Page 8 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

A fter a particularly tough day of battle practice, I watch as Junie stands at the edge of the training yard wall, arms folded.

Her chin is tilted toward the horizon, where the sky fades into a soft, dusty blue.

Her short black bob flutters in the breeze.

She tries to tuck loose strands behind her ears with nail-bitten fingers, but they keep slipping free.

I walk up beside her and lean against the wall, the stone warm at my back.

“Is it strange that I miss the sand?” she asks quietly.

“From home?” I turn my head her way.

“Yeah. I thought it would be the one thing I would be happy to see less of, it gets everywhere. Gods, the number of times I’ve had to clean it out of my knickers.”

I snort a laugh.

Across the field, someone whistles. I glance over and spot Deacon, he’s shirtless and smug, hair still damp from drills. He shades his eyes and calls out, “What are you two plotting?”

“A trip to the beach,” I shout back.

Junie spins to face me, eyes alight. “Really?” Her excitement makes me smile.

“Pack a bag for tomorrow. It’s a day off. We’ll spend it on the sand.”

* * *

The following morning, we gather just outside the castle gates, the squad squinting downhill, where the path curves toward a gleaming strip of ocean.

Olive trees line the slope, casting dappled shadows over the grass.

Behind us, the golden stone of the castle catches the sun, glowing like it was carved from light itself.

Junie lets out a small gasp. “Is that the coast?”

Deacon smirks and nods. “The closest thing we’ve got to a desert, that’s if you don’t mind trading the dunes for some waves.”

We invited everyone, so Sam, Brynn, and Elijah chose to come too. Stone and Trent appear further up the hill with a small group from Valour Squad, they’ve brought along. We’re all carrying packs filled with water, food, and towels. Everything we need for a full day at the beach.

We descend slowly, the sun warming our backs. The castle shrinks behind us, swallowed by the slope. When we finally step onto the beach, I pause to kick off my shoes and dig my red painted toes into the warm sand, wiggling them deep.

It’s stunning.

The sand is soft and golden, and the cliffs around the cove are streaked with lavender bushes. The water is turquoise, calm, and sparkling under the late-morning sun. Salty air lifts my hair, giving me a little relief from the heat.

Deacon and Trent charge straight into the waves, ripping off their shirts and shoes as they go, yelling like idiots. Junie twirls in place, arms wide, before flopping dramatically onto a sun-warmed rock to peel off her boots.

“This,” she says dreamily, “is exactly what I needed.”

I smile and walk to an open patch of sand to lay down my towel. The grains shift beneath my feet, warm and ticklish. The others join me, setting up their spots and guzzling water. I strip out of my clothes, revealing the black bikini underneath.

Stone sits off to the side with the group from Valour Squad. A couple of girls from the unit have already cosied up beside him, laughing at something he says that I can’t hear.

“Elina!” Deacon calls from the water, cupping his hands around his mouth. “You’re looking too hot there.”

He beckons me in, but he doesn’t need to ask twice; my pale skin is already baking under the sun. I stroll toward him, letting the water lap at my ankles.

But, of course, the asshole doesn’t let me ease in.

He swoops down, grabs me, and hoists me over his shoulder with a triumphant yell, then throws me headfirst into the waves.

I resurface, spluttering, probably looking like a drowned rat, but I’m laughing all the same. Junie sprints toward us, shrieking as she splashes in. The water is cold, but none of us cares.

We laugh. We splash. We let the world go quiet for a little while.

And just for a moment, it feels like there’s nothing to worry about but the sun, the sea, and each other.

Junie is stretched out beside me, her damp hair drying in the hot sun. I’ve got a bowl of melon and grapes balanced on my lap, sweet, chilled, and perfect against the heat. Juice from a piece of melon slips down my fingers, and I catch it with a quick swipe of my tongue before it reaches my wrist.

“So, have you ever met one?” she asks Deacon lazily, as if it’s just idle curiosity. Somehow, the conversation has drifted to the Gifted.

The Gifted start out like anyone else. Ordinary. Until the morning of their thirteenth birthday, when the Gods mark them with magic. Fire-wielders. Shape-shifters. Mind-readers. Storm-makers. Their gifts are as unpredictable as they are powerful.

But power like that always comes with a cost .

After his first failed attempt to take Aladria, Dagan started hunting them. He’s building an army. An army made of blood and raw magic, filled with people who can control your mind, raise the dead, or rip you apart with a single thought.

So the Gifted disappeared. They hid. Their existence became rumour—whispers passed in locked rooms and back alleys. To admit you’re Gifted is either an act of bravery… or stupidity.

Because once they know what you are, it’s only a matter of time before you’re collected.

Deacon shakes his head as he bites into a baguette stuffed with chicken and salad. “Have you?” he asks, mouth half-full.

“If I have, I didn’t know,” Junie says, shrugging.

I glance around the beach at our new friends—our team—and wonder how many of the Gifted are hiding in plain sight.

* * *

In the weapons training ground, a couple of weeks later, we stand in a line facing Officer Barnett. His back is to the west wing of the castle. Through the large stained-glass window depicting the South Sea Dock, I catch a glimpse of the grand library.

Five stories high, stretching from floor to ceiling with books, tomes, and scrolls dating back as far as recorded memory. The library rises from the ground floor into the turret above, and a spiralling staircase winds through its heart, exactly 134 steps from bottom to top. I’ve counted.

“Today is your weapons test,” Barnett announces, his tone steady and commanding, pulling my focus back to the present. “You will be assessed on your proficiency with daggers, throwing stars, a bow and arrow, and the long sword.”

We all smile at each other, ready for another challenge .

Although most of our group has been bonding well, Colton has kept his distance, choosing instead to spend most of his time with another group from Elite Squad, other than when we are forced together. Occasionally, I spot him sending dirty looks and sneers my way whilst we train.

If he wants to sulk about losing to me on the first day, that’s his prerogative. I won’t lose sleep over it. Wolves—or foxes—don’t lose sleep over the opinions of sheep.

It’s time for me to concentrate on being first on that leaderboard.

“Daggers first. Follow me,” Barnett says.

We trail behind him to a row of hay-stuffed mannequins, each one spaced apart with partition walls. Once we step up to them, we’re boxed in on either side, unable to see the other recruits or their dummies.

“The first test,” he begins to explain, “is to place three daggers into the dummy in the locations that would kill your enemy the quickest. For the purpose of this test,” he clarifies, “the mannequin represents a standard Dunmere soldier, not a Malus.”

Simple enough. I step forward.

The dimming of my peripheral vision as I move between the partitions gives the illusion of being enclosed. The musty scent of hay sticks in my nostrils, and I rub the back of my hand beneath my nose in irritation.

I bend down to collect the three daggers at my feet.

“You have one minute. Begin,” Barnett calls.

I move without thinking, muscle memory ingrained from childhood lessons.

I whistle a tune as I stab the first dagger straight into the heart—if I miss slightly in real combat, I’ll still pierce a lung.

Either way, they won’t survive. The second I drive into the side of the neck to sever the carotid artery, they’ll bleed out in under two minutes.

The final one I sink into the nape of the neck, at the base of the skull.

A clean strike there severs the spinal cord and the brain stem.

Satisfied with my work, I wipe my hands on my leggings, leaving behind smears of dust and hay, and step back in line. The entire process takes no more than five seconds.

But when I glance to my right, Stone is already there.

Finished before me.

He throws me a wink. What a cocky, gorgeous bastard.

The others finish quickly after, only Jorren takes the full minute. When he rejoins the line, he looks uncertain, clearly second-guessing his choices.

Colton glares at me as if he’d imagined the dummy was me the whole time. I chuckle under my breath, amused at most. He’s about as intimidating as a stray kitten.

Barnett moves from station to station, assessing our mannequins in silence, scribbling notes into his logbook.

The next test places us before a pulley system of moving targets—each one no larger than a dinner plate—zipping through the air in unpredictable directions at moderate speed. The throwing stars lay out before me, glinting in the sunlight.

A high-pitched, excited squeal comes from Junie as she jumps up and down, clapping her hands. Recruits from Saiyan specialise in throwing weapons.

“For this task, you’ll each be called up to strike five moving targets,” Barnett explains. “You’ll be scored on both speed and accuracy.”

Trent goes first. He hits all five but takes too long between throws, measuring each one carefully. Precision over speed. It might work in training, but it won’t save him when an enemy is charging with a blade in hand.

Sam is next—clean and efficient. No showboating. Just sharp, practised movements and five direct hits.