Page 4 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

B arnett leads us down a long corridor, every footstep echoing like a countdown. The tension hangs so thick it could be sliced with a blade.

The large oak doors on the east wing of Aladria Castle swing open as the entire Elite Squad follows their commanding officers into the sunlit combat arena.

Though the castle serves as the royal seat for King Orren and his trusted inner circle, it also doubles as a formidable military training ground for recruits.

For many of us, it is just as much home as it is for the royal family.

The king occupies the entire North Wing.

It’s strictly off-limits to all but his guards, a handful of confidants, and what little remains of his family.

The rest of the grounds are dedicated to the army and its housing.

We walk toward the wide-open field where multiple fighting rings stand, ready for training and assessment. Our group follows Barnett to where a few instructors stand waiting. Silent. Watching. Judging.

Regret seeps in almost immediately as the morning sun beams down. My full black outfit soaks up the heat, my leather vest clinging like a second skin, and my tight leggings, while ideal for combat, already feel stifling.

It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before, having lived in Aladria all my life. I’m used to the tropical heat and burning sun. Doesn’t stop me from having red hair and pale skin, though.

“Stone Carlisle and Deacon Hart, you two will face each other first. No weapons allowed. First to pin the other wins,” Barnett announces. “I will be marking you all on your combat abilities and ranking you accordingly. These ranks can and will change after each assessment you face.”

He faces us all with a clipboard in hand, already scribbling something as he gestures for Deacon and Stone to enter the ring.

Deacon hands me his dagger, and I slide it into one of my vest sheaths for safekeeping. He nods with a cocky smirk, expelling a breath as he watches Stone climb into the ring first.

Stone is visibly the bigger of the two—sinewy and strong, standing about four inches taller. But I know from years of training that Deacon has the edge in agility and speed.

“See you on the other side,” he whispers before hopping over the ropes with his usual flair. He bounces on his feet, jumping high and pulling his knees to his chest in a warm-up ritual.

“Begin,” Barnett commands, eyes hawk-sharp, pen poised.

Light on his toes, he starts shifting side to side, skipping in place as he raises his guard and inches toward Stone. They circle, reading each other, gauging for weaknesses.

The first few seconds of combat are crucial for spotting where you can do the most damage the quickest.

Deacon makes the first move, striking fast with his dominant right fist—but Stone is faster. He swats it away like a gnat and retaliates with a rapid series of punches to the gut.

Deacon staggers slightly but recovers quickly, launching punches of his own. They parry back and forth, but I see the strain creeping into Deacon’s movements. Stone, however, is relentless, never winded, always one step ahead.

This man is no brute. He’s clever. Calculated. Dangerous .

Heat blooms through my body as I watch him, his muscles rippling beneath tanned skin, moving with grace and precision. I quickly shift focus back to Deacon. In a moment of frustration, he drops his guard, only slightly. Barely a blip, but enough. I see it, and so does Stone.

With the deadly precision of the vipers that slither through Aladria’s forests, he strikes, disorienting Deacon with a quick, solid jab to his left temple, an arm around his neck, a leg behind his knee.

Deacon is knocked off balance and hits the ground with a grunt of pain.

A cloud of dust rises around his body, and Stone pins him quickly.

Someone’s panting.

Oh, wait—that’s me.

“Good. Out you get,” Officer Barnett calls, jotting notes.

Stone offers Deacon a hand and helps him up. They slap each other’s backs, grinning. I envy Deacon’s easy charm. No wonder everyone likes him, even with his trail of heartbreaks.

The fights continue in the blistering heat.

Trent and Sam go next. Trent’s quick, graceful, and obviously a well-trained fighter, but he’s no match for Sam, who remains the only person to pin me in four years. Only twice, but still.

Elijah and Jorren are next up; they are both evenly matched in terms of size and height, but that’s where the similarities end. Jorren dominates, pinning Elijah under him and having him tap out in only five moves.

Junie makes light work of her match against Brynn—a hulking titan of a man with hair so blindingly orange, you need to squint just to look at him.

He charges like a bull. She sidesteps, spins around his back, and pinches a pressure point.

He topples face-first, and his nose explodes, blood splattering Junie’s black ballet-style shoes.

If I wasn’t convinced by her appearance alone, her fighting style secures my thoughts that she’s from Saiyan.

Brynn is dragged out of the ring under his armpits by Barnett, straining and struggling with his huge frame.

“Right, this sorry bastard needs the infirmary. Sam, give me a hand?”

His clipboard of notes is abandoned on the ground as he nods in acknowledgement to someone behind me, as both he and Sam hoist Brynn off the ground and drag him in the general direction of the infirmary, cleverly positioned in the east wing, close to the combat rings.

I hear steady but unevenly distributed footsteps approach, and watch out of the corner of my eye as a very recognisable figure bends to retrieve the clipboard from the ground.

“Well, recruits,” General Carter says with dry humour, “looks like you’re stuck with me.”

“Shit,” I whisper.

“Elina and Colton, you’re up,” he bellows as if we’re not standing ten feet away.

Colton snorts. “You’re joking, right? I’m not fighting some five-foot-nothing slip of a girl.” He lifts his lip and sneers in my direction. “Give me someone else. I want to at least break a sweat this morning.”

“Ha!” Deacon laughs, but I don’t think Colton realises it’s at him, not with him, because he flashes a twisted smile in Deacon’s direction, assuming he’s found an ally.

I keep my expression neutral, sizing Colton up.

He’s built as big as a bear, with hands like spades and a face that looks like he was hit with the flat side of one.

His ruddy complexion is gleaming in the midday sun as he pants from the heat, his forehead glistening with sweat. He stares back at me and scoffs.

Oh, I’m going to enjoy this.

“Are you arguing with a general?” Carter asks. “Shut the fuck up and get in the ring.”

Still glaring at me, Colton begins to unsheathe his weapons—the long sword at his back and the small dagger at his chest. They both hit the ground, but the sound is cushioned by the ankle-length grass.

I remove the two lightweight short swords sheathed at my shoulder blades and begin to walk towards the ring.

“The rest, Elina,” Carter barks, halting me in my tracks.

I sigh and give him a flat stare. Then, with deliberate slowness, I begin the ritual.

First, I pull two curved daggers from the sheaths beneath my vest and hand them to Deacon. Then come the twin blades strapped to my inner thighs, followed by the thin, wickedly sharp throwing knives tucked along my ribs—four of them in total, each one sliding free with a satisfying hiss.

Jorren whistles low, but I’m not done.

I lift each boot in turn, drawing another pair of daggers from hidden compartments in the heels. Then, reach behind me, unfastening a small pouch sewn into the waistband of my trousers containing my three throwing stars, polished to a mirror sheen.

“Happy?” I say, dropping the stars at Deacon’s feet, his hands now overflowing with cold steel.

Carter just gives a long-suffering sigh and turns away.

“Gods,” Trent mutters in awe.

“I think I’m horny,” Junie laughs, earning a wink from Deacon. “Not for you, pretty boy.” She parries.

I hop into the ring where Colton is already waiting for me, pacing back and forth like a caged lion, mussing up the dusty surface with his heavy brown boots. His aggression is something I will use against him.

I blow him a kiss, purposely taunting him, and he charges.

Predictable.

I wait until the very last second before I twist swiftly out of his way, the gust of wind from his huge body rushing past me and messing my hair. He slams into the rope, his body almost bending over in two as he lets out a grunt of frustration.

I scarcely have time to brush my hair out of my face before he reaches out his spade hands to try to grab me.

He’s fast, I’ll give him that. But I’m faster.

He lunges, and I dodge. He swings, and I duck. Nothing touches me.

Colton bellows in anger as he races towards me, hands outstretched for my neck, but he misses me… again.

He has to lean against the ropes to catch his breath as I casually prop myself against the side opposite him, checking my nails to aggravate him further. I am a cat toying with a big, fat, ugly-looking mouse.

“Elina, stop pissing about,” Carter calls, his tone equal parts annoyed and bored.

I glare down at him from the ring and mutter, “You’re no fun.” But I agree, it’s time to put the guy out of his misery.

This time, when he turns my way, I close my eyes and hold my breath, sensing my surroundings instead of seeing them. Feel the scorching sun. Smell the sweat. Hear the gentle thrum of my heart.

Tuning into my other senses means I’m fully aware of when Colton shifts his weight slightly, readying himself to lunge again, when he sucks in and holds a breath in his lungs before he charges. I sense the shift in the air when he’s within reach.

And then—I spin.