Page 40 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

W e leave camp at first light, the group subdued, shadows still clinging to our heels, but we move.

The descent is quicker than the climb but brutal on the knees, the cold biting harder as the wind howls down the pass. By midday, the ridge finally flattens, and the worst of the mountain is behind us.

We don’t stop until the peaks are just jagged silhouettes on the horizon, and still, I feel them.

Eyes.

“I still feel it,” I murmur to Sam, who walks beside me, carrying both his and Deacon’s packs—Deacon still a little unsteady on his feet.

My eyes stay on my best friend, watching his every step. Aside from lingering lethargy, the medicine and descent seem to have eased his symptoms.

“Me too,” Sam says quietly, his voice low and taut with concern.

“Should we tell the others?” I whisper, uneasy. Everyone should be prepared.

“When the time is right,” he replies. “No point worrying everyone just yet.”

By late afternoon, we reach a stretch of broken woodland clinging to the edge of a cliffside path, gnarled trees and windblown brush offering the only real cover for miles.

It’s easy to see why King Halven struggles to grow crops in these lands.

Imperia is cold and the ground dry—hardly the best climate for fruit or grain.

Gio signals for us to stop. It’s a poor camp, but it’s better than nothing. At least tonight, the snow and icy wind aren’t battering us.

Like a well-oiled machine now, we get to work. Junie unpacks rations, Ford prepares them for dinner. Trent and Everett build a small fire, tucking it between rocks to hide the light. Deacon collapses onto a bedroll with a groan, Sam not far from his side.

The air feels heavier here. Thick with a silence that doesn’t feel natural. Even the wind has dropped.

I step away from the fire, moving toward the tree line. Stone is beside me in a second, eyes scanning the shadows.

“You feel it too?” he asks, voice low.

I nod once.

He studies the woods. “Something’s tracking us.”

Then—crack. A sharp snap of a branch echoes through the trees.

Every head lifts. Hands go to weapons.

But it’s only a rabbit. It hops out from under a bush, unaware of the tension it’s stirred.

Junie’s throwing star flashes through the air and lodges right in its eye.

She shrugs when we all turn to look at her. “Dinner.”

Night settles in quickly.

The fire crackles between the rocks, its glow casting a warm orange against the frostbitten brush.

Dinner is simple, a combination of Junie’s rabbit and a few shrivelled root vegetables Ford digs out from the rations, but somehow, it tastes better than anything we’ve eaten since the start of this trek.

Trent spins a few stories and earns some chuckles from the others. Even Sam’s mouth twitches… occasionally .

Junie flicks her throwing star back and forth between her fingers.

“Makes me hot when you do that,” Deacon jokes, biting his bottom lip, eyes locked on the glint of steel.

“And if you keep hitting on me, I’ll aim for you next,” she teases, lifting her arm toward him in mock threat.

Deacon laughs loud, then immediately groans, holding his head. “Did you have to hit me so hard?” he asks, shooting me an accusatory glare.

I glare right back. “You’re lucky that’s all I did.”

Stone sits close beside me and offers me his flask. I take a sip, its warmth sliding down my throat. He doesn’t speak, just stays close, a steady presence, sharing his heat.

This time, I notice a pair of dark brown eyes watching us from across the fire.

Gio.

The déjà vu is startling.

These men cause me nothing but drama.

We settle in for the night, sleep claiming us quickly. By morning, the fire is long dead, and the cold has sunk its teeth in deep again. Where’s Brynn when you need him?

I stretch, groggy, my muscles stiff. Deacon’s still snoring beside me as I glance toward the far bedroll.

Empty.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise as I get to my feet, frowning at the empty space where Junie should be. She’s probably just stepped away to relieve herself, and so I wait, counting the seconds. But when five minutes pass with no sign of her, I can’t wait any longer, so I go looking.

The trees are spindly and sparse; there’s not much to hide behind, but I still search. Behind dry brown bushes, boulders, anything that could conceal her .

Then I see it.

A splattering of red. Small droplets of blood. Not a lot, maybe from a cut or nosebleed, but it sends my heart racing.

And then I spot the tracks. Carriage marks, faint but visible on the packed dirt. The ground is scuffed and disturbed.

Fuck.

I sprint back to camp. Her pack, her blades—everything—still laid out by her bedroll.

“Fuck!” I repeat, out loud this time. My voice is sharp, my shout harsh.

Stone reaches for me as Sam appears at my side before quickly walking away.

“Red, what’s wrong?”

“She’s gone,” I say, despair thick in my voice.

“What? Who?” Stone glances around the camp.

“Junie.”

“Shit,” Trent mutters, crouched beside her bedroll. “All her stuff’s still here.”

“You sure she’s not just peeing?” Deacon asks, standing up, blankets falling away.

“I’ve looked. There’s blood. And carriage tracks.”

Just then, Sam returns from the direction I came, jaw tight, something crumpled in his hand. He passes it to me.

With shaking fingers, I unfold it.

The royal emblem of Imperia gleams at the top in silver. Beneath it, in elegant cursive, is a message.

“It’s an invitation,” I tell the group now gathered around me, tense and waiting. “From the king. A party will be thrown at the castle in two days… and Junie is the special guest.”

“Motherfucker,” Trent growls.

King Halven knows we’re here uninvited. And he’s not happy.

* * *

We move at a hard, relentless pace; there’s no time for proper rest, barely enough for breath.

Sleep is taken quickly, and food eaten on the move.

As we draw closer to the castle, we pass through quiet villages and small towns.

Firepits built in the centres of their squares—no fountains here, the water would freeze.

The people of Imperia barely glance our way. They keep their heads down, hurrying from building to building. There are no street vendors and no open markets. Only stone-walled shops with heavy doors that chime as they open and shut quickly to trap the warmth in and keep the biting cold out.

Everything here feels different from Aladrian lands.

Where our home glows in golds and soft pinks, where vibrant fruit hangs heavy, and plants breathe colour, Imperia is a kingdom of silver and white.

Their furs match the colour of the snow at the tallest peaks of Riftspire. Their skin pale from lack of sun.

Our own furs and leathers—rich browns, forest greens, and deep blues—stand out like smudges against a perfect, pearlescent canvas.

But finally, twenty-four relentless hours after Junie was taken, we see it.

There, in the distance, sparkling like snowflakes falling from the sky, is the castle.

Sharp silver spires pierce the pale horizon, glazed with frost and shimmering like ice.

Every turret glints, and every window reflects the pale light in fractured brilliance.

Snow clings to the arched roofs and battlements, dusting the towers in powdered white.

It looks ethereal, too perfect to be real.

“It’s beautiful,” Ford murmurs in awe, his eyes wide.

“And Junie’s in there?” Deacon asks, squinting toward the distant towers .

“Yep,” I confirm.

Trent exhales slowly. “Then we’d better go get her.”

* * *

As we descend and move closer, we see a line of soldiers standing at the gates in perfect formation.

Clad in silver-plated armour and winter-white cloaks, they’re statuesque in their stillness, faces hidden behind helmets etched with curling frost motifs.

Not a single one speaks as we approach. But they do part smoothly, wordlessly, allowing us entry.

The gate itself slides open on silent hinges, revealing a vast courtyard of polished crystal and glass, the surface so pristine it reflects the castle above.

Torches flicker in glass sconces, their flames blue.

Our boots echo sharply as we walk through.

Four soldiers stood waiting inside the grounds turn on their heels and march towards the castle.

“I assume we’re following them then,” Deacon mumbles under his breath before we fall into step behind them.

I look over at Sam as he marches beside me, face devoid of any emotion other than determination.

Inside the grand entrance hall, the air is warmer thanks to a large fire roaring in an almost ceiling-high marble hearth.

Light spills in through high stained-glass windows tinted in wintry blues and greys, casting fractured beams across the floor.

Intricate tapestries line the walls, embroidered with scenes of Imperia’s brutal winters and the kings who ruled them.

And then he descends.

Striding down a staircase carved of startlingly white marble, King Halven appears in a sweep of pale blue and white.

His coat is long and regal, trimmed in thick white fur that spills across his broad shoulders.

Silver embroidery glints with every step he takes, catching the light like starlight on fresh snow.

His hair is pale as moonstone, combed back in elegant waves, and his expression is sharp.

He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he studies us one by one with the calm assurance of a man who knows he is untouchable within his walls. A king secure in his power.

I lift my chin slightly. I wasn’t trained to shrink under appraisal.

“Welcome to Imperia,” he says at last, his voice smooth and cool. “It seems I’ve been attracting quite a number of visitors lately.”

The remark hangs in the air, pointed and unmistakable. He’s talking about Dagan. He has to be.

And judging by the tone of his voice and the sneer on his pale face, he’s not pleased.