Page 16 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

A fter soaking for about an hour in a scalding hot bath, fully submerging myself and washing away the horrors of the day, I finally start to feel warm again.

I get dressed in loose-fitting trousers and a tank top, throw my hair into a messy bun on top of my head, and exit the bathroom. The bedroom is empty apart from Deacon, who is lying on his bed, mindlessly staring at the ceiling until he hears me.

“C’mon.” He nods toward the door, gesturing for me to join him as he gets up. “You know she won’t stop worrying until she sees us both.”

I offer him a small smile, and we walk slowly together toward the kitchens based in the Great Hall, allowing as much sunlight as possible to soak into our skin, both still feeling the phantom shivers of the ice water.

The kitchen is hectic with people rushing from one side to another, pans boiling over, shouts exchanged, orders barked about fish that needs filleting and removing carrots from the oven.

The smells are overwhelming and comforting all at once: garlic, herbs, aromatics, and freshly baked bread blur together and attack my nose in the best way.

We’re ushered through by one of the kitchen staff toward a table near a window, out of the way but still just within the bubble of chaos .

“Go, go,” she says, swatting at us with a towel. “She’s in the pantry.”

I plonk myself down on a stool at the long wooden table used for staff meals and grab a freshly baked baguette, dipping it straight into a pot of butter and shovelling it into my mouth. I shut my eyes and moan at the doughy, salty goodness.

“Is that my favourite girl?”

I spin around with the baguette still stuffed in my mouth and grin at Dalia.

“Hey, Dal,” I mumble around the bread.

She folds her arms around me, and it nearly makes me cry. I don’t, of course. But I don’t joke, either. Not yet.

She’s soft and warm and smells like rosemary and home. I close my eyes as her curly brown hair—just like Deacon’s, only longer—falls over my face.

“Ahem.” Deacon coughs pointedly. “I’m here too, you know.”

I peer around Dalia’s curls and stick my tongue out at him. He flips me the bird behind her back.

“I saw that, young man,” she scolds, chuckling as she lets me go and throws her arms around him, too. “It’s good to see you both in one piece. As much as I would never, and I mean never, say it to his face, Fredrick was right. You’re building tolerance.”

She uses Carter’s first name. Something neither of us would ever dare, even without him present. The walls have eyes. And ears. If that grumpy old man heard us calling him Fredrick, the pit would be the least of our worries.

“We’re fine, Mum,” Deacon says, hugging her back tightly.

“Mama’s boy,” I mouth at him.

He narrows his eyes, grabs a grape from the table, and lobs it at my head. I catch it mid-air and shove it in my mouth, grinning as the sweet juice bursts across my tongue .

“You two are going to be the death of me,” Dalia mutters, rolling her eyes as she wanders off to prepare us food.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask Deacon quietly, our voices drowned out by the clattering of pots and pans.

“I’m good, Lina.” He gives a short nod. “Did I enjoy it? Hell no. Can I tolerate it now? Just about. But I don’t ever want to set foot in that pit again.”

“You and me both,” I murmur.

I think about telling him what happened with Stone, but the words won’t come. There’s a weight to that moment I’m not ready to give away. Not even to my best friend. It wasn’t just about comfort. It was… something else. And I don’t know what to do with that.

Instead, I lean back in my chair, letting the sunlight spill across my skin.

“Hey.” Deacon nudges my foot with his under the table. “We made it out.”

“Again,” I smirk.

Dalia returns, placing plates piled high with roasted chicken, crisp potatoes, vegetables, fresh bread, and little pots of oil and dips in front of us.

“Eat,” she says, shooing us toward the food. “You need to build your strength back up.”

Dalia’s cooking is the sole reason I’m obsessed with food.

We dig in, the only sounds between us a series of satisfied moans and sighs. The chaos of the kitchen swirls around us—voices, clattering metal, singing, laughter—and yet, at our little corner table, there’s peace.

It’s healing being here, surrounded by love and affection.

I tear through the food like I’ve been starved for days. Maybe I have, but just not in the way that food fixes. I wonder, as I chew, if I’ll continue hearing the voices from the pit. If my bones will forever ache from the cold water, too.

And that night, when I sink beneath my covers, limbs heavy, I glance toward the far side of the room. Stone lies in silence, his chest rising and falling steadily with the rhythm of sleep.

Then I allow myself to remember his fingers brushing mine whilst going through such torture, and I smile to myself in the dark, realising that even roses can bloom through cracks in concrete.

* * *

After the endurance test, we’re given a few days off from training. Days we spend doing little more than eating, sleeping, and stretching out sore limbs.

On the second day, just as the sun sinks low behind the castle walls, I nudge Junie over dinner.

“Want to go somewhere tonight?”

“Elina!” she gasps in mock outrage. “I’m a taken woman.”

I laugh. “Calm down, you prude. There’s a hot spring on the west side of the castle. Want to come with me?”

“A hot spring?” Trent leans in from across the table. “Is this a girls-only thing, or are the rest of us allowed to tag along?”

“You can come if you want,” I say with a shrug, my fork full of golden rice halfway to my mouth, and he grins at me.

“Stone, you in?”

Shit. I haven’t spoken to Stone since the test—both of us slipping back into that tense silence we wear like armour. We’re tied for first place again, but neither of us has said a word about it.

Truthfully, I miss our banter. Not that I’ll admit that to anyone.

He looks up from his food, answering Trent, “Sounds good.”

Double shit.

What was meant to be a relaxing evening just got a whole lot more complicated, but I nod like it’s no big deal. “Alright. We’ll leave at eight.”

* * *

Later, I lead the group through the outer gardens, past the last stone archway where manicured paths turn wild.

The castle’s western edge fades into forest, thick with trees and tangles of vine, as though nature itself has reclaimed the land.

It’s like stepping into another realm. The air shifts into something warmer, heavier, laced with a gentle hum.

Like Selva, the Goddess of nature is breathing her life into the land.

“Keep close,” I murmur. The words fall into the hush of rustling ferns. We’re not venturing deep, but even the edges of this forest can twist your sense of direction.

The path is half-lost beneath layers of ivy and moss-covered roots. Moonlight cuts through the branches in silver slashes, patterning the ground in shadows. The scent of damp earth is thick here, sweetened by jasmine and blooming sol flowers.

“Shit,” Trent mutters as he stumbles, but Deacon grabs his arm before he can fall.

“Got you,” Deacon says with a grin.

Ahead, the sound of gently bubbling water beckons. My heart lifts at the familiar noise.

I reach out and part a curtain of hanging vines. Beyond it, steam curls from a pool of crystal-clear water nestled in a hollow of smooth stone. Ferns and pastel coloured wildflowers frame the edges, and the spring glows faintly beneath the moonlight, as if enchanted.

The others pause behind me, hushed by the sight.

“It’s beautiful,” Junie breathes, her voice full of wonder.

“My little slice of paradise,” I say with a small smile. I gesture to the water. “Enjoy.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Trent’s already pulling off his boots and shirt, Deacon close behind.

We shed our gear, boots thudding softly against mossy stone, and slip into the spring in our swimming gear. The warmth envelops me instantly, soothing every tight muscle and bruised memory from the last week. The rising steam blurs the edges of the world, leaving only heat, moonlight, and quiet.

Junie sinks in beside me with a sigh. “I never thought I’d find a place like this,” she says. “Makes me feel lucky to be here. My mum wanted me to choose a safer career. She used to say, ‘Oh Junie, why can’t you take up weaving like me? Why do you insist on giving me more grey hairs?”

We laugh, the sound soft in the mist.

Trent leans back against the rocks, his voice mellow. “If I hadn’t joined the army, I’d probably be stuck working with my brothers on the farm. Bored out of my skull, growing clemoya.”

Sam speaks next, his voice quiet, steady. “I’d have been a blacksmith.”

I glance at him, imagining it easily—his focused expression over a glowing forge, hammering metal into shape. “That suits you.”

Junie turns to me. “What about you, Elina? If not the army…?”

The question catches me off guard. I stare into the water, watching the surface ripple from the tips of my fingers. “Something with books, maybe. A librarian.”

Stone snorts.

I look up sharply. “Sorry, did I say something funny?”

“You don’t waste talent like yours becoming a fucking librarian, Red.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a librarian, dickhead.”

He lifts his arms, resting them behind his head as he leans back against the stone. “Didn’t say there was. Just not the life for you.”

I stare at him for a beat in shock.

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t give two shits about your opinion, isn’t it?” I snap, heat flaring in my cheeks, and not from the water.

He sees the flush, a smirk ghosting across his lips. He knows exactly how to get under my skin.

No. Fuck that.

“Looks like you give more than two shits,” he says, eyes raking over me before settling on my clenched fists with maddening precision.

I start to rise from the water, ready to physically shut him up with my fingers around his throat, and his eyes follow the movement, tracking the water as it slides over my bikini-covered breasts.