Page 12 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

Inside, the air cools instantly. It smells of incense and jasmine, the kind that clings to your clothes.

Sunlight streams through coloured glass in hues of gold and amber, painting the floor like a mosaic.

The space is small, quiet. Just rows of benches, a simple altar, and a high dome above that bathes the room in light.

Offerings have been left at the base of the altar—sol flowers tied with twine, a bundle of peaches, a child’s chalk drawing of the sun.

A luminary stands at the front, head bowed beneath the stained-glass depiction of Admira, her figure haloed by light.

I can’t hear the woman’s words, but I can feel the gratitude in her posture.

She finishes her prayer, bows, and turns with a soft smile, nodding to us as she moves to greet a family entering behind.

I lift my eyes to the image of Admira, serene and golden, peace written in every curve of her face .

The warmth within my core surprises me.

I haven’t prayed in years. But I close my eyes, just for a breath, and let the silence fill me.

When we step back into the square, it’s as if the light has shifted. Everything is brighter. Softer. Quieter inside me.

We split off after that—Trent and Deacon heading in opposite directions to cover more ground. I wander past a fabric shop, fingers catching on a strip of pale pink silk that flutters in the breeze.

Then—

Crack.

A sharp splintering sound snaps the stillness. I turn before I even think.

A tall bundle of firewood beside the bakery has come loose, bindings snapped, logs tumbling fast. A toddler stands beneath it, arms wrapped around a loaf of bread, unaware.

I lunge forward

—but someone beats me to it.

A boy—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—dives between the child and the falling logs. He plants his feet, braces, and catches the entire load in his arms.

I freeze. Not because I’m afraid, but because he’s still standing.

The weight from that wood should’ve flattened him, but he just caught it all without effort, like he was holding a bag of feathers.

He lowers the wood slowly, carefully shielding the little one with his body. Then sets the bundle down and straightens.

The child toddles away without a second glance, calling for the older boy to follow.

The teen looks around. Fast. Nervous.

Then his gaze locks with mine. The only witness.

Everything stills.

I hold his eyes for a beat. And then I nod, offering a small, steady smile.

Relief floods his features. He ducks his head and hurries after the child.

Deacon rounds the corner, whistling. Trent’s close behind him, unaware.

I say nothing.

Because strength like that? It could save lives. But in the wrong hands, it becomes a weapon. And Dagan is always watching.

So I pretend not to see.

* * *

The day Deacon has been dreading is today. We’re being dragged through a knowledge assessment.

I stride into the boardroom in the west wing, yawning as I drop into a seat behind Junie. Half of our team is already settled at individual desks, preparing for a two-hour mental battle over the history of Aladria.

“So, where are you on the leaderboard again?” Deacon leans toward me from the next desk, tapping one finger on his chin in contemplation and clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter, glaring at him as he chuckles under his breath. I’m still fuming about Stone being ranked first.

“Oh? Are you competitive? I wouldn’t have guessed.” Junie twists in her chair to glance back at me, her tone full of sarcasm.

I lift my middle finger to her.

“I’ve never met anyone more competitive,” Deacon teases, grin widening. “She’s been that way since we were kids—always had to be the best at everything. ”

“And I always have been,” I say, flipping my hair over my shoulder with a faux air of indifference, though the bitter taste of second place still clings to the roof of my mouth.

“Until Stone strolled into the castle grounds,” Deacon quips. “Out of ten, how mad are you right now? Eleven? You’re at eleven, right?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl.

He casts an imaginary fishing rod and reels it in dramatically like he’s just hooked a prize catch, right as Stone’s heavy boots echo down the aisle.

He stops by Deacon’s desk, propping his annoyingly sculpted ass on the edge with a casual ease that makes my teeth grind. Head to toe in his black uniform—black boots, black cargo trousers, and a tight black shirt stretched across his chest like it was made to tempt me.

“Oh no, don’t stop on my account,” Stone drawls. “There’s nothing I’d like to hear more than how much my presence is rattling Little Red.”

Deacon mouths “Little Red” at me behind Stone’s back with a smirk and a wiggling of his eyebrows. I respond with a scowl sharp enough to cut glass.

“Don’t get used to it,” I shoot back. “We’ve got three more assessments. Plenty of time for your name to fall.”

Stone pushes off Deacon’s desk with a laugh, making his way to a seat next to Trent at the front. Arrogant bastard.

“Oh, the sexual tension ,” Junie mutters over her shoulder. “I live for it.”

Before I can respond, a throat clears at the front of the room.

“Good morning, Elite Squad,” says Miss Fairbourne, all curves and glossy blonde hair. Her glasses sit low on her nose as she scans the room, pausing a beat too long on Deacon before moving on.

“For the next two hours, you’ll be tested on Aladria’s history. Your scores will be added to your overall marks, and the leaderboard will be updated accordingly.” She paces the aisles, dropping papers on our desks.

When she reaches Deacon, she leans just a little too far over, brushing her chest against his arm. As she walks away, he dramatically bites his knuckle in mock agony. I snort, loud enough to draw Miss Fairbourne’s sharp gaze.

She’s never liked me, even when I was top of her class. Probably because I never kissed her ass and Deacon always has. Figuratively and literally, I imagine.

“Begin,” she announces.

I lean over my page, eyes flicking to the first question.

1. Name and describe the final battle of the First War against Dunmere.

My pen doesn’t hesitate.

The Siege of Dawncross.

Easy. Every child in Aladria grows up on stories of Dawncross. I keep writing.

The Siege of Dawncross was led by General Cerys over four hundred years ago.

Gifted by Admira herself, Cerys could draw directly from the sun’s power, which is an ability no one has wielded since.

With it, she led a force through the border village of Dawncross and deep into Dunmere territory, infiltrating the capital and assassinating the corrupt King Marcus by injecting him with concentrated sunrays.

But wielding that much divine energy comes with a cost. Cerys was destroyed in the process, burned from the inside out by the very light she called upon. She died before she could witness the signing of the peace treaty that followed, a treaty that held in full for nearly two centuries.

I glance up briefly. Trent sits across from me, jaw clenched in focus as he scribbles. Junie is chewing the end of her pen, deep in thought.

I look back down and finish the last line.

Until Dagan took the throne, we still relied on parts of the treaty for trade, diplomacy, and secure borders. All of that ended the day he declared war.

The next two hours fly. I answer every question and even have time to double-check. When the clock runs out and everyone files out for lunch, Deacon leans toward me.

“I’ll meet you in the hall in ten…” He glances at Miss Fairbourne, who’s got her head down pretending to mark papers, whilst glancing at him through her blonde hair. “…Make that thirty minutes.”

Rolling my eyes, I head to the Great Hall. The corridor outside is packed with recruits darting between challenges and classes.

I grab lunch and find Junie at our table.

Stone takes the seat next to mine, a rarity, considering he’s usually parked at another table with some girl draped across his lap.

His arm brushes mine as he settles in, not intentionally, just a byproduct of his mountainous size.

I shift slightly away, ignoring the tingle his touch leaves behind.

Trent joins a second later, sliding into the seat across from him.

Junie and Trent immediately start dissecting the test and comparing questions they weren’t sure about.

“No, no,” Junie argues. “We pray to Luvia at the end of summer, asking Her to bless the land with rain.”

“Oh shit, I thought you prayed to Admira,” Trent says.

“Why on earth would Saiyan, the hottest kingdom on the continent, pray for more sun?” she asks with a chuckle. “No, we pray to the Goddess of Rain and Storms for water to end the drought.”

I’m more interested in carbs than conversation and focus on demolishing my plate. Humming sounds of pleasure.

“You like pasta, huh?” Stone nudges me, clearly amused.

I look at him like he’s an idiot. “Yeah?” I mean, what kind of feral creature doesn’t like pasta?

“You eat it a lot,” he comments, and I shake my head, both at the observation and his attempt at small talk.

“Gods forbid a girl has a hobby,” I mutter, shovelling in another forkful.

He huffs a laugh, and it’s low and rough, like velvet dragged over gravel—unexpectedly warm and far too easy to get addicted to. Great. Now I’m storing that in my brain like it’s treasure.

“So, is that your thing?” he asks, but I just shrug in answer, offering a small, sly smile.

We eat in silence after that, listening to the others debate Aladria’s history. Elijah, Jorren, and Brynn toss in facts—some right, some hilariously wrong. I don’t bother correcting them.

The conversation shifts to the current ruler of Aladria, King Orren.

“I’ve heard he became a recluse after Queen Liora disappeared,” Brynn says, leaning forward. “He hasn’t left the North Wing in four years. Not for council meetings, not for state visits, nothing.”

“I heard the king and queen were mates,” Elijah adds. “Like, real mates. Chosen by the Gods themselves.”

Stone lets out a quiet, disbelieving snort, and my eyes flick to him.

“You don’t believe in mates?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“I don’t believe in fairytales,” he replies coolly.

“There are stories in Saiyan,” Junie says with a frown. “Of people with fated bonds.”

“And that’s all they are,” Stone mutters. “Stories.”

“I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Junie,” Trent teases, nudging her elbow, causing it to slip off the table.

“Have you ever tried to get into North Wing, Elina?” Elijah asks, his tone filled with excitement.

But before I can respond, Deacon drops into the seat on my other side, slinging an arm over my shoulders.

“Ugh.” I shove him off. “Don’t touch me. I don’t know where that hand’s been.”

“You’ve got a pretty good idea.” He winks, wiggling his fingers near my face before grabbing a baguette the size of his forearm and biting into it.

“You look real pleased with yourself,” Trent notes.

“Ah, life’s short, my friends. Smile while you still have teeth.”

Just like that, the conversation shifts back to teasing, back to normal.

But out of the corner of my eye, I notice Stone gripping his fork so tightly his knuckles are white.