Page 20 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

S omething yanks me backwards with brutal force, the back of my cloak snatched like a leash. My body slams into the rock face behind me, the impact rattling my spine. A jagged shard of stone drives into my left side, white-hot pain bursting through my kidney like a lightning strike.

I gasp, but it’s swallowed by the snarl of the Malus pinning me.

My arms are trapped, sword pinned uselessly between us, and it takes everything in me to keep my face just far enough away that its rotted, tar-stained teeth can’t sink into me.

It shrieks in frustration, the sound scraping across my nerves like glass.

Its breath, rancid and wet, jaw snapping bare inches from my skin.

I twist, fighting to wedge even an inch of space between us.

I’m human enough to feel a flicker of fear.

But fear doesn’t freeze me. It fuels me.

And I am not dying like this.

Using the bare centimetres of space I manage to carve out by twisting my torso, I press hard against the rock face and launch myself forward. The sudden shift dislodges the Malus, and it stumbles back just enough for me to bring my arms up, sword poised to strike.

But then it glances over my shoulder.

And for the briefest of moments, so quick I almost doubt I saw it, there’s fear in its eyes .

The Malus can’t feel fear. They’re rage and bloodlust, nothing more. I must be imagining things, my brain playing tricks.

I shove the thought aside and narrow my eyes.

My sword arcs clean through the final Malus, its head dropping with a wet thud to the sand.

The chaos rushes back into my ears—battle cries, clashing steel, the hiss of arrows through the wind—and then I feel an arm wrap tight around my waist.

Stone.

I let him pull me away, trusting the army to clean up the last of the Dunmerian troops.

“Are you clinically insane?” Stone shouts once we’re far from the battle behind.

I roll my eyes and keep walking, making for the dock in the distance. The moonlight glitters over the sea, too calm for what just unfolded.

He catches up in three strides and grabs my wrist, yanking me to a halt.

His touch burns like a brand against my skin, but I ignore it, turning to glare at him.

“What?” I snap, ripping my hood and mask down again.

“Do you have a death wish?”

His fists clench at his sides, knuckles bone-white. He looks like he’s imagining using those calloused fingers to wrap around my throat.

And Gods, if I wouldn’t let him.

Not the time.

“I take great offence to your comments on my sanity,” I shoot back, folding my arms tightly to stop myself from doing something stupid—like leaning into that fury burning in his eyes.

There’s something about the high of combat that makes you want to do wild things. Reckless things.

Okay, maybe he has a point. Maybe I am a little insane .

He gestures sharply toward the battlefield. “Why did you throw yourself into that chaos?”

“Because I can help!” I snap, my voice catching at the end. “Too many of my—Aladria’s people are dying because of those monsters. Because of Dagan.”

I take a breath, but it trembles as it leaves me. “I refuse to sit on the sidelines while it happens. Not when I’ve been trained into something lethal. A weapon.” My chest rises and falls. “So yes, I threw myself into that field because I will be what this kingdom needs.”

Stone’s eyes lock onto mine, and thank the Gods, he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t press. But his shoulders remain taut, jaw ticking like he’s swallowing down all the things he wants to say. Still, he nods once, begrudgingly accepting my answer.

He’s in no position to tell me what to do anyway. We’re nothing to each other. Barely teammates, some days.

“Come on,” he says finally, quieter now. “I’ll row us back.”

The boat glides easily across the calm water, the hush of oars slicing through the sea the only sound for a while.

I lean over the edge, letting my fingers trail through the cool surface, the water lapping gently against my skin.

Below, the stars ripple across the sea’s surface, dancing silver and gold with every pull of the current.

It’s peaceful—dangerously so. The kind of peace that lets thoughts creep in where I don’t want them.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask about his scars, but I don’t want to ruin the rare ease between us.

So instead, I glance up at him. Stone rows with effortless strength, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath his shirt, his brow smooth, like none of tonight’s chaos touched him.

His eyes are already on me.

“You’ve done this before,” I say, nodding toward the oars.

He gives a small shrug. “I used to fish a lot when I was younger.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, something wistful behind it. “Rowing’s second nature.”

I don’t say anything. Don’t dare. I just listen, hoping he’ll keep going. Hoping, for once, he won’t close himself off.

“One time, my uncle and I caught a Pescador,” he continues, his voice tinged with amusement as he talks about the monstrous fish that doesn’t regularly frequent Aladria shores. “Ugly bastard, all bone and teeth. The thing almost took my arm off when I tried to haul it in.”

I laugh at the image, then let my head tip back onto my shoulders to look at the sky. The clouds have begun to drift across the moon, dulling its glow with soft grey. But in this moment, even the dark feels gentle.

By the time we reach the dock, the delicate rocking of the boat has almost lulled me to sleep. My bones feel soft, heavy with exhaustion, as I watch Stone climb out first, the boat swaying under his weight. I fight the urge to let my eyes drift to his ass. And lose.

It’s right there in my line of sight. Sue me.

He secures the boat to the dock as I push myself upright and step onto the weather-worn planks. But in my tired haze, my toe catches on the edge, and I stumble forward. Before I even have a chance to catch myself, his arms are around me, solid and warm, pulling me into him.

My hands land on his chest, firm and hot beneath my palms, and his grip tightens around my hips. I glance up—way up—into his face.

Stone’s already drinking me in with that unreadable gaze.

And something inside me flickers to life.

“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice softer than I mean it to be.

His gaze doesn’t shift. “Like the sun.”

I frown. “Sorry?”

Did he take a blow to the head and forget to mention it ?

He leans in slightly, voice low and thoughtful. “Your eyes. I’ve been trying to figure out the colour. I thought they were hazel, but this close… I can see they’re actually golden.”

My pulse stumbles as his thumb brushes just beneath my right eye. So soft and gentle.

Clang.

A loud metallic crash echoes from the docks behind us, a loose mooring chain falling from a post. The spell shatters like glass on stone.

We both jolt. Stone’s hand drops from my face as if he’s been burned, and I take a quick step back, suddenly very aware of everything—how close we were, how fast my heart’s still beating, how warm his touch still feels.

He clears his throat, glancing away as he adjusts the strap of his sword over his shoulder. “We should get back before someone notices we’re gone.”

“Right,” I murmur, already walking ahead a little too fast, like distance might loosen the knot still twisting tight in my chest.

We don’t speak as we ascend the rock face, climbing in silence up the cliff toward the barracks, both of us pretending our focus is on not falling to our deaths. It’s easier than addressing what nearly passed between us.

Later, after we’ve quietly changed in our own hidden corners of the castle and slipped into bed, the barracks blanketed in stillness, I lie awake staring at the ceiling.

My skin still remembers the shape of his hand.

The warmth of it. The weight.

And as sleep finally pulls me under, I wonder if his hand remembers the shape of me.

* * *

The following morning, in the shower, steam curls around me, thick and clinging, turning the tiled walls of the bathroom into a blurred cocoon. The hot water pelts my shoulders, washing away the stench of sweat and sea salt still clinging to my skin from last night.

But it doesn’t wash away the feeling.

The weight.

I brace both palms against the wall, letting the water stream down my back and drip from the ends of my hair. My fingers tremble slightly.

The image of the Malus pinning me flashes behind my eyes. The way its snarling mouth hovered over my face. The sound of its scream. The pressure on my chest. The panic I refused to let anyone see.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force a breath through my nose. Slow. Measured. Controlled. I can control this. I always do.

But still… it got that close.

“Pull it together,” I whisper under my breath, my voice muffled by the hiss of the water.

And still, when I turn off the tap and wrap a towel around my shoulders, I let myself linger for just a moment longer, quiet and alone, the sting of vulnerability still warm within me.

Then I wipe it all away.

I exit the shower, dressed but still drying my hair with the towel, the last of the steam clinging to my skin. My limbs feel heavy and aching. I’m so Gods-damned pleased that we have a free day today, no training until tomorrow.

Trent’s humming draws my eye, and I glance over to find him pulling on a shirt. His back is turned and bare for a moment, the definition of his muscles sharper than before. We’ve all changed over the past months—leaner, harder—but it’s clearer on him somehow. A farmer’s boy becoming a soldier.

He catches me looking and grins over his shoulder. “Were you just checking me out, Elina?”

I snort, towel still clutched in one hand. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But Trent raises his arms victoriously. “You were! I caught you checking me out.”

Right on cue, Deacon strolls in through the barracks door, each hand occupied with a steaming mug of coffee. “Who was Elina checking out?”

“I wasn’t checking anyone out,” I say at the same time Trent proudly answers, “Me.”

I shake my head with a soft chuckle and stretch out my arm toward Deacon, fingers wiggling. “Please tell me one of those is for me.”

He hands me the cup. “Tall, dark, and part of the Aladrian army,” he says casually. “Pretty sure that’s your type.”

I ignore his goading and take a greedy sip. It scalds my tongue, but I welcome the burn. I desperately need the caffeine to help with my exhaustion after the late night.

Trent raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Wait, Elina’s ex is in the army?”

Across the room, I catch movement—Stone rolls over in his bunk, eyes fixed on us, sharp and expressionless.

“Oh, he’s not just in the army,” Deacon says, enjoying himself far too much. “He’s a general.”

Trent nearly drops his shirt. “A general? You don’t do things by half, do you?” he says with a crooked smile, eyes flicking to me like he’s still deciding whether to be impressed or concerned.

“Currently posted near the northeastern border,” Deacon adds smoothly. “Right in the thick of it. Our little Lina here broke his heart just before he left.”

I lift my mug and peer at Deacon over the rim. “Deacs, I’m right fucking here.”

He just grins wider, clearly gearing up for round two of the performance .

I sigh dramatically, draining what remains of my coffee. “Okay. That’s quite enough about my tragic love life. Can we please go eat something before I starve and start getting stabby?”

Stone speaks up, at last, his voice low but firm. “Agreed. I’m starving.”

“Come on then,” Trent says, buttoning the last of his black shirt. “I can smell cinnamon rolls from here.”

We fall into step, our boots echoing against the old stone corridor. The conversation drifts away from exes, mercifully, and into safer, more familiar territory—gripes about training, who snores the loudest, and who’s suffered the worst injury so far.

The winner is a guy from Might Squad who got his leg stuck in the axes on the agility course.

Now, that’s one prize I certainly don’t want.

“You know what we need?” Deacon says as we reach our table, draping an arm around my shoulders with theatrical flair. Junie’s already seated, a small mountain of pastries stacked before her like edible treasure. “A night of dance and drink.”

“Ooh, I like the sound of this,” Junie says, mid-bite into a flaky croissant. A smear of pastry clings to her lips until she licks it away with a satisfied hum.

My instinct is to refuse. But I don’t. Because maybe, for once, I can admit he’s right.

I steal an apricot turnover from Junie’s plate, earning a halfhearted glare, and take a bite as I glance around the group. They’ve fallen into that easy rhythm of banter and laughter, and I just sit back, smile, and listen.