Page 57 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

T he fire crackles low in the hearth, painting the walls in soft gold and shadow. We’re tangled in the sheets, our breathing steady and in sync. My head rests on Stone’s chest, his fingers tracing lazy, absent-minded circles along my shoulder.

Then his voice cuts through the quiet, low and even. “You ever miss them?”

I shift slightly. “Miss who?”

“Your parents,” he says.

My body stiffens before I can stop it. Just enough that he notices. I try to shrug it off to keep my tone easy. “I don’t really remember them.”

He doesn’t press. Not right away. His fingers keep moving, but they’re slower now, more deliberate. Like he’s coaxing the truth out of my skin, one circle at a time.

“How old were you again? When they died.”

I lift my head to meet his gaze, masking the spike of dread tightening in my throat. “Five.”

He nods slowly. Thoughtfully. But something flickers behind his eyes, sharp, calculating. Turning things over.

I sit up, dragging the blanket higher over my chest. A shield. A barrier. I feel exposed under his stare, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t permit him to see .

He shifts, sitting up beside me.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re hiding something?” His voice is quiet, but every word lands heavy. “It feels like a part of you is sealed off. Locked away.”

His hand drifts to his chest and rubs it, slow and restless like whatever I’m hiding is physically weighing on him. Like he can feel the pressure of my silence. The sting of my lies.

I inhale, slow and careful. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Stone.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow.

“See, I think you do.” He says quietly. “And this thing between us isn’t going to work if you don’t trust me. You sneak out of my arms at all hours and expect me not to notice.”

I don’t comment, I can’t.

Silence stretches between us, thick and cutting.

It says it all.

He leans back again, but he feels guarded now. Distant. The warmth from before has bled away, leaving behind something brittle and sharp. I lie down too, close enough to touch, but it feels like we’re miles apart. He’s tense, coiled like a viper beside me, radiating suspicion and cold.

The fire pops. The silence swells.

After a long minute, he exhales hard. Frustrated.

“You know what?” he mutters, pushing the covers off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I think I’m going to see Trent.”

He doesn’t look back as he grabs his shirt and leaves.

And just like that, the fragile peace between us fractures.

I lie there in the silence as he leaves me behind.

I wait all night for him to come back.

But he never does.

* * *

I watch him closely during training the next day. My eyes never leave him as he argues quietly with Trent, their usual easy camaraderie strained, fraying at the edges. There’s tension in the set of their shoulders, in the sharpness of their gestures.

He must feel my stare—feel it burning into him, singeing the space between us—but he never looks my way. Not once. Even when Trent goes quiet and steps back, Stone keeps his eyes fixed on Barnett, watching intently as he explains how best to kill a Malus.

As if Stone needs the lesson.

My heart aches at the distance, not just the stretch of space between us on the training field, but the chasm that’s opened inside us.

And it’s my fault.

It wouldn’t be like this if I could just let him in. If I could share the truth of who I am.

What did Deacon say?

“If he’s the right person, then you can share your secrets.”

I want that. Gods, I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything. To fall, truly fall, into this thing with Stone. To be known by him, fully.

But Aladria is a heartbeat away from falling apart, and I’ve never felt so unsure of my footing. Every step feels like it could shatter something precious.

And so I stay silent, staring at him from afar.

And he doesn’t look back.

Another officer steps in close to Barnett, cutting him off mid-sentence just as he’s explaining that fire won’t kill a Malus. The man leans in and whispers something low.

Barnett’s eyes widen.

He nods once, tight and grim, then turns to face us as the officer strides away and coughs, clearing his throat.

“The whole of Elite Squad has been called into action. You’re being deployed to support the front line.”

He tries to keep his voice steady, commanding, but I hear it. That small, sharp edge of fear. The front line isn’t training. It’s blood and chaos. The true meaning of war. It’s death.

“Pack your things,” he says. “You leave tonight.”

A beat passes. My heart turns to ice.

Of course.

Our squad wasn’t chosen at random. It was deliberate. A warning. A punishment.

My stomach knots, and the name tears through my mind like a curse.

Cael.

* * *

We arrive at the eastern border, at an outpost crouched on the edge of the dying village of Hangar.

The carriage groans to a halt, and when we step down, our boots hit earth that crumbles like ash, brittle, bone-dry, and long since stripped of life.

Dust kicks up in thin, tired plumes, clinging to our uniform.

The only way to describe the air here is desolate.

Even the wind feels hollow, breathing more difficult.

The border has always been a place of tension filled with checkpoints, bartered goods, and silent exchanges under watchful eyes. Aladria and Dunmere have always had a tense relationship. But it wasn’t until Dagan’s rise that it turned into a battlefield again.

Now, this stretch of land is a war zone.

And this outpost, just one of many, is the most dangerous of them all .

I feel it in my bones. In the way every soldier walks a little tighter, in the way the silence feels strained, waiting to snap.

Another carriage creaks to a stop nearby. Stone steps down, his expression unreadable, followed by Trent. They’d chosen to travel separately from us, joining the Elite Squad members assigned to other groups. One of them is Roxianna.

I watched him climb in after her.

Bit down so hard on my tongue, I tasted blood.

Now, she descends with a practised grace, bracing herself on his arm as though it belongs to her. Her laughter is soft and breathy, her hand lingering too long on his sleeve.

Beside me, Deacon mutters, “Ah, fuck,” his voice is low and grim as he spots what I’m looking at.

And I don’t bother to hide the storm swirling inside me.

“Fuck him,” I mutter, seething, as I march toward the open gates of the outpost. I’d filled Deacon in on my Stone situation on the way here—well, as much as I could with others around us.

A general waits for us by the gates; he’s stoic and unmoved by our arrival. Gravel crunches under my boots as I walk, fists clenched at my sides.

The others fall in behind me, no one eager to linger beyond the outpost walls, where wind howls across the barren stretch like a warning. The place might be cracked and battered, but its jagged silhouette still promises more safety than the exposed area outside.

“Follow me,” the general says, voice like gravel, gruff and worn thin by too many years and too many deaths. He doesn’t bother looking any of us in the eye. Probably used to soldiers arriving just in time to die.

We’re led through narrow corridors of dark stone and rusted lanterns, the walls stained with soot and moss.

The sleeping quarters are cramped with bunks crammed together in tight rows that smell faintly of metal and sweat.

It reminds me of our old barracks, only stripped of anything soft.

No blankets folded at the foot. No candles. No comfort.

Junie and I claim a bunk. She throws her pack onto the top without hesitation, already moving like she belongs here. I sit on the edge of the bottom bed, my rucksack sliding off my shoulder and landing with a dull thud. The mattress barely gives beneath me. Might as well be a slab of clay.

There’s no time to unpack as we’re ushered to the mess hall, it’s a long, low room lit by flickering torches and dim oil lamps. The benches are full of slumped shoulders and hollow eyes. Everyone moves like ghosts. No one bothers to greet us.

“Eat before you sleep,” someone mutters. It might have been the general again or another officer, but I don’t bother to check. We’re all too tired to speak after the long journey. It’s past midnight now. Our boots drag against the floor as we line up for food.

What greets us is barely edible.

Pale beige slop, dry crackers, and a few slices of hard cheese.

It feels like a crime that so many will die here, and this is the last thing they’ll taste.

I force myself to eat. Chew. Swallow. The cheese is rubbery. The crackers scrape the inside of my mouth. But the promise of sleep lingers just ahead, sweet and heavy, if I can just manage a few more bites.

Then the bell sounds.

It isn’t just loud, it’s bone-deep. A blaring, brutal clang that shakes the walls and rattles my spine.

Doors slam open. Soldiers pour into the halls, half-dressed, snapping on armour, yanking on boots. Blades slide into sheaths.

“Do you all have weapons?” the general barks, appearing beside our table like a ghost .

We nod in unison, already pushing back from our seats.

“Then let’s go,” he says. “Time to put your training into action.”

He pauses, just long enough to look each of us in the eye.

“Welcome to the front line.”

What greets us outside is what I can only describe as organised chaos.

Organised—because the soldiers stationed here are the best Aladria has to offer. Hardened, ruthless, unflinching. They move with purpose, with lethal efficiency, every motion sharp and deliberate.

But the chaos—

The chaos comes from the sheer number of Dunmere soldiers hurtling toward them.

They pour from the tree line like a flood, blades drawn, faces marred with madness. Arrows scream overhead from the high walls of the outpost, picking them off one by one. Steel clashes against steel. The air smells of blood and smoke and something burning in the distance.