Page 13 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

T hat evening, Barnett stops by the barracks to inform Junie, Sam, and me that we’re on the roster for a night patrol.

Dressed in full military leathers this time, weapons strapped tight and boots laced high, we climb into the waiting carriage under the fading light of dusk, the air already chilled by the approach of nightfall.

The carriage rattles beneath us as we cross the long stone bridge, the wheels thunking over uneven patches worn down by centuries. The castle looms behind us like a shadow, its spires watching in silence as we move away.

The wind picks up as we reach the midpoint of the bridge, and I pull my jacket tighter around me. Beside me, Sam sits with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed ahead. Junie lounges opposite, her boot tapping a quiet rhythm against the wood.

The pace slows, and we approach the looming wrought iron gates, indicating the only way in and out of the castle grounds. The guards give us a curt nod, unlatching the heavy locks before swinging the gates open with a groan of metal.

The castle, for all its beauty, is built like a fortress, and in recent years, security around its perimeter has become heightened.

The journey is slow and jolting, every bump in the road adding to the ache in our muscles. So when the carriage finally rolls to a stop, we waste no time clambering out, stretching stiff limbs with quiet groans of relief.

We’ve arrived at the outskirts of the old town, a place that deeply contrasts with Thessell.

Where laughter and chatter filled Thessell’s streets, silence clings to the abandoned, crumbling buildings in Aladria’s old town, broken only by the distant creak of wood and the soft whisper of dust being carried along empty roads.

Crumbling stone buildings lean against each other like they’ve forgotten how to stand on their own.

Windows are empty sockets. Doors hang open, and some are blown off their hinges.

Vines crawl up walls that once held vibrant paint, faded signs for bakeries, seamstresses, and even a tiny theatre whose stage hasn’t seen a performer in years.

“Gods, I forgot how bad it was here,” Sam mutters as he tightens his sword belt.

Junie walks a few paces ahead, dagger in hand, eyes scanning every alleyway and broken fence. “This is so sad,” she says softly. “My aunt used to bring me here for vacation. There was this little bakery with lemon cakes in the window…”

Her voice trails off.

I follow her gaze to a collapsed bell tower further down the street, the copper roof green with age and peeling away like an old scab. There’s still a tangle of red and blue ribbons tied to a gate nearby—faded, frayed, but stubbornly clinging on.

“The first place in the South attacked by Dagan,” Sam says, quieter now as he glances around.

The memories I have of this place haunt me.

We walk in silence a while longer, patrolling through ghost-still courtyards and forgotten lanes. Our boots echo too loudly in the silent streets.

We pass a crumbling statue of Danzar, the God of Music and Dance.

Once elegant, his tightly curled marble hair is now chipped and worn, entire chunks missing.

He leans precariously against the building behind him, not like a guardian, but like a weary reveller too tired to stand on his own, propped there by damage rather than design.

Eventually, we reach a stretch where the buildings thin out, leaving a small, sheltered square. There’s a shattered fountain in the middle shaped like a sun, moss growing over cracked marble lions. Sam tosses a pebble into the basin, breaking the silence with a gentle splash.

Junie then surprises us both by pulling out a folded cloth bundle from her pack. “I visited the kitchens before we left,” she declares, revealing three delicious-looking cream cakes, slightly squashed. “I figured we would need a sweet treat.”

I take mine without hesitation. “And this is why you’re my favourite.”

Sam raises a brow like he’s offended, but doesn’t comment.

We perch on the fountain’s edge, biting into our desserts, the sweetness a strange contrast to the crumbling square around us. It feels oddly sacred, sharing a quiet moment like this in a place so hollowed out.

After a pause, Junie says, “Kayli tries to make cream cakes like this.” Then she laughs, soft and breathy. “She’s shit at cooking, though. She’d burn half of them.”

I glance at her sideways. Her eyes are distant, but there’s something lighter about her when she talks about her girlfriend.

“Can I ask… how did your parents take it? When you told them about her?” I glance at Junie, knowing Saiyan isn’t exactly known for being progressive.

Junie bites her lip. “Oh, they weren’t thrilled when I told them. About her. About me. They’re archaic when it comes to views on love.”

Sam whistles low between his teeth. “That’s rough. ”

She smiles tightly. “They don’t want me to be something they don’t understand. They think I’ll outgrow it, or it’s a phase. You know. The usual.”

“Well,” I say, licking the last of the sweet cream from my fingers, “if you ever decide to fake your death and start over on Bretton, I’m your girl.

” I’m referring to the quiet desert island just off our coast, far enough to have currently escaped Dagan’s wrath.

Queen Marrianna rules there, an ally of Aladria.

She offers asylum to people from our kingdom who need it.

Junie snorts. “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Sam leans back on his hands, eyes turned to the colourless sky, but I can tell he’s still acutely aware of everything around us.

When we finally rise and resume our patrol, the devastation hasn’t gone anywhere. But it feels like maybe we’re walking through it with a little more strength.

Or, at the very least, slightly better moods after a boost of sugar.

* * *

The following morning, I wake early, too early, but I’m rewarded the moment I check the leaderboard.

There it is. My name. Number one.

All is right in the world again.

I also see that Deacon has managed to jump up several places on the scoreboard, so I’m assuming Miss Fairbourne was happy with his “performance.”

I grin to myself, basking for just a second in the ranking before turning to walk away, only to collide with a wall of muscle. I stumble back, barely catching my balance as I bounce off an annoyingly broad chest.

“Oops—sorry,” I say sarcastically as I realise it’s Stone. “Didn’t see you all the way down there in second place.”

His jaw ticks.

A low growl rumbles from his chest, like an irritated bear who’s been woken from hibernation, and it’s music to my ears.

His eyes narrow, stormy, and sharp. “You’re insufferable.”

I flash him a dazzling smile. “And still ranked higher than you.”

I saunter off, an added bounce in my step.

* * *

The clang of metal fills the air; it’s sharp, rhythmic, relentless. Across the wide sprawl of combat rings, squads are locked in sparring matches, sweat slicking every brow. Officers prowl the perimeter, arms folded, eyes sharp, occasionally barking orders over the clash of blades.

I twist and parry against Deacon, sweat trickling down my temples as he swings again.

I duck beneath his arm, earning a crooked grin from him.

Just to our right, Trent is locked in a blisteringly fast exchange with Sam, their blades ringing like struck bells.

Junie and Stone are collapsed on the grass nearby, panting, sweat plastering shirts to skin after their round.

Deacon lunges again, but I spin, slapping the flat of my blade against his shoulder with a satisfying thud. He grunts at the impact—he’ll bruise—but before either of us can reset, a deep noise rumbles from our left.

We both freeze.

The ground beneath us trembles. Dust and sand dance across the packed earth, quivering like it’s alive.

Two rings down, a cadet from Force Squad stumbles back into the ropes just as the ground ahead of him splits wide. The crack hisses open into a growing crater .

“Move!” someone shouts.

He vaults over the ropes, narrowly missing the chasm as it devours the space he’d just occupied. In the centre of the chaos stands a cadet with sandy hair, rooted to the spot, both hands outstretched. Trembling.

His eyes are wide, stricken.

The dust begins to settle, revealing a jagged pit at least six feet across, dirt still crumbling into it. Officers rush in, forming a perimeter around the cadet and the fractured ring.

“Recruit Wright,” one officer calls gently. “Lower your hands.”

The boy’s chest heaves. He looks down at his hands as if they betrayed him, then slowly lowers them.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to—I lost control.”

An officer steps forward and takes his arm—not roughly, but with quiet authority—guiding him out of the ring. Another steps into place behind him, shielding him from view as murmurs ripple across the grounds.

“A Gifted.”

“Did you see that?”

“I’ve never seen one before.”

Junie appears at my side, frowning. “Where are they taking him?”

“He’ll be evaluated,” I say quietly, heart sinking. “And then sent into hiding. Too many people saw.”

All it takes is one whisper to the wrong person, and Dagan will find him. This will be the last time we ever see Recruit Wright.

The pit still gapes in the ring like a wound in the earth. Officers are already roping it off, herding cadets away with curt commands.

At the far end of the field, I catch sight of Carter barking orders. He turns briefly, spots me in the crowd, checks I’m unharmed, and offers a small nod before disappearing into the chaos once more.

* * *

Just as Deacon dreaded our knowledge assessment, there’s a particular test I’ve been dreading.

Endurance.

Most recruits believe the endurance test will be some form of long-distance run or swim, something athletic. However, I know it’s much worse than anything physical.