Page 60 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

He huffs a quiet laugh, just a puff of air from his nose.

“They want you back on patrols this afternoon. You, me, and Riley.”

Riley. I remember him. He was top of his class last year.

His name was whispered with respect. But the Riley I’ve seen here?

He looks hollowed out. Eyes like someone who’s seen too much too fast. Maybe that’s what being the best gets you—frontline seats in Miento’s realm. A punishment instead of a reward.

“Fine,” I say, because I can’t hide in here forever.

I stand, but my eyes won’t leave Junie. Her black hair has fallen back, revealing her whole face, pale and still. She looks so young. Vulnerable.

“She’ll be okay,” Sam says with quiet certainty.

I nod. Force myself to believe him. Force my eyes away.

And follow him out the door.

When we get back after the evening patrol, the mess hall is almost empty; the only food remaining is some stale bread and a few pieces of fruit that have seen better days, not even my endless appetite will tolerate it .

I drag my feet toward my bunk, muscles aching, eyes burning, and I’m just about to collapse when I spot something on my pillow.

A plate.

And on it, a lemon and poppy seed muffin.

My heart thumps, and the tether between me and Stone stretches—those tiny threads reaching out toward him, aching.

And I smile the whole time I eat it.

Right up until I shut my eyes and fall asleep.

* * *

It feels like I only close my eyes for a minute when the bell sounds, tearing me from the edge of sleep. My heart lurches. My body moves on instinct, but my mind drags behind, heavy with dread.

Another attack.

We rush outside, dressing as we go. I’m just tucking my throwing stars into the sheath at my belt when I reach the line of soldiers, and the moment I do, I know something’s wrong.

The air is too still. Tainted with the silence of anticipation.

And while I was expecting chaos, what meets me this time is something else entirely.

Dunmerian soldiers stand in formation about thirty feet away. There’s a lot of them, but nothing we can’t defeat—except this time, they’ve brought twenty Malus with them. All chained. All screeching. All clawing to be let loose and slaughter the front line.

My stomach turns as I notice one of them looks eerily like the soldier who tried to kill Deacon.

“Gods,” Deacon mutters at my side. “They’ve reanimated the ones we killed.”

His words confirm my suspicions and my worst nightmares.

Then their leader steps forward, cloaked in black with hair to match and moving with the lazy arrogance of someone who’s never had to fight for his life. He doesn’t look at us—he surveys us. Like livestock. Like he’s already decided who’ll die first.

“Why are you here?” the general shouts over the rising shrieks of the Malus.

The Dunmerian leader smiles, teeth bared.

“We’ve come for the girl.”

He points a spindly finger directly at Willa.

Deacon stiffens. Jerome takes a step forward before someone beside him grabs his arm and hauls him back just in time.

“My king was very interested in the stories our soldiers keep bringing back from here,” the Dunmerian leader says, his eyes never leaving Willa. A slow, vicious smirk curls his lips. “Stories about a girl with a hurricane in her lungs. And now he’d just love to meet her.”

“I’m sure he fucking would,” Willa mutters, rolling her eyes, then shouts. “How about you tell him I said this?”

She lifts her middle finger.

The leader’s smile fades. His eyes narrow, something cruel and cold simmering beneath the surface.

“I can’t wait to see how cocky you are on Dunmerian soil, little girl,” he sneers.

“Well, you can tell your king,” the general snaps, venom in every word, “that there’s no chance in hell he’s getting his hands on any of our Gifted.”

“Tsk, tsk.” The leader wags a finger at us. “You should know better than that, General. What King Dagan wants, King Dagan always gets.”

A pause. His grin returns, sharp and cold.

“By any means necessary.”

He lifts his arms wide.

The Dunmerian soldiers whip the chains of the Malus, sending them into a frenzy. They shriek and thrash, clawing at the air, straining toward us like hounds starved for blood.

“And we’ll defend our people by any means necessary,” the general fires back, calm as stone. Hands in his pockets. Legs set wide. The embodiment of command.

As if waiting for his voice, a volley of arrows cuts through the air, whistling toward the Dunmerian line.

But one of their frontline soldiers lifts his hands, and just like that, the arrows snap mid-flight. The sharp crack of splintering wood echoes before the shards clatter uselessly to the ground.

My heart sinks.

They’ve brought Gifted of their own this time.

“Have it your way,” the Dunmerian leader mutters.

With a flick of his wrist, the soldiers release the chains, and the Malus charge as one.

The front line holds firm. We watch from behind as the Malus stumble and scramble forward, many of them decapitated before they can do any real damage.

To my left, one breaks through an open gap, shrieking as it barrels toward us, but before it reaches striking distance, Sam steps in, swiping its head clean off with brutal precision.

Only when I look up and catch the Dunmerian leader’s gaze, smiling with sick delight, do I realise the truth.

The Malus are a distraction.

While we’ve been focused on the monsters, the real danger has crept forward.

A Gifted among them raises his hands, and the ground beneath our feet begins to ripple like water. It heaves and churns like something alive. Roots and vines explode from the dirt, racing forward like snakes.

They strike without warning.

Thorns plunge into the bodies of the soldiers before us, wrapping and twisting, dragging them down. Screams erupt as limbs are torn from torsos, bodies ripped in half by the raw force of nature gone mad.

Blood splatters the air.

Brynn vomits beside me. Deacon wipes a smear of flesh from his cheek with a trembling hand.

The roots vanish, but I don’t take my eyes off the Gifted.

He raises his hands again, but my dagger is already in flight.

It strikes him between the eyes with a clean, wet thunk. He drops like a puppet with cut strings.

The Dunmerian leader’s eyes snap to mine and narrow with venom. At least I’ve wiped that smug smile off his face.

Across the field, two more Dunmerian soldiers begin to twitch and convulse. Their limbs stretch at impossible angles. Bones snap. Fur bursts from their skin like fire catching on dry wood.

Shifters.

They become wolves, monstrous and snarling. They leap, high above us, saliva dripping down their fangs.

Jerome sprints forward, sliding beneath them in one fluid motion. His blades flash, slicing their bellies open and gutting them as they soar overhead.

They’re dead before they hit the dirt.

But the victory is short-lived.

Jerome is lifted into the air by an invisible force, controlled by someone else’s will, limbs splayed, spine arched. He’s helpless.

Then—

Crack.

His neck snaps with a sound that silences everything.

He drops like meat.

Willa screams.

It’s not a sound. It’s a rupture. A breaking point, sharp and primal. The kind of cry that tears through your marrow and leaves nothing whole .

And with it, the Dunmerian soldiers closest to us explode.

Their skin peels back. Their insides rupture. Wind howls from Willa’s lungs with the force of a storm, and their bodies are shredded by it—torn apart, flayed alive.

The leader laughs and claps his hands manically, full of glee. He stays at the centre of his ranks, untouched, cocooned safely in a force field created by another gifted.

“Oh, he’s going to love you.” He cackles.

Willa starts to move, but Deacon is faster. He lunges, grabbing her, pulling her into his arms before she can do something worse. She collapses against him, sobbing, and he shields her with his body, whispering something only she can hear.

And then—

Chaos is no longer a word.

It’s a wave.

It crashes into us. Loud, bloody, and relentless.

The remaining soldiers charge.

And battle swallows us whole.

I’m already moving. Blade in hand, I dive into the fray, every instinct screaming. I slash, dodge, stab. Blood flies. Screams tear through the air. The night sky is painted with death.

Willa is pulled back, wrapped in a ring of soldiers as they guide her to safety, Deacon never leaving her side. Even broken, she manages to move, but barely, still in his arms as he slashes at anyone who gets too close.

They want her.

And it’s up to us to make sure they don’t get near her.

Stone appears at my side, moving in sync with me like we’ve trained together for years. Our blades flash in tandem.

“Duck,” he mutters, and I drop low just as he slices through an enemy behind me .

I stand and hurl a throwing star past his shoulder. It strikes true, into the chest of a soldier rushing him from behind.

He glances at me, one brow raised, and we share a breathless smile.

“No!” the Dunmere leader bellows, just as the outpost doors lock behind Willa.

Safe.

“Draw back!”

At his cry, the Dunmerians retreat, swift and ruthless. Soldiers melting into shadows. But before the leader disappears into the trees, he turns one last time, his eyes locking on Stone, then me.

“I’ll be seeing you real soon,” he purrs.

An arrow slices past his ear. Another thuds into the dirt at his feet.

He doesn’t flinch.

Just spins on his heel, his cloak snapping like a whip as the last of his men vanish into the trees.

Then he’s gone.

My chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. Blood rushes in my ears, mixing with the fading cries of the wounded and the wet slap of footsteps through mud. I turn slowly, strands of hair plastered to my face.

Stone is already watching me.

His eyes blaze, not just with fury, but with something untamed. Possessive. Dangerous.

He’s panting like he just ran for miles. Jaw clenched so tight I see the muscle ticking beneath his cheek. And for one suspended second, we just stare at each other—two weapons still humming with violence that we’re unable to sheathe.

Then he grabs my hand.

Rough. Desperate.

“Stone—” I start, breathless.

But the word barely leaves my lips before he’s pulling me with him, cutting across the churned-up field, past bodies and broken weapons and the shrieking moans of the dying. My boots slip on the blood-slick earth, but he doesn’t slow. Doesn’t speak.

The showers loom like a blur. He shoulders the door open, drags me inside, and slams it shut behind us.

The echo booms through the empty stalls.

And then—he’s on me.