Page 34 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

E xactly two weeks to the day after Carter’s warning, I’m summoned to a council meeting.

“And what precisely does one wear to a council meeting?” I ask Deacon, who’s sprawled across my bed, arms folded behind his head.

“Beats me, sugar.” He stares up at the ceiling. “Hey, have you ever noticed that big crack above your bed?”

“Deacon,” I snap. “Focus. Either help me or get out.”

“Fine, fine.” He stretches lazily, then gets up and drifts to my side, peering into my wardrobe. “You know, Elina, for a princess, your wardrobe is tragically underwhelming.”

I elbow him in the ribs.

“I’m not a princess. I’m a soldier,” I remind him, voice tight. “And my clothes are meant for combat.”

Still, as I glance at the rows of uniforms, leathers, utility belts, and sheaths—daggers dangling from hooks on the inside of the wardrobe door, I feel my shoulders slump. He’s right.

“One minute,” he says, holding up a finger. “Don’t move. I’ll be back.”

I back up until the edge of the bed hits my knees and drop into it, throwing my arms back, one flung over my eyes in exasperation.

Ten minutes later, Deacon bursts through the door .

“I come bearing gifts.”

I lower my arm just enough to peek, and bolt upright in surprise.

His arms are heaped with clothing: jewel-toned tops, soft tailored trousers, pearlescent dresses that shimmer with golden lace.

“Oh my Gods, Deacon, where did you get all this?”

“It pays to know half the ladies in the kingdom,” he says with a sly grin.

Normally, I’d have a snide comment ready. But, in this moment, I’m too grateful. Without a word, I launch at him in a hug, the pile of fabric squashed between us. He lets out a grunt of surprise.

“Thank you,” I say sincerely.

He grins and begins spreading the clothes out across my bed like a personal stylist preparing a queen.

We settle on an emerald silk blouse tucked into a pair of stone-coloured trousers fitted just right. He even produces a pair of beige heels that add just enough height and a much-needed sense of power now that I’m stripped of my weapons.

“Hair up,” he says, nodding with a hand on his jaw, eyes sweeping over me in thoughtful appraisal.

I gather my hair and hold it up for him, tilting my head in mock presentation.

“Yup, that’s the one.” His tone is decisive.

I laugh, nerves untangling for a moment in the comfort of his presence. Deacon has always been able to calm me down. His humour is reliable. Dependable.

A knock sounds at the door.

“Come in!” I call just as I’m pinning up the last loose crimson wave.

Sam steps inside, takes one look at me, and nods in quiet approval.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Deacon steps forward and pulls me into a hug, warm and grounding .

“You’ll be great, Lina. Just remember who the fuck you are.” His voice is low and steady.

I nod once, then follow Sam.

We slip into a hidden passageway, it’s dark, narrow, and cold. Entirely unwelcoming. But secrecy matters, especially when I’m dressed like this.

My heels clack against the stone floor, a sharp, unfamiliar sound. I’m used to the thud of boots, not this measured, elegant rhythm. But my strides feel powerful, and I let the sensation settle deep.

I know every member of the council. Some of them were even there the day I was born, the day my identity became a secret they helped protect. But since my mother was taken, everything’s frayed—allegiances, emotions, trust.

No one imagined that at the height of war, my father’s mind would shatter.

That our once-great ruler would unravel, becoming a ghost of the man he was.

Decisions fell to the council, not by choice, but necessity.

Yet without a captain, the ship is adrift.

There’s no one to steady the helm when conflict breaks out, no final voice to silence the noise.

We need a ruler. I understand that. I do.

But my mother will come home.

She has to.

And I just have to hold on until then.

If I’m honest, I thought they’d call me in sooner. But their loyalty—to my father, to Aladria—is the only thing that’s delayed this moment.

Sam remains silent as we walk, not bothering to fill the space with unnecessary chatter. His quiet resolve says everything—he trusts me. He doesn’t feel the need to guide or advise. That kind of faith is louder than words.

When we reach the door to the council chamber in the North Wing—a hidden room deep beneath the castle, on the same level as the dungeons—he reaches for the handle and opens it.

“Princess Elina Thane,” he announces, his voice firm as I step through the threshold.

My stride is confident, even if I’m faking every step of it.

The room is dim, lit only by flickering candles and wall sconces.

Maps and missives are scattered across a long table, corners weighted down by stone markers.

Tapestries hang heavy on the walls, each one depicting kings and queens long passed.

The scent of herbal incense curls through the air, masking the damp, earthen chill that clings to the space this deep underground.

All twelve council members are seated around the table, waiting for me.

Men and women, young and old. The only thing they share is their devotion to Aladria.

I raise one eyebrow as my eyes flick to Cael, who sits at the head of the table, in the seat reserved for my father. If that doesn’t speak volumes about his ambition, I don’t know what does.

He’s one of the younger members, maybe thirty, handsome too, with black hair tucked behind his ears in loose curls, dark brows arching over even darker eyes. His skin is pale, a testament to how much time he spends locked away in rooms, strategising the battles others bleed in.

“It appears you’re in my seat, Cael.”

“Ah, simply keeping it warm for you, Princess.” He rises with a polished smile, pearly straight teeth, and effortless charm, and gestures for me to sit.

But I catch the slight tick in his jaw as he moves to sit beside Thorn Merrow at the other end of the table, who smirks behind his hand, clearly amused.

I sit just as Verity Armstrong rises to my left.

Her white hair is shorn close to her scalp, and a long scar runs from her collarbone to her jaw—a relic from a battle fought long ago, back when my grandfather ruled.

Verity served as one of his personal guards in her youth, then a general in the army, and later joined the council when my father ascended the throne. She’s always been one of my favourites.

“Princess Elina,” she says with a deep bow, voice as firm as ever. “It’s a pleasure to finally have you attend one of our meetings.”

“Please, just Elina,” I reply with a smile as she returns to her seat.

“Let’s get to it then.” Lord Garrin claps his hands together on my right. He’s one of the oldest members of the council, cantankerous with age, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a smile rise on his deeply wrinkled face. But he’s a staunch defender of our laws and fiercely loyal to my father.

I lift my hand slightly, glancing around the room. “Where’s the king?”

“We did not require his presence for today,” Cael replies smoothly.

In other words, they don’t want him to know I’m being brought in yet.

Luckily for them, I’m in no mood to distress my father any further. This can stay between us. For now.

“We require a plan to strengthen our alliances with other kingdoms,” Garrin states, his voice gravelly as he looks around the table.

“Yes. Imperia remains neutral,” says Sara Fenwick, our head of diplomatic relations. Her blonde bob sways with the nod of her head. Imperia lies to the northwest of Aladria, and the Riftspire—a treacherous mountain border—divides us.

Davin Clarke stands to speak. He’s our internal scout—and the only council member with a gift. He can make himself invisible, allowing him to slip across borders unnoticed. But since my mother’s capture, we haven’t dared risk him in Dunmere. If she recognises his power, he could be taken too.

“On my latest trip, I saw that Dagan has sent members of his council into their territory. ”

The room erupts in angry protest.

“He’s going to sway them!”

“They have a strong army.”

“We need them!”

Right. Straight into it, then. No easing a girl in, huh?

“When did we last visit Imperia?” I ask in between shouts, and the room quiets at the sound of my voice.

“Not since your mother’s abduction,” Sara confirms. “It’s not an easy trip to make, Elina.” She chuckles condescendingly under her breath.

“So, other than trade, we have no relationship with King Halven?” I ignore her comment and ask about the reigning monarch of Imperia.

He’s ruled for over twenty years, relying on the mountain range to keep his kingdom private and away from harm.

It’s worked so far, but with Dagan’s unending hunger for power, it won’t be long before war is at his doorstep. Or mountaintop.

“No. He has never wanted one,” Thorn answers.

As treasurer, he’s responsible for all things finance, and while you’d expect someone in his position to be dull and numbers-obsessed, Thorn is anything but.

Sarcastic, dry, and unbothered by politics unless there are coins involved, I’ve always enjoyed his quips during royal balls.

“We have to have something he wants? Surely?” I press, doubt edging into my voice. Royal families always want something they don’t have. Some say it’s the influence of Codicia, Goddess of Greed and Jealousy, sprinkling her will upon the kingdoms. I say it’s just the way of man.

“No. Nothing,” Sara says, her expression tightening.

“Well, I heard he wants to marry off his son. You wouldn’t be open to that, would you, Princess?” Cael says from the end of the table.

I don’t even bother looking at him, let alone answering.

“Clemoya,” Davin says, and all heads swivel his way. His eyes are distant, remembering something.

“He’s been trying to plant clemoya for years, but with the harsh climate, it dies off quickly. Never produces the fruit.”

“He wants fruit?” I ask in disbelief, my upper lip curling slightly.