Page 29 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

B y midday, hunger gnaws at our bellies, and thirst dries our throats.

Our fantastic leader didn’t bother rationing the supplies. Instead, he ate and drank most of it himself, so tempers are fraying, emotions hanging by a thread.

It feels like we’ve been walking for months, not days. The blisters on my feet have burst, sticking painfully to my socks with each step, and the trees here have thinned out so the sun beats down mercilessly.

My shoulders are tight and stinging, already burned an angry red.

No one speaks. We’re all too tense. One wrong word, and we’ll tear each other apart.

We round a bend, past a massive old tree wrapped in sage green vines and bright orange flowers, when Colton suddenly pulls up short.

“What the hell?” he mutters, staring ahead.

I step up beside him and freeze.

In the middle of the path stand three glass boxes, each one housing a snake, coiled protectively around a wooden chest.

Sam spots a note nailed to the tree and reads aloud:

“Three chests lie still, each marked by a snake,

Two bring death with a single mistake.’

‘One only hisses, no venom inside—

Choose with care, or in death you’ll abide. ”

“Wait, there’s more,” Junie says, tugging a second note free from the bark:

“I bask in the sun but fear the cold,

My strike is swift, my venom bold.’

‘I shimmer like jewels, a beauty untold,

Yet one brush with me, and death takes hold.’

‘I slither and coil, but kill I do not,

My fangs are for show — no death have I brought.’

‘Find the chest where death holds no throne,

Use your key, and the way home is shown.”

Sam pulls the key we won earlier out of his pocket, holding it up to me to indicate he’s kept it safe.

We crowd closer, studying the glass boxes.

The leftmost box holds a tiny brown snake, passive and calm. Its tongue flicks lazily as it barely manages one loop around the chest beneath it.

The middle box houses a huge gold-scaled snake, its body hovering menacingly above the ground, striking repeatedly at the glass in an attempt to reach us, each hit a sharp, angry snap.

The final box holds a serpent I know too well: a jade green snake with iridescent scales and a wickedly pointed tail lashing back and forth like a whip.

“That’s an arrow-tailed viper,” I whisper, both awed and horrified. “They’re deadly.”

Its orange eyes lock onto mine, unblinking.

“Praise the Gods—we have an oracle of knowledge in our midst.” Colton’s voice drips with mockery as he brushes past me, knocking me aside like I’m in his way. “Everyone knows what an arrow-tailed viper is.”

I grit my teeth and ignore him, considering the other clues.

The riddle hangs heavy in the air, each line gnawing at the edges of our nerves. Both the left and middle boxes bask under the sun’s glare, making the first clue useless. I inch closer to the golden snake, noting the two tiny black marks on its head shaped like delicate fangs.

“I think this one’s a Segura snake,” I say quietly, heart thudding hard against my ribs, hoping— praying —I’m right. “I’ve seen drawings before. Those black marks… they’re the ‘fangs for show’ the riddle mentions. I think this one’s safe.”

Colton scoffs, loud and dismissive.

“You really think that psycho ”—he jabs a finger toward the golden snake, still coiled and battering the glass—“is harmless? And that tiny, useless thing”—he sneers at the brown snake—“is deadly?”

He crouches beside the brown snake’s box and knocks hard against the glass. The snake barely flicks its tongue, indifferent.

“Colton, look, I’ll do it if you think I’m wrong,” I say, stepping forward, hands half-raised. “I’m not trying to take control. I just—”

“Enough,” he snaps, his voice slicing through the thick, choking tension.

Before anyone can react, he snatches the key from Sam’s hand with a rough jerk and storms toward the brown snake’s box.

“Colton, seriously—” I start, but he continues to move.

“You should listen to her, man,” Deacon says seriously, stepping up beside me. “I recognise the Segura too.”

“She’s right about the fangs,” Junie says under her breath, eyes locked on the golden snake’s head.

But Colton doesn’t hear us anymore. His pride drowns out everything else.

He spins back toward us, face twisted with fury.

“You all think you’re better than me, huh? Think you can trick me into getting killed?”

“That’s not it—” I try to explain. Junie is right: his arrogance will kill him, but it’s more than that. He can’t see past his hatred for me. He can’t hear reason when it comes from my mouth.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” Trent says, trying to grab the key, but Colton yanks it away with a snarl.

“Fuck you all!” he shouts, marching straight toward the brown snake’s box.

Time seems to stutter around me, every movement too slow and too fast all at once.

Colton lifts the lid and reaches inside, key clutched tight between his fingers, his arm moving toward the chest without even glancing at the snake.

The brown snake’s eyes lock on his hand.

The air goes still.

“I can’t wait to get back to the castle so I don’t have to—”

Colton’s words cut off in a sharp, wet gasp. His eyes go wide.

The snake is latched onto his knuckle, its tiny fangs buried deep.

Colton freezes, staring at the bite as if not comprehending what just happened.

The snake withdraws lazily and curls back around the chest, indifferent once more.

Then Colton drops.

His knees hit the ground with a dull thud, arms hanging useless at his sides. Blood gushes from his nose in a sudden, violent stream, splattering the dirt below.

Dark veins bloom up his forearm like cracks in glass, racing from the bite toward his shoulder and neck with terrifying speed.

His eyes bulge, almost bursting from his skull, and he opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes—only thick, tar-coloured foam that oozes from his lips and dribbles down his chin. Fizzing and bubbling as it hits the floor.

Junie screams, the noise raw and broken.

I lunge forward, heart hammering, but before I can reach him, Colton collapses face-first into the dirt, his body convulsing violently for a few seconds before going completely still.

“Shit,” I breathe, rolling him over with trembling hands.

His eyes are glazed, staring blankly up at the sky.

“Deacon!” I scream.

Deacon drops to his knees beside me, his hands moving to check for a pulse, but he doesn’t need to say it.

I see it in his face and then in the subtle shake of his head. There’s nothing to be done. No antidote. No salve. No elixir

Colton is dead.

He may have been an asshole, but no one deserves to die like that—so violently, so horrifically.

A thick, tattooed arm wraps around my chest, pulling me back against a solid wall of warmth. For a breath, one precious breath, I let myself lean into Stone’s comfort again.

Maybe Colton was right, a bitter voice hisses deep, taunting me. Maybe I’m not the leader they think I am.

Across from us, Trent leans over and gently closes Colton’s eyes.

Sam crouches low, prying the key from Colton’s rigid fingers. His movements are careful, respectful. Without a word, he steps to the golden snake’s box.

The snake strikes immediately, its blunt fangs bouncing harmlessly off his skin. Sam barely flinches as he unlocks the chest, dislodging the serpent in the process.

Inside, he pulls free a small, tightly rolled scroll.

He opens it, scanning quickly, and then hands it to me.

“It’s another map,” Sam says hoarsely. “It shows the route to the finish. Thirty minutes from here.”

“Thank the Gods,” Junie mutters, scrubbing her hands over her face. Her voice is rough and broken around the edges.

Stone gives me one last squeeze before stepping away, offering me his hand.

I shake my head, pushing myself to my feet instead.

My moment of vulnerability is over. It has to be.

There’s no space left for weakness.

It’s time to go home.

When we reach the Northern Ridge, it’s at the same time as a few other teams. Some are already slumped in the open field, others limp across the finish line behind us, each final step drawn from sheer stubbornness.

Everyone looks the same—hollowed out, scraped raw.

Some teams are sobbing openly. Others are silent, locked behind tight, blank faces. One team is down to just two people.

The assessment has been devastating. The loss of recruits is inconceivable.

But I remind myself: what we faced in the forest is nothing compared to a pack of Malus charging with a single purpose. To kill, to decimate, to leave nothing behind.

There’s no antidote for that. No herbal remedy to stitch you back together when you’re torn apart by rotten teeth and dull nails.

All the training the army puts us through—the cruelty, the brutality—it’s a necessary evil.

And maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll start to believe it.

Carter stands at the finish, clipboard in hand, watching each recruit stagger in along with several other officers and some medics who immediately start to tend to those badly injured.

Nobody else notices, but I do. The way his gaze lingers on me just a moment longer than it should, checking for any injuries, the fleeting flash of relief that crosses his face when he doesn’t find any, before he schools it back into cold detachment and keeps making notes.

“Unless you require immediate medical attention, please use the carts provided to return to the castle. Food will be delivered to your rooms,” Rickard’s dull voice carries over the crowd.

Deacon slings an arm over mine and Junie’s shoulders.

“Come on then, ladies. Let’s go shower.”

“I’m not so desperate to be clean that I’d ever consider showering with you, Deacon Hart,” Junie laughs lightly. “ Ever. ”

“I’ve got the next couple of years to change your mind, Juju,” he teases, tugging her into a quick, tight squeeze.

Junie punches him lightly in the stomach, laughing, and they head off toward the carriages, leaving me standing there, half a step behind.

I start to follow.

And then I hear it—a sharp, excited squeal.

I turn.

And freeze.

A girl from one of the other Elite squads is already in Stone’s arms.

Roxianna Young.

Her brother is one of the King’s guards.

Her long, tanned legs locked around his waist, her fingers tangled in his hair, dragging his mouth to her full, pink lips.

And he doesn’t pull away.

No. He catches her with his arms wrapped around her like they belong there, and he kisses her back.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

Three days in that forest, of thinking—of hoping—that maybe there was something real between us. The beginning of something.

And he’s kissing her like I was never even a thought.

The pain is immediate. Sharp.

And stupidly, selfishly, all I can think is that I would rather live a lifetime lost in that cursed forest than have to see Stone kiss another girl again.

I force myself to turn away, to walk after Deacon and Junie before anyone sees the crack in my armour .

Before he sees.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt today, it’s that feelings only get you hurt.

And I’m done hurting.

So I do the only thing I can. I shove every feeling—every stupid, reckless feeling—into a box, lock it tight, and bury it so deep even I can’t find it again.

* * *

I don’t bother looking at the scoreboard. It feels meaningless now, a hollow victory when you’ve lost two teammates.

What’s first place worth if people die on your watch?

And tonight, I both dread and loathe the thought of seeing Stone. Our little rivalry, ruined, tainted by the memory of Roxianna’s legs wrapped around his waist. By the hollow ache in my chest.

Instead, I lumber toward the new private rooms on the west side of the castle. They’re perched on the second floor, and my lethargic legs drag me up the stone staircase to room 104.

My new room.

I unlock the door and step inside. It’s small, nearly bare—just a narrow bed, a battered desk, and a little wardrobe tucked against the far wall. It smells faintly of smoke and damp.

But I have never been so grateful to have four walls and a lock between me and the outside world.

I shut the door and slide the bolt into place.

Once I’m sure no one can see—and only then—I let myself crumble.

I slide down the carved wood, my back scraping against it, my arms curling around my knees.

And I cry.

Silent, heaving sobs tear through my chest .

The guilt for Elijah. The shame for Colton. The sting of Stone’s betrayal—irrational, unwanted, but there all the same—bleeding out of me with every tear that hits the cold stone floor.

I don’t give myself long.

But I give myself that. The small mercy of falling apart, just for a little while.

When the tears dry against my cheeks, sticky and cold, I drag myself to the private shower room. I scrub myself raw, the soap stinging against my cuts and blisters, but I welcome it.

Then I collapse into bed, muscles screaming, mind mercifully blank.

And sleep claims me.