Page 28 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

“Colton’s a fucking coward,” He cuts in, voice hard with anger. “He saw an opening to lead, and he took it. Doesn’t mean he deserves it.”

I blink up at him, my throat burning.

He holds my gaze, steady and sure.

“We follow you because we choose to,” he says. “Not because we have to.”

A rustle behind us makes me flinch, but it’s only Junie.

She pauses a few feet away, studying us with a wry, tired smile.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your… whatever this is,” she says, voice light but eyes serious. “But I thought you should know that I don’t blame you, Elina.”

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

“If it weren’t for you, Brynn would be dead, and I’d probably still be trapped in the worst hallucinations my mind could come up with,” Junie says, folding her arms and lifting her chin with that familiar, stubborn defiance.

“You’re the reason we’ve made it this far.

Don’t let that asshole make you forget it. ”

The emotion hits harder than any of Colton’s insults.

Sharp. Immediate.

I nod stiffly, hoping the look in my eyes is enough to show her how much it means to me.

“Thanks,” I manage to croak.

Stone’s hand brushes against mine, the lightest touch, but it anchors me better than anything else could have.

Junie winks at me, already turning back toward the others.

“Get your shit together, boss,” she calls over her shoulder. “We’re gonna need you.”

I breathe in slowly, filling my lungs with the cold night air. Letting it settle, the tremor still running through my body.

Then I push off the wall, straighten my spine, and follow them back into camp.

Later, we’re all gathered around the roaring fire, the flames casting long, flickering shadows across our worn faces.

“Gods, I miss my mum’s food,” Deacon groans, poking half-heartedly at his rice.

“ I miss your mum’s food,” Trent mutters, mournful, earning a few weak chuckles.

I shove another mouthful of the bland rice and beans into my mouth, chewing mechanically. It tastes like nothing, like eating soggy cardboard.

Dalia’s kitchen swims into my mind—fresh pasta tossed in a thick sauce, a warm plate set before me.

Gods, I miss pasta.

Two days without it and it feels like a piece of my soul has shrivelled up. Is this what withdrawal feels like? If so, I don’t care for it.

“I miss Hinode hotpot,” Junie says suddenly, staring into the fire. She lifts a spoonful of our sad camp meal to her mouth, then sighs. “If I shut my eyes and imagine really hard, maybe I can pretend I’m eating it.”

She chews with her eyes shut tight. And grimaces.

“Nope. Didn’t work. ”

I huff a laugh at her tone of disappointment.

One more day of trekking.

And if the Gods are kind, maybe, just maybe, we’ll all still be standing at the end of it.

After a restless sleep on the hard, compacted earth, we wake, choke down a meagre breakfast, and leave, Colton leading the way, though with no map this time. He at least has the smashed compass clutched in his hand, using it to keep us heading north.

Deacon and I are paired together today, which is fine by me.

We chatter softly to pass the time, our conversation a low murmur under the whisper of the trees.

Trent and Stone walk just behind us, talking in hushed, serious tones.

It’s not the first time I wonder what secrets pass between them that they don’t want anyone else to hear.

“Can you remember when I wanted to be a seer’s assistant?” Deacon asks suddenly, squinting up at the bright sky above. Birds squawk loudly in the trees, almost like they’re insulted he’s looking their way.

An involuntary laugh bursts from me. “Gods, yeah.” I tap a finger against my lip, the memory vivid. “You scared me half to death when you said you saw ten children in my future.”

I smack him lightly across the chest with the cracked skin of my knuckles.

“I said I was sorry about that,” he says, grinning. “I read your palm wrong.”

I’m about to tease him more when a sharp click sounds ahead of us. So quick, so alien to the natural hum of the forest that my entire body stiffens.

My head snaps toward the sound. Colton is looking down at his boot, confusion creasing his brow.

“Colton, no!” I bellow.

But it’s too late. His foot lifts from a hidden mechanism, and in the space of a heartbeat, I hear it—the whirring snap of gears, the whisper of tension releasing.

An arrow sings through the air.

I don’t think, I just move. I lunge toward Trent, throwing my arms around his waist and shoving him down with everything I have. We hit the ground hard, tangled together, but the sharp, wet thock of the arrow striking flesh tells me I wasn’t fast enough.

A grunt tears from Trent’s throat.

Stone is there in an instant, dropping to his knees beside us as I scramble to lift myself off Trent’s side. I scan him frantically, hands hovering uselessly.

And then I see it—the arrow buried deep in his shoulder.

Relief floods me, dizzy and fierce. It’s not a kill shot.

“Hey, no need to look so happy, ” Trent grits out through clenched teeth, sweat already standing out on his dark brow. “I’ve got a fucking arrow in my shoulder.”

“Better your shoulder than your heart,” I counter, already working to sit him up with Stone’s help. I tear the fabric around the wound away, careful but quick.

It’s a clean shot all the way through.

I scan the ground, fingers raking through leaves and dirt until I find a thick, sturdy branch. Holding it out to Trent, I meet his questioning look.

“What am I meant to do with this?”

“Bite it,” I say grimly. “This is going to hurt.”

To his credit, he doesn’t argue. He clamps down on the stick just as I snap off the arrow’s head and end in quick, brutal motions.

A deep, guttural grunt rumbles from his chest as I pull the shaft free.

Deacon is already beside me, pressing gauze and the salve into my hands—the ones we’d scavenged the ingredients for, tucked away for emergencies like this .

I blot as much of the blood away as I can, the wound angry and vivid against his skin, before smoothing the salve over both the entrance and exit wounds.

The effect is near-instantaneous.

Before our eyes, the torn ligaments and muscle fibres begin knitting themselves back together, the raw edges weaving with a shimmering, faint golden glow.

“Holy shit,” Stone breathes, awe thick in his voice as he watches.

A few long minutes later, all that remains are two faint pink marks.

Trent spits the stick from his mouth and flexes his shoulder experimentally, whistling low.

“Well,” he says, flashing a crooked smile, “that was fucking unpleasant.”

I huff a half-laugh, tension bleeding from my body in a rush now that I know he’s going to be alright.

“Thank you,” Trent says, locking eyes with me.

The sincerity in his gaze catches me off guard, and I feel heat rush up my neck. I nod stiffly and stand, brushing dirt from my hands onto the front of my trousers. They’re already torn and bloodstained, so it barely matters.

Colton calls for the group to rest, draining one of the canteens completely without a single word of apology for the trap he triggered or any thought of sharing the water he’s just downed. The bitterness curdles in my gut, but I push it down.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Stone moving, his shoulders stiff, jaw tight as he stalks away from the clearing and into the trees.

I hesitate, but when I glance at Deacon, he tilts his head meaningfully toward Stone, mouthing, Go.

I don’t think. I just follow.

The forest hushes around us, the soft crunch of leaves under my boots the only sound until Stone stops ahead of me .

He runs both hands over his short hair, the rasp of his fingers through it somehow loud in the quiet.

He doesn’t turn. His back is a solid wall of tense muscle, rippling under his shirt as he breathes, strained and shallow.

I approach slowly, raising my hand as if to touch him, but at the last moment, I let it fall.

He turns then, and the anguish in his eyes punches the air from my lungs.

“He could’ve died,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “He could’ve died, and I would’ve lost my best friend.” His blue eyes look dark, almost black, haunted by what could’ve been.

“But he didn’t,” I murmur back, willing my voice to be steady.

“Because of you,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine. “He’s alive. Because of you , Elina.”

And the way he looks at me—like I’m something precious, something to worship—makes my breath catch.

Before I can even begin to process it, he crosses the distance between us, pulls me into his arms, and hugs me.

One hand presses firmly to the small of my back, anchoring me against him.

The other slides into my hair at the nape of my neck, fingers tangling there, knotting in my slightly damp tresses.

Without thinking, my arms wrap around his waist, clutching the worn fabric of his shirt as he lowers his face into my hair, breathing me in like I’m the only thing keeping him upright.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice rough with something too big to name.

I don’t answer. I don’t dare move. So scared the moment will end.

I only close my eyes and let myself be held, feeling the slight tremble in his arms, the way his fingers flex, tugging gently at my hair like he’s terrified to let go .

After what could be seconds or minutes—whatever it was, it was too short—he loosens his grip. Letting the hand that was at my back fall to my palm and squeeze before indicating for me to follow him back to the clearing.

We make our way together to the trail as the sharp light of morning cuts through the trees, the dew still thick on the leaves, our breath misting faintly in the air.

Colton is already on his feet, pacing impatiently like a caged animal.

His beady eyes flick toward Stone and me, narrowing with something close to disdain, but he doesn’t say a word. He just slings his pack higher and snaps, “Let’s move. We’re burning daylight.”

Nobody argues.

But the mood shifts — taut and uneasy, like a bowstring pulled too tight.

As we fall into step, Deacon drifts closer to me, keeping his voice low enough that only I can hear.

“That prick is really starting to piss me off,” he mutters, scowling at Colton’s back.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to.

Colton charges ahead, making a mess of the trail, snapping branches underfoot and kicking loose stones down slopes without a second thought, not a care in the world about setting off another arrow. Or worse.

Junie sidles closer, her shoulder brushing mine briefly.

“Arrogance like that gets people killed,” she mutters under her breath.

Colton spins, glaring daggers at her.

“You got something to say?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do.” Her gaze narrows, hands clenching at her sides. “You’re making too much fucking noise; the way you’re stomping around could trigger another trap at any second. ”

His nostrils flare, and his already pink complexion flushes red with anger.

“I’m not the one who went insane after stepping on some mushroom. So shut your mouth and keep walking.”

He storms off ahead before any of us have a chance to argue back.

“Dick,” Junie mutters.

“Better to save your breath,” I nudge her in solidarity. “He’s as stubborn as he is ugly, and that’s saying something, because I’d rather shit in my hands and clap than look at his face for more than a second.” Her snort of laughter brings a smile to my face.

The sun climbs higher, turning the mist gold and burning the last of the morning chill from the air, but none of the warmth touches the tension tightening around my ribs as I think about what else could be waiting for us.