My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 294

Chapter 294: Carvings of Longing

Months later, when Soren finally made his way back to Jexburgh, he found no welcoming carvings awaiting him. Not a single wooden figure or painted portrait greeted his return. He simply smiled to himself, convinced that the proud young woman had lost interest as quickly as she once had. Perhaps her feelings had been fleeting, he thought, a brief flicker now extinguished.

Curiosity led him to pry open the door of the side hall’s storeroom. Inside, rows upon rows of wooden carvings crowded the shelves, each one a miniature likeness. Portraits were stacked against the walls, scattered like fallen leaves, their colors faded but still vibrant in their own way. On the corner of one canvas, he spotted a scrawled nickname she had given him: The Infuriating Stone-Hearted Lord.

It became clear that these paintings and carvings were her secret refuge, a place where she could pour out her frustration. She depicted him as ridiculous—cross-eyed, heavy-lipped—each image more playful than the last. On the back of every piece, she had written pages of teasing anger.

“Next time he freezes me out like this, I’ll stop being kind,” one note read.

“If he treats me this coldly again, I’ll bar him from Radiant Lodge,” another warned.

“I’ve given him chance after chance. Why does he keep humiliating me? If I grovel again, I am no better than a dog!”

Only now did Soren realize that Fiona had never been capricious or fickle. She was a proud and spirited woman, wounded by his cold silence but still filled with thoughts of him. He remained in that side hall until dawn, standing motionless among the carvings and the dust, listening to a silent grief that spoke louder than words.

He discovered all this only after Fiona’s death, and the knowledge left him unsteady, with nowhere to anchor himself. Raw regret bound him like heavy chains, each memory sharp and bleeding.

“It seems Soren truly loved Fiona,” Naomi whispered softly, sorrow tinting her voice. “I always believed it. How could he not? She treated everyone with warmth, and cared for him most of all.”

Yes, he had loved her. There had even been a pang of jealousy whenever Zephyr was near her. But Soren was a solitary, cold-hearted man who never once dared to sit beside her and reveal the truth of his own heart.

As was his habit, he returned to Broadmoor, guarding Duflana’s frontier—more withdrawn, more distant than ever before. Jexburgh and the Zonfrillo family no longer held meaning for him. Only later did he understand why he had once returned home so eagerly: because Fiona was there, and wherever she stood, that place had been home.

He could not pinpoint when the idea had quietly taken root in his heart, slipping in like a shadow, certain and silent.

The next time he rode into Jexburgh, it was under tragic circumstances. Radiant Lodge had been consumed by flames, fire devouring every carving, every brushstroke, every trace of her. He urged his horse forward through the night, arriving at the smoldering ruins at dawn. Dropping to his knees among the ashes, he pressed his hands to his face and broke apart, losing the last fragile thread that had kept him upright.

“Fiona, our home is gone,” he whispered through the tears.

At that moment, the final fragile thread of hope inside Soren snapped completely.

From the far end of the shadowed hall, heavy footsteps echoed—Marcus approached, his boots striking the stone floor like the tolling of iron bells. “Regret is a bitter taste people only learn when it’s too late,” Marcus said smoothly, his voice as dark and velvety as night. “But I have heard a legend about resurrection. Tell me, Lord Soren, would you care to listen?”

Marcus fixed his gaze on Soren with an inscrutable stare, the kind of look mortals had once carved into stone and called divine.

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