Page 11 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

I stare at the board before me, my jaw clenched so tight my molars ache from the pressure.

Second.

I’m second.

How? Why?

The name at the top of the chart burns into my vision, and I zero in on it like a hawk ready to strike.

A solid, infuriatingly familiar chest brushes up against my back, heat radiating off it. The clean, crisp scent of soap and steel invades my senses, and I curse the way it curls around me, warm and distracting.

“Hmm,” Stone hums behind me, low and thoughtful, like the rankings are nothing more than mildly interesting to him. It’s that detached, effortless superiority that makes me want to spin and slap the smug look right off his face.

He’s the reason I’m second.

Because there, right at the very top, in obnoxiously bold capital letters:

STONE CARLISLE.

Stone. Fucking. Carlisle.

“Looks like you’ll have to try a little harder, Red.” His voice is a lazy drawl at my ear, breath brushing against the crown of my head. My whole body stiffens.

I hate how tall he is. Hate the way he looms over me.

Worse, I hate that I love how it makes me feel, like I’m delicate and soft. Everything I’ve never been allowed to be. I’m suddenly very aware of how easily his hands could pin me. How his large fingers could wrap around my throat and…

Nope. Absolutely not. Shut it down, Elina.

I pivot on my heel without a word, without even looking at him. Because if I do, I might lose control for just long enough to bury my knee somewhere extremely effective—and possibly irreversible.

As much as Stone Carlisle deserves it, I’m not quite ready to be the reason he can’t reproduce.

* * *

I arrive at the library that evening, my footsteps sounding too loud in the hush that wraps the space like velvet.

The moment I step inside, the tension in my shoulders begins to ebb.

There’s something about the scent of old parchment and polished wood that always settles the anger simmering beneath my skin.

This place has long been my sanctuary. As a child, whenever I went missing, Deacon knew exactly where to find me—curled up in a second-floor reading nook, smothered in cushions with a novel balanced on my knees. Safe. Small. Invisible.

And now, with a rare few hours free, my feet wandered here almost of their own accord.

I lift my gaze. Towering shelves stretch up toward the high-arched ceiling, books stacked like bricks in a cathedral of knowledge. The stained-glass windows cast warm shafts of amber and rose from the setting sun across the floor, and for a moment, I just… breathe.

I make my way up the spiral staircase, trailing my fingers along the smooth oak bannister and heading toward a familiar corner. A particular book has been calling to me lately, and I’m in the mood for comfort.

It’s a secret I’ll carry to the grave, but I love romance novels. Star-crossed lovers, fated bonds, slow-burn yearning. I devour it all. And in a world like mine, where most “relationships” involve strategy and swordplay, sue me for indulging in a little escapism.

I find the rolling ladder and climb carefully, gripping the iron rails as the wheels clank softly along the track. When I spot the worn blue spine of my favourite story, I reach for it with the sort of reverence most people reserve for holy relics.

Book in hand, I jump lightly down, landing with the grace of a cat. I clutch it to my chest and scan the room for a good reading spot. There—tucked between two tall shelves, dim but cosy. A fortress of solitude made of cushions and faded blankets.

I settle in, cross-legged, and open the pages. The words draw me in instantly, painting a world far removed from mine. My lips curve into a small, private smile.

And then I’m interrupted by—

Is that… giggling?

High-pitched, breathy, and irritatingly out of place.

I freeze, frowning. Then comes the unmistakable crash of someone being pushed up against the shelves, followed by a series of soft, breathy moans that echo in the vast room.

You have got to be kidding me.

Peering out from my nook, I tiptoe toward the bannister and look down. Sure enough, nestled in the section dedicated to books containing tales of the Gods themselves, two bodies are entangled in a mess of limbs.

Sacrilege.

Golden hair cascades over the girl’s shoulder, her shirt slipping off one side to reveal her collarbone and where it’s currently being kissed by her partner. She hikes a leg around his waist, and he presses into her like they’re trying to merge into one very distracting, very noisy creature.

My lip curls in disgust—and maybe a teeny, tiny bit of jealousy. I came here to avoid people. To heal my fraying sanity with fictional longing, not to be assaulted by real-life lust.

Do people not understand how close I am to a breakdown? I just wanted two quiet hours to read about men longing and yearning for overly dramatic women. Is that really too much to ask?

I retreat to my corner, flipping through the pages to where I left off, and attempt to immerse myself in the words. But the moaning grows louder, and after the fifth dramatic gasp, I snap. The book slams shut with a satisfying thwack , louder than necessary.

There’s a startled pause.

“What was that?” the girl whispers. Oh, now she’s worried about volume. Her voice—unfortunately—rings a bell. Mercy Wethers. Daughter of a trainer. Entitled. Catty. A bit of a bitch, if I’m honest.

“What was what?” comes the low, lazy reply. That voice… damn it. Stone .

Of course, it’s him. I didn’t recognise him with his face buried in her neck.

An unwelcome pang stabs through my chest, sharp and stupid and completely misplaced.

“Nothing, I thought I heard something,” Mercy says uncertainly. The kissing noises resume, worse than before. I consider stuffing two pillows over my ears to deafen them out.

“So, do you reckon you can show me where they are?” Stone asks in between kisses.

“Mm-hmm.” Mercy’s response is little more than a hum of blissed-out agreement .

“They should be on the fourth floor. Why do you need them again?” she asks, suddenly more coherent.

“Just a little research,” he answers smoothly.

I frown.

The fourth floor? That’s nothing but royal family archives. Diaries, ancestral records, ceremonial drivel no one reads unless they’re studying to be a royal historian or a masochist. What would Stone be looking for up there?

Mercy seems to be wondering the same thing. “Research on the kings? Why would you—”

She doesn’t finish. He kisses her again, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

“Shall we finish this elsewhere?” he murmurs, voice thick with charm, and their footsteps fade as they leave.

I rise and step near the bannister again, glancing down at the now-abandoned scene of their little library tryst.

Well, it appears that there’s more to Stone Carlisle than meets the eye.

* * *

The days pass in a blur of sweat-slick training sessions and snatched moments of laughter around shared meals with my team. I don’t try to confront Stone; both of us seem to avoid not just conversation but also the strange, coiled tension that always seems to bloom in the other’s presence.

But throughout it all, Elite Squad are beginning to move like clockwork—faster, sharper, edges honed by both discipline and mounting pressure.

Mornings begin with gruelling drills in the yard, where Junie’s jabs land harder, and Trent’s swordplay gets more precise.

Deacon still finds time to heckle us all between push-ups, somehow managing to make us laugh mid-suffering, and even Sam, when he isn’t sulking about his sore shoulder, cracks a few smiles.

In the evenings, we sprawl out under the stars or swap stories in the barracks. The friendships I’m forming here—real ones, unexpected and solid—are something I never thought would happen when I was forced to enlist.

* * *

The village of Thessell, nestled west of the castle, barely registers on most maps. Just a scattering of cottages, a modest market square, a lake tucked into green fields. But what the maps miss is its soul; it’s a place mostly untouched by war, where warmth and joy still linger in the air.

We cross the narrow bridge just after midday, the sun high, bees weaving lazy patterns through the lavender hedges.

Shutters are flung wide to welcome the breeze.

Flower boxes spill over with colour—sol flowers, roses, lupins.

The tinkle of shop doors, distant laughter, the soft clop of hooves on cobblestones.

And the smell of freshly baked bread drifting from a bakery makes my stomach growl.

Deacon walks beside me with his hands laced behind his head, face tilted to the sun like he’s on holiday.

“Guard duty,” he hums contentedly. “I could get used to this.”

Trent sidesteps a cart piled with oranges and smirks. “Junie and Brynn ended up with Virelay.”

He shudders at the name of the village, which is mostly swamp land. I don’t blame him. The last time I was there, something slithered through the bog that still visits me in nightmares .

“Yeah, I think we got lucky,” Deacon says, tossing an apple in the air before catching and biting into it. Juice runs down his chin, but he just grins, dimples flashing.

Our orders are simple—walk the streets, maintain peace. But Thessell is too far from the Dunmere border to be in any real danger. You can feel it in the way people move, without fear, without hurry. They sip coffee in the sun, chat over market stalls, and stroll hand-in-hand along the square.

We pass a cluster of children on a swing set, their parents watching from a bench nearby, all sun-dappled smiles and soft conversation. The kids wave when they spot our uniforms, the gold sun emblem of Aladria gleaming on our chests. We wave back, slow and easy.

Then I see it. The temple.

It sits just off the square, its white stone walls glowing in the light. Honeysuckle vines curl around the archway, and the heavy wooden door is carved with Admira’s sun. We drift toward it without a word, as if Admira herself is guiding our steps.