Page 53 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

Deacon’s quiet for a beat. “He can’t take his eyes off you.”

I roll my eyes but smile, not bothering to deny it. I can feel Stone’s gaze burning into me.

“I’m sorry I haven’t spent much time with you this week.” I chew on my bottom lip, glancing up at him.

“Don’t be stupid. Without having to babysit you, I’ve finally managed to pull Lucy Drescott,” he says, deadpan.

“Well, I’m sorry my company’s been holding you back from sowing your fucking seed, Deacs,” I snap, genuinely offended that my best friend hasn’t missed me.

He just laughs, but it fades quickly, his expression shifting to something more serious.

“I don’t think I ever said sorry. About what I said in the Great Hall…

about Stone and his, uh, previous situations .

” He grimaces, clearly censoring himself.

“I knew how you felt about him. I shouldn’t have talked to him like that.

I think I was just trying to cover for you, you know?

Make it seem like I didn’t know you were falling for him, but I took it too far. ”

I wave him off, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Don’t worry about it. Already forgotten.”

But he still looks guilty, like he’s not quite ready to forgive himself just yet.

Junie skips over to us, completely ignoring the glare Barnett shoots her way for blatantly ditching his demonstration.

“You two heard the news?” she asks, excitement practically fizzing in her voice .

“What news?” Deacon says.

“They’re throwing us a mid-year ball to celebrate making it six months through training and all the assessments.” She bounces on the balls of her feet like she’s physically struggling to contain herself. “It’s happening in a few weeks!”

“Fuck yeah!” Deacon grins, and I flash a smile, too, both of us pretending this is the first we’ve heard of it and not something Carter warned us about a week ago.

Large parties in the castle grounds mean higher risks. And higher risks mean more security for me.

Thankfully, Carter’s been impressed lately with the people I’ve chosen to surround myself with. Especially Stone. As long as I’m still “in a relationship” with him by the time the ball rolls around, he’s agreed not to increase my security detail that night.

Barnett wraps up, clearly fed up with none of us paying attention, and we begin the slow walk toward dinner. But just before we step through the doors, Sam reaches out and gently tugs me to a stop.

“He’s asking for you again,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.

Normally, I’d stall. It hasn’t been that long since I last saw him. But this evening, my heart feels at peace. My mood’s light, unguarded. For once, I don’t brace myself. I just nod.

“Can we go now?” I ask.

His eyes widen slightly, caught off guard by how easily I’ve agreed. Still, he nods and leads the way.

Stone glances over, a quiet question in his gaze. I meet his eyes and smile, trying to reassure him without words— I’ll tell you later . It buys me time to think of a lie, though the thought of deceiving him makes my stomach turn.

The doors to my father’s chambers open with a groan, and I step inside alone .

It’s dark.

No fire lit, no candle flickering. The curtains are drawn, thick velvet choking out the dying light. The air is still and cold, too cold for a place that usually feels lived in.

A music box sits on the windowsill, its lid open, spinning slowly. From it pours a haunting melody, something orchestral and distorted. It fills every corner of the room, deafening in its intensity.

“Daddy?” I call out, raising my voice against the music’s swell.

No answer.

I reach the windowsill and slam the lid of the music box shut. The silence that follows is so sudden, like the room itself is holding its breath.

“Daddy?” I call softly now.

Still no reply.

I walk past the untouched tea tray, past the empty chair by the hearth. I reach for the handle to his bedroom door when I hear movement behind me.

“My love.”

I spin, exhaling in relief—until I see his eyes.

And my heart sinks like a stone.

Because he’s not looking at me .

He’s looking at her .

“You came back to me,” he whispers, his voice shaking with wonder. Tears spill down his cheeks, raw and sudden. “I knew you would. They all said you were gone, but I didn’t believe it. I knew you would come home.”

I start to edge backwards slowly, towards the doors.

“Liora… why did you leave me?”

The pain in his voice cleaves me in half. I’ve heard this before, too many times. The heartbreak, the hope, the sorrow.

And then the rage .

“I said…” His voice sharpens. “ Why did you leave me?! ” His bellow makes me jump.

“No, I…” I try, but my voice cracks, threadbare and unsure.

“Shut up!” he snarls.

His breath heaves, his chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding himself together. His eyes gleam—not with tears, but with fury. Confusion. Madness. Like the truth has unravelled for him, and I’m the thread he’s clinging to.

He takes a step forward, and I counter with a step back.

“I waited,” he growls. “I waited for you. How dare you!”

I shake my head—slow, careful.

“I loved you,” he spits, voice snapping. He fists clumps of silver hair between his hands, pulling on it. Yanking angrily. “And you left me to rot.”

My stomach knots. My heartbeat slams in my ears. I open my mouth again, instinct pushing me to reason with him, but I don’t get the chance.

He lunges.

Sudden and sharp, I stumble back instinctively, quickly putting the large sofa between us, heart pounding. My father, once the safest place in the world to me, is gone. Replaced by something twisted. Something broken. Something entirely foreign.

“You left me here. All alone!”

He grabs a lamp and hurls it into the fireplace behind me, narrowly missing my head. The crash is deafening. Glass explodes outward—sharp, glittering shrapnel. One shard slices across my arm, leaving a hot, searing trail of blood.

“You fucking bitch! ”

Spittle flies from his mouth as he screams, and before I can move, he vaults the sofa.

“ Sam! ” I scream, running for the door, but I’m too slow. I always hesitate. He’s my father. Somewhere in my bones, I still don’t believe he’ll hurt me.

But he does.

He grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me backwards with brutal force. I cry out as we spin and crash to the floor face-first, my nose shattering on impact, blood dripping and flooding my mouth, the sting of torn hair making my eyes blur with tears.

He straddles me then, his weight pressing down hard on my spine.

The years without my mother have hollowed him out, made him weaker in body, but anger makes him strong.

Invincible. He’s still massive compared to me, still trained, and now he’s consumed by something I can’t reach.

Something that doesn’t know I’m his daughter.

All of my years of training, learning how to protect myself, to make myself strong, go out the window when it comes to him. I don’t think I could ever lay a hand on him.

I claw at the carpet, nails tearing against the weave, desperate for some kind of grip. But there’s none. I’m pinned, flattened, helpless.

Then his hands wrap around my throat from behind—rough, calloused, trembling with rage.

“I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done to me,” he snarls, the words grating like broken glass.

“I’ll kill you for leaving me.”

And then he squeezes.

The pressure clamps down like a vice, sharp and sudden, and panic tears through me. My legs kick uselessly. My fingers scrabble at the floor, at his arms, anywhere. The world narrows, vision tunnelling.

My eyes lift, just barely, and I see the doors.

They’re barricaded. While I searched for him earlier, he locked us in. Heavy furniture blocks the exit, stacked high. The whole frame groans now under the weight of someone trying to break through .

The pounding grows louder. Desperate. Frantic.

“Elina!” Sam’s voice roars through the wood. I can hear the terror in it, the raw, frantic agony .

He can’t reach me.

And I don’t know if I’m going to survive long enough for him to break through.

“Daddy, please.”

The words scrape out—barely a whisper—raw and broken, clawing past the pressure on my throat. His hands are like iron, shaking but unrelenting, strangling the ghost of someone else and not the daughter gasping beneath him.

My lungs scream. My vision narrows, blurring at the edges like the world is shrinking to a single, suffocating point. I try to move—to scratch, to push—but my limbs are losing feeling, growing heavy and numb as the weight of his grief presses down.

Spots dance across my vision. My ears ring. There’s blood roaring in my head, drowning out every sound but the ragged, desperate beat of my heart. I think of the sun-filled sky outside, the sight of Deacon’s smile, the smell of sol flowers after rain. I think of Stone.

And then, just as the darkness begins to take over, his grip twitches.

A flicker. A crack in the madness.

His fingers hesitate, trembling, and for a single, breathless second, nothing happens.

Then slowly, achingly, the pressure from his hands releases.

I cough, choke, gasp—sucking in lungfuls of burning air, but even through the pain in my throat, I hear him.

“Elina?” he whispers, voice distant, like a man waking from a nightmare and finding his hands soaked in blood.

He shifts off me, kneeling at my side. Gently, he brushes my hair from my face—my cheek pressed against the carpet, lungs gulping for air as I cough painfully.

“Dear Gods… what have I done?”