Page 46 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

T hat evening, I sneak out.

Dressed in black from neck to heel, my hair tightly braided and tucked beneath my hood, I slip my mask over my face, and the transformation is complete. Tonight, I’m the Fox.

The confession to Deacon lingers like an echo just below my heart. I need to feel something else now—control, clarity, strength. So, when I overheard a maid murmuring in the laundry hall, thinking no one of consequence was listening, I seized the moment.

Her partner, a border soldier, had warned her that reinforcements were being sent to Windmere. A potential Dunmere scouting party had been sighted. Nothing confirmed, but enough to warrant bolstering their numbers.

Two hours northeast of the castle grounds, Windmere is a quiet mining village with no more than five hundred residents, but they are all innocent civilians. Men, women, children. My people who need and deserve to be protected.

I sneak through the hidden passage that snakes from the corridor near my room to the outer stables.

It’s damp with condensation from the heat, the stone underfoot slick.

The stables are mostly quiet when I silently close the passageway door behind me, the occasional snort or stamp of a restless horse breaking the stillness, and the smell of dried grass causes my nose to itch .

I spot the supply cart at the rear of the carriages; it’s half-covered in canvas, packed with crates of weapons, food rations, and medical gear.

Without a sound, I hoist myself in and burrow down between a crate of arrows and a sack of salted meat, pulling the canvas back over me.

Just in time. Seconds later, boots crunch on gravel, and second-year soldiers begin climbing into the front compartments, murmuring to one another in low, tired voices.

The cart lurches forward, the wheels creaking, and I brace myself against the jolt. The path north is narrow and uneven, winding through shadowed woods and mist-draped hills. Each bump in the road knocks my shoulder against cold wood. It’s a shit way to travel, but it will get me there.

I close my eyes and begin to centre myself.

I breathe in through my nose, long and deep. Out again. Repeat.

Before I know it, the carriage begins to slow.

The wheels crunch over gravel, and the rhythm of hooves softens.

I don’t wait for a full stop—I hoist myself out from beneath the canvas, landing in a crouch, and vanish into the shadows before anyone can spot me.

My boots are silent against the ground as I slip behind a crumbling stone pillar on the outskirts of the outpost.

From my hiding place, I watch.

The outpost gate groans open, and soldiers step out to greet the arriving second years.

Their voices carry in the still air—orders barked, names called, groups forming with practised discipline.

They begin organising a patrol to intercept the threat, moving steadily toward an open stretch of land they believe the Dunmere forces will cross.

I frown, jaw tightening.

It’s too close. Windmere village lies just beyond those trees—peaceful, vulnerable. A single misstep and the enemy could be in the streets, cutting down families before anyone can stop it. The closer we are to the village, the greater the risk. And if even one Malus breaks through the line…

Gods, no. We can’t afford that.

But I’m stuck.

I’m not supposed to be here. If I step forward and give my opinion, I blow my cover. I can’t compromise the Fox. Not now, not like this.

Shit.

I chew my bottom lip, eyes tracking the soldiers as they disappear into the brush. I weigh the options and replay the consequences. And then I settle on the only conclusion I can live with.

I move.

Low and fast, weaving between trees and half-crumbled ruins, I keep to the shadows, my breath steady and measured. I slip past the patrol’s flanks and head further northeast, closer to the incoming threat.

The forest darkens ahead, dense with old pines and shifting undergrowth. Then I hear it.

The aggravated scream and snapping teeth of a Malus.

A sharp command from a Dunmere soldier. A muffled curse.

We’re about twenty minutes from the outpost here, maybe less. Far enough away for me to do some damage before they can hit the Aladrian troops.

I climb the edge of a ridge and narrow my eyes.

There they are.

Dunmere soldiers, twenty, maybe thirty, moving like smoke.

Their armour is the deepest of blues, so dark it’s almost black, layered in jagged, overlapping plates with cloaks trailing behind them.

They wear hoods pulled low, and whatever lies beneath is hidden in shadow.

No glint of eyes. Just dark voids. Blades are strapped across backs, and daggers sit at their hips.

One of the soldiers wrestles with a thick iron chain, the links clanking and groaning under the strain. At the other end, dragging against the resistance is a Malus.

It’s… wrong. Almost cruel. A thing that shouldn’t exist in this world. The dead should remain dead. There’s a reason necromancy is considered dark magic. Black magic.

The creature lurches forward with jerking, inhuman movements.

Its limbs wrapped in an old, rotted uniform, ripped and tattered.

Its body is warped, deformed through decay, and what might’ve once been a face is now a gaping, tooth-lined snarl beneath matted, filthy hair, and from it comes a rasping, guttural hiss that makes my skin crawl.

It pulls hard, and the soldier nearly loses his footing, boots skidding across the dry earth.

Even through the leather and armour, I can see his tension in the way his knees lock and his shoulders strain.

He plants one foot and jerks the chain back, muscles coiling in desperation as he tries to stop the beast from lunging into the trees.

The Malus shrieks.

Not in pain. In anticipation.

It’s hungry. I can feel it. Like its very presence poisons the air.

It’s strange, but they never attack their own.

No hesitation, no confusion, not even an accidental claw swipe.

I’ve seen it before—Malus charging through a battle, tearing limbs from bodies, and somehow curving around Dunmere soldiers like smoke around stone.

It doesn’t seem to be instinct, more like design.

They’re either trained to obey… or made that way.

Which means I can’t count on chaos. I can’t hope it’ll turn on the soldiers. No. Every single one of the group I’m facing will come straight for me as soon as they know I’m here.

I crouch lower, steadying my breath. My heart drums against my ribs, but I force it to slow. Calm. Focused.

There are thirty of them. And one of me .

But I’m not just anyone.

I’m the Fox.

And right now, my only ally is the element of surprise.

I draw a dagger slowly from its sheath, the quiet slide of metal against leather the only sound I allow myself. My mask is already tight to my face, the cool night air kissing the exposed skin around my eyes. I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet, then I move.

They don’t see me coming.

One heartbeat, I’m crouched in the trees.

The next, I fly .

My blade slices through the air, catching the first Dunmere soldier right through the neck. He doesn’t even get a scream out before he drops, blood spurting from his artery. I pivot, using his falling body as a springboard, launching myself into the fray.

The Malus shrieks, it’s sharp and unnatural, more like metal tearing than anything born of this world. The soldier holding it struggles to rein it in, but it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m already there.

Unleashing my longsword from my back, I let it fly.

It severs the Malus’s head clean from its neck, the squelch of the decaying lump hitting the ground, marking its end.

The blade keeps its momentum, sweeping toward the soldier, now frozen in shock, a drooping chain still clutched in his hands.

The last thing he sees before his head is parted from his body are my golden eyes flaring.

Another soldier lunges at me. I meet him head-on and kick his knee sideways with a sickening crack, slamming my elbow into his throat.

He collapses, choking, hands gripping his neck.

I stab him in the side of his temple, the dagger needing extra force to pierce the hard bone, then I reach down, pull a throwing star, turn, and let it fly.

It buries itself between the eyes of a soldier advancing from behind.

No hesitation.

No mercy .

Not when it comes to my people. To my fucking kingdom.

The sky churns grey and wild above us. Dust kicks up in spirals around my feet. The world narrows to heartbeats, blood, and breath. The scent of iron fills my lungs. I move—Gods, I move like I’ve never moved before.

They scream orders, try to flank me, but they’re too slow.

One tries to shoot me with a crossbow. I twist, dodge, and hurl a needle dagger straight into his eye. He drops without a sound.

I leap, vault off a tree stump, spin midair, and land with my blade in the skull of a soldier. Another swings wildly. I duck, stab, roll away. My knives and hands are red, slick with blood, my breathing sharp. I’ve taken out nearly half of them.

But then—

A flash of steel.

A whisper of movement, too fast, too close.

Agony.

Fire tears through my side. The blade slices beneath my ribs, shattering my focus. I gasp, a rush of air and searing pain.

My hand flies to the wound, fingers pressing into something hot and wet. My leather vest hangs in tatters, and blood pours fast.

Everything slows. The world tilts.

I try to raise my knife, but my arm trembles. Another soldier lunges. I move on instinct, stumbling back, blind with pain.

There’s no time to think. They’re closing in, eyes locking onto the weakness I can’t hide. The slice has slowed me to a crawl, every step laced with fire. I can’t fight. Not like this.

Stay, and I die.

Alone.

And so, I run. It’s the only choice I have.

Adrenaline shoves me forward. I dodge grabs and swipes, crashing through undergrowth and trees until the shadows swallow me whole .

And I thank the Gods that even wounded, I know how to vanish.

I disappear before they can follow. Every breath is a furnace, every step a scream in my ribs. But I don’t stop. I can’t .

I dive beneath a collapsed ruin, pressing myself into the earth, cloaked in moss and darkness. Behind me, they search. They roar. But they won’t find me.

Not tonight.

When I make it back to the outpost, crouched and stumbling, most of the soldiers have already left to meet the remaining Dunmerian troops head-on.

My vision is blurred, my breaths shallow. I climb into the supply cart, almost passing out from the pain of the movement, and sink down between crates. The adrenaline is wearing off and leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion. I lift my trembling hand to my face, fingers soaked and slick with blood.

I’m losing too much —that final thought barely forms before everything slips.

And then—darkness.

It washes over me like a wave, swallowing sound, sight, sense. Time ceases to exist. There is no pain, no peace, no light to chase. Just a heavy, endless nothing. A void.

I don’t fall.

I drift.

I float.

It’s only when a flash of light flares behind my eyelids that something stirs, just the faintest flicker of awareness.

Someone lifts the tarp covering the supply cart. Light bleeds in, golden and bright. It’s not night anymore. I keep my eyes closed against the offending sun.

“Fuck.”

The voice is deep, rough, and urgent, and it pierces straight to the centre of me. It calls to something buried, something vital. It calls to my soul.

“Hang on, Red. I’ll get you out of there.”

Red.

Red.

I like the name Red .

I might pretend I don’t, but I do.

Someone calls me Red.

Someone who makes my heart pound and my chest burn.

Strong arms reach into the cart and pull me up. The movement rips through my wound, and I arch in pain, a soft whimper escaping me. It’s all I can manage.

“I’m sorry. Shit—I’m sorry. I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice low and tight. “Just hold on.”

Then, softer still, a plea I don’t think I’m meant to hear:

“Please, Gods… don’t take her from me.” The words are a whisper against my hairline as I’m pulled into the solid warmth of his body.

A body I know.

A body that makes mine sing.

When he starts to walk, even gently, the pain in my side flares so sharply that I mercifully pass out again.

The next time I wake, it’s not to the glare of the sun or a hard chest under my cheek but to soft cushions and warm throws. I blink a few times, vision hazy, but the pain is thankfully dulled for now.

A rustle to my left draws my attention. Someone is sitting in my armchair, which has been pulled close to the bed. He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on clenched fists, and his ocean eyes fixed on me.

Stone.

Relief, fury, pain, worry. A thousand emotions flicker across his face as he looks at me. Like he doesn’t know which one to land on. Like he’s as torn as I am when it comes to what we feel.

Eventually, he settles on something that looks neutral.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he says.

Maybe not so neutral after all.

I try to push myself up, bracing on my arms, but I’m too weak. I flop back down, my head sinking into the cushions.

Heat creeps into my cheeks, not from the pain, but from the shame of how helpless I feel.

“I was thinking I could help.” My voice is hoarse, each word scraped out through the exhaustion weighing down my body. Just replying to him drains what little energy I have.

“So you went alone?” His voice is sharp, anger bleeding through every syllable.

“I’ve done it a dozen times before.” My words are slow, starting to slur with the effort it takes to form them.

“You should have asked me, Elina. I would’ve come. I could’ve helped—could’ve stopped this from happening.” His voice cracks like a whip as he gestures toward my side, and I notice the tight bandages wrapped around it.

“How’d you… Find me?” My voice is barely a whisper now, sleep dragging it down into mumbled, slurred fragments.

“I don’t know.” His eyebrows pull tight, and his gaze flicks around the room like the answer might be hiding in the shadows. “It’s like I felt you.”

His hand rubs absently at his chest as he looks back at me, his expression softening.

It’s getting stronger, I think.

“What is?” he asks.

Ah. I must’ve said that out loud.

But my eyes are already closing again, and this time, I don’t fight the sleep as it pulls me under.