Page 19 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

Next come the trousers, stitched high and snug with hidden seams. I check the sheaths at each thigh. Still full. I lace the boots tight, tucking twin daggers into their hidden slots.

The hooded cloak is last, a dark forest green for the best camouflage. I tug the cloth mask up over my nose and tuck it under my collar.

I creep toward the cliff face behind the barracks, keeping low and hugging the shadows.

When my boots hit the edge of the drop, I pause only long enough to scan the rocks below and then begin my descent.

The stone juts out in uneven ridges, sharp and weather-worn, but I know each hold, each narrow ledge. The climb is steep and treacherous, and my muscles burn with the effort, but I’ve made this trip so many times that my body moves on instinct.

When the shore is close enough to jump, I release my grip and drop.

My boots hit the pebbled beach with a solid thud, loose stones skittering out from under me in sharp clicks. I keep moving, heading toward the row of small boats tied along the dock .

They’re old abandoned fishing boats, their paint faded, wood slightly warped from salt and time. No one uses them anymore. Not since the threat to our coastlines became very real.

But they’re perfect for my midnight escape.

The sea is thankfully calm, the moon casting a silver glow across the ripples as I follow the coast. The still water makes my trip less punishing, but an hour of rowing is still taxing—my arms and core screaming by the time the shoreline I need comes into view.

I reach the dock near the outpost mentioned in the missive and leap from the boat with barely a whisper. After tying it off securely, I slip into the shadows, beginning the on-foot portion of my journey.

The beach is flanked by wind-swept dunes and scattered trees; it’s just enough cover to move unseen. I stay low, weaving through the sand and brush until raised voices pull me to a halt.

A General barking. Soldiers shifting into a defensive formation.

I drop to my stomach near the top of a dune, cloaked in shadow, and crawl forward just enough to get a view of the camp below. Lanterns burn low, casting long, flickering light across armour and tents hastily reinforced.

“Sir,” a smaller man rushes up to the general. His voice is urgent but controlled. “They’re about an hour out. Smaller force than expected. I counted roughly sixty men but… ten Malus.”

The general doesn’t flinch. “And the light?”

There it is again. That word.

The scout shakes his head. “No sign of it.”

The general’s shoulders droop—barely. A shift so slight I would have missed it if I’d blinked. But it’s there. Then he straightens and begins barking orders again, turning and marching out of my line of sight like nothing happened.

I rise to my feet, boots sinking softly into the sand.

Moving like a shadow, I weave through the dunes, careful not to disturb a grain more than necessary.

I’m searching for the perfect vantage point, high ground behind a thick tree, just enough to keep me hidden but close enough that I can support where needed.

But then something shifts.

Not sound exactly. The absence of it. A whisper of displaced air. A presence where there should be none.

I move. But not fast enough.

An arm snakes around my face, a gloved hand clamping down over the cloth mask covering my mouth. Pointless, really—I wouldn’t have screamed—but it jerks me backwards, slamming my spine into a broad, solid chest. The breath punches out of me in a sharp oomph .

I’m pinned.

Then fingers, calloused and sure, drag back the hood from my head. The bare backs of knuckles brush down my cheek, rough against my skin.

I squeeze my eyes shut in frustration. I don’t get snuck up on. That’s my thing.

Whoever this is—they’re good.

Masculine fingers catch a few strands of hair that have slipped free from my braid, and he rolls them between his fingertips, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the texture.

“And what would bring you all the way out here alone, Red?” Stone’s voice is low, right at my ear, smooth as silk and just as dangerous. The words curl around my spine, leaving a trail of heat and shivers in their wake.

Shit.

I react on instinct.

In a flash, I twist, breaking his hold with a move I’ve practised a thousand times. My forearm pins his throat to the tree behind him with just enough pressure to restrain him. My other hand yanks the cloth mask down to my collarbone .

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hiss, my voice sharp like a knife’s edge.

He glances down at my forearm, still pressed across his throat, and lifts one amused brow.

“Did you really think no one would notice your little midnight escape?”

I let out a breath, half disbelief, half exasperation. “You weren’t even in the barracks when I left.”

“Actually,” he drawls, utterly unfazed by the fact he’s pinned to a tree. “I was sneaking back in. Just in time to catch you sneaking out. Looking very suspicious, I might add.”

He smirks, like this is some kind of game, like he didn’t just track me across miles of coastline without a sound, like I’m not rattled to my core that he managed it.

“I didn’t even know those little rowboats still worked,” he says, tone maddeningly casual. “Until I saw you slip into one and row off like a little thief in the night. Thought mine was going to sink under my weight.” A low chuckle follows.

I glare at him, silent and simmering.

“And what exactly did you hope to achieve by following me?” I ask, my voice clipped, controlled.

“I’ve had a little hunch for a while now,” he says, entirely too smug. “And it’s very rare for me to be wrong.”

That arrogance, equal parts infuriating and unfairly attractive, grates against every nerve. I spin away from him, shoving both hands into my hair. My fingers tremble, and I make sure he doesn’t see.

“Why don’t you hop back into your little rowboat and fuck off back to the barracks?” I hiss, stalking away through the sand.

His voice follows, low and sure.

“I know what you are.”

I freeze .

Footsteps crunch behind me, measured, certain. The sand shifts as he draws closer.

“You, my secretive, sneaky Little Red, are the Fox.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, but the words are thin. Useless. My cover is already ashes in the wind.

Before I can recover, the air behind us fractures. Shouts and movement from the outpost below rip us from whatever this is, whatever it was about to become.

And then a sound, dragged straight from my nightmares, shreds through the air, sharp enough to perforate my eardrums. A feral, high-pitched screech—raw and animalistic, vibrating with mindless, frenzied urgency.

It isn’t just noise.

It’s a warning.

The Malus are close.

They always send them first, the opening act of terror. The most powerful weapon they have.

I whip my head around, hair slashing across my vision.

“Shit,” Stone mutters, his voice laced with urgency. “Red, we’ve got to go.” He grabs my wrist, already trying to pull me back toward the docks.

I wrench free. “You need to go, not me.” My voice is low, resolute.

I pull my mask back over my face and tug the hood up, disappearing once again beneath cloth and shadow. His ocean eyes lock with mine, pleading, but I’ve already drawn the daggers from the sheaths at my thighs.

While he watches, I begin to move, silent and focused. Down the dunes, with the sand flowing beneath my boots like water. Toward the clearing. Toward the chaos.

Grunts echo through the trees. Steel clashes on steel. And layered above it all, those inhuman screeches. They’re sharp enough to etch themselves into my bones.

They’ll never leave me.

And I’m heading straight for them.

The image that hits me as I join the fray is always the same—chaos. Absolute pandemonium.

The Malus do that.

They turn even the most disciplined, well-trained soldiers into flailing, panicked wrecks. They move too fast, strike too hard, and they don’t stop. There’s no fear in them, no hesitation. Just the single-minded drive to destroy.

A shout of panic rips through the air to my right, drawing my eyes down the slope of a jagged rock face.

A soldier is on the ground, struggling beneath a Malus, his sword braced between them like a desperate barrier. But the creature barely seems to notice. Its hands, if you can still call them that, claw and batter uselessly at the weapon while its jaw snaps wildly at the soldier’s face.

The stench hits me even from here, like old meat left to spoil in the sun.

It’s hard to believe these things were soldiers themselves not too long ago. But now? Their skin hangs in shredded ribbons from their bones. Their eyes are empty and soulless, all humanity scraped clean. Their teeth, black and broken, gnash like wild animals, eager to rip flesh from bone.

I move without thinking, my instinct kicking in. My feet tear across the sand, closing the distance in seconds. The daggers slide smoothly back into their sheaths at my thighs as my hand reaches over my shoulder and draws the long sword strapped across my back.

It slices through the air with a clean, high whistle before cleaving straight through the base of the Malus’ neck.

The flesh gives like overripe fruit. One of the few blessings of fighting the reanimated: their bones are soft, rotted down to the consistency of wet wood.

The head thuds to the sand, but I don’t give it a glance. I reach down and haul the soldier to his feet. His hand latches onto mine, trembling so violently I feel it rattle in my bones.

“Thank you,” he rasps, voice hoarse from screaming. He pats himself down in disbelief, checking for wounds. His arms are gouged and slick with blood, but still attached. He’s still breathing. That’s more than some can say.

I nod once before I’m gone again, swallowed back into the fray.

The wind shrieks past me as I move, swift, focused, fluid. I duck low, twist around a blade, and then strike. Every motion is measured. Every slash clean.

And then I hear it, a shout I know too well. A grunt of effort behind the chaos.

He’s there.

Stone.

Draped in black leather like a second skin, moving like vengeance incarnate across the other side of the sandy combat zone. His blade sinks deep into the nape of a Malus’ neck, the creature collapsing, headless, without even registering the threat.

His muscles flex under the strain of the blow, the leather stretching across his shoulders and arms, and it’s so wildly, stupidly inappropriate, but I feel it.

A flutter. Heat coiling somewhere low in my stomach.

The small, involuntary gasp that slips out of me is swallowed by the roar of battle, but he hears it all the same.

His head snaps in my direction, eyes locking onto mine. And then—he winks. Like he’s heard every single one of my thoughts, and my traitorous face betrays me. I feel the heat rush up my neck, blooming across my cheeks .

His smirk turns into a full smile at the sight of the red smattering.

If I thought my heart was pounding before, it’s nothing compared to the riot beneath my ribcage now at the sight of that fucking smile. It thunders against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out.

But I’m too focused on him. On the curve of that damn smile. And I forget the first rule I ever learnt: never get distracted.

His eyes go wide, horror slashing across his face. His mouth opens in a warning, his legs already propelling him my way.

But it’s too late.