Page 59 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

I chew the burnt toast, dry and stale, no amount of butter could ever salvage it, and glare at him from across the room.

He’s next to her again, Roxianna, sharing breakfast like we used to just days ago, chatting together about something that seems to be holding his rapt attention. Attention that used to be fixed on me. Attention that I crave with every ounce of my being.

But he hasn’t looked at me once. Not a single glance my way.

And somehow, his silence doesn’t make me angry.

It makes me want to fucking cry.

And that makes me angry.

I want time, just a sliver of it, to feel this. To mourn whatever it is I seem to have lost. Time to just be a girl who’s currently having her heart broken.

But there’s no room for grief here. No space to crumble, not when we’re trapped in this Gods-damned death camp where every moment might be our last. It’ll take everything I have to keep myself alive, let alone the entire squad. My senses have to stay sharp. My focus unshakeable.

There’s no time for weakness. No time to be selfish.

I’m Elina Thane. Heir to the Aladrian throne.

I don’t get to cry over boys.

“He’s not interested in her,” Deacon murmurs, nudging my arm and dragging my gaze away from Stone. The severance hurts.

“I don’t care,” I snap, but it’s pointless. Anyone with functioning eyes can see I’m pining.

“Well, just in case you did…” Deacon raises his eyebrows, holding his hands up in surrender at my tone. “I’ve been watching them. She keeps trying to get close, and he’s not having it. I’ve seen him push her touch away more than once.”

My stupid, hopeful heart stutters, just a little jolt, like it’s trying to come back to life.

I crush it flat again.

“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “He knew how much it hurt me when he kissed her after the teamwork assessment. If I meant anything to him at all, he’d be keeping his distance.” I rip another chunk of toast between my teeth like a feral animal. “He can ignore me without crawling back to his ex.”

“True. Total dick move.” Deacon nods, solemn.

Then, quieter: “Have you tried talking to him? About… you?”

“How can I?” I hiss, keeping my voice low. “With Cael watching my every move and Aladria hanging by a thread, there’s too much at stake. And if this thing with Roxianna proves anything, it’s that I can’t trust him.”

Deacon doesn’t push. He just turns back to his porridge, which looks more like animal feed, and shovels a mouthful in with a grimace.

For the next few days, the outpost is relatively quiet. Dunmere seems to have retreated, licking their wounds, but everyone’s tense. It won’t be long before they test the line again, hoping to slip through our defences.

We spend most of our time on patrols, walking the perimeter in groups of three.

Stone continues to avoid me, though I’ve noticed he’s distanced himself from Roxianna, too.

Trent keeps his distance as well, but every now and then, he shoots me a guilty look, like he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to go against his best friend.

“Would you rather have dicks for fingers or a ball sack for a chin?” Junie kicks at a patch of dirt as we walk, drawing me again to the here and now.

We’re currently on patrol with a soldier called Jerome, Willa’s father.

He’s mid-forties and a seasoned officer at the outpost. He’s the reason Willa is stationed here, even though she’s never received formal training.

When we were first paired with him for a patrol, I assumed we were in for a boring four hours.

“A ball sack chin, obviously. What the hell would I do with dick fingers?” Jerome replies, glancing at his hands and wiggling his fingers thoughtfully. Turns out, he’s fucking hilarious.

“I don’t know, you could swing them around?” Junie offers, twirling her hands above her head like windmills.

Jerome’s loud laugh echoes and bounces off the trees.

“Alright, Elina,” Jerome says when he catches his breath, nudging a branch out of his way. “Would you rather every fart you ever do be as loud as a foghorn or do a full piss in your pants every time you laugh?”

“Easy. Piss when I laugh. I rarely laugh anyway.”

“She’s right,” Junie quips. “She’s got a stick up her ass half the time.”

I hip-check her in retaliation, and she stumbles toward a berry bush, giggling.

“Okay, Junie, would you—” I begin, but stop mid-sentence. The others halt beside me, instinct kicking in. The humour dies instantly. We’re all listening now.

I could’ve sworn I heard something.

But the only sound now is the gentle rustle of wind through the trees. Still, my heart pounds .

Something’s off. I can feel it.

Jerome takes a tentative step, about to resume our patrol—

And then a Malus barrels through the tree line.

It moves before I can even reach for my sword, its skeletal fingers latching onto Junie, claws raking down her chest in a vicious swipe. She screams, a haunting sound that rips through me, and blood blooms across her front in deep, furious gashes.

The creature doesn’t let go. Its fingers dig into her, seemingly trying to claw its way to her organs.

I jolt into action, swinging my blade. Its head severs clean from its shoulders, flopping to the dirt with its body, but the damage is already done.

Junie collapses.

Blood pours from her wounds, soaking into the soil beneath her. It seems to bubble and spill out of her. Jerome scoops her up without a word, and then we run. I rip off my cloak mid-stride, pressing it against her chest to stem the flow, but it’s no use. She’s losing too much, too fast.

Somewhere along the way, the pain must overwhelm her, and her body goes limp in his arms, head lolling back, mouth slightly open.

As soon as the outpost comes into view, I scream.

“Help! Someone help us, please!”

Eyes turn. People rush toward us. A medic meets us halfway, kneeling the moment Jerome lowers Junie to the ground. I stumble back, hands covered in blood, helpless as they cut open her vest.

The lacerations are brutal, jagged, and deep, flesh split wide. I can see patches of rib through the gashes. My stomach turns.

I bring a trembling, blood-covered hand to my mouth, and I pray.

I mentally shout to Vitalia, Goddess of Life and Healing. Begging her to help.

The medic rummages through her satchel, jars clinking, hands steady despite the urgency. She pulls out a salve, it’s a luminous green paste that looks more like poison than medicine, and slathers it across Junie’s chest.

Junie doesn’t move.

Her chest rises, shallow and slow. But the blood keeps coming.

The medic swears under her breath when the salve fails to clot the wounds. She dives back into her bag, more frantic now.

I keep praying.

The medic pulls out another jar, this time paired with a small vial of shimmering liquid. She smears the new salve over the wounds, then nods to Jerome. “Tilt her head.”

He obeys without question, and the medic carefully pours the golden liquid into Junie’s mouth. Some of it dribbles down her chin, but mercifully, most of it is swallowed as her body responds on instinct, even unconscious.

I don’t realise I’m holding my breath until I feel a presence at my back. Quiet. Steady.

No words are spoken. No hand touches me. But I feel the warmth of him behind me, solid and sure.

The claw marks begin to clot. Slowly. Blessedly. The bleeding slows, then stops altogether. The wounds don’t knit closed, not yet, but they begin to dull at the edges, the angry red fading just slightly.

She’s still too pale. She’s lost too much blood.

But I think… she’ll live.

Thank you, Vitalia, I whisper to the goddess.

Jerome lifts her again carefully, and the medic walks beside him, murmuring that she’ll be monitored closely. The best thing for her now is rest and time.

I watch the infirmary doors swing shut behind them.

And then I turn.

Stone .

I stare at him, my eyes catching on the tiny fleck of silver in the endless blue of his eyes.

It flickers in the light like it’s alive.

One tear slips free, trailing down my cheek.

He watches it roll, his gaze soft, before lifting a hand—slow, deliberate—and wipes it away with his thumb so gently I barely feel it.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” I whisper. The words scrape my throat on their way out.

“This wasn’t your fault,” he says, steady and certain, like there’s no room for argument.

I chew on my bottom lip until he shifts his thumb just slightly, nudging my lip free from between my teeth.

“Stone, I…” I start, but I just can’t continue, the words locked in my throat.

“It’s okay, Red,” he murmurs. “I’ll wait for you forever.”

A reminder. He still wants me to share my truths with him.

And as he leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead, then turns and walks away, it’s clear he’s not prepared to be with me until I do.

* * *

I watch the steady rise and fall of Junie’s chest. She’s still sleeping—the medic said the medicine she gave her would knock her out for a few days. Said it’s the best thing for her body.

That rest will let her heal.

I wonder if she has anything for me.

Something that could scrub the image of that thing out of my head.

The way it dug its fingers into her, like it was trying to carve its way inside.

Because every time I close my eyes, that’s what I see.

A large hand settles on my shoulder. It squeezes once, firm and grounding, before letting go as Sam drops into the chair beside me. His eyes stay on Junie, the same as mine.

“How you doing?” he asks quietly.

“Better than Junie,” I say, and the guilt that’s been chewing at me takes another bite. A single second. One heartbeat of hesitation, and that’s all it took for the Malus to nearly kill her.

“This isn’t on you,” Sam says, his words mirroring Stone’s.

Maybe if enough people say it, I’ll start to believe it.

Nope. Not even then.

“She’s healing well,” Sam says, but there’s something behind his voice. A tightness I don’t miss.

“You’re not one for small talk, Sam,” I murmur. “What do you want?”