Page 72 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

ELINA

I wake slightly to jostling. I think we’re in a carriage rattling over rough ground.

My body won’t respond, my limbs dead weight, muscles slack. My eyes remain shut, lids too heavy to lift. Sound is muffled and warped, like my ears are full of wool.

I’m on someone’s lap. Arms are wrapped tightly around me, holding me close.

“But your father—” a voice says. Muted. Familiar, maybe. But everything is too hazy to place it.

“I couldn’t give a fuck what he thinks,” comes the reply. The voice is harsher, sharper. It vibrates against me, deep in the chest I’m curled against.

Something inside me stirs: recognition, heartbreak, grief. It hurts to hear him speak, a raw ache that flares through me like wildfire.

So, I let the dreamless, pain-free sleep drag me under again.

* * *

The next time I wake, it’s to shouting. Voices echo too loudly, like they’re ricocheting inside my skull. Each syllable drills into my head, and I groan softly, though I don’t know if any sound leaves my lips .

“Get the fuck away from her!”

That voice again. Urgent. Commanding. Furious.

I’m being carried, the arms strong beneath me, my head lolling uselessly with each step. My cheek presses against something smooth, soft, the scent of sweat, steel, and something clean. I should know that scent. I do know that scent.

He’s holding me tightly, his chest rising and falling too fast. It feels like he’s backing up. Every step jars through me like I’m made of glass. My limbs dangle like a broken doll, flopping uselessly.

Someone tries to grab me.

I feel the shift before it happens, the pivot of his body as he shields me. My hair gets yanked in the scuffle, the sharp tug snapping through my skull like lightning. I want to cry out, to fight, but my mouth won’t form the sound. My body isn’t mine to command.

“No!” he bellows, fury raw in his voice. “Back the fuck off!”

“The king’s direct orders state the princess—” another voice begins, curt and cool.

“No. He said she stays with me. He promised .” His voice breaks, fury laced with desperation.

Hands grab at me again. Too many this time.

Pulling and yanking. The arms holding me strain, resisting, muscles locked.

He kicks and punches, all while trying to hold me to him.

There’s a struggle, I can feel it in the jerky movements, the sharp grunts and curses, the sounds of a fight, the way I’m jostled between one person and another like I’m nothing more than a rag doll.

Pain shoots through me, sharp and sudden. An elbow to my ribs. Fingers bruising my arms. A stranger’s shoulder to my stomach as they swing me about, hoisting me up high. I want to scream, to thrash, but I can’t. I’m trapped in my own skin.

More jostling, more shouting, more yanks and pulls.

Then —

They drop me.

The impact is sudden and brutal. My skull cracks against the ground with a sickening thud, and my body crumples on cold stone.

Stars burst behind my closed eyes. A dull roar fills my ears.

“ Elina! ”

The shout is raw, cracked with agony.

That name. That name is mine, isn’t it?

I think it might be.

But I can’t hold onto it.

Darkness swallows me whole.

* * *

When I finally blink my eyes open, it feels like dragging shards of glass across my eyelids; they’re raw, inflamed, stuck together with dried blood or tears or both. My head pulses with pain, every heartbeat a spike through my skull.

My hand lifts shakily. My fingers tremble as I touch my forehead and find a lump, slick with dried blood, torn open at the edge. A deep gash. No one’s bothered to bandage it.

I’m slumped on a cold stone floor, my spine pressed against a rough wall. The air is thick with the stench of damp, mould, and urine. The ground beneath me is sticky and gritty, coating my fingertips and cheek in grime.

I don’t move anything else. Just flick my eyes around, taking in my surroundings.

My dress, the same lilac silk I wore to the ball, is in tatters. The skirt’s shredded up one thigh, stained with dirt and dried blood. It clings to my sweat despite the chill here.

Iron bars rise ahead of me. A heavy door sits to the left. No windows. No light, save the faintest gleam of torch fire flickering from somewhere far away. I’m someplace deep underground.

My eyes adjust slowly. Shadows sharpen. Shapes begin to define themselves.

And then I see it.

A hand on the floor, bruised and bloodied, reaching through the bars toward me.

Stone.

He’s lying just outside the cell, slumped awkwardly against the iron as if he’s tried to fit himself between the bars to get to me.

His head is resting on his bicep, his body battered and beaten.

Blood smears his shirt, which is torn across the chest and sleeves.

His knuckles are split open, raw and swollen, some clearly broken.

His face is bruised and grazed, swollen eyes shut tight, keeping his ocean depths locked away.

My eyes drag over him once.

And then I don’t spare him another glance.

Instead, I turn my gaze inward, slowly taking inventory of my injuries: the tender swelling on my temple, the aching ribs that make it hard to breathe, the stiffness in my joints from being left here like this.

Then I hold my breath and listen.

When I don’t hear anything other than his steady breathing, and I’m sure he’s truly asleep, I drop the walls in my mind.

One by one, I pull away the bricks I keep in place. Each one groans as it lifts—old protections I haven’t let down in years. The moment the last barrier falls, I’m flooded.

Stone’s mind is a mess of images, flickering in rapid succession—memories, dreams, emotions smashed together into a meaningless blur. That’s how it always is with dreams: fractured and jumbled, like broken glass in a storm. Still, it confirms what I need to know.

He’s out .

I reach further, silently scanning for other thoughts. I find nothing nearby but a lone guard. His mind is dull and distracted, preoccupied with thoughts of dinner. He’s no threat.

So, I close my eyes and visualise the mental web. My network of connections.

A silver thread hums softly. A crimson line pulses like a vein. And there—deep ocean-blue—Stone. Tangled and stormy, a rope knotted tightly to me that I didn’t form or create. The tether I can always feel, even with my walls built high.

But I’m not looking for him.

I keep searching. Onyx black, soft pink.

There—gleaming gold, edged in warm brown. Strong. Steady. Familiar.

I mentally tug.

It holds.

So I send the message.

It worked. The prince took me, and I’m in Dunmere, just like we planned. I’ll bring her home.

Carter’s voice answers instantly, echoing through my head with practised calm.

Good. Keep up the ruse and be safe.

And just like that, the connection ends and I start to rebuild the wall—brick by brick—sealing every crack until it’s impenetrable. Untraceable.

Then, I let myself rest.

Because when I wake, I’m going to burn this kingdom from the inside out.