Page 10 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

He hands me a black blindfold, unlike traditional ones that simply cover the eyes. This one covers my whole face down to my chest. There is no chance of seeing a thing through or around it. I place it over my head.

“I’m going to secure it,” he says, and I feel his hands where my hair meets my neck, tying it snug.

Darkness swallows me whole.

The loss of sight is disorienting, even for someone trained for it. I can see how it might unravel members of my team, how it could rattle them into missing every shot through anxiousness and confusion.

He places the bow and arrow in my hand, but doesn’t load it. Of course.

I hear him retreat until even the soft crunch of his steps vanishes, probably to make sure he’s not accidentally shot. The thought of a recruit hitting an officer during this challenge raises a smirk on my lips under the mask.

I’m completely alone now.

I regulate my breathing, letting my heartbeat settle to a steady rhythm. I don’t move. I listen.

For most, it’s the anxiety—subtle at first, then mounting like a drumbeat beneath the skin—that tricks the mind into hearing what doesn’t exist, striking at nothing but open air and shadows.

This is as much a test of restraint as it is of aim. Patience, not precision, will separate the skilled from the reckless.

Around me, the forest settles into a familiar tempo—the chirr of insects, the rustle of leaves, the distant flutter of wings.

I let it all wash over me, becoming part of it.

I don’t so much as draw a full breath, wary that even the rise of my chest might stir the silence and break the fragile thread of focus I’m clinging to.

Scurry.

Squawk.

Squeak.

Scurry.

Squawk.

Squeak.

Scurry—then a whisper. Fabric against bark.

I nock the arrow, spin, and release.

Thud.

Another rustle—unnatural.

I fire again.

Thud.

Then silence. Too silent. A dead patch where there should be sound. I feel it.

I draw, release.

Thud.

I peel the blindfold away.

Three arrows. Three hits. Each target—a suspended sack of stuffed cloth on a pulley—pierced right through the centre.

Barnett steps back into the clearing, one brow raised toward his receding hairline.

“What?” I ask with a smirk. “Did you expect anything less? I’m insulted, Henrik.” I use his first name, slapping a hand to my chest, faking hurt and offence.

He doesn’t answer. Just snorts, and whether it’s in annoyance or reluctant amusement, I can’t tell, but I bet it’s both. It’s usually both.

We rejoin the others, and he calls Stone next. The last to go.

When he returns, I watch him closely, searching for even a flicker of satisfaction or frustration, but his expression remains infuriatingly unreadable. It’s not just blank; it’s deliberate, as though the mask he wears was carved long ago and polished to perfection.

“Updated rankings will be posted by morning,” Barnett announces, leading us back toward the barracks. The moon reigns over the sun now, full and bright enough to illuminate the cobblestones we tread.

Everyone heads inside to sleep, exhausted from the physical and mental challenge today has been, but I linger by the door, Sam hanging back with me.

The wind has picked up slightly, carrying with it the briny scent of the ocean and the faint, sweet perfume of the blooming nightflowers that only open after dusk. The moon cast lends everything a dreamlike quality, and shadows stretch long and thin beneath the towering turrets of the Castle.

Sam stands beside me in silence, ever the quiet observer. His hands are clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the stars scattered across the inky sky.

“I saw the way Stone looked at you when Deacon was keeping you warm,” He murmurs, his voice casual but not without warning.

I glance at him sideways, one brow arching. “Did you?”

“He’s not subtle.”

“Neither are you, apparently,” I counter, but there’s no heat in my words. “I’m just going to go for a walk.” Shutting down any further conversation about Stone. There’s nothing between us, no point wasting breath on it.

He nods, no questions asked. He already knows exactly where I’m going; there’s no need for words.

I turn on my heel and slip into the stillness of the night, my boots tracing a well-worn path around the outer edge of the barracks.

The cold air nips at my skin, but I barely notice; my feet guide me with muscle memory alone, pulling me toward the north side of the castle without conscious thought.

The scent finds me before the sight does—heady, sweet, and unmistakably floral.

The rose garden greets me, its perfume clinging to the air in a delicate haze.

I pass beneath an arch of climbing blooms and make my way through the queen’s gardens, the moonlight catching in dew-dropped petals and casting silver reflections across the path.

Nestled beneath an ancient willow and half-covered by creeping vines, my bench waits. A simple thing wrought of dark metal and age, its curves patterned with twisting iron leaves. I lower myself into it with a sigh, letting the weight of the day dissolve into the cold iron beneath me.

From here, I have the perfect view of the North Wing of Aladria Castle.

I tilt my head up, eyes tracing the towering silhouette of the king’s chambers. Four tall iron-framed windows loom above, swathed in heavy curtains of midnight-blue velvet. They’re drawn tight, of course. Whatever stirs behind them is for no one to see, not even the stars.

I sit in silence for a long while, the scent of roses wrapping around me like a memory. My fingers trail across a lone yellow bloom that has slipped its way through the ornate back of the bench, petals soft as silk, clinging to the iron as though trying to escape its confines .

We have that in common, this rose and I.

I breathe in deeply, letting the scent settle in my chest before exhaling it into the cool night air.

Only then do I rise and begin the slow walk back to the barracks, my boots dragging and scraping the gravel with every step.

Inside, the room is draped in shadow, the steady rhythm of soft snores filling the space. I move quietly through the darkness, undressing and sliding beneath the covers without disturbing the others.

Sleep comes too easily when my head hits the pillow, which is always a warning sign. And sure enough, the shadows twist in my dreams. My hand slipping from her grip, she’s yelling as someone drags her away. I fight and scratch until my fingertips are bloody. Then silence. Always silence.

I wake drenched in sweat, my heart thundering, but I don’t make a sound. Just roll over and count my breaths. Four in, four out. The nightmares pass quicker that way.