Page 17 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

“Alright, you two.” Deacon raises his hands like a peacekeeper. “This was supposed to be relaxing. Can we ease up on the lovers’ quarrel?”

Stone and I both turn to glare at him. I completely forgot we were in the presence of others.

“We’re not lovers,” I bite out, more harshly than I intend.

Stone shifts, his teasing smirk gone. “You know what? I think I’m gonna head back.” He stands, water running in rivulets down his skin. “This was fun.” He salutes the group. I don’t watch as he turns and walks off without another word.

None of us speak for a while after that. The only sounds are the hiss of steam, the soft rustle of wind in the leaves, and the slow, angry rhythm of my breath.

Then, mercifully, Deacon breaks the silence.

“So… who’s up for a game of two truths and a lie?”

Everyone perks up. We play the game, laughter filling the hidden space. I force a smile and say my piece when it’s my turn, but my thoughts are elsewhere, circling back to Stone.

To the fact that those were the first words we exchanged since the pit.

And how bitterly disappointing that is.

* * *

We’re heading back inside the castle, my hair dripping down my back, when a booming voice cuts through the air. “Elina, a word.”

Junie jumps beside me, nearly tripping over her own feet. “Gods, that man will never not petrify me.”

At the end of the corridor, Carter stands tall, facing the opposite direction from where we were headed.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” I say to the group, giving them a quick nod before turning toward him.

His greying hair is trimmed to military precision, uniform immaculate as always. Even the cane he uses due to an injury in battle does nothing to diminish his commanding presence.

“You’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night—six sharp,” he says, leaving no room for negotiation.

Anyone else might shrink under his tone, but I’m used to it. In fact, its sharpness is almost comforting.

“Yes, sir,” I reply, voice steady.

He nods once, turns on his heel, and walks away without another word.

The next night, at six on the dot, I arrive outside his rooms. Before I have the chance to knock, the door swings open.

“Good. Come in,” Carter says, already turning back inside.

The mess that greets me is the exact opposite of his normally immaculate appearance.

His living area, as usual, is a chaotic sprawl of maps and missives, boots kicked into corners, stray cushions and candles cluttering the surfaces.

It always feels lived in, and it reminds me of his softer nature, one I’d been lucky enough to witness growing up.

His fat orange cat, Leo, is sprawled across a moss-coloured sofa, looking positively regal with a patchwork blanket bunched beneath him.

His body is stretched lazily in the amber light streaming through the window.

He opens one bronze eye to stare at me before promptly closing it and going back to sleep.

“Take a seat at the table. Food’s almost ready,” Carter calls over his shoulder.

The deep mahogany table is buried under a scatter of documents, half-drunk glasses, and boxes of cat food. Jackets and blankets hang off the backs of chairs, but there are two clear seats and a small patch of empty table between them—deliberately cleaned for my visit, I’m sure.

The rich, savoury scent of meat pie reaches me, and my stomach clenches in response. In the kitchen, I hear clattering, the hiss of steam, and a string of muttered curses about burns and boiling water.

I resist the urge to offer help, knowing it’ll earn me nothing but a scowl and an order to get out of his kitchen. Instead, I let my attention drift to a large, unfolded map on the table beside me.

It’s a tactical layout of the continent, marked with rows of coloured pins.

Our positions. Enemy movements. The red pins cluster like bloodstains across the eastern border, while green and gold mark where our troops are spread too thin.

Some pins have been pushed in at odd angles, like they were placed in haste.

There’s an open missive resting on top of the map, and my fingers itch to reach for it. I listen carefully. Carter is still bustling around in the kitchen, so I deem it safe enough for a quick peek.

The letter is from a general stationed in the southeast, only a three-hour ride from the castle. My gaze shifts to the map, where a lone green pin marks that region, indicating minimal forces, likely due to its history of never being attacked .

The general writes that his scouts have been tracking Dagan’s movements, and they estimate no more than three days before a significant force reaches the border.

And with the army… comes Malus.

A chill works its way down my spine.

There’s also a strange line about the light drawing in , which makes no sense to me. It’s got to be a hidden warning of some type.

The letter ends with a formal request for reinforcements.

It’s clear I must’ve arrived just as Carter was in the middle of strategising his next move.

The scrape of plates being dragged across the counter pulls me back into the moment. I quickly return the missive to its place, careful to fold it just as it was and slide back in my seat. Hands folded in my lap, expression neutral.

By the time he rounds the corner with two steaming plates, I’m the picture of innocence.

“I’ve made your favourite.” His smile is warm, such a stark contrast to how he is on the training grounds. I used to find that jarring when I was younger. Now I understand he was shaping me to be strong.

Carter sets the pie in front of me, and for a moment, I’m not a recruit or a soldier or the Fox. I’m just a girl whose favourite food has been remembered by one of her favourite people.

“Thank you.” I return the smile, then dig in without hesitation.

“I want to know how you’ve been getting on, Elina,” he says around a mouthful of buttery pastry. “I know you weren’t thrilled when I made you enlist, but I hope you’re starting to understand why I thought it would be good for you.”

“I’m in first place,” I reply simply, as if that speaks for itself. I don’t mention that I’m currently tied with Stone.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes. I’ll dust off a medal for you later.”

Sarcastic bastard.

“I didn’t train you to be second, Elina. Haven’t even bothered looking at that board,” he adds, and the quiet certainty in his voice makes something buried deep inside me warm. “I want to know how you’re feeling .”

I think about my response for a beat; the silence between us is comfortable.

“You were right,” I finally admit, soft and a little begrudging.

“Sorry, what was that?” He cups a hand to his ear with exaggerated confusion. “You’ll have to speak up. I’m getting deaf in my old age.”

I give him a flat stare. His hearing is as sharp as ever.

“I said you were right. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic. And I hate to say I told you so—” He grins at his own smugness.

“It’s nice being part of something, a team,” I say after a pause, a sliver of real joy slipping into my voice. “Having my focus pulled elsewhere. It’s… peaceful.”

He regards me with something softer than pride. Almost relief.

We spend the last part of the evening catching up, and the conversation flows easily. It’s nice to have a moment together where he isn’t shouting orders or dissecting my stance with a stick.