Page 21 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

A fter spending a few hours in the library—this time blessedly uninterrupted—I walk back through the gardens toward the barracks, the sun warm on my shoulders and the scent of soil and roses thick in the air.

It’s then that I notice someone crouched over a large wooden planter, gently patting down a cluster of herbs. Louisa, back to me, her dark, tight curls pinned into a tidy bun. The scent of mint drifts up on the breeze; it’s fresh and clean, sharp enough to cut through the heat of the afternoon.

She hears my steps and straightens, brushing her hands down her apron. When she turns, a soft smile curves her lips, tentative but warm.

“Louisa, hi,” I say, lifting a hand to shield my eyes from the sun.

“Elina. Hello.” Her voice matches the rest of her—quiet, gentle, a little unsure. She tucks a tight curl behind her ear, hands still speckled with soil.

From the little I’ve seen of her and Sam together, they make sense. Both calm. Both kind.

“How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while,” I ask. There’s a genuine softness in my voice.

“Oh.” Her eyes widen, like the idea of someone noticing her absence hadn’t occurred to her. “My mother was ill. I took a few weeks off to help her.”

She tucks her hands into the deep pocket of her yellow spotted apron.

“Is she doing better now?”

“Yes. Much better. Thank you.” She smiles again, brighter this time.

“Well… I’ll let you get back to your planting.” I nod toward the herb box, already half-full. “Looks like important work.”

“It is,” she says quietly. “This batch is for the infirmary.”

I give her a parting nod before turning back toward the barracks. Sam joins me halfway there.

“How is she?” he asks, facing forward as we walk side by side.

“She seemed good. Said her mother was on the mend.”

“I’ve not been able to spend much time with her lately.” He stops himself from saying more, and I know exactly why. His schedule’s been full, and it’s not just training keeping him away. My stomach knots with guilt.

“Don’t give me that look, Elina.” He nudges my shoulder gently in jest.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” I say, knowing he’ll understand exactly what I mean.

“I’m not,” he replies, voice firm. “Don’t worry about it. Louisa and I are good. Better than good, actually. But just because I want to spend more time with her doesn’t mean you should feel guilty.”

Our conversation falls silent just as Colton exits the barracks ahead of us. He spots me and scowls, shoulder-bumping mine as he storms past. I can’t help but laugh at his petulance.

“He still giving you shit?” Sam’s tone shifts, turning stern.

“He’s a little boy, Sam,” I answer with a shrug. “Barely a blip on my radar.” Colton’s antics are more amusing than anything else. He’s like a splinter that never quite gets under my skin. While I’m sure he spends his days plotting my death, most of the time I forget he even exists.

“Little boy or not, he’s still training for the army, Elina. He’s not completely useless,” Sam warns, but I can’t help the scoff that escapes as he opens the barracks door and gestures for me to go inside.

* * *

Although Aladria’s old town was decimated by the war, a handful of bars and taverns still stand in neighbouring villages. The closest to the castle, and the one we end up at, is The Silver Chalice. After a short, jostling carriage ride, the team arrives for a night of supposed fun and revelry.

Losing control through drink has never been my thing. When I was younger, alcohol was strictly forbidden by Carter. And even when I got old enough to defy his orders, drinking wasn’t how I chose to rebel.

No, I chose to become the Fox and slay the undead.

Far better.

We all head inside the cosy tavern, its cedar door creaking as Trent holds it open for us.

I step into the warmth, Deacon’s arm slung casually around my shoulders as he guides me toward a corner booth just large enough for the six of us.

The worn red leather sighs beneath me as I shuffle into place, my trouser-clad legs brushing against the cracked seams of the bench.

It’s only once I’m nestled in with Deacon pressed comfortably against my left that I realise I’m also plastered to someone on my right, completely wedged in the booth.

The warmth radiating from the arm pressed against mine clues me in to who I’m stuck beside for the foreseeable. And if my body’s ridiculous reaction wasn’t enough of a giveaway, the crisp, clean scent mixed with steel and the brush of inked skin seals the deal.

Stone.

I do my best not to pay him any more attention than absolutely necessary as I scan the tavern instead.

The bar, made of dark wood worn smooth with age, is crowded with patrons.

Drinkers perch on stools, hunched over their glasses, voices rising and falling in casual conversation.

The countertop is littered with pumps and half-filled mugs, sticky with spilled ale and the gleam of glass.

Behind the bar, shelves are stacked with bottles—tall, squat, some with wax seals, others with faded labels. Liquors in every shade: from a light, gleaming gold to a blood-deep red so dark it’s almost black.

The air is thick with the warm scent of tobacco, mingled with something sharper, more tangy.

It takes a moment to place it— Heirba . A narcotic, some smoke for its high, floaty effect, with a few even claiming mild hallucinations.

I’ve never touched it, again, worried about the loss of mental control.

“Here we go,” Deacon says, rubbing his hands together with glee as Junie returns to our booth, carefully balancing a tray full of beers. The amber liquid bubbles and froths at the rim of each glass, catching the low tavern light.

“I can’t believe it’s the final assessment in two weeks,” Junie says as she hands out the drinks. “And then… twenty per cent of us will be gone.”

“Sadly, I don’t think there’s much hope for Elijah,” Trent says after taking a hefty gulp from his glass. He licks the foam off his upper lip, shaking his head. “He’s barely hanging on.”

I’m surprised Elijah hasn’t asked to be discharged already. Ever since the pit, he’s been a ghost—quiet, unfocused. A shadow of the recruit who first walked through the gates. And his scores reflect it.

“We’re all safe, though,” Deacon says brightly, raising his glass in a sloppy gesture that sends beer sloshing over the side. “Top twenty per cent, baby.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch Stone tipping back his glass, draining nearly half in one go.

I hold mine between my hands, the cold seeping into my palms. But I don’t drink.

Even with Deacon beside me, someone I’d trust with my life, and Sam just across the table, steady and solid, I still don’t let my guard down. I’d even say I trust Trent and Junie now. Hell… maybe even Stone.

Still, I can’t do it. Years of training don’t just slip away with one night in a tavern.

Across the booth, I spot Sam taking a few casual sips from his glass. But his eyes are elsewhere—scanning the room, noting exits, watching hands, faces, body language. Always alert.

“I heard for last year’s teamwork assessment, they tied each group together at the ankles and made them swim the Southern Channel,” Junie says, swirling her drink and raising a brow. “Two groups drowned.”

Trent snorts. “Bullshit.”

“Just what I heard,” Junie replies with a nonchalant shrug, her glass held high like a toast to the absurd.

Deacon barks a laugh at her wind-up, then leans forward across the table. “I think we’ll be dropped into a war zone. How better to test us than the real thing?”

“Maybe,” Trent muses, leaning back into the worn leather and tapping the rim of his glass. “Or maybe they’ll test our coordination with loads of tasks spread across a map.”

Sam, who’s been quietly listening, nods once. “If they’re trying to thin the ranks, we have to consider what would be most effective.”

I stay quiet, fingers still curled around my untouched drink.

Next to me, Stone leans back against the booth, sleeves of his white shirt pushed to his elbows, one hand wrapped loosely around his glass.

He lifts it to his lips and downs the rest in one long, easy swallow.

I try not to linger on the movement, the way the beer dampens his plump mouth, but as if he knows I’m watching, his tongue flicks out, catching the last drop from his bottom lip.

I snap my gaze away, heat rising to my cheeks as I focus on Junie and Trent, now on their feet and staggering around the booth in mock unison.

They pretend to have their ankles tied, stepping in exaggerated tandem toward the bar and back again.

Deacon critiques their form like a coach while Sam chuckles, shaking his head at the spectacle.

Then, I feel a nudge to my right arm.

I glance at Stone.

“You drinking that?” he asks, nodding toward the full glass still untouched on the table.

I shake my head and slide it over. “Be my guest.”

He takes a long sip before speaking. “Not a fan of beer?”

“I don’t drink,” I say simply.

“Ever?” His eyebrows rise, genuinely surprised. “What do you do to wind down?”

I smile. “I spar. I read. I eat.” I tick them off like a checklist. “Just not a fan of what alcohol does to you.”

I don’t go into detail—don’t tell him about the years of needing to stay sharp, about how the idea of losing control sends ice through my veins.

I can’t let my walls down.

He shifts slightly, turning more toward me, his knee pressing into mine under the table. His voice is low, steady.

“You know you’re safe with me, right?”

The sincerity in his eyes catches me off guard. It’s not just something he says—it’s something he means .

“I’d never let anything happen to you, Red.”

His ocean eyes hold mine, and for just a moment, I believe him.

I’m saved from answering by the band starting up, and I turn my attention towards the noise. Their folk sound thrums through the floorboards and into my bones, and before I can stop myself, I’m smiling. A real smile.

But I still feel him watching me.