Chapter Text
— — — 9 — — —
The bar was dry and dusty, but between the cold night air drifting in and the stars shining through the torn canvas stretched across the prehistoric rib cage serving as a ceiling, the Magicat knew she had gotten drunk in worse places.
Not that she had time for drinking tonight, the hooded figure sliding into the seat next to theirs at the bar confirmed that. This was strictly business. “Evening,” the newcomer said, keeping her eyes straight ahead, not meeting her gaze. “I heard you work in acquisitions.”
“Yeesh,” the Magicat responded with an eye roll. She turned to her. “What is it with you First Ones and dancing around the point? Here, let me show you how it’s done.” She took a swig of her drink and gestured to her neighbor. “Mara of Squadron Greyskull, hero of the Battle of Krytis. Transferred to a Top Secret military research project on Etheria three months ago. Now seeking a contractor for a sensitive ‘acquisition’”. She pointed to herself. “Cyra, best thief in the Crimson Waste, at your service.”
The First One looked stunned, then glanced around. “For a good thief you aren’t exactly concerned about—“
“Oh, please,” she interrupted. “If we downed all the booze in the bar, we’d still be the soberest bums in the room. We can be honest be each other.”
Mara turned her drink over in her hands. “Alright then. Halfmoon is holding out on us. We need the Sword: the blade shards, the hilt, the Crimson Catseye, all of it.”
The Magicat’s grin vanished. “That Sword isn’t some sack of jewels. It’s a precious relic of our culture,” she growled. “And y-you think I’ll just hand it over!” She shouted near the end, drawing a few looks from the other side of the room. She leaned in and whispered. “You can’t just take that from us.”
The First One took a swig from her drink and gestured to the Magicat. “Cyra the Second of the House Dilruth. Last living member of the same after your family was betrayed by the current Queen Nefertiti. Owner of the Sword of the Protection by right.” The Magicat suppressed a gasp. She hadn’t heard her full name in years. Mara smiled. “You aren’t the only one who likes to do their research.”
She turned on the stool to face her openly. “The Horde is coming. Without Halfmoon’s help, Etheria is doomed. That Sword should be in the hands of someone protecting this planet, not gathering dust in a usurper’s throne room.” She paused. “It should be in your hands, Princess. Once we reforge it for you.”
The Magicat brooded in silence for several minutes before speaking. “Once I bring it out of Halfmoon, the Sword never leaves my sight. Whatever you do with it, you explain — no doubletalk or techno babble. Whatever questions I ask, you answer. No secrets, no lies. Nothing gets done to the Sword that I don’t approve of first.”
Mara nodded. “You have my word.” She extended a hand, and Cyra grasped it in return.
Catra woke up with her blanket kicked off and Adora holding her wrists together. She hissed and backed into the headboard. Adora started rambling. “I’m sorry. You were talking in your sleep again and the last time you did that you ripped up your sheets and Shadow Weaver got mad at all of us and I didn’t want you to get in trouble again and I know this is breaking the personal space rule and—“ she ran out of breath.
Catra’s glare didn’t change. After a few moments, she piped up again. “Is having bad dreams against the rules? I promise, I won’t tell anyone.”
Catra sighed and let her join her at the top of the bed. “Weakness is against the rules.”
“Oh,” she nodded. “But everyone has bad dreams. That doesn’t make you weak.” After a few months in the Fright Zone, Adora was still getting the hang of it. All her instructors thought she had the perfect attitude — she worked like her life depended on it, never talked back, and never talked about her old family (a common problem among Acc-Acc kids). But every once and while, she‘d say something to Catra that reminded her that she didn’t really belong there.
“They aren’t all bad dreams,” she whispered. This one was good. She liked being Cyra. She was strong, smart, and brave; she did whatever she wanted and made a fool of anyone who tried to stop her. “It’s just . . . I don’t react to them well. And I usually have them after . . .” Her lessons.
Adora wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Are they magic?”
“I don’t want to talk about them!” She snapped.
“Ok,” Adora chirped, quick to move on once Catra made her boundaries clear. “I heard some of the Force Captains were playing cards in Bay H-4. Do you wanna go watch?” It was late. She should really go back to sleep, but on nights like this, Catra knew there would just be more dreams, and those only made her more tired.
Besides, on nights before a full moon Adora got hyperactive. That usually led to some quality pranks.
— — — 14 — — —
Catra hated magic. In fact, she’s certain it was the first thing she learned to hate properly. When Shadow Weaver wasn’t boiling her blood and burning her bones with the stuff, she was doing it to herself in their lessons. At the moment, she was struggling to carve a truth spell in the air. Each flick of her claw felt like pushing through molten iron. She could feel the magic fighting against her, rejecting her, trying to make her quit. The Black Garnet was like its master in that way.
Said master was brooding the corner. Shadow Weaver had been quieter than usual that evening. Normally, the witch hovered over her apprentice, correcting her form, pointing out errors, and accusing her of slacking off. Catra didn’t mind. The silence was more unsettling, but it was as close to approval as Catra got.
“Your instructors have informed me that your scores have been greatly improving in the last quarter,” she drawled. Catra’s ears pricked up. “Of course, with how poorly you were performing, ‘greatly’ is a relative term.” She faltered with the next stroke, earning a sharp shock from the rune.
Shadow Weave tsked and stalked closer. “A sorceress cannot afford to lose focus, Catra. You’re manipulating the fabric of creation, not scratching doodles on the nursery walls.”
She suppressed a growl and started again. This time, she made faster progress. Spite was her best motivator.
As she worked, the communicator on the wall fizzled to life. Catra ignored it. She had spent years working through Weaver’s conversations. She got some great gossip that way. Ever since she was little, adults had spoken like she wasn’t there, unless they were yelling at her that is. She had a front row seat to every power play, backstabbing, and alliance in the Fight Zone.
“Shadow Weaver.” A metallic voice growled. Catra’s heart stopped — Hordak.
“Lord Hordak.” He’d caught her off guard. “Forgive me, I was expecting you later—“
“I received the corrections to last week’s incident report,” he interjected. “Tell me. Why did you send your ward to the field if she was so thoroughly compromised?”
“I did not recognize the extent of her condition,” she replied smoothly. “The symptoms were minor at the time, and she concealed them from me. Believe me, my Lord, had I known—“
“It was your job to know!” He shouted. “You failed! And that failure cost us critical progress in the war. Your ward disobeyed orders, attacked our soldiers, and let the Rebels undo months of hard-earned gains. All because you didn’t notice she had rabies! So tell me why I should continue to support this project?”
“From my research, werewolves only contract this condition once and then gain immunity. No other conditions can disable their faculties. The infection will be long gone by the next full moon. I’ve already developed a significantly stronger shock collar to keep her in line, and I guarantee the handlers will make good use of it. Trust me, my Lord. Adora will not fail us again.” Her voice dropped. “I will make sure of it.”
“It will be your head if she does.” With that, the communicator died.
Through all that, possibly powered by schadenfreude, Catra had made quick progress. Catra had heard about the incident last week. Apparently, after the Force Captains set Adora on guard duty for some fort — or whatever it is she does on full moons now that Shadow Weaver deemed her “ready to serve” — she got hit with a case of rabies just in time for a Rebel assault. She’d been in isolation ever since they got back.
Catra had gotten back to the same spot in the rune, only a few strokes away from finishing. That’s when she felt the cold tip of a dagger press against her throat. She froze and felt the magic fade. “Keep going.” Her teacher ordered. As she struggled to make the motions, Weaver spoke slowly. “Magic is a powerful thing, but those who use it can be . . . fragile.”
She pushed the dagger closer. “We aren’t like Adora, child. We can only endure so much before we break. If you plan on surviving, you must have someone to watch your back.” Catra was almost there. A few more seconds. “It took me years to build my wall of alliances, and even they aren’t always enough. Count yourself lucky. All you had to do to get a bodyguard was let the mutt imprint on you.”
The completed rune flew from her fingertips into the door. Her throat dried up. She was shocked. Catra had heard plenty of officers call Adora a mutt before, often to her face, but Shadow Weaver never talked about Adora that way. She was the golden child. Almost since her first day in the Fright Zone, every other word out of Shadow Weaver’s mouth was “Why can’t you be more like Adora, you disappointing furball?” It was deeply unsettling, but as worried as she was, a small, dark corner of her heart soared to hear her rival put down like that.
“Imprint?” She blurted out, hoping to bury the traitorous feeling. “What are you talking about?”
“I’d have thought the topic would have been covered in Biology,” she explained. “But perhaps it was a sensitive subject for the orphans. Among some creatures in the wild, it is common for young to develop a strong psychological attachment to pack-mates at birth, and to the parents in particular. It seems when werewolves transform for the first time, the sensory and psychological intensity of the experience causes them to undergo a similar process. You did spend the most time with Adora the night her affliction first manifested.”
“That’s the best explanation I can imagine, anyway.” She said with a pointed glare. “The girl has an . . . inexplicable desire to defend you, even at substantial personal cost. And if my more promising ward must be burdened with such an instinct,” she drew up closer. “Then at the very least, I expect the lesser to take full advantage of it to . . . make up the difference. You will be ready to cast that spell in your sleep next week. Once Adora has recovered, you’ll have no excuse for slacking off on your studies. Covering for you might make staying at the top of the class a challenge, but she has too much time to spare already.”
“And if your pride won’t allow you to ask for her help,” the Garnet sparked behind them, “then I will humble you. Have I made myself clear?”
She clenched her fists behind her back. “Yes, Shadow Weaver,” she mumbled. With a nod of her head, the witch dismissed her.
— — — 15 — — —
The wolf chained in the Black Garnet chamber was clearly exhausted. She’d been in Horde custody for a week, and it looked like she hadn’t slept once in that time. Piercing blue irises stood out against the bloodshot whites of her eyes. Corse, dark, tangled red hair hung limply at her shoulders, framing her pale face. Patches of dried blood stood out on her strange clothes.
Still, through all the torture, she had refused to give up any information on the Rebels and their plans. She hadn’t even given them her name. Even Shadow Weaver failed to break her.
In other circumstances, Catra might have respected her for that. She might have pitied the forty-something for enduring the kind of pain she was all too familiar with. But, as much as Catra resented Shadow Weaver calling her in from medic training for this interrogation, she hated this wolf. She’d mauled Adora last week while she was on guard duty in Plumeria. Even with her healing factor, the marks left by her claws were bound to scar. She’d be sleeping on her stomach for weeks after what this mutt’s claws did to her back. This was personal.
Sure, Catra was no fool. She knew the Horde wasn’t engaged in a glorious campaign to bring peace and order. Plenty of people across Etheria had a reason to hate them and the right to fight back. Hell, if this woman had mauled Octavia, Catra probably would have high-fived her. But she didn’t attack some jerk Force Captain; she attacked Adora. She was different. That dork just spent full moons protecting patrols and forts. If the Horde ever tried to get that dork to attack some random village, her hero complex would never allow it, Wolf-brain or not.
When Catra approached, the wolf looked up and grinned. “So, this whole time, the Mystacorian’s secret weapon was a Magicat.” She threw back her head and laughed. “That’s perfect! Seriously, between the Beast and the Scorpion is this where the Horde sticks all the traitors they can’t trust?”
“I don’t know,” Catra shot back. “Is your pack where they stick all the losers that get captured?”
Before she could get a reprimand for speaking to the prisoner, she laughed again. “You’re actually on to something there, kid; really, surprisingly accurate. Well done. But I’m not part of a pack. I’m not part of the Packs. I work alone. Something your master refuses to believe no matter how many times I explain it to her!” The etherial chains binding her sparked red, engulfing her in a cloud of static. Her body convulsed, and her face twisted in pain.
“Silence, prisoner.” Shadow Weaver hissed. She cut off the spell after a few seconds. In her condition, the woman couldn’t take much more. “This is your last chance. Lord Hordak will be more merciful if you cooperate willingly. Perhaps you could even be spared from . . . Beast Island.”
The prisoner turned to Catra, grin returning. “Is she always this bad at lying?” She asked in a stage whisper. “Or have I just really knocked her off her game?” She returned her attention to Shadow Weaver. “And Beast Island? Went there once upon a time. Nice beaches, lots of trash. Nothing I can’t handle.”
Shadow Weaver, with barely restrained rage at her insolence, nodded to Catra. The apprentice flashed a truth spell together in moments, and the rune flew into her chest. The prisoner’s grin didn’t falter. She raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? So is this a delayed action thing or—“
“What. Is. Your. Name.” Shadow Weaver interjected through grinding teeth. Catra flinched. It was instinct. When Shadow Weaver sounded half that frustrated, usually she was about to get zapped.
“Marlena.” The prisoner responded immediately, much to her own surprise. Catra thought the name sounded familiar. For a moment, with her eyes wide with shock and the slightest touch of fear, Catra thought she looked familiar too.
“Of what pack?” Weaver questioned, not wasting a moment of the spell’s effect. “What is your surname?”
This time she tried to resist, but she could only held back for a second. “I’m not part of a pack. I was formally disowned by my old family, and Randor hated his family enough to disown them so I didn’t take his when we got married. Legally, ‘of Etheria’ is what you’d go with since that’s the planet I was disowned on.”
Catra decided that the week of torture and exhaustion had clearly screwed with her head. The truth spell could only compel you to say what you thought was true, so if your head was full of nonsense it nonsense would come out. Shadow Weaver, apparently undeterred by that stream of consciousness, forged on. “What is the Rebellion planning in Plumeria?” She demanded.
“I don’t know. I’m not with them. I was in Plumeria because I heard the Beast would be there and I wanted to end that runty, Horde-loving traitor myself. Whatever they told you to get you to hire them was exaggerated by the way. Seriously, if I didn’t know any better I’d assume you just sent a teenage pup to the field and called it a day.”
Catra was about to interject, but Shadow Weaver spoke first. “And all the other attacks you have carried out on Horde fortifications, supply caravans, and patrols, those were all . . . lone wolf operations as well?”
“Yes,” a hint of pride carried in her voice. “All me. No one else. Glad to know I’ve been causing enough damage to gain a reputation.”
“If you simply wish to strike against the Horde, joining the Rebellion would be more efficient.” Shadow Weaver responded, snakelike. “Why work alone? Is it personal?”
Marlena writhed in place, struggling to keep the words in. “Y-yes. It is.” She tried to end the answer there, but the words kept coming. “You monsters burned Greyskull — my friends, my husband, my daughter.” Tears were streaming down her face. “All gone. All because of you! You led them to us! Then your goons razed everything that was left. I couldn’t even find their bodies. I couldn’t—“ her voice choked off.
“I couldn’t say goodbye to them,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t say I was sorry . . . for not keeping them safe.” Catra recognized that tone, regret and grief mixed with self-loathing. It was bizarre to hear it in a voice other than Adora’s. Remembering that her friend was currently running a training course with a shredded back helped her push down the urge to comfort the wolf.
Shadow Weaver was silent for a few moments, contemplating something. “Hmm,” She mumbled. “Could it be . . . impossible, but perhaps . . .” She turned to Catra. “Go.”
Catra hesitated. “The rest of this does not concern you. Leave. Now.” Catra knew better than to make her repeat herself. With one last lingering look at the prisoner, she slunk away. The cadets guarding the chamber doors killed any hope of eavesdropping. Part of Catra was glad for it. The longer she thought about that woman, the more she felt like she was missing something.
So, Catra headed to Training Sector Y-9 where Adora was spending the morning. Whenever Shadow Weaver summoned her, instructors never dared ask how long she would be gone. If she played her cards right, she could get the rest of the day off. And if Weaver suddenly needed to see Adora . . . well, then no one would be looking for them all day. And the balcony was really such a better place to spend it.
Later that evening, watching the sunset and sharing a bundle of contraband tree rations with her best friend, Catra knew she made the right call. Even Adora had to agree.
— — — 19 — — —
“Why are you still here?” The princess demanded, still panting from the effort of teleporting the three of them out that death trap.
Catra blinked in response. The last six hours had been weird. First, the weird dreams. Then, the Sword. Then, these two. Then, woosh! She was really tall. Add on the weird hieroglyphs she could read all of a sudden, and she was starting to think Adora was right about the brain damage.
“I’m your prisoner,” she replied. “Do I have to explain what that means? What is this the first time you Rebels have managed to capture someone?”
“Oh that explains it!” Sparkles shot back. “With a crack security team like us on the case, obviously the trained Horde spy doesn’t stand a chance of escaping!”
“I’m not a Horde spy!” Catra yelled. “I’m not a Horde anything, and I don’t want to be. I don’t want to go back!”
They both looked shocked. Catra was too. Where did that come from? Arrows spoke first. “You mean you want to defect?” He asked hopefully. Catra didn’t think anyone but Adora could make puppy dog eyes like that.
“No. I don’t— Er, I can’t— its just.” She rubbed her temples in frustration. “When I lifted that sword,” she said pointing to the weapon strapped on the princess’ back. “It felt— I don’t know . . . right.” It was the first time magic didn’t hurt. “It was like . . .” It was like her feet sprouted roots that went down to the planet’s core. It was like her arms stretched to the roof of the sky. It was like cool stream soothed her boiling blood, repairing all her scars.
“It was like it wanted me,” she finished, explaining it to herself as much as to the Rebels. “And if I go back to the Fright Zone now, I’ll never know why.”
Arrows approached, putting a cautious hand on her shoulder, like she might bite if he got too close. A fair concern considering the scratches on his arms from earlier. “We can help you find out. Glimmer’s mom knows more about First Ones Tech and Halfmoon than anyone.
“You guys routinely help Horde cadets with magical research projects?” she asked with an eye roll.
“Yeah,” Sparkles snarked back without missing a beat. “But only the part-time Princesses who come with powerful pieces of First One Tech attached. So, the policy doesn’t come up much.”
Catra grinned in spite of herself. Point to Sparkles. Maybe this side trip wouldn’t be so bad.
As they made their way through the woods, she wondered how to play this. She meant it when she said she wasn’t going back to the Horde, but there was one person she couldn’t leave behind. Adora was getting sent to take out some Rebel fort later that day. Maybe Catra could track her down there.
A few hours with these two, and Catra was starting to doubt the Horde’s story. The few ruined towns they had passed in the Woods all had Horde wings branded on the rubble. No marks or other signs of wolves to be seen. Sparkles and Arrows claimed the Packs weren’t their allies; and that would be a stupid thing to lie about. Alliances between nations couldn’t exactly be kept secret.
She knew they were wrong about a lot. If they really thought Adora — no, The Beast of the Horde as they called her — was some bloodthirsty monster, then the Horde wasn’t the only side with good propaganda. Still, maybe they were a better bet than the Horde, at least until she figured out this Sword thing.
After that, Adora wouldn’t join the Rebels, but Catra knew she could get her to leave the Horde. Now that she was a Force Captain, she’d see what “bringing order to Etheria” really involved. Once Adora saw what the Horde was doing to villages just like hers, it would crush her. But Catra would be there to help. She’d butter up these Rebels, get some answers, find out what this magic was, and be ready to make a place for her and Adora away from either side. Catra could be the hero for once.
They could find the wolves that attacked her village together. They strike back against the Horde. They could do whatever they wanted. They could be free.
She cherished the image all the way until they reached Thaymor.
Angella knew that it was only a matter of time before Catra managed to break into the Spare Room. After the week they’d had, Glimmer’s capture, the raid on the Fright Zone, and . . . whatever had happened between her and Adora, Catra needed to feel in control. Angella understood that instinct all too well.
But, she also understood how skilled Light Sp— Shadow Weaver was at manipulation. She-Ra or not, she didn’t want to let Catra get hurt again. And she failed. Because Angella always failed to keep those she cared about safe.
The witch was honest with them. Under Catra’s truth spell, she didn’t hesitate to reveal her intentions. Even with Adora now allegedly on the run, Shadow Weaver had no place in the Horde anymore. Aiding Brightmoon was her only chance of surviving in the long term, and Catra was her only hope of living past sunrise. She admitted that she could drain the Crimson Cateseye like she did the Black Garnet, but like she said, she was playing the long game. “We who use magic can be fragile,” she had said, eyes locked on Catra.
It all went wrong when Catra demanded the truth about her origins. Shadow Weaver had told her she was abandoned, thrown away, unwanted. The Queen could hear the desperation in her voice as she shouted at the witch, and she could hear her heart shatter when she just said the same thing again.
“You weren’t found on the outskirts of the city,” she had explained. “My agents discovered you in the center. The First Ones worked with your ancestors to create their technology. She-Ra served as the gatekeeper of the planet’s portals. Once the royal family discovered Catra’s destiny, they used her as an escape route, opening a portal for the whole city, and left her to her fate.”
Angella wanted to demand how the witch knew any of this, but before she could, Catra raced out of the room. Comforting Catra was more important than bashing that mask into Shadow Weaver’s damned face, much as she would have liked to do that.
The Queen found Catra on a unused balcony, staring out into the Woods. She briefly wondered if she was looking for her . . . for whatever Adora was to her. While she wasn’t supposed to know what Catra did for the Beast, Glimmer was not as subtle as she thought she was. Reluctantly, she had instructed the Hunters in private that they were to bring Adora in alive if they found her, no lethal force was authorized.
She approached the princess from behind, but the shift in her posture let the Queen know that she was aware of her presence. She stood up straighter, tried to look less vulnerable. Angella knew she would have to handle this delicately.
“For what it’s worth,” she began, coming up beside her. “I think the bitch doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Catra nearly jumped out of her skin. “I haven’t used profanity in the last two centuries,” she explained. “So forgive me if I made an error in usage.”
Catra still looked like she was in shock. Hopefully that meant she was listening. “I don’t think she could conceive of anyone viewing their child as more than a tool,” the Queen continued. “But that’s her failing. Your mother and Micha were good friends; she wasn’t permitted to leave Halfmoon after her marriage, but they shared many letters.” She smiled sadly at the memory. “If I recall correctly, many of them were about her daughter.”
Catra seemed to have recovered from the shock, but she was still listening intently. Angella cautiously shuffled closer. “Lyra and Cairo loved you very much, Catra. I’m certain of that. Read the letters for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
The princess was silent for a few minutes before turning her gaze back to the horizon. “Then why did they leave me behind?” She asked quietly. The bold girl had never looked so small.
“You won’t find out the truth by listening to Shadow Weaver,” the Queen responded. “You’ve learned so much about She-Ra in the last year, maybe it’s time you started learning more about yourself. And no matter what, Glimmer, Bow, I and the whole Alliance, will be here for you.”
For a few moments, Catra was quiet again as she processed all this. Then, swiftly, as if she was afraid she’d lose her nerve if she hesitated, Catra spun around and hugged her. “Thank you,” Catra whispered, her voice ragged.
The Queen was stunned for a moment, then hugged her back. They stayed like that for a few minutes until Catra pushed away, wiping her tears. “Now,” the Queen asked, “if you would do me the favor of not sharing my attempt at casual profanity with Glimmer, I would appreciate it.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Catra lied obviously, sliding back into her snarky self. But Angella had no regrets.
She was just glad that for once, she had made Catra remember that she was wanted.