be arranging suitors, Your Majesty. I suspect he has plans of his own.”

Zephyr nodded toward his father. “Father, Uncle Alexander is right. While we all care for Fiona, her family should steer this matter

themselves.”

Emperor Aldric studied his son a moment, then exhaled a rueful laugh. “True enough. It seems I meddle where affection urges but wisdom criticizes.”

Fiona dipped a respectful knee and retreated to the shadow of a canvas pavilion, content to let the parade of ladies and gentlemen display their talents while she observed, silent as a hawk above a still pond.

Naomi, seated nearby, mirrored her languid disinterest, gaze wandering beyond the silk–lined arena to thoughts only she could hear.

Hillary approached Naomi, concern etching her brow. “Naomi, still no word from Lord Soren?”

Hearing her own name echoed in the syllables, Fiona raised her head, only to realize the question was not meant for her. She watched Naomi offer a muted shake, strands of sable hair brushing the collar of her cloak.

Hillary’s face went suddenly white, as though every drop of warmth had been siphoned away. She bit her bottom lip–hard–and for an instant her whole body tightened, like a young doe trying not to flinch beneath a hunter’s arrow.

All morning, one eligible gentleman after another had drifted toward her with pleasant smiles and practiced compliments, yet Hillary had met each overture with quiet, impenetrable silence. Naomi, perplexed by the chill in the young lady’s demeanor, finally leaned closer and asked, “Isn’t there a single man here who stirs your heart? Why focus only on archery? Those poor fellows might as well be fluttering their lashes at a blind wall.”

Hillary blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then murmured, “I do not care for any of them.” Her voice was soft but steady, the finality in it leaving no room for debate.

Naomi shrugged, letting the subject die in the grass between them. The question, to her at least, seemed hardly worth pursuing.

Fiona, however, knew what Naomi did not: the man who truly commanded Hillary’s heart was far from Jexburgh today–so far, in fact, that no carefree flirtation could distract her from worrying about Soren.

During the last autumn hunt, Fiona had remained behind in the capital, missing the thrill of the chase. This season, she had insisted on joining Emperor Aldric’s grand expedition, determined not to be left behind again.

The royal hunting grounds sprawled for miles, and once the horns sounded, riders and beaters fanned out like scattered leaves. After bringing down a lone eagle with a single clean shot, Fiona turned her horse toward the route that would lead her back to camp.

Halfway home, she reined in abruptly. Zephyr–the Sixth Prince himself–sat on a boulder at the edge of the clearing, his posture slumped, lips drained of color. A dark stain spread across his trouser leg.

“Zephyr.” The title died on Fiona’s tongue; she could not leave him here and still hope to escape punishment for abandoning the emperor’s favored heir apparent. She dismounted, boots crunching on gravel, and knelt beside him.

Zephyr’s gaze lifted to hers, relief flickering in his eyes. “Fiona,” he whispered, the syllables ragged as though scraped across

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broken glass.

Only when she drew closer did Fiona see the gash on his thigh jagged, angry, and bleeding freely, Instinct overruled hesitation. She ripped a length from her riding cloak, wrapped the cloth around the wound, and cinched it tight with practiced hands.

The bandage forced her dangerously close to the prince’s most sensitive territory, and despite his pallor, she felt a faint tension ripple through him–a reaction that made her cheeks heat with startled annoyance.

She sighed inwardly, lifting her eyes toward the overcast sky as though seeking patience among the clouds. A rake will stay a rake,

even when half–dead

Still, she pretended to notice nothing as she fastened the final knot with cool efficiency before smoothing the torn edges of fabric into place.

“I’ll fetch help. Wait here,” she said, rising and brushing dirt from her palms.

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