Page 30 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

T he next few days pass quietly, with many recruits still recovering from the teamwork assessment, nursing wounds both visible and not.

I fill the empty hours with eating, reading, checking in on Junie, who’s healing well, and fending off Deacon’s attempts to check in on me, waving him off with an eye-roll and a muttered I’m fine .

I don’t see or speak to Stone, and Trent is absent too.

It’s only when Sam knocks on my door that I realise I’ve been putting it off too long.

“He’s been asking for you again,” Sam says as I open the door.

His face is neutral, but I catch the flicker of sympathy in his eyes before he schools it away.

I nod silently and fall into step beside him, my feet dragging with every reluctant stomp toward the part of the castle I do everything to avoid.

The guards stationed at the heavy oak door nod respectfully at Sam and me, their soft leather uniforms whispering with the motion.

I wrap my fingers around the large brass handle, take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and push the door open.

Sam stays outside.

This is a visit I’ve got to make alone.

Inside, the room is cloaked in shadows, the thick velvet curtains drawn tight, and despite the summer heat, a roaring fire blazes in the hearth, filling the air with a suffocating warmth.

Then I see him, seated on a grand, high-backed throne before the flames—silhouetted against the firelight—is King Orren.

He mumbles under his breath, his hands moving in vivid, erratic gestures as if trying to explain something to someone who isn’t there.

His voice rises at odd intervals, snippets of nonsense spilling into the stifling air—fragments only he understands.

I linger at the threshold, my heart hammering against my ribs as I watch him.

He doesn’t notice the door open. Doesn’t notice my footsteps on the stone. Doesn’t notice the ragged, shallow breaths rattling my ribcage.

I wipe my clammy palms down the sides of my trousers and force myself forward, rounding his chair so that I stand directly in his view with the fire licking at my spine.

Still, his glassy eyes don’t shift toward me, too caught in the conversation he’s having with ghosts.

He has aged terribly these last few years.

His once-handsome features are now worn and sunken, his skin sallow from sleeplessness and hunger. The glowing gold of his eyes is dulled, framed by heavy purple shadows, and his hair— once a rich chocolate brown—is now more silver than anything else.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

My lips part and close again uselessly before I finally manage to whisper one word:

“Daddy.”

The sound cuts through the haze like a blade, and King Orren stills, his hands faltering midair, and he blinks rapidly as if shaking off a heavy fog.

Then slowly, blessedly, he turns his gaze toward me. The corners of his eyes soften in recognition .

“Elina,” he breathes, and the sound of my name on his lips is a balm to my anxiety.

Relief crashes over me like a wave, and my shoulders sag under the weight of it. He recognises me.

“Come here, my love,” he says, rising to his feet and opening his arms wide.

I rush into his embrace without hesitation, burying myself against him, breathing in the faint scent of smoke.

“Oh, my darling girl,” he murmurs, squeezing me tightly. “How are you?”

I cling to him for a long moment, just listening to the steady pace of his heart beneath my ear.

His lucid moments are rare now, and when they come, they are usually about two things.

My mother.

And me.

This is what happens when a person is separated from their mate for too long—their mind begins to fracture. Skills once honed, memories once treasured, even the faces of those they loved… all begin to erode, slipping away piece by piece.

When Dagan took the queen, he didn’t just steal my mother. He stole my father, too.

I never let myself dwell on what that separation must be doing to her. She’s strong, stronger than anyone. I have to believe that she’s still fighting. Still holding on.

And as long as my father’s heart beats in this broken castle, I know hers still beats, too.

“Come, sit with me.”

He guides me to a well-worn sofa, the cushions sagging from years of use. We settle in side by side.

“How have you been, Elina?” he asks, eyes drifting away as if searching his memory. “You’ve joined the army, haven’t you?”

A proud smile tugs at his lips.

“Yes. It’s tough… but I think it’s good for me.” I pause, letting the honesty linger. “I’m learning more about our people. What they need, what they hope for.”

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the stiletto dagger from the trial and hand it to him, a smirk playing on my lips.

“Here. I think you might be missing this.”

He winks, accepting it with familiar ease before placing it on the side table.

“Ah. I was wondering if it would find its way to you. I asked one of the generals to plant it during the trial.”

“Well, thank you. It came in handy against a peligro.”

He chuckles, warm and proud, before reaching out to ruffle my hair.

“My lethal princess.”

There are only about twenty people on the entire continent who know the truth—that I’m the daughter of King Orren and Queen Liora.

Deacon.

Sam.

Dalia.

Carter.

My mother and father.

And the council members.

When my mother became pregnant, the decision was made almost immediately: keep me hidden. Dunmere was already stirring with unrest, and no one trusted Dagan not to use me—a royal heir—to shatter Aladria from the inside out.

So, they created a story.

To those who live and work within the castle walls, I’m just the orphaned daughter of a fallen soldier. Dalia raised me in the public eye, but behind closed doors, I was raised by my parents .

There’s a secret passageway that connects Dalia’s chambers to the royal quarters. I used to slip through them every morning and night, drifting between two lives like mist through cracks.

Sometimes, I think I was born in those corridors, between walls. One version of me raised in the shadow of the throne, the other out in the open, pretending to be ordinary.

The Fox and the Princess. Both masked, both waiting for the day one would have to reveal what lies beneath.

“How’s Sam getting on?” my father asks, his voice pulling me into the present.

Sam was brought to the castle five years ago. He looks young, but he’s older than most people think. Almost thirty, he was chosen for his youthful appearance and skill. He’s a soldier. A strategist. And essentially… my undercover bodyguard.

He volunteered to join the army when I did, swearing to protect me no matter the cost. He’s become my shadow. Always a step behind—silent, steady, watching.

Still, I can’t help but feel guilty that he has to keep all of this from Louisa.

I smile just at the thought of my steady, towering companion.

“He’s good. A little suffocating sometimes, but good.”

“Yes, I knew I made the right choice hiring him.” My father’s smile tilts smug, no doubt recalling how unimpressed I’d been when he first suggested assigning me a bodyguard.

Then, his expression shifts.

“The council is pushing for you to take on a more permanent leadership role,” he says, voice tight.

His jaw clenches, hands curling into fists.

“I’ve told them to delay. At least until you’ve finished your training.

You deserve time to just be young. This burden… It’s being forced on you far too soon.”

He shakes his head and closes his eyes, but not before I catch the flicker of guilt and grief behind them.

“And how did they take that?” I ask quietly, already knowing the answer.

Since my mother was taken, the council has been slowly preparing me, grooming me to lead.

To rule Aladria.

But I’m not ready. I’m still holding on to the hope that my mother will come back… that my father will recover. He was a fantastic ruler, and I’m not ready to step into his colossal shoes.

Once I step out of the shadows, once I claim the name Elina Thane, Princess of Aladria, there will be no going back.

My father scoffs gently. “Cael tried to argue with me,” he mutters, waving a hand in a mock regal gesture, “but he seems to forget that I’m still king.”

The gesture draws a laugh out of me, and when I glance at him again, his expression has softened.

“You look so much like her when you laugh,” he says, reverent and aching.

I offer a quiet smile. “Still got your eyes, though.”

He chuckles, the sound warm. “About the only thing you got from me. You’re your mother through and through, other than your hair.”

My red hair came from my mother’s father, who died before I was born. It actually made it easier to lie about my parents when I was younger, as they both have naturally brown hair.

“Deacon used a lot of her botany teachings during the assessment,” I tell him.

“Ah,” he sighs, nostalgic. “That boy always did love spending time with her in the gardens.”

But I can see his eyelids growing heavy now, his gaze turning distant again. The lucidity is fading.

I rise slowly. “I’ll come back soon, Daddy. ”

He looks at me then—really looks—and I know he sees it too.

How hard it’s becoming for me to walk through that door. How much it hurts to see him like this. How some days, when I visit, I sit across from a ghost wearing my father’s face.

But still, I smile.

And then I leave.

Before I lose him again to his mind and memories.

* * *

I was with my mother the day she was taken.

We were in the old town—her, Deacon, and me with several guards. Wandering cobbled streets bathed in late sun, shopping for herbs that the castle gardens couldn’t grow. She was laughing, I remember that. How the sound of it danced ahead of us, light and lovely, like wind through chimes.

And then they came.

They sent in the Malus first. Dozens of them. Maybe more.