Page 9 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

Junie follows, and she’s a marvel. Her stars fly as though extensions of her own will. Her throws are fast, accurate, and poetic in their execution. I nearly miss it all, it’s over so quickly. She’s easily walking away with top marks for this.

Most of the rest miss one or two. Even Deacon, though he shrugs it off with a cheeky grin.

Then, it’s Stone’s turn.

As he brushes past me, he leans in. “Watch and learn, Red,” he murmurs low, just for me.

His scent lingers in the breeze; it’s clean, fresh from a shower, with the faintest touch of sea salt.

After watching him train for weeks, he’s still my biggest competition here, and he loves letting me know that he’s aware of that.

He collects the five stars, spins one lazily between his fingers, and then—rapid-fire—sends them all flying. Each one hits dead centre. There’s no flair, just cold precision. He was as accurate as Junie, and he may have been faster.

Without a glance in my direction, he rejoins the line. Trent claps him on the shoulder in congratulation.

“Well, shit,” Deacon mutters under his breath as I grind my molars.

And try not to clench my thighs together, but no one needs to know that.

“Elina,” Barnett calls. I inhale slowly, centre myself, and block everything out—Stone, Deacon, the others. Just the task ahead.

I take my place at the throwing mark and pick up the stars. They’re heavier than expected, slightly larger than the ones I’m used to, but the extra weight is manageable. Each prong of the star is honed to a lethal edge.

I shift my stance, digging my feet into the gravel and wiggling my toes inside my boots to find my centre of gravity. Then, instead of facing the targets, I turn and stare directly at Stone.

His ocean-blue eyes widen, barely perceptible, but it’s enough to tell me I’ve caught him off guard.

I throw all five, one after the other, in quick succession, listening to them fly.

Each one thuds home, clean and sharp.

I don’t turn to check, I know they’ve landed exactly where they’re meant to. I walk back to join Deacon, who’s fighting a smile.

Stone holds my gaze for a second too long, amusement twitching at the corners of his eyes, then looks away.

The only sound is Barnett’s pen scratching against the paper until Junie breaks the silence. “Girl, you are something else,” she breathes, awe in her voice. Brynn, Jorren, and Elijah clap softly behind her.

The next assessment is longsword, and we’re paired off to spar.

First to mark their opponent wins. Longswords have never been my preferred weapon; they’re cumbersome and heavy in a fight.

But they serve a purpose. Their reach allows you to keep your opponent at bay, and when the goal is to sever heads, distance matters.

For that reason, I always carry my own into battle.

And though it’s not my weapon of choice, I’ve trained enough to wield it well.

This time, I’m up against Deacon. Familiar ground.

We fall into the rhythm of it quickly, circling, parrying, the clash of steel ringing sharp in my ears, echoing long after each strike.

My arms burn with the effort of holding the blade aloft, and the handle slips in my sweaty hands, but I push it all down. I’ve fought through worse.

My eyes stay fixed on Deacon, so much so that I notice the tiniest flicker of vulnerability on his left side when he takes half a second to catch his breath. I seize it, driving my sword forward and nicking his thigh. The strike is clean, if shallow.

A win.

“Ow, fuck. Elina,” he whines, clutching the tiny wound, chocolate eyes wide as he peers up at me through his lashes.

“Don’t be such a baby.” I flick his forehead on my way past, hopping out of the ring. “I’ve had papercuts worse than that. ”

Sam faces Colton next and ends the bout in seconds. He disarms him with a swift flick, his blade biting into Colton’s arm with practised ease. Sam is a master with the longsword; his movements are fluid, almost artful.

A rare smile breaks across his lips as Colton yelps, clutching his wounded arm, blood dripping between his fingers. It seems Colton’s dirty looks my way haven’t gone unnoticed.

Trent and Stone are paired together. They move like reflections of each other, their timing honed from clear practice.

The strength, the finesse—they wear it like a second skin.

I hate to admit it, but Stone is better with the longsword than I am.

The way he and Trent fight, it’s like they’re dancing.

Not a breath wasted, not a movement misjudged. It looks effortless.

Eventually, Trent shifts his grip—barely—but it’s enough. Stone capitalises on the opening and scores a mark on Trent’s right bicep.

Elijah, surprisingly adept with the longsword, bests Junie. Jorren and Brynn, both laughably inept, nearly take each other’s heads off before Barnett puts an end to it.

By the time the assessment ends, the sun is sliding behind the horizon. A crisp breeze rolls in off the sea, carrying salt and shadow.

“Your final assessment is with bow and arrow,” Barnett announces, leading us toward the northern forests that drape the mountain beneath Aladria Castle.

The forest is thick, tangled, alive. It covers the side of the mountain like a living shroud. It’s treacherous, home to creatures with too many teeth, plants that sting, and arrow-tailed vipers with lime-green scales and a death rate to match their name.

Fortunately, the test will only take place about twenty feet into the tree line. Far enough for danger to loom but not quite enough for it to pounce.

“For this test, you’ll be blindfolded,” Barnett continues, turning to face us. “You’ll each take a turn, tuning into your other senses. Your goal is to strike three moving targets hidden in the trees. Colton, you’re up first.”

Barnett leads him deeper into the woods, far enough that we can’t see. I strain to hear—anything—but the forest offers only the rustle of leaves, the occasional squawk of a bird, and the scurry of animals across the floor and in the bushes.

We wait, silent and still.

The evening chill deepens. I cross my arms, rubbing warmth into my skin, but the thin vest I wear is no match for the creeping cold.

“Cold?” Deacon’s voice breaks the silence. He steps behind me, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and pressing my back to his chest, lending me his warmth.

“Mm-hmm.” I nod, humming softly as I lean into him.

Stone’s gaze seems to zero in on Deacon’s hand as it moves slowly along my arm before he quickly looks away.

“I don’t know about you lot,” Junie mutters, “but I kind of hope Colton steps on a vibora during his travels.”

I snort at the mention of the deadly plant. Unfortunately, they don’t grow in Aladria, so it looks like we’ll be stuck with Colton a little while longer.

“What do you think the next test will be?” Trent asks, glancing between us.

“I just hope it’s not knowledge,” Deacon groans, resting his forehead against the crown of my head. “Kill me now.”

“That’s what you get for paying more attention to what was between Miss Fairbourne’s legs than what was between the pages of our history books.” I elbow him lightly, and he barks out a laugh, clearly remembering the scandalous fling with our former teacher.

“Can you blame me? She eye-fucked me every class. I wasn’t going to say no. ”

He gives my bicep a playful squeeze, jostling me.

Barnett returns with a scowling Colton in tow.

“Shit, maybe next time,” Junie whispers under her breath when she sees him through the treeline.

“I don’t know how anyone’s supposed to pass that,” he growls, fists clenched tight. He’s got a short fuse and a hot head, highly dangerous in battle—not just for him, but for all of us.

Brynn’s name is called next, and once again, we wait, clustered around tree stumps, making idle conversation to pass the time.

Trent and Stone murmur quietly to one another, heads close, expressions serious. Whatever they’re discussing, it’s out of earshot. They’re tight, that much is clear. And while Trent may seem like an open book, I know better than to trust appearances.

One by one, the others return, most with disappointed looks etched into their faces. Sam, as always, reveals nothing. A mask carved from stone.

Junie fidgets beside me, flipping her needle-thin dagger through her fingers. It whistles through the air with each motion, silver glinting in the moonlight.

“When you’re blindfolded, it’s not about instinct,” I tell her softly. “Forget what people say. Trusting your gut is mostly useless. You need to listen to the noise or the absence of it. Tune in to what doesn’t belong. Then shoot.”

She nods, absorbing my words and chewing on her bottom lip just as Barnett returns with Trent and calls her name.

She comes back twenty minutes later, her eyes brighter than most. “I hit two, thanks, babe,” she whispers, nudging me with gratitude. I smile just as I feel Stone watching. I don’t look his way. He’ll only distract me.

“Elina.” Barnett gestures with a tilt of his head.

I fall into step behind him, my footsteps light on the mossy ground.

The deeper we go, the louder the forest becomes.

We train ourselves to ignore the din of nature, to dampen it, but when you choose to listen, it’s deafening.

Crickets shrill, birds squawk, and leaves rustle with the scurrying of unseen things.

The forest is alive. Gloriously, dangerously alive.

It overflows with vibrant vegetation, dripping with vines and thick with flowering branches.

But beneath its beauty lies venom, providing the castle with protection.

I know these woods well. Grew up playing among them. Still, even I never wander too deep.

Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t have a death wish.

Barnett leads me to a clearing, one I recognise. The moss is damp underfoot, muffling sound but also making the ground precariously slippery.