Page 22 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

His gaze lingers, tracing my face like a touch, pausing on my mouth, on the curve of my smile.

“Fuck,” he breathes, barely more than a whisper, like it’s been pulled out of him. That one tiny word scorches the air between us, lights me on fire.

I hear the scrape of his breath catch as he tears his eyes away and turns to face the music, whilst I force myself to appear unfazed.

Because on the inside, my stomach is doing somersaults.

There are four of them in the band—scruffy, weathered, full of character—dressed in mismatched linens and worn leather like they’ve wandered straight in off the road. They sing with rowdy harmony and well-worn ease, belting out tunes about wild women, bad bets, and strong drinks.

The tavern comes alive with it: mugs lifted mid-toast, boots tapping under the tables, laughter rising to meet the rhythm.

Deacon slips out of the booth, dancing his way to the bar, only to return a few minutes later, arms full of fresh drinks, though not one for me. Ever the observant best friend.

The conversation and drinks flow easily for the next few hours, and at some point, a slightly drunk Trent squeezes into the booth on the other side of Stone, sloshing a bit of his beer as he flops down.

Stone shifts closer, forced by the narrow space.

But then his leg brushes against mine, slow and deliberate, and I swear it’s not by accident.

Deacon launches into a rambling story about some girl he swears he’s in love with, even though he can’t, for the life of him, remember her name. Junie and I exchange amused glances as he gestures wildly.

But I only half-listen. My attention shifts, drawn to the quieter conversation unfolding beside me. Stone and Trent are speaking in low tones, just loud enough for me to hear snippets.

“It haunts me, man,” Trent says, devastation laced through his voice. “I don’t know how you deal.”

“The best way I know how,” Stone replies, his tone level almost eerily calm, devoid of the emotion I can feel hanging heavy between them.

“To think of her…” Trent trails off, voice dropping too low for me to catch the rest. Whatever he says is swallowed by the music and the hum of noise around the tavern.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as Stone reaches over and squeezes Trent’s shoulder a few times in a firm, familiar gesture. Comforting but wordless. They both lapse into silence, eyes distant, lost in some memory I’m not part of.

The ride to return to the castle is filled with laughter and drunken enthusiasm.

Junie and Deacon are butchering one of the tavern songs at full volume, and Trent, seemingly having shaken off his earlier mood, slaps his knee completely off-beat to their warbled rendition.

Even Stone lets out a few chuckles, though the alcohol doesn’t seem to have touched him the way it has the others.

He’s in a darker mood tonight, not bantering like normal.

Sam glances out the window, scanning the road as the carriage rumbles toward the gates. He nods to a few patrolling soldiers as we pass through, his posture never quite relaxing.

When we arrive, Deacon topples out of the carriage in a heap, sprawling onto the ground with a groan before rolling onto his back to gaze dreamily up at the night sky.

“I need to pee,” Junie declares, hopping right over him, surprisingly nimble after all that booze, and power-marches toward the barracks like a girl on a mission.

“See?” Deacon slurs, gesturing with a floppy hand toward us. “Told you this is what we needed.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius.” I stoop to help him up, but he’s a dead weight. “Sam, a little help?” I glance up at him through the curtain of my hair, hands hooked under Deacon’s armpits.

“For fuck’s sake,” Sam grumbles, but he’s already beside me, slinging Deacon’s arms over our shoulders. Together, we haul him toward the barracks like a sack of overly affectionate potatoes.

His face nuzzles into my hair. “I love you, you know that, right?”

Deacon’s always been a soppy drunk.

“Yup. Love you too, Deacs.” I pat his head gently where it lolls against my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck.

“I’m sorry for the shit you have to go through,” he mumbles, voice lower, sadder now.

“Not your fault,” I say quietly, though a weight settles in my stomach at his words.

By the time we ease him onto his bunk, his soft snores have already started. I tug off his boots but leave the rest—he can sleep in his clothes tonight.

As I move towards the bathroom, Trent and Stone pass by me. Trent gives a sleepy wave, but Stone lingers. His eyes catch mine for a second too long, something curious there, maybe even concerned, before he too turns away.

I pay it no mind, getting used to the emotional whiplash he gives me.

I change quickly, slide beneath my blanket, and let the gentle rhythm of my teammates’ snores lull me to sleep.

* * *

A few mornings later, we’re all lined up at the edge of a lake, dressed in our swimwear, toes curled over the wooden pier that juts out above the deep blue water. It’s calm, unnervingly so. No breeze, no ripples. But I know what lurks beneath.

There’s only one creature in this kingdom that gives me the creeps.

The fucking Lago fish.

Long, slick, eel-like monsters that can grow up to ten feet in length. They’re a mottled grey, their skin slimy, and they have a gaping hole of a mouth filled with six rows of razor-sharp teeth.

They don’t bite like normal predators. They suction. Like a motor. They latch onto flesh and use their teeth to strip it straight from the bone.

And the worst part? You never hear them coming. Not until they’re right beneath you. You’ll feel the vibration of their writhing bodies only seconds before they strike, and by then, it’s usually too late.

I shudder, eyeing the still surface. They live in the depths, between the weeds and the silty lakebed vines, in the darkest parts of lakes.

“Your task is to work in teams of two,” Barnett announces. “One of you will act as the injured party; the other will swim them across the lake. On the far side, you’ll retrieve a boat. First team to paddle back wins.”

Sounds simple. But, of course, it isn’t. I’ve been paired with Brynn, and he’s the one playing injured. Which means I’ll be towing a man at least twice my size across open water. All while pretending not to think about what might be swimming underneath.

“Casualties, prepare yourselves,” Barnett calls.

Brynn turns his back to the lake, arms crossed over his chest. The morning light makes his ginger hair look like it’s on fire.

“Fall,” Barnett commands.

Brynn flashes me a grin, then tips backwards off the pier like it’s nothing. He hits the water with a heavy slap. Junie, Colton, and Trent follow one after another, vanishing into the lake with splashes that ripple across the otherwise still surface.

Elijah was excused from today’s exercise. The moment water and lake were mentioned, he started screaming and clawing at his hair like something inside him snapped. They had to sedate him and carry him off to the infirmary, clumps of his brown hair still clutched between his fingers.

The rest of us watch our partners resurface, floating on their backs in practised stillness, waiting for the whistle to sound.

I curl my toes over the edge of the wood and brace myself, knees bent, muscles coiled, heart ticking up a beat. Ready.

The sharp trill of the whistle pierces the air.

I dive.

The lake swallows me in a single gulp; it’s cool, still, and deceptively serene.

If it wasn’t for my sheer anxiety at what swims beneath me, I might actually enjoy it.

I kick hard, slicing through the water, reaching for Brynn.

He floats a few strokes ahead, arms spread, playing dead with theatrical laziness.

I grab beneath his arms and start hauling him toward the far bank, swimming backwards. Gods, he’s heavy, even with the water helping. It’s like dragging a sack of wet sand that mutters encouragement.

“Fuck me, how much do you weigh?” I pant, swallowing and spluttering on water as I try to talk.

“You’ve got this,” he says breezily. “Only about a million more strokes.”

“Shut up, or I’ll let you sink.”

He chuckles but goes limp again, making no attempt to help. My arms burn with effort. Every few strokes, I have to readjust my grip, reposition his broad shoulders, and keep him from sinking completely. More water sloshes into my mouth. My muscles scream. This was not how I pictured my morning .

Stone and Junie are already halfway across, gliding through the water with ease. The other’s close, too. I grit my teeth and push harder, refusing to fall behind.

We’re close enough to see the rowboats bobbing on the other side. That’s when it happens.

Something brushes my calf. Nudges it.

I freeze mid-stroke, my breath catching. My mind conjures an image instantly: a dark, eel-like body coiled in the weeds below, rising silently from the depths, rows of teeth already yawning open.

Lago fish.

I thrash without meaning to, one hand releasing Brynn entirely. My heart stutters and kicks. I spin in the water, searching the depths—

—and see it.

A long, grey shape undulating beneath me.

It’s coming.

I shriek. Loud. Embarrassingly loud. I claw at the water, scrambling toward the boats. “It’s under me! It touched me, Gods, it touched me—”

Laughter erupts from the banks.

Brynn is choking on it, kicking weakly to keep himself afloat. “It’s an eel!” he howls, bobbing below the surface as he laughs. “It’s just an eel!”

I reach the boat and slap both palms onto the edge, panting, wild-eyed, half expecting teeth to close around my ankle. But nothing comes. The water is calm again.

Mortified, I glance back and see the eel, tiny compared to the monstrous image in my mind, gliding lazily beneath the surface.

Everyone is still laughing. Even Junie’s doubled over in her boat, clutching her stomach.

Face flushed, pride a little bruised, I climb into the boat as Brynn hauls himself in beside me .

“Say one word, and I’ll chuck you back in.”

He bites back a grin. “Noted.” Then he grabs the oars and rows us back.

Barnett’s waiting on the shore with towels in hand. I’m just about to wrap mine around my shoulders when I yelp, still drawn tight from the ordeal, as Deacon pinches my sides.

“Careful, Lina,” he says, grinning. “The lago’s gonna get you!”

I shiver in revulsion, elbowing him sharply in the stomach and stomping off to the sound of my team’s laughter at my back.