Page 35 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

“No,” Davin says, shaking his head, then meets my gaze dead-on. “He wants the money from clemoya sales.”

“The clemoya trade is incredibly profitable for Aladria, Your Majesty,” Thorn adds. “He’d benefit vastly just from the sale to Bretton alone.”

Bretton—the smallest of all the kingdoms.

“Then surely we can sacrifice the coin from a few clemoya farms in exchange for his armed forces?” I glance around the table. Heads nod in agreement.

“I’ll crunch the numbers for you,” Thorn says.

And just like that, it hits me how deeply this council is starved for leadership. If it took me less than five minutes to resolve this, how many decisions have gone unmade while my father’s mind frays?

“We will reconvene in two days,” Garrin declares, and chairs scrape as the council members rise to leave.

Cael approaches, and I can’t help but picture him as a slimy eel—slippery and slick.

“You did well today, Princess,” he says as if I asked for his approval. “You’ll make a formidable ruler. It’ll be an honour to work alongside you.”

I meet his gaze, annoyed that I have to look up even in heels, but I don’t look away. His eyes are so dark that the pupils seem to swallow the irises whole.

“Make no mistake, Cael. Just because I’ve attended today doesn’t mean anything has changed. My aspirations remain the same. My mother will return, and my father will rule again.”

His mouth curves into a wry smile. “Hm. I do so hope that will be the case, Your Majesty.”

There’s no sincerity in his voice. A lesser girl might shrink under his condescension, but I’ve never been trained to bow, and I’m not about to start because of some man.

He leans in a little too close. “You look stunning today.”

It takes effort not to show the revulsion that rises in me at his words. To not lift my stiletto heel and stab it into one of his leering eyes. I’m sure his polished looks and charm work on many women, but I prefer the rugged, war-torn kind. My mind flicks to Stone before I snap it back to now.

Cael smirks, misreading my silence, likely thinking I’m flustered by him. If only he knew.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, stroking my arm, and then he’s gone, leaving behind the feeling of nausea.

I’m alone for a few precious minutes.

I press my hands to the table, let my head drop forward, and breathe—eyes shut tight.

“Mother… please come home,” I whisper to the shadows before Sam arrives to retrieve me.

* * *

Deacon is waiting on my bed when I return, one of my romance novels open on his lap. He waves it in the air accusingly as I enter, the well-worn pages fluttering like a flag of shame.

“Is this what you spend your spare time reading?” His eyes are wide, like he’s seeing me for the first time. Then he flicks his gaze to the page again and begins to read aloud: “ His hand grips his pulsing— ”

I lunge at him before he can finish, clamping a hand over his mouth and snatching the book from his grasp.

He bites my palm and throws me off him, laughing. We land side by side, catching our breath, my cheeks blazing.

“How was it?” he asks, still panting from our tussle.

“Honestly?”

“Always.”

“It was a shambles, Deacs. They were clucking around like the hens in the gardens.”

I stare up at the crack in the ceiling, the one he pointed out earlier.

“How do you mean?” He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me.

“They all hold equal power and status, each with their own specialities, but most don’t want to lead. And if someone tries, the others oppose them. Without my father, there’s no hierarchy, no structure. They’re floundering.”

“And then you step in to save the day,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“The decisions they’re not making are already harming Aladria,” I whisper, the weight of it tightening across my chest. “I think I’ll have to be more present than either my father or I ever intended.”

I close my eyes. The pressure is suffocating. I always knew I’d have to rule one day, but I thought I’d have more time. More me left.

To lead means sacrificing everything else. No more combat drills. No more fieldwork. No more pretending I’m just another fighter in the barracks. Instead of battles, there will be meetings. Briefings. Negotiations. Paperwork.

I’m not ready to lose who I am. Not yet.

“Shit,” Deacon mutters. “I’m sorry, Lina.”

He knows. He’s always known. How I’ve spent my whole life caught between craving a normal existence and carrying the crushing responsibility of a crown I never wanted.

I’m willing to fight for Aladria. I’d die for her.

But I’m not ready to give my life for her. Not yet.

I offer him a tired, sad smile.

“Want something to cheer you up?” he grins, all mischief and sunshine, before leaning down beside the bed and producing a gloriously sticky lemon cake from a paper-wrapped parcel.

And Gods help me , the sight of it almost brings a tear to my eye.

I snatch it from his hands and immediately shovel in a mouthful, moaning with something close to reverence.

“Well,” Deacon coughs, feigning discomfort, “I’ll leave you alone with your cake and your smut. Freya Midsommar’s waiting for me in her room.”

He makes a crude gesture with his fingers, and I chuck a pillow at his face.

He laughs all the way out the door, leaving me with a lemon cake, a scandalous book, and far too many thoughts.