Reborn to Flee My Fiance's Obsession (Fiona and Soren) novel Chapter 275

Neglected 275 Summary

Lord Soren announces his departure that night, determined to leave no matter the consequences involving Tristan or his uncle. Quentin, though hesitant, accepts this decision and slips away silently. Back at the army camp, tension runs high as news spreads rapidly. Quentin returns with only Soren’s sword, indicating the lord’s disappearance. Tristan, struggling with mixed emotions, orders a thorough search and strict secrecy about Soren’s fate, while Spencer watches Quentin with a calculating gaze. Winnifred, worried for Penelope who depends solely on Soren, urges caution and is advised by Tristan to return to Jexburgh for safety.

Later, Quentin encounters Spencer in a deserted courtyard, where a brief confrontation reveals Spencer’s suspicious interest in Quentin’s activities and the mysterious fire on Gravesorrow Mountain. Their tense exchange is interrupted by a young woman who calls out to Quentin, causing Spencer to lose composure. Spencer searches the woman’s home but finds no trace of Soren, confirming that he has vanished without a trace. Quentin remains guarded, and Spencer departs silently into the night.

Far away in Southmere, Fiona arrives at the decaying Niven Manor, drawing the attention of the townsfolk who recall the family’s past and the illness of Old Duke Niven’s granddaughter. Fiona is guided inside by Meryl, who reminds her of the manor’s history and her great-grandfather’s legacy. Though the house is well-maintained, it carries the weight of past troubles, including her father’s demotion and strained family relations. Fiona’s return marks a significant moment, as she faces a place filled with old worries but also the possibility of reclaiming her heritage.

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Hidden Currents

“Lord Soren…” Quentin’s voice wavered momentarily before he forced himself to steady.

“I leave tonight,” Soren declared, his determination sharpening with every word. “There is no turning back now, not over Tristan or my uncle.”

Quentin bowed deeply, no longer daring to argue, and slipped silently into the night.

The atmosphere in the army camp was thick with tension; whispers and rumors spread like wildfire, faster than sparks racing across dry grass. When Quentin rode through the camp gates, soldiers quickly gathered around him, their faces etched with a mixture of hope and dread. Even Tristan had dismissed the usual drills, summoning Quentin immediately.

Dropping to his knees before Tristan, Quentin raised the sheathed sword above his head. “Mr. Tristan, I was unable to locate Lord Soren. The only thing I found was his sword.”

Among warriors, a sword was more than a weapon—it was a symbol of life itself. Wherever the blade lay, its owner was presumed to be; if the sword was lost or destroyed, so too was the warrior.

Tristan’s eyes reddened with emotion, but his voice remained steady. “Are you absolutely sure you searched every inch?”

“After recovering the sword, I combed Gravesorrow Mountain from ridge to ravine. Since then, have the other search parties found anything?”

Tristan hesitated, unable to answer. Instead, his deputy general stepped forward. “One group discovered armor—Lord Soren’s—half-consumed by fire.”

Quentin halted mid-step. The heir’s keepsake lay before him, a silent testament to Soren’s mind, always plotting several moves ahead. In that distant moment, Soren had already begun planning his escape, entrusting this token to carry the message forward.

Tristan inhaled deeply, forcing the fury from his eyes. “Soldiers, saddle the fastest horses and ride through the night. The capital must be informed immediately! As for Soren, not a word is to leave this camp. Anyone who disobeys will answer directly to me.”

Standing to one side, Spencer let his gaze linger on Quentin. A thoughtful shadow passed over the young official’s eyes, as if a complex puzzle was finally beginning to fall into place.

Winnifred, having spotted Quentin, hurried over, her face tight with worry. “Quentin, how is Soren? What news do you have?”

“Mother, please be patient,” Tristan replied, though the uncertainty tasted bitter on his tongue. “We have yet to pick up any trail of Soren.”

Winnifred clenched her fingers until her knuckles turned white. “Penelope has only Soren. If something terrible happens to him, what will she do?” The question hung heavily in the air, made all the more painful because her own sons, Tristan and Callum, wore the same armor and faced the same dangers.

Tristan considered her words, his brows furrowed in thought, then spoke quietly, “For now, it would be wiser for you to return to Jexburgh.”

Winnifred blinked, surprised by the suggestion. Then she nodded, placing full trust in her eldest son; whatever Tristan decided was the path she would follow without hesitation.

The night grew still and silent, as if even the wind had paused to hold its breath.

Quentin moved quietly through the deserted streets until he reached a lonely courtyard, half-hidden in shadow. Suddenly, a blade flashed toward him, its silver edge gleaming like moonlight dancing on water. Instinctively, Quentin raised his own sword, steel clashing sharply against steel.

His heart sank as the attacker stepped into the pale light—it was Spencer. The official’s footwork was more precise and dangerous than Quentin had ever imagined, every move calculated and sharp.

“Mr. Sunderland,” Quentin said, sheathing his sword.

Spencer’s smile appeared harmless. “I happened to see you, Commander Young, and thought I might exchange a few pleasantries. But I do wonder—what brings you out here at this hour?”

Quentin pressed his lips together, choosing silence.

Leaning closer, Spencer’s voice softened but held an edge. “Surely you’re not hiding something important. That blaze on Gravesorrow Mountain was quite unusual.”

“Do you think I’m concealing the truth about Lord Soren?” Quentin’s brows knitted in suspicion.

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