Page 54 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

H is hand trembles as he strokes my face with such care that a tear escapes the corner of my eye. It rolls off my cheek and lands silently on the floor.

“Help her!” my father shouts, then runs to the door to knock away some of the barricade, his voice broken and wild.

The door finally crashes open, and Sam barrels into the room like a force of nature. Two guards follow close behind.

“Sam, you must help her!” His tone is laced with desperation and panic.

Sam drops to his knees beside me, hands hovering, uncertain where to touch.

“Get Miranda,” he shouts to the guards, and they run back out to fetch the castle healer. “Where are you hurt?” he asks me now.

“My throat,” I rasp. The words scrape out like gravel. I shut my eyes against the searing pain, not bothering to elaborate past that.

“Elina, I’m so sorry,” my father whispers, reaching to brush the tops of my knuckles. So gentle. So impossibly different from the hands that nearly crushed the life from me.

I try to give him a small smile, but the look on his face unravels me. His heartbreak is so raw, I have to look away.

Miranda bursts in with the two guards carrying her equipment. The healer drops beside me, not saying a word, her expression already grim.

She rubs her hands together—not to warm them, but to summon her gift. A soft yellow glow builds in her palms as she closes her eyes and hovers them over my body. They pulse different colours over different wounds—soft pinks for bruises and shallow cuts, deep reds for more serious damage.

When her hands reach my throat, they flare a crimson so dark it’s almost black.

She winces, as if just hovering over it scolds her. My father does, too. He’s silent now, fighting to master his emotions, but the devastation is etched deep in every line of his face.

Sam remains planted at my other side, stiff as stone, watching every move. I can feel it in him that he’s ready to strike down the King of Aladria if he so much as twitches wrong.

But I don’t have space to worry about that. I’ve just been attacked by the man I love more than life.

And I don’t know how even to begin to make sense of it.

Miranda finishes the scan and rubs her hands again. This time, they glow green, vivid as fresh grass, pulsing with healing power.

“Sam, I need you to hold her down.”

He shifts instantly, bracing me.

“Your Majesty,” Miranda says carefully, “you may wish to leave.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

My father’s voice is steady now. Regal. He leans in and clasps my fingers with aching tenderness.

“As you wish.” Miranda nods, then meets my gaze. “Elina, this is going to hurt. Try not to move.”

I shut my eyes.

The moment her glowing hands make contact, I scream.

It’s like swallowing molten glass laced with acid. Fire rips through my throat, my chest, my spine. My limbs thrash. I try to break free, but Sam holds me tight.

It lasts only seconds. But it feels eternal—like I’m drowning in pain, submerged in it, burned and broken and lost.

When she finally pulls away, I’m gasping. My body is slick with sweat, trembling. I must’ve broken Sam’s grip at some point because I’m curled into a fetal position, arms wrapped around my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible.

My cheeks are wet.

I lift a shaking hand and wipe the tears away.

With Sam’s help, I sit upright, my body weak.

Across from me, my father sits hunched, expression hollow. Haunted. Like every nightmare he’s ever had has finally come true.

I want to cry for him.

I want to forgive him before he even asks.

I do forgive him, because this disease is not his fault.

King Dagan’s vile greed caused him to take my mother, and that loss hollowed my father out until only this broken shell remained.

“Daddy, I’m—” I begin, voice soft. I want to reassure him.

But he cuts me off.

“I don’t want you to come to see me anymore, Elina.”

His tone is sharp. Final. The words don’t come from my father; they come from the king. From the throne.

It’s a dagger in the chest I should’ve seen coming.

My breath stutters, and I bite down on my lip to keep the pain inside.

I don’t argue.

Because I know, deep down, there’s no way I could return to this room alone now, even if he begged me to.

I nod.

So does he.

An agreement. A goodbye.

A family destroyed .

Sam helps me to my feet, and I take one final look at my father, where he kneels, staring into the empty hearth. Then, I allow Sam to lead me away.

We leave the room in silence. The heavy door closes behind us with a finality I feel in my bones.

It’s only when we’re halfway down the hidden corridor that my knees give out.

The scream that tears from my throat isn’t human. It’s grief in its rawest, ugliest form.

Sam catches me, wraps his arms around me, and I bury my face into his chest and sob.

And sob.

And sob.

* * *

I don’t go to Stone’s room that night.

When he knocks softly on my door later, I murmur through a gap, “I think I’ve come down with something. Stomach bug. I don’t want you to catch it.”

He hesitates. His gaze lingers on me a bit too long when I open the door a crack more. My eyes are bloodshot. I know it. I just pray he thinks it’s from vomiting.

“I can look after you,” he insists, gentle but stubborn.

“Gods, no. I don’t want you to see me like this.” There’s so much truth in those words.

I manage a weak smile, then a fake heave, and finally, reluctantly, he leaves.

I climb into bed and curl beneath the covers. I stare up at the ceiling and trace the crack above me with tired eyes.

My tears are gone .

My heart is hollow.

There’s nothing left inside me but the truth.

I am utterly, completely alone.

But just as the thought settles in, the door creaks open, and I don’t have to look. I know who it is.

Deacon slides into the bed beside me, opening his arms in an invitation I quickly take him up on as I snuggle into his warmth. He wraps his arms around me and hugs me tight, not saying a word.

And I fall asleep to the comfort of Deacon’s steady heartbeat.

My brother, my chosen family.

And now. My only family.

* * *

That night, I dream of her.

My mother.

She’s standing in a field I don’t recognise with mist curling around her bare feet, the sky above her endless and bruised with twilight.

She looks just as I remember: soft eyes, deep, dark hair, the faintest smile on her lips.

But everything I can see is grey, every shade from charcoal to silver, and the only light comes from a full moon so large it nearly swallows the sky.

She tries to speak, mouth forming my name again and again, but I can’t hear her. I strain to move closer, but my feet won’t budge, rooted to the earth like I’m cursed to watch from afar.

I beg the dream—beg myself —to let me hear her.

And finally, two words break through the silence.

“Don’t come.”

The dream tears away like smoke in wind, and I jolt awake, panting, my fist twisted in the fabric of my shirt.

“Shit, Elina!” Deacon bolts upright beside me. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“My mother,” I whisper, still trying to catch my breath. “She spoke to me.”

His eyes widen.

“She told me not to go to her.”

My voice cracks, barely audible, like the words are made of glass. Deacon doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me in, one arm wrapping firmly around my shoulders, anchoring me against his side.

For a moment, I let myself rest there, rigid and trembling and utterly lost.

He doesn’t ask for more. Doesn’t press. Just holds me like he understands that if anyone pulls the wrong thread, I might unravel completely.

“Hey,” he says softly, brushing a hand down my arm. “It’s almost morning. Let’s go see my mum and grab some breakfast, yeah?”

I nod, but it’s a hollow motion. My legs move, but I don’t feel them. Everything around me is too loud and too quiet at once. The halls blur past in a wash of candlelight and shadow, and I cling to Deacon’s steady presence like a raft in stormy water.

The scent of bread hits first, it’s warm, familiar, and then we’re stepping into the kitchen.

Dalia doesn’t say anything when she sees me. She just takes one look and opens her arms.

That’s when the tears come again.

I fold into her embrace, stiff at first, then shuddering as the dam breaks. She doesn’t ask questions. Just strokes my hair and makes soft, soothing noises, the way a mother would. The way mine used to.

Eventually, I sit at the long kitchen table. Someone sets a plate in front of me. Toast, honey, fruit. A cup of something hot that smells like cinnamon. I stare at it for a long time, disconnected, before finally picking up a crust and chewing slowly .

Each bite is mechanical. But the warmth eventually begins to seep in, quiet and steady. A little bit of life. A little bit of normal.

I don’t feel like myself, not really. There’s a heaviness in my core that I know won’t lift for days.

Maybe longer. But sitting there, surrounded by the quiet clatter of spoons and morning chatter, Deacon beside me, Dalia humming as she wipes flour from the counter, I start to remember who I am beneath the shock. Beneath the daughter. Beneath the fear.

Not whole. Not yet.

But still here.

“Hey, Dal, mind if I take a couple of these?” I ask quietly, pointing to the lemon and poppy seed muffins cooling on the rack.

“Help yourself, my love,” she says, stirring a huge pot of creamed oats and sprinkling in cinnamon and nutmeg. The warm scent of spice and comfort fills the air.

I grab a couple of muffins and pour two mugs of coffee, heavy with cream. As I head out, I glance at Deacon.

“Thank you,” I say softly, and he simply nods at me.

“Tell Stone I said hi,” he calls, smirking, but I’m already slipping out the door, heading toward Stone’s room. I should catch him just before training, it’s weapons again today. Crossbows, specifically.

As I round the corner, I spot Stone closing his door. He looks up, sees me, and smiles. That smile—warm, unguarded, meant only for me—warms me from head to toe.