Page 66 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

M y boots clomp against the floor as I march toward Cael’s office, imagining his head beneath every stamp.

I don’t bother knocking. I throw the door open, and it slams against the wall. Cael jolts upright, scrambling to catch the papers scattered by the gust.

“Your Highness,” he says, rising as he tries to organise the mess—some papers shoved away, others pinned beneath a paperweight. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Shut up,” I snap.

His eyes widen at my tone, just for a second, then his mask drops, and they narrow, glinting in anger.

His smarmy little face drags over me, and I fight the urge to shiver in repulsion.

“Now, it’s one thing sending me to Hangar,” I bite out, “but I think you’ll find you severely fucked up when you sent my friends too.”

“Oh? Did you not enjoy your little trip?” His voice oozes false civility. “I thought it would be enlightening. Seeing firsthand just how much of a threat Dunmere is. Such a valuable learning experience for a future queen.”

“Cut the bullshit, Cael. I can smell it from here.”

He sucks on his teeth but doesn’t reply. I stride forward and drop into the chair across from him, picking up a small statue of a snake from his desk and rolling it between my fingers as I stare it down.

“How very fitting,” I murmur as he sits across from me.

“If you have something to say, Elina, by all means.” He gestures casually, inviting me to speak.

I stare at him then—really stare—and all I see is weakness. He’s smart, sure, but it’s all smoke and mirrors. Parlour tricks. Cheap strategies that let him cheat his way into the seat he holds.

And I’ll strip it from him the first chance I get.

“Oh, Elina, now, is it?” I lift an eyebrow.

“As the leader of Aladria—”

“ Acting leader,” I cut in.

He ignores the correction, leaning forward.

“I outrank you. Elina .”

“Don’t worry,” I say, leaning back slightly. “I didn’t come here to take your temporary crown. Yet. I just came to tell you one thing.”

I meet his eyes, unflinching.

“I’m watching you, Cael. And while you might have dirt on certain members of the Council, your skeletons aren’t as well hidden as you think. If you ever try to harm my friends again… you might just find those bones you tried to bury dug up.”

I stand, walk to the door, then pause and glance back.

His face is pale, but his eyes are narrowed, locked on me.

“Toodles.” I wiggle my fingers in his direction and walk out.

* * *

I find Stone sparring with Trent, training with staffs outside.

The sun is relentless today, high and burning in a cloudless sky. It’s unseasonably hot, the kind of heat that settles on your skin like a second layer. They’re both shirtless, their skin slick with sweat and glistening under the weight of the light .

I lean back under the shade of a tree and enjoy the view.

Stone’s muscles ripple with each twist of his torso. The dark tattoo that curls up his arm and over his shoulder stretches and flexes with every movement, stark against his golden-brown skin. He flips the staff with one hand, the motion so smooth it almost looks lazy, but I know better.

Trent strikes hard from the left, and Stone counters with a brutal downward block. The crack of the staffs meeting echoes across the field. The impact shudders up Trent’s arms, and he laughs breathlessly, sweat flying from his jaw.

They’re evenly matched, both fast and ruthless, but Stone fights with a precision that borders on artistry. Every step, every pivot of his hips is deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous.

I should be focusing on the technique. Maybe even spending a little time watching Trent and his own undeniable skill.

But I’m not.

I’m watching him .

I watch the way the muscles in his back bunch as he ducks low, sweeping Trent’s legs out from under him in a clean, practised arc. I watch the way his hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, and how he pushes it back with an annoyed flick that sends something sharp twisting in my stomach.

Trent groans from the dirt, winded, and Stone offers him a hand. Trent takes it, muttering something under his breath. Stone just smirks.

And Gods help me. That smirk makes me impossibly hotter.

He looks up then, eyes locking on mine across the field. Like he can sense my need. My want.

Caught.

My breath stutters, but I hold his gaze, even as a blush climbs up my neck—from the sun, I tell myself .

He doesn’t look away. Not for a beat. Not for three. Then he smirks again, slower and deeper this time. A secret smile. Just for me.

Trent notices the shift, sees the way Stone’s lost focus, and follows his gaze to where I’m lounging under the tree.

“Wanna take over, Elina?” he calls, holding out the staff toward me.

And I jump at the chance.

I walk toward them, my body alive with the electric hum that always sparks when I’m around him.

Stone tosses his staff up, spinning it midair and catching it in one hand.

I roll my eyes at him as I take Trent’s.

He doesn’t wait around to watch, mumbling something about a shower before leaving.

I don’t look in his direction. I can’t look away from Stone.

“You ready, little Red?” Stone asks, stepping into position.

“Always,” I reply, twirling the staff once before sinking into my stance.

We circle each other, eyes locked. The air between us buzzes, it’s part challenge, part something else entirely. He makes the first move, a feint to the left before swinging low on the right. I block it cleanly and counter with a jab to his side, which he dodges with maddening ease.

“No holding back,” he says, voice low and amused.

I lunge. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He parries, his grin sharp.

I recover from his blow fast, sweeping for his legs.

He leaps, the movement powerful and effortless, and lands just close enough that I can see every droplet of sweat trailing down his skin.

His chest rises and falls fast, breathless from the exchange, or maybe it’s something else.

I’m breathless, too, but I refuse to show it.

We clash again. Staff against staff, footwork tight and fluid.

I land a strike to his ribs, not hard, just enough to make him grunt and grin.

He spins around me in one elegant arc, his staff brushing my spine—a warning.

I whirl, catching his next strike just in time, our staffs locked together, our faces inches apart.

The air shifts.

And then the sky breaks.

A sharp crack of thunder rolls overhead, and suddenly, the world is rain.

A downpour of warm tropical rainfall, so heavy it’s like being plunged into a shower. The dust beneath our feet turns instantly to slick mud, and within seconds, we’re both soaked to the skin.

Stone’s hair darkens further, clinging to his forehead, water dripping from his jaw. I blink water from my lashes and laugh, truly laugh, spinning my staff once before lunging at him again.

He meets me with a grin, an open, reckless one, and this time, we don’t hold back.

We slip and slide on the wet ground, attacks messier now, more chaotic. He loses footing, I land a hit to his shoulder, and he stumbles back laughing. I charge him with a splash, but he sidesteps and catches me around the waist, hauling me up off the ground.

I shriek, laughing, kicking at the air. “Put me down!”

“Not a chance.” He grins up at me, rain soaking every inch of us.

His arms tighten slightly, and I can feel his chest rising against mine, feel every solid line of him through the thin fabric of my clothes.

My hands are on his shoulders and my legs around his waist before I even realise, gripping, steadying myself, and not letting go.

Our eyes lock again.

The laughter fades slowly into something heavier.

The rain pelts down, a steady roar that muffles the rest of the world. His grip on me tightens, pulling me close until I can feel his hardness between my legs. I let my hand slide up the thick muscles of his neck, fingers brushing the edge of his soaked hair .

Neither of us speaks.

But he does move.

With me in his arms, he storms toward the castle, urgency in every step, his grip bruising my thighs.

We reach his room, and he carries me straight towards the bed, sliding me down his body. Our soaked trousers drag over one another, friction and heat catching in every brush.

A raindrop clings to his jaw, tracing the edge of his stubble. I reach towards him, torn between wiping it away or licking it clean, but before I can decide, his hand catches mine. He pulls my palm to his mouth and kisses it softly like it’s sacred.

Our eyes lock, his mouth still pressed to my skin. Then I slip my hand free, and we collide.

He claims my mouth in a bruising kiss, again and again, and I claw at his chest, pulling him down by his shoulders, needing him closer. I bite his lip, and he moans, low and guttural, grabbing the zipper of my vest and yanking it down.

There’s no patience—he’s starving. He tears the vest from my shoulders, it catches at my elbows as I cling to him, using his body for balance while he works at my trousers with sharp focus.

The wet leather sticks to me, resisting every pull. He kneels, yanking them down my legs, stopping only to kiss my centre through my soaked lace underwear.

I cry out, grabbing a fistful of his hair, my head falling back.

“So fucking responsive,” he growls into me.

My boots thud against the wall as he rips them off. The trousers finally follow, peeled away like a second skin. I let my vest drop with a wet slap to the floor.

He rises, his eyes dark with hunger as they sweep over my body.

“Goddess,” he says, staring at me like he can’t get enough.

I whine, impatient, “Are you going to take your clothes off or just stare?”

He strips in record time. And I can’t help myself—I reach forward, running a trembling finger down the ridges of his stomach, my mouth watering.

Then I drop to my knees.