Page 14 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

After a quick, light breakfast, we head toward the bunker, and if there’s one place in this castle that fills me with dread, it’s that Gods-damned bunker. My palms are already sweating.

“Today, we will be assessing your endurance,” Barnett explains as we join him at the locked entrance leading deep underground.

“This is a test of mental stamina and strength. We need to know that you can withstand torture if you are ever captured by the enemy. Therefore, today, before entering the bunker, you will all be given a secret set of words. You will then face various torture techniques where we will attempt to pry those words from you. It is your job to protect them at all costs.”

He looks at us all solemnly. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen from him since he was assigned to us. “I wish you all good luck.”

This is going to suck balls.

Barnett unlocks the heavily chained door. The bunker itself was specially designed for mental endurance and torture training. How lovely.

Carter saw it fit that both Deacon and I go through a few sessions ourselves when we turned eighteen.

After the first one, Deacon didn’t speak for a week. Dalia was so angry that she almost beat Carter to death with a rolling pin and potato masher. Only the sight of his mum wielding a cooking utensil in each hand and chasing a general around the conference hall brought him out of his shock.

I didn’t fare much better, feeling physically sick for days. It even put me off food. Carter did get slightly worried then. Didn’t stop the bastard from putting us through three more sessions, though, did it?

Knowing what’s in store doesn’t ease my anxiety. In fact, it makes it worse. This will be my fifth time.

I look to the sky. What, in Admira’s name, did I do in a past life to deserve this?

We’ve all been given our sequence of words. I barely paid attention when Barnett whispered mine in my ear. Better to simply not remember what they are.

We walk down into the ground, following Barnett in silence. The tension is high. The smell of damp earth and old urine grows stronger the further we go. The steps narrow as we descend, inducing claustrophobia before we even enter the pit.

It’s a small, empty room with a compacted, muddy floor and stone walls. No windows.

We congregate in the centre. Our team’s size makes it feel tighter as our shoulders brush.

I feel a comforting squeeze to my palm and glance at Deacon. He’s already pale and sickly, but manages a small smile of reassurance before letting go and focusing on Barnett, standing at the threshold, already one foot out like he’s ready to flee.

I’m sure this room conjures nightmares for every recruit who’s ever entered it. Even some higher-ranking officials.

“For the next five hours, you will be mentally challenged to the very ends of your ability. I won’t lie, you’re going to have a horrific day.

You may tap out at any time. I’ll be on the other side of this door.

Knock three times, and I will release you.

But it will dramatically impact your score and ranking. ”

He looks at each of us. “If, at any time in the next five hours, you give away your secret sequence of words, you will immediately be discharged from the Aladria army.”

There are sharp intakes of breath as the weight of the test finally sinks in.

“Good luck, team.”

Ten soldiers storm the room, the stomps of their boots deafening as they barrel past Barnett, armed with burlap sacks. The door slams behind them, and the only light source is gone.

A sack is yanked over my head before I can blink. I’m thrown to the floor—hard. My knee cracks against stone. My teeth rattle.

Shouts. Grunts. Chaos.

“Who sent you?”

The voice is in my ear. Loud enough to burst it. The vibration shoots down my spine, sharp and electric.

“Tell me what you know!”

“I’ll kill everyone you love!”

“Speak!”

“Why are you here?”

“Who are you working for?”

The questions are barked in rapid-fire succession, each one coming from a different direction. One overlaps the next. Too close. Too loud. They echo in the sack, trapped with me, pressing in like a cage of voices. Deafening. Endless.

I try to brace. To ground myself. But then the touching begins.

A shove from behind.

A finger jabs the hollow of my throat.

A scream erupts beside my head.

A nudge to my ribs.

A painful flick to the inside of my knee.

A hand slapping the side of the sack.

Over and over. Prodding. Pressing. Just enough to keep my nerves raw. A sensory overload.

I clench my jaw so hard my molars grind. My hands fist in the rough fabric of my trousers, nails digging into my thighs until they leave half-moons in the skin. My body is locked tight, waiting for the next impact.

The air inside the sack grows hotter. Staler. Damp with my own breath. The fabric sticks to my lips, to my cheeks, and I can’t get enough air. My mouth is dry. My throat closing.

Still, they scream.

“Who trained you?”

“What’s your name?”

“Are you alone?”

“Talk!”

“Talk!”

“TALK!”

I flinch with each one now, but I’ve stopped hearing the words. It’s noise—just noise.

Minutes pass. Or maybe more. It could be hours already. There’s no way to tell.

The questions slow. For a moment, there’s nothing but breath. My own, ragged and quick. The heavy, expectant silence of someone standing too close. I think— maybe it’s over.

Then the sack is yanked tight against my face. Someone grips it at the curve of my head, pulling the fabric against my nose and mouth. I gasp instinctively, and panic rises like bile.

A voice hisses through the cloth, low and poisonous. “You’re going to break.”

Another blow lands—soft, almost gentle. A slap. Then another. Then, a sudden roar of voices, louder than before, as if all the walls shout at once. My body jolts, and I can’t help it; my arms raise to protect my head, even though nothing strikes me .

It happens again. Again. The cycle resets.

Noise. Touch. Noise. Touch. Silence. Breathe. Shout. Shove.

Time warps. I forget where I am. Who I am. The shouts have become a rhythm. A torture song.

I try to retreat inward, to picture something I love. The beach. A book. The feel of my dagger sinking into muscle.

But the sack stinks of sweat and old blood, and the floor is cold, and my legs are cramping from the way I’ve folded them, too afraid to move. It’s hard to clear my mind.

Another jab. Another yell.

My spine aches. My fingers are numb. My body is one giant knot of pain, and I don’t know how long I’ve been like this.

I’ve stopped breathing through my nose. Just short, harsh gulps through parted lips. My chest won’t expand properly anymore.

“Give us a name.”

“Admit it.”

“We know what you are.”

Silence.

Then— CRACK.

A loud slap against the floor right beside my ear.

I flinch so hard I nearly cry out.

It starts again.

Then—“Fuck this!”

Colton.

From under my sack, I hear him tackle someone. Grunts. Fighting. Then, three knocks on the door. A shuffle. The door opens. Closes. Locks.

Silence.

We pant. Loud, desperate. The soldiers say nothing. Don’t move. It feels like they don’t even breathe.

The anticipation of their next move is worse than the shouting .

My mind starts playing tricks. Did someone touch my boot? Poke my calf? Is someone standing over me? My heart stutters in panic.

When the sack is finally yanked off, it tears a few strands of my hair with it.

Light.

Blinding, searing light.

A lantern is aimed straight at my face. My eyes slam shut on instinct, but the damage is already done. Pain spikes through my skull. My eyes water. Everything burns.

“Who fucking sent you?”

The voice is a snarl right in front of me. Spit lands on my cheek.

I flinch.

His breath hits me next, smelling like mint and morning coffee. It’s such a normal scent that it jars me. For a moment, I’m pulled out of the nightmare and into something real.

He’s just a man.

He probably stood facing a mirror this morning, toothpaste foam on his chin, checking his reflection. Maybe he kissed someone goodbye. Laughed at a joke. Opened his cupboard and chose which mug to use. Just… a man.

And I’ve faced worse than men.

The thought roots beneath my sternum like a seed. A fragile ember of confidence flares. I know who I am. I’ve trained for this. Survived this.

I slowly raise my middle finger, lock eyes with him through the stinging light, and use it to wipe his spit from my cheek with quiet defiance.

For a heartbeat, I’m myself again.

“Oh, we’ve got a tough one, boys.” He laughs, but there’s a note of irritation under it. He shoves the sack back over my head.

Darkness again .

Then—he waterboards me.

The water hits like a wall. It slams into the sack, into me, and then it’s in —flooding the fabric, pressing it against my mouth and nose. I gasp on instinct, and the wet cloth is sucked between my lips.

Panic explodes through me.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe .

My lungs convulse, desperate for air. My hands jerk upward—automatic, wild—but they’re seized. Held down. Trapped. My body thrashes, legs kicking nothing, everything. I cough but can’t clear the water. The world is muffled and roaring all at once.

This is what dying feels like.

Not in battle, not with a blade, but here. A sack. A bucket of water. The humiliation of it. The helplessness .

My mind fractures. That ember—my name, my training, my identity—is gone. Drowned.

I am no one now. Just a body in pain.

Right as the world starts to tunnel, right as my body prepares to let go—

The sack is ripped off.

Air.

Agony.

Air again.

I fall to my side, gasping, retching, coughing so hard I see stars. My throat is fire, my lungs, two fists clenched too tight. I claw at them, hands to my chest, my neck, as if I could open myself and let the air in faster.

And it hurts . Breathing hurts .

I blink through the blur, my heart pounding so hard I feel it in my teeth.