Page 25 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

I t’s as Trent settles back, head propped against a moss-covered rock, eyes drifting toward the tree line, that he sees them.

“Er… guys.”

His voice is calm, but the way he gestures to a towering tree with wide, outstretched limbs and thick bark pulls every gaze upward.

Dangling about thirty feet up, hooked onto particularly thin branches, are three rucksacks. Slung there like bait.

For a moment, no one says a word.

The tree looms, ancient and gnarled, its branches a mix of sturdy limbs and brittle spines. The leaves above ripple, casting dappled shadows over the clearing.

We all scan it silently, measuring distance, angles, risk. Someone is going to have to climb.

Trent raises his hand. “I can do it,” he says, voice steady with quiet confidence. “I can make that climb.”

His eyes flick to mine, waiting for my nod. Everyone else follows his lead, looking to me for the final call. They’re all deferring to me as leader now.

Everyone, that is, except Colton. He’s leaning against a tree, arms crossed, jaw tight, still bristling at every order I give.

“Just make sure you test every branch before you commit your weight,” I say to Trent, gnawing on my bottom lip .

He nods once, then steps forward, brushing his palms against his trousers before gripping the trunk. He starts to climb, finding handholds like he’s done this a hundred times. We all watch, breath held.

The tree groans faintly as he ascends, branches shifting beneath his weight. Thirty feet doesn’t seem like much until you’re watching someone you care about dangling above the forest floor, one misstep from disaster.

Halfway up, there’s a snap. Sharp, sudden.

My heart lodges in my throat as a thin branch cracks beneath his boot and falls, spinning like a blade before vanishing into the ferns.

But Trent doesn’t waver.

He adjusts, shifts, and finds another foothold. He doesn’t even curse, just keeps climbing, steady as ever, until he reaches the first rucksack.

He slings one bag over his shoulder, then climbs higher to reach another. The third is snagged on a narrow limb just out of reach. He stretches, fingertips grazing the strap, when the branch creaks ominously.

From the shadows of the trunk, an Aterra creeps into view.

Its dark violet scales ripple like oil as it crawls forward, inch-long claws scraping bark in slow, deliberate drags. A forked tongue flicks out, tasting the tension, the anxiety in the air.

“Trent, leave it,” I say quietly, just loud enough for him to hear without startling the creature. One lick of its tongue causes immediate paralysis.

“I’ve got it,” he mutters.

We all hold our breath as his fingers inch toward the strap—agonizingly slow. His gaze never wavers from the Aterra.

Then, he grabs it.

The branch bows under his weight, creaking dangerously. The creature’s eyes snap toward him, hissing, its claws digging into the bark as it slithers forward.

Trent yanks the rucksack free and drops from the branch, quickly plummeting a few feet out of reach before carefully climbing the remainder of the way down.

When his boots finally touch the ground, we all exhale in unison and move swiftly, silently, away from the trees.

Ten minutes later, in a small clearing, Trent drops the rucksacks in the centre of our loose circle and exhales hard, rolling his shoulders. Sweat shines on his brow, but he’s grinning.

Absolute lunatic.

“These packs better be worth it.”

I crouch and unzip the first one, and relief floods me.

Inside is a small pestle and mortar wrapped in cloth, a half-empty pouch of dried curar, three canteens, and a compact flint kit. No food, but supplies.

The second bag holds a coil of rope, some coarse linen for bandaging, and a tightly rolled tarp; it’s stiff but usable. The third reveals a battered compass with a crack across its face, but it still spins true. As I reach deeper, something nicks my finger. I pull it free slowly.

A stiletto dagger.

Its hilt is engraved with the king’s initials—O.E.T.—and a coiled, arrow-tailed viper carved with painstaking detail.

I freeze for only a breath, just long enough to rub my thumb along the texture and feel the cold recognition settle deep in my gut.

Then I tuck the blade into my belt, movements calm, deliberate.

“Why do you get the dagger?” Colton takes a step toward me, chin lifted in challenge.

I don’t bother answering. No one else is arguing, and I’m not about to waste breath on him.

I turn my back without a word, already done with the conversation .

“We need to get to higher ground before sundown.”

Brynn grabs the rope from one of the packs. “We can rig a tarp shelter once we stop.” I offer him a small smile in thanks.

I hand the packs to Stone, Deacon, and Trent, emptying my pockets of the things I’ve collected so far and filling the rucksacks evenly. Sam bends to lift Junie again, settling her against his shoulder.

Then we move north once more, now following the compass deeper into the trees.

The forest seems to close in around us, the air growing thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.

The light from the setting sun filters weakly through the canopy, casting long shadows on the path ahead.

Birds call distantly, their voices muffled by the dense undergrowth, while the hum of insects creates an almost eerie orchestra beneath the surface.

With each step, the weight of the coming night presses in.

The sky fades from brilliant orange to deep indigo as we push through the trees, the length of the day pressing on us.

The air grows cooler as we find a clearing nestled between the trees, a small patch of mossy ground surrounded by thick underbrush.

It’s sheltered enough to keep the wind off but open enough that we can keep watch.

“We’ll make camp here,” I announce, my voice cutting through the air. The others don’t argue. I can feel their exhaustion in the way their shoulders slump, in the way they drop their packs with audible relief.

Junie started to come around about an hour ago, but when she asked Sam to put her down and tried walking, her legs buckled beneath her.

Without hesitation, Sam scooped her up again, shifting her onto his back.

Her forehead rested lightly against his shoulder.

I managed to give her a couple of duele berries, which eased the throbbing pain in her head.

The dark blue berries are tart and sour, but they work wonders for pain relief.

Brynn wastes no time setting up a fire, quickly recruiting Trent to help rig the shelter. Apparently, he was a keen camper back home, and now his skills are proving invaluable out here.

Elijah sits on a stump, staring into the flickering flames, completely lost in thought, his eyes glazed over. He hasn’t spoken a word since we started the assignment. His feet follow Brynn’s lead, but there’s no purpose behind them. He’s moving on autopilot.

I chew my bottom lip, watching him, caught in my thoughts, until I’m suddenly hip-checked.

“We need to catch something,” Stone says, casting a glance around the team. “We can’t survive on berries for much longer. And in case you hadn’t noticed—I’m pretty fucking big.” He lifts his arm, flexing his tattooed bicep. “Takes a lot of calories to maintain this physique.”

A laugh bursts out of me, unexpected and sharp. The corner of his mouth twitches, clearly satisfied with pulling me out of my melancholy.

“Fine, but I’m coming with you. Gods forbid you step on a trampa vine.” I shake my head, feigning annoyance, though my heart beats faster at the thought of being alone with him.

“A what?”

“You don’t want to know. Come on.” I swat his chest before walking ahead.

We move quietly through the forest, both hopeful we’ll find something big enough to feed the group. I lead. Stone follows close behind, a throwing dagger already in hand.

Then, without warning, his arm wraps around me from behind, pulling me hard against his chest and halting my step. My breath catches—the feel of his body against mine, his soft breaths stirring my hair, the way my hips nestle against him—it’s overwhelming. I fight the instinct to lean into him.

“Shh.” His whisper is low, and the shivers that race down my spine are entirely involuntary. I silently beg the Gods that he didn’t notice.

Gently, he shifts me behind him, then gestures toward a patch of brush ahead. There’s a faint rustle of leaves, just enough movement to suggest something is there. Then, slowly, a twitching nose appears, snuffling at the ground.

The deer moves cautiously into the open, unaware of the predators watching.

Stone inhales—his only tell—then the dagger flies.

It hits true. The deer drops instantly.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding and pat him on the back.

“Well done.” I internally roll my eyes. Well done?!

He looks back at me over his shoulder and raises a brow at my words, but thankfully doesn’t say anything before he heads forward to retrieve the deer, flinging it over his shoulders with practised ease.

“Let’s head back.”

Before we turn, something catches my eye. At the base of a nearby tree, deep burgundy leaves shimmer in the fading light. I rush over and start to dig into the earth, mud under my nails, fingers unearthing a cluster of violet bulbs.

I pull them out with a sharp tug, and I hold them up triumphantly. Bouncing on my toes in excitement.

Stone stares blankly.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting a fanfare, but I guess a simple ‘congrats’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Sorry, Red, but I’ve got no idea what you’re holding.”

I sigh. “These are desperto bulbs.”

He gives me the same confused look, and I glance skywards, silently asking the Gods for patience.

“Desperto bulbs are packed with natural energy. Boil them, and the liquid has the kick of three cups of coffee. With this many, I can make enough for ten.”

I shake them at him, and he smiles at me then, soft, warm, real .

“Cute.”

I shoot him a withering stare, but it only makes him laugh.