Chapter Text
The morning sunlight streams through the gaps in the heavy curtains, casting rays of pale gold across Lexa’s sleeping form.
Clarke watches her for a while, then paces the room as quietly as possible, her boots nearly silent on the stone. She is torn. Her doctor instincts tell her to let Lexa sleep, to let the stitches knit together in the rare sanctuary of the morning. But the rest of her – the part of her that just watched the world almost end and played a role in it – wants to shake her awake and scream that the clock is already ticking.
She paces again, this time drifting toward the window. Below, the city bears the scars of the previous days. Smoke still curls from a few scattered buildings, thin gray plumes dissolving into the morning sky, but overall Polis looks more peaceful than it has in weeks. Clarke doesn’t know how she feels about that. Polis has always been loud. Crowded. Alive.
Now, it looks tired – healing, maybe.
Much like its ruler, asleep behind her.
Clarke peers out the window, half-expecting to see nothing but rubble and lingering chaos. Instead, two small figures move through the streets below.
Octavia and Indra, no doubt.
Clarke had asked them to deal with some of the remaining crises A.L.I.E. 's wake left behind, and Octavia appears to be keeping her word. Even now, in the early hours of the morning, she’s doing her duty to her people — all of them — alongside the fierce warrior who was strung up on a cross less than a day ago.
Clarke squints, trying to make out what they’re doing, the familiar urge to run downstairs and help tugging at her. But, she steps back from the window, forcing herself to trust that the city is in capable hands. For once, she doesn’t have to be everywhere at once.
And it’s strange — but not unwelcome — to see a different pair of women holding things together.
“Clarke?”
Lexa’s voice cuts softly through the quiet.
Clarke spins around instantly.
Lexa’s eyes are open and heavy with sleep, though the bright green is just as Clarke remembers it. Lexa stretches slightly, moving slowly to protect the new stitches in her side.
Clarke is at her side before she realizes she’s moved, perching on the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Clarke says apologetically. She gives Lexa’s hand a quick squeeze before shifting closer to press a palm against her forehead, checking for the heat of a fever.
Lexa raises an eyebrow, amused.
Clarke pulls her hand back, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Old habits.”
A soft smile touches Lexa’s lips in return, though her eyes remain sharp, scanning Clarke’s face. “I know.”
They sit in the heavy silence for a long moment, the air thick with the things they haven't said yet. Finally, Clarke clears her throat and stands. “How do you feel?”
Lexa reaches for the cup of water on her bedside table. “I’ve had worse mornings.”
A knowing smile flashes across her face before she takes a sip, quickly hiding her expression behind the ceramic cup. Clarke raises an eyebrow, a ghost of a laugh catching in her throat as the memory of waking up beside Lexa flickers through her mind — the quiet warmth of shared sleep, the tangled comfort of two bodies exhausted by the world.
But, the gravity of their situation pulls her back. She begins to pace again.
“We need to discuss the Flame,” Clarke says, her voice steadying as she rests a hand on one of the bedposts. She looks at Lexa, searching for any sign of exhaustion. “If you’re up for it.”
Lexa sets the cup down, and the softness on her face from a moment ago vanishes as if it were never there.
“I don't see what there is to discuss.”
“We need to take it to Raven,” Clarke says, her voice rising with the urgency of a woman who has seen the end of the world. “Becca’s memories are in there, Lexa. If there’s a way to stop the reactors, or a way to survive the fallout, it’s in that chip. We need to understand it.”
Lexa’s jaw tightens, a familiar muscle tensing beneath her skin.
“I understand it well enough,” she says quietly.
A tense moment passes before she speaks again.
“I am the Commander. My people respect the Flame because it is the spirit that chooses us. It is the only thing keeping the Coalition from descending into blood and fire now that the City of Light has fallen.”
Clarke lets out a frustrated breath, pacing back toward the bed. “Lexa, they’re respecting something they don’t fully understand. You saw what happened in the City of Light. You heard what A.L.I.E. said. We want to understand the Flame so we can use it to save them.”
Lexa goes silent again, staring at the wall as if it might offer an answer.
“For generations,” she says at last, “the Flame has been sacred. It is not a tool to be opened and examined like one of your machines.”
Clarke opens her mouth to protest, but Lexa lifts a hand just enough to pause her.
“Listen to me, Clarke,” she says, her tone understanding yet firm. “Technical knowledge is powerful, I do not deny that. But it means nothing if the Coalition shatters before the first black rain falls.”
Clarke grips the bedpost tighter, knuckles whitening as the weight of everything presses down on her.
“We will work together,” Lexa continues, her gaze unwavering. “Skaikru can look for a way to survive the fire. I will hold the clans together with the only thing they recognize as law.” She pauses, her fingers drifting almost unconsciously to the back of her neck. “I will look for answers in the Flame. I have navigated the minds of the Commanders before.”
“Fine,” Clarke says softly, though the word feels like a surrender. She moves back to Lexa’s side and sits next to her on the edge of the bed. “But if you find anything... anything that looks like a solution, you tell me.”
“You have my word,” Lexa says. She reaches out, her hand finding the back of Clarke’s neck. She pulls her down for a brief kiss, then she leans back just enough to look into Clarke’s eyes.
Suddenly, a sharp knock at the door cuts through the quiet.
"Enter," Lexa commands, her voice shifting effortlessly back into that of a leader.
The door opens, and Bellamy steps in. He lingers near the threshold, his eyes scanning the room with the tired focus of someone who hasn’t slept in days.
Clarke steps back instinctively, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. He clears his throat, his eyes shifting to a spot on the wall somewhere above Lexa’s head.
"Commander,” He says, inclining his head awkwardly.
Lexa nods once in return. Clarke shifts, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Clarke,” he continues, eyes flicking to the door, “we have a situation downstairs."
Clarke straightens up, smoothing her hair with a hand. "The city?"
"The people," Bellamy corrects. He finally looks at Lexa, his jaw tight. "Indra has Pike in the holding cells, but word got out. There’s a crowd forming in the square – Trikru, mostly. They want to execute him."
Clarke nods, scooping up her gear in a flurry – ammo, pack, and gun all in hand. “Let’s go.”
Lexa shifts on the bed, trying to push herself up.
Clarke lunges forward, her hands pressing firmly against Lexa’s shoulders. "No. Absolutely not."
"My stitches are a minor concern if my capital is burning, Clarke," Lexa says. She reluctantly leans back onto the bed, but she’s tense enough to look like she might leap up at any moment.
Clarke narrows her eyes. “You’re not moving an inch. Not before you’re healed.”
Lexa exhales sharply, the defiance in her shoulders softening just a fraction. “Clarke…”
“No,” Clarke cuts her off, her voice steady but firm. “You stay here. You’re not a god, you’re a person. And if you go down there half-healed, I will personally drag you back into this room.”
Lexa’s jaw tightens, her gaze darting to the window where the smoke still rises. Finally, her shoulders slump. There is no fight left in her, at least not for this specific battle. She knows Clarke well enough to know she won’t budge. She gives a faint, reluctant nod.
Bellamy shifts awkwardly near the doorway, clearing his throat as if to say something. Lexa’s green eyes snap to him with a silent glare that could cut glass, clearly irked that Clarke is making her look weak in front of him.
Clarke doesn’t notice. She’s already reaching for her jacket, her mind already halfway down the stairs. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Keep the water by the bed.”
“I am capable of reaching a cup, Clarke,” Lexa mutters.
Clarke offers a distracted smile, gives Lexa’s hand one last squeeze, and follows Bellamy out. The door clicks shut, leaving Lexa alone.
She waits. The echo of boots fades down the corridor.
Only when the hallway falls silent does Lexa finally slump back against the pillows. She presses a hand to the back of her neck, seeking the familiar pulse of the Flame – guidance from Kemji, from Becca, from the Commanders who came before.
There is nothing.
Not a whisper. Not a hum. Not even a flicker. Since the City of Light fell, the voices have been gone. Clarke has no idea that Lexa can’t find the answers she’s searching for.
Clarke exhales sharply. “How do we tell these people that the world is ending after everything they've been through?”
She and Bellamy emerge from the cool shadow of the tower’s entrance into the blinding heat of the sun. Clarke’s shoulders tense slightly.
Polis has always been a city of a thousand voices. Now, it seems to be holding its breath.
It’s not the bustling hub of trade Clarke remembers, nor is it the nightmare of a battlefield. It’s just... still. Most of the stalls are empty, their colorful fabrics fluttering like funeral shrouds in the light breeze. The damage is visible but contained – a smashed window here, a scorched wall there.
Bellamy stops and surveys the area around them before answering Clarke’s question.
“We don't,” he says finally. “Not until we know A.L.I.E. was telling the truth.”
“It was the truth,” Clarke says without hesitation.
“Still, we keep it to ourselves until we know what we're dealing with and how to stop it.”
“You’re afraid of how people will react.” Clarke says, watching him carefully.
Bellamy sighs and kicks a scorched piece of wood with his boot, watching it skitter across the dusty stone. “Yes. Besides, I could use a break from keeping you and Lexa alive. We gave them back their pain, Clarke. Let's not add to that by telling them they're gonna die in six months.”
Clarke begins to protest, already calculating how many people they could save if they started moving now, but Bellamy turns to face her and interrupts.
“Once everything's calmed down, we go home and we get to work. We didn't survive this long just to let a little radiation take us out.”
He offers a look that is almost a challenge, a spark of the old Bellamy, the one who doesn’t believe in quitting. Clarke closes her mouth, the argument dying in her throat. He’s right – panic is something they can't afford to spread while the city is still bleeding.
Clarke stops, her hand catching Bellamy’s arm before they reach the stairs leading down to the cells. He pauses, looking back at her with a questioning tilt of his head.
“Bellamy,” she says softly. “Thank you for keeping us alive.”
A shout cuts through the soot-stained streets.
Bellamy shoots Clarke a nervous, almost weary look. “You don’t make it easy,” he mutters, though he’s already moving.
They break off in a run, following the sound as it echoes off the narrow walls of the lower district. They skid to a halt at the entrance to the cells, where the air is cooler and smells of damp earth.
Indra stands there, her chest heaving slightly, her sword drawn and leveled at a Grounder warrior who is groaning on the floor, clutching a bloodied leg. Octavia is next to her, her own blade out, looking bored and dangerous in equal measure.
Clarke pushes through a crowd of people, taking in the scene in one sharp glance – the wounded man on the ground, blood seeping between his fingers, guards braced in front of the cell.
“What happened?” she asks.
Octavia doesn’t look away from the bars. “He tried to get it over with,” she says.
Inside the cell, Pike watches them all in silence. Indra stands rigid, blade still drawn, positioned between the fallen warrior and the bars.
“He acted without orders,” she says evenly.
“He acted because he lost his brother,” Octavia snaps. “Because half this city lost someone to that man.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered Trikru.
Indra’s jaw tightens. “I lost warriors too.”
Her gaze flicks briefly to Pike’s cell.
“He will answer for that,” she continues. “But not like this. Blood must be paid, but it must be paid to the Coalition, not a single man.”
Octavia steps closer, the tip of her sword glancing against the stone floor. “Then when?”
“When our Heda decides,” Indra replies. “She has not passed sentence.”
Clarke looks at the crowd of angry, mourning faces. She knows Indra won't be able to hold the line much longer – not without the Commander’s presence to anchor the law.
“Indra, come with me,” Clarke says, her voice low and urgent.
Indra’s brow furrows, her hand still tight on her sword. “The prisoner–”
“Bellamy is here,” Clarke interrupts, glancing at him. “He can hold the cell.”
Bellamy shifts, his hand resting on his holster as he steps into the space Indra is vacating. He doesn't look thrilled about being the only thing standing between a mob and a war criminal, but he nods.
“We’ve got him,” Bellamy says. He looks at Octavia, who is still staring at Pike with a terrifyingly singular focus. She doesn't respond, just nods sharply in Bellamy’s direction. She looks less like a guard and more like a predator waiting for the cage to open.
Clarke grabs Indra’s arm – a bold move for anyone else, but Indra allows it – and leads her toward the tower.
The heavy door at the top of the stairs thuds shut, leaving Bellamy and Octavia alone in the cool air of the cell block.
The silence is thick, broken only by the ragged breathing of the wounded man. Two of Indra’s guards have moved in to help, applying pressure to his leg with a cloth. The man’s face is white with shock, his eyes darting between the guards and the bars of the cell at the end of the row.
Bellamy stands at the center of the corridor, his hand resting on the grip of his pistol. He’s looking at Octavia. She’s leaning against the opposite wall, her sword still drawn, the tip tracing slow lines in the dirt on the floor.
“You okay?” Bellamy asks, his voice low.
She doesn’t look at him. “He should be dead already.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Octavia exhales through her nose. “I’m fine.”
One of the guards pulls a bandage tight on the man’s leg. He groans, trying to push himself up on his elbows.
“Stay down,” Bellamy says, stepping closer.
The man’s gaze shifts past him, toward Pike’s cell. “This is your fault. All of you. Skaikru bring death to Polis.”
A low murmur rolls down the corridor from the small crowd still gathered near the stairwell. The tension thickens, the air sharpening like the edge of a blade.
Octavia pushes off the wall.
“Careful,” Bellamy warns under his breath.
“I am careful,” she snaps back, but she doesn’t advance.
From the shadows at the end of the row, Pike shifts.
“You’re wasting your time,” he calls out. “They’ll tear this place apart before your Commander makes up her mind.”
Octavia straightens, fury igniting fast and bright. “You–”
“Enough,” Bellamy cuts in sharply, his voice cracking through the corridor before she can finish. He doesn’t take his eyes off the cell. “You don’t get to speak.”
Pike studies him for a moment, then falls silent.
Bellamy stands slowly, addressing the corridor without raising his volume. “Anyone else wants to try something,” he says, “they’ll answer to the Commander.”
The noise tapers. Not gone, just contained.
Octavia watches him for a long moment.
“You’re getting good at that,” she says finally.
“At what?”
“Talking people down.”
Bellamy lets out a dry laugh. “Don’t sound so impressed.”
She sheaths her sword at last, the scrape of metal loud in the quiet.
“Don’t get used to it,” she mutters.
“It’s moving to see the family reunited,” Pike calls out from the darkness. He’s standing now, his hands gripping the iron bars.
Neither of them responds.
“Tell me,” he continues, voice carrying easily down the corridor, “when did you both decide your own people weren’t worth defending?”
Bellamy doesn't even look at Pike; he just keeps his eyes on the wounded man on the floor. “No one wants to hear from you right now,” he says, his voice flat. “You’re a prisoner. Act like it.”
Pike’s grip tightens on the bars, his expression hardening, but he falls silent and retreats back into the shadows of the cell. Octavia just stares at the floor, her jaw tense, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm against her thigh.
After a long moment, she mutters, almost to herself, “I’m standing in a basement guarding someone I hate.”
Bellamy shifts his weight, his boots crunching on a bit of loose stone. “You talking about me or Pike?”
Octavia rolls her eyes slightly before she faces the ground again. “I don’t hate you, Bell.”
And this time, when the silence settles between them, it isn’t quite as sharp.
Lexa had been in a deep sleep, untroubled by any warnings from past Commanders, yet troubled still due to their absence.
She awakes quickly as a sharp knock sounds on the door.
Clarke’s voice calls out, laced with that familiar urgency. “Lexa?”
Lexa slowly pushes herself up to a sitting position, her muscles screaming in protest, and draws a breath. “Enter.”
“Indra is also here,” Clarke adds before opening the door.
The corners of Lexa’s mouth turn up slightly. “She may enter too.”
Clarke pushes the door open and strides in, giving Lexa an awkward, breathless smile – the look of a woman who has been running through corridors and overthinking every possible outcome. Indra trails closely behind her, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, her eyes scanning the room as if an assassin might be hiding in the shadows of the furs.
Indra immediately rushes to Lexa’s bedside. She clasps Lexa’s hand gently before dropping to one knee, her head bowed just below Lexa’s eye level. “Heda. Thank you for saving us.”
Lexa feels a hint of genuine affection for the older woman. Indra has always been her rock, a fierce protector who asks for nothing but the survival of her people.
“Rise, Indra,” Lexa says, her voice steady despite her weakened status. “You owe me no thanks for doing what must be done. It is I who should thank you for holding the city while I recover.”
Indra stands, her jaw set in a hard line. “The city is not held, Heda. It is a powder keg. The Ice King’s people are at the gates, and our own warriors are screaming for the blood of the Skaikru man in the cells.”
Lexa’s eyes jump to Clarke, sharp and narrowed. “What is she talking about?”
Clarke sighs, her usual weariness quickly returning after their one-night reprieve. “She’s talking about the fact that Azgeda has the city surrounded, Lexa. Echo and her scouts have moved in.”
Lexa’s posture stiffens, her hand clenching into the furs. “Why was I not informed of this earlier?”
“I barely knew anything myself until Indra just filled me in,” Clarke says quickly, stepping closer to the bed. “Echo thinks we’re hiding Roan’s body to keep a leash on his people. They’re ready to tear this city apart just to find him.”
Lexa’s gaze snaps to her general. “Explain.”
“Roan was shot by Kane yesterday, Heda,” Indra says, her voice low. “He’s alive, but he’s unconscious. Abby is treating him, but Echo doesn't believe us. She sees Sky People guarding the healing rooms and assumes the worst.”
Lexa lets out a sharp breath, the pain in her side flaring as she shifts. “So, while I lay here, the Ice Nation prepares for a siege and a mass murderer sits in my cells.”
“Which is why I’m going to negotiate with Echo,” Clarke says, her voice sharpening into strategy. “I’m going to take her to see Roan. If I can show her he’s alive and under our care, I can get her to stand down. But I need you to handle the rest of the city, Lexa. You and Indra need to discuss what we’re doing with Pike.”
“You would trust Echo?” Lexa asks, her voice skeptical.
“I don’t trust her,” Clarke says. “I trust her loyalty to Roan.”
Lexa looks at Indra, then back at Clarke. She can feel the weight of her crown, even without the Flame’s voices humming in her mind. She realizes that Clarke is right – she might not be able to lead a negotiation from a bed, but she can still pass a sentence.
“Go then,” Lexa says. “Show the spy her King.”
She looks at Indra, her expression hardening. “Indra. Stay. We have a debt to discuss.”
Clarke offers a small, grateful nod, her hand lingering on the edge of the bed for just a second too long before she turns and heads for the door.
The heavy doors of the tower creak open, and Clarke steps out into the crisp, biting air of the Polis square.
"Echo!" Clarke’s voice rings out across the square, steady despite the way her heart is drumming against her ribs. "I know you're out here! I want to talk!"
For a heartbeat, there is no answer. Only the wind whistling through the empty market stalls.
Then, a blur of white and grey fur lunges from behind a stone pillar. Before Clarke can even draw a breath to scream, a massive hand slams into her shoulder, spinning her around and pinning her back against the cold stone of the tower wall.
The sting of cold steel bites into the skin of her throat.
The Azgeda warrior is a mountain of a man, his face painted in the white scars of his clan.
"I just want to speak to Echo," Clarke rasps. She doesn't pull away. She leans into the blade just enough to show him she isn't afraid to bleed. "Your King is alive. If you kill me, he dies with me."
The warrior’s eyes narrow, the mention of Roan causing a flicker of hesitation. He looks over his shoulder, seeking permission from the shadows.
"The Sky Girl has a loud voice," a familiar voice echoes from the darkness of a nearby alley.
Echo steps into the light. She looks as lethal as ever, her bow slung across her back and her eyes tracking Clarke’s every movement like a hawk.
“Chil yu daun,” Echo says, her eyes meeting those of the Azgeda warrior.
He moves the blade but doesn’t go too far, planting himself within easy reach of Clarke as Echo approaches.
"You have ten seconds, Clarke of Skaikru," Echo says, her expression unreadable. "Tell me why I shouldn't let Hadan finish what he started."
"Roan is in the tower," Clarke says, her voice regaining its strength. "He’s injured. My mother is treating him."
Echo’s head tilts to the side. “We have our own healers. Return our King to us.”
Clarke steps closer to Echo, not dropping her gaze for a second. “Roan is my friend. Let us help him.”
Echo’s expression turns deadly. She lifts her arms, gesturing to the soot-stained walls and the rubble-strewn market. “Look around you. Skaikru did this to us.”
She turns toward the Azgeda people watching closely from the shadows of the alleyways, her voice rising. “Because of them, Ontari – your rightful Commander – is dead!”
“Your rightful Commander is Lexa,” Clarke says, her voice hard. “And she saved all of you, with Skaikru’s help.”
The wooden doors of the tower creak open again. Kane walks out, his expression one of focus that shatters the moment he sees the scene in front of him. He stops abruptly, his hands held out in a placating gesture.
Echo clenches her jaw at the sight of him, but her gaze flicks back to Clarke, simmering with resentment. “There would've been nothing to save us from if not for you.”
Kane steps forward, positioning himself in front of Clarke as he addresses Echo with the calm authority of a man who has spent his life navigating councils. “Azgeda has no authority here.”
“We do now,” Echo sneers at him. She turns to address her people once again, her voice ringing out across the square. “In the name of King Roan, Polis is now under Azgeda rule!”
The declaration hangs in the air like a death sentence. Suddenly, a man clad in heavy warrior leathers steps forward from the crowd. Clarke recognizes him as the Rockline Ambassador from her time in Polis – a man who has never been fond of Skaikru, but whose loyalty to the Coalition is absolute.
“Like hell it is,” the Ambassador growls, his hand resting on his blade. “Polis is still under the Commander’s rule.”
Echo’s eyes seem to darken as she regards the ambassador. “And where is the Commander? If she is our leader, why does she hide behind walls while her city bleeds? Why is she silent?”
A murmur of unease ripples through the crowd. They look toward the high balcony of the tower, searching for the red cape and the war paint, finding only empty stone.
“She is resting,” Kane says quickly. “After she destroyed the City of Light, she earned that–”
“Rest is for the dead!” Echo interrupts, her voice slicing through his explanation. She turns back to the crowd. “Azgeda does not rest. If Lexa cannot stand before us, then the Coalition belongs to the King.”
Clarke clenches her teeth, her hand twitching toward her belt. She looks at the Rockline Ambassador, hoping for a shred of the loyalty he showed during the summit.
Instead, the Ambassador looks toward the empty tower balcony, his expression darkening. “The Ice King’s spy might have a point,” he mutters, loud enough for the surrounding warriors to hear. “If Heda is too weak to walk the halls, how can she hold the clans?”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd.
“She is not weak!” Clarke snaps. Her voice is accompanied by the heavy thud of boots on the stone pavement.
“Then why are you out here doing her talking?” Echo challenges.
Lincoln rounds the corner, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He’s covered in the dust of the outer woods, but he strides forward, his presence alone enough to make the Azgeda warriors give him space.
“The Commander’s strength isn’t measured by how loud she screams in the streets, Echo,” Lincoln says, his voice strong enough to demand attention. He stops in the center of the square and looks at the Ambassador, then at Echo.
“I have been in the woods,” Lincoln says, lifting the satchel so they can smell the willow bark and feverfew. “Gathering what is needed for the Ice King. Lexa gave the order to save him.”
Lincoln’s words are a lie. Lexa hadn’t even known Roan was alive until an hour ago.
It was Clarke who had made the call.
She remembers the frantic hour after the City of Light fell – how she’d stood over Roan in the throne room while Lexa lay unconscious in the Commander’s chambers. She’d overruled the Trikru guards who wanted to put him in chains, knowing even then that a dead Roan meant a dead Polis. She had practically dragged Abby and Jackson to the infirmary, pleading with them to treat Roan as if he were one of their own.
But, if the clans believed Clarke had made that call – if they thought Skaikru was deciding which kings lived and died – the Coalition would fracture before nightfall.
Echo’s sharp voice brings her back to the present. “Show me.”
Clarke nods slightly, then glances at Kane to indicate him to follow. Lincoln leads the way into the tower as Clarke takes up the rear behind Echo and her guard, glad to not have the spy and her dagger at her back.
As they head through the main doors and toward the medical bay, Clarke catches Kane’s eye. He looks wary, his brow furrowed as he takes in the sight of an Azgeda spy walking freely through the heart of the tower. He knows as well as she does that they are one wrong move away from Echo shouting for her scouts to scale the walls.
They reach the healing rooms, a space that usually smells only of herbs and blood, now spiked with the sharp scent of alcohol.
Abby is bent over the center stone table, organising her meagre medical supplies from her small kit. Roan lies still on a nearby bed, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. His skin is waxy in the torchlight, but he is clearly alive.
Echo stops dead at the threshold, her guard stopping behind her. She stares at the clear liquid dripping steadily into her King’s arm, her hand drifting toward her dagger.
“He is alive,” Lincoln says, his voice flat as he walks to the side table. He begins unpacking the herbs he gathered. “Just as the Commander intended.”
Echo ignores him, stalking forward until she is standing at Roan’s side. She looks at the plastic tubing with distrust. “You have him bound to a bag of water,” she says sharply, though the bite in her voice is tempered by the fact that he is clearly breathing.
“It’s a saline drip, Echo,” Abby explains, her voice calm but weary as she adjusts a bandage. “He’s lost a lot of blood. This is keeping his heart from stopping while the herbs Lincoln brought treat the wound.”
Echo reaches out, her fingers hovering just an inch above Roan’s hand. She looks up at Clarke, her eyes burning. “How do I know you aren't poisoning him?”
“Because if we wanted him dead, we would have left him to bleed out,” Clarke says, stepping up to the foot of the table. “And if you pull that tube out now, his blood pressure will drop and he’ll be dead before you can get him to your healers. Is that what you want?”
Echo’s jaw tightens, but she remains still, letting the words hang in the air. She glances at her guard near the threshold. “Tell the others the King is alive.”
The guard nods and retreats, leaving the room feeling slightly less crowded, though no less tense.
Echo looks back at Roan. The lethal spy seems to soften for a fraction of a second. She reaches out, her hand hovering over his arm before she reluctantly settles into a low wooden stool beside the bed. She doesn't touch him, but she sits with her back straight, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade.
It’s a rare flicker of loyalty that looks almost like affection, if Azgeda warriors are allowed to have such things.
Clarke watches her for a moment, part of her wanting to say something about the recovery time, but the rest of her is just done. She’s spent the last forty-eight hours saving the world, saving Lexa, and now saving the man whose people seem determined to make every victory feel like a war. She doesn't have the energy for Echo’s bitterness.
So, she just turns on her heel and walks out, the heavy thud of the door echoing behind her.
The walk back up the tower feels twice as long as the walk down. By the time Clarke reaches the Commander’s chambers, her boots feel like they’re made of iron. She pushes the door open, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges.
Indra is gone. Lexa is sitting up, leaning against the headboard. She looks exhausted, but she watches Clarke with an unwavering focus.
“Echo is with Roan,” Clarke says, leaning her back against the door. “He’s healing well. Azgeda is standing down for now.”
“I am glad.” Lexa’s voice is soft, cutting through the room like a calm tide.
“About Roan or Azgeda?”
“Both,” Lexa says, shifting slowly to the side to allow Clarke to perch on the edge of the bed.
Clarke moves to her side and immediately moves the furs back to check her bandages.
"Lexa... I’m sorry for making the call to save Roan without you,” she says, averting her eyes from Lexa’s sharp gaze as she checks for any seep of blood. “You were unconscious and everything was–”
“Clarke,” she says softly, grabbing Clarke’s busy hands with hers to stop the movement. “It's exactly what I would’ve done.”
Clarke presses her lips together, managing a small, tight smile. Lexa returns it, smaller yet exuding a type of calm that Clarke has never known. For Clarke, every choice feels like a frantic calculation; for Lexa, it is simply the way of the world.
But Lexa’s smile fades quickly, replaced by the reality of their situation. "Indra also spoke of the man in the cells. Pike. She says my people are gathering, and they are not patient."
Clarke rubs a hand over her face. "They're not. Bellamy and Octavia are guarding him for now, but the people want an answer, Lexa."
Lexa is silent for a moment, her thumb tracing the back of Clarke’s hand.
"And you, Clarke?" Lexa asks, her eyes shifting back to meet Clarke’s. "What do you believe his sentence should be?"
Clarke is taken aback. She’d been bracing for a command – for the Commander to hand down a decree she’d have to fight or follow. She hadn't expected to be asked.
"I..." Clarke starts, her mind racing through the diplomatic fallout, the Arkadia council, and the look on Indra’s face that day. "I think he’s a war criminal. I think he’s dangerous."
"That's a description, not a sentence," Lexa says softly. "Tell me, if someone had walked into your camp and slaughtered three hundred of your sleeping soldiers, what would you do?"
Clarke opens her mouth to argue for a trial, for a prison cell, for the "civilized" way. But then she thinks of the bodies in the mud outside Arkadia. She thinks of the three hundred warriors who were there to protect them, cut down by the very people they were guarding.
If Pike lives, Trikru will never trust Skaikru again. If Pike lives, the Coalition will burn.
"He has to die," Clarke says. The words feel heavy, like she’s dropping stones into a deep well. "My people, your people... they'll kill each other over him."
“Our people,” Lexa corrects, her expression revealing no opinion on Clarke’s decision. She squeezes Clarke’s hand again, a silent confirmation that they are now standing on the same side of a very dark line.
The moment of quiet is shattered by a heavy thud against the door. Indra strides in, her armor clashing, her face set in a mask of grim determination.
“Heda,” Indra says, her voice echoing. “The warriors are in the square. The prisoner has been brought from the cells.”
Lexa looks at Indra, her spine straightening, the softness of the last few minutes evaporating into the cold air of the room. “Proceed, Indra.”
Indra nods once and disappears back into the hallway, her boots retreating at a brisk pace.
“So that was it?” Clarke stands up abruptly, the furs slipping from her lap. “If the guards were already moving, then why ask?”
Lexa looks up at her then. The Commander is still there, but behind the green eyes, there is a flicker of something deeply human – and deeply weary.
“To me, your opinion matters more than any other in this city,” Lexa says softly. “But I am Commander first.”
Lexa reaches out, her fingers brushing the edge of Clarke’s sleeve, but she doesn't pull her back. “I asked because I wanted to know if you saw the world as it is, or as you wish it to be.”
Clarke stares at her, the anger simmering just below the surface.
Lexa continues, her eyes fixed on Clarke’s face. “I knew you would reach this conclusion, Clarke. You are a leader. We are more alike than you care to admit – especially in the things we wish we didn't have to do.”
“I have to go down there,” Clarke says, her voice tight. “My people... they’re going to think I did this.”
“You are doing it,” Lexa reminds her softly. “By standing there, you are telling the other clans that Skaikru honors the law. It is the only way they survive.”
Clarke doesn't respond. She grabs her jacket and heads for the door, the heavy wood slamming shut behind her.
Lexa remains on the bed, her hand still reaching out toward the empty space where Clarke had been. She looks toward the window, the distant sound of the crowd in the square beginning to rise like a tide. She looks small against the high headboard, her face pale, her eyes clouded with a sadness she can only show to the walls.
The stone ceiling of the healing room is the first thing Roan sees. It is cold and unfamiliar. Every breath he takes feels like a dull blade scraping against his ribs, a harsh reminder of the moment Marcus Kane leveled a weapon at him outside the tower and pulled the trigger.
"The King returns to us," a voice murmurs.
Roan shifts his eyes. Echo is there, a shadow in the corner of the room, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade. She looks as though she hasn't slept since the City of Light fell.
"Echo," he rasps. His throat feels like he’s swallowed a handful of Polis dust. "Where am I?"
"You are in the Commander's tower," she says, stepping into the dim torchlight. She looks at the clear tube snaking into his arm with a disgust she doesn't bother to hide. "The Sky People are using their medicine to keep you from the grave. Lexa's orders."
Roan lets out a dry huff of a laugh. It makes the wound in his chest throb. "Lexa's orders. How generous of her to save the man who has spent the last month trying to destabilize her throne."
Echo leans in closer. "I suspect Wanheda is the one who truly made the call."
Roan watches the rise and fall of his own chest. Clarke. Of course it was her. The girl has a pathological need to keep people alive, even when their deaths would make her life simpler.
"The Sky Girl is dangerous," Echo continues, her eyes burning with a cold intensity. "The people look to her as much as they do the Commander. Let me end it. One strike. We blame Skaikru and Azgeda finally takes what is ours."
Roan looks at her for a long beat. He understands Echo. Her loyalty is a sharpened weapon, but it often lacks perspective.
“Kill Clarke?” Roan asks, voice rough but steady. “And then what? I bleed out when the Sky People walk away? Or do we just wait for every Trikru warrior in the city to burn our camp to the ground in retaliation?"
"We are Azgeda," she snaps. "We do not fear Trikru."
"My people didn't follow me to Polis to start a war we can't win," Roan counters. He winces as he tries to shift his weight. "Wanheda is a nuisance, and she is arrogant, but she is also the only reason the Ice Nation still has a King."
Echo’s jaw tightens. "She is a threat to everything we are."
Roan studies her. Not dismissive. Not blind. He considers it — the fear beneath her anger, the pride beneath her accusation.
“Perhaps,” he says at last, voice rough but steady. “But she is not our enemy today.”
Roan looks back at the tube snaking into his arm. He is alive because of the woman he was sent to hunt, and he was nearly killed by a man he thought was a diplomat. It is a bitter pill to swallow.
“You will take half our guard and see that the outer camps remain disciplined,” Roan continues. “No provocations. No challenges. If there is to be blood, it will not begin with Azgeda.”
Echo’s spine stiffens. “My King–”
“Go.”
Echo bows her head, the silent admission of his command, though her eyes remain cold. She turns to leave, and brushes past a figure standing just outside the heavy wooden door – Abby, who is holding a tray of clean bandages, her face carefully neutral. Echo doesn't spare her a glance, her boots echoing down the stone corridor.
Roan watches Echo go, then his eyes flick to the doorway as Abby finally enters. She walks to his bedside with a brisk pace, her movements efficient, but she doesn't meet his eyes as she checks the IV.
If she knows his spy just offered to slit her daughter's throat, she isn't giving him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
The square is a sea of bared teeth and rhythmic chanting. Clarke stands on the periphery, her heart a leaden weight as Pike is forced to his knees. The sun glints off Indra’s blade – a heavy, brutal length of steel that seems to catch the collective breath of the crowd.
The blow is a paradox. It feels agonizingly slow as the sword rises, hanging at the apex of the arc, yet when it falls, it is a sudden crack.
Clarke flinches, her eyes finding Octavia. There is no horror on Octavia’s face; there is only a terrifying, radiant satisfaction. She looks alive in the spray of blood, her shoulders finally dropping a burden she’s carried since the massacre.
“It will quiet them,” a familiar voice says beside her.
Clarke doesn't turn. She knows the weight of Lincoln’s presence. He stands in the shadow of the tower, his eyes fixed on Octavia. As she looks up, their eyes lock across the grey stone. Lincoln offers her a small, private smile – a flicker of warmth in the middle of a slaughter.
Clarke watches them, her throat tight. She knows Lincoln isn't smiling because a man is dead; he hates the smell of the kill as much as she does. He’s smiling because, for the first time in months, the Trikru aren't looking at the Sky People as targets.
A hand suddenly grips Clarke's elbow, firm and urgent. She turns to find Abby standing there, her face drawn and her eyes darting toward the tower stairs.
"Clarke," Abby says, her voice low enough that even Lincoln can't hear. "We need to talk."
Abby pulls Clarke into the shadow of a stone archway, away from the lingering crowd. Her heart is still hammering against her ribs, Echo’s whispered threats in the medical bay looping in her mind.
"Clarke, we need to leave. Now," Abby says, her voice low and urgent. She doesn't wait for a response, her hands reaching out to steady her daughter. "Pack whatever you have in the tower. We’re heading back to Arkadia."
Clarke frowns, her eyes still glazed with the shock of the execution. "What? Mom, I can’t just leave. Lexa is still–"
"Lexa has Indra," Abby interrupts, her grip tightening on Clarke’s arm. "Indra is a general; she knows how to protect her Commander. But you? You’re a target, Clarke. Echo wants you dead, and Roan... Roan is a King who follows his own interests. He won't protect you."
Clarke looks away, her jaw tightening. She doesn't pull out of Abby's grip, but she feels smaller, her mask beginning to crack at the edges. "I'm not a child, Mom. I’ve survived worse than Echo."
Abby watches Clarke’s face closely, seeing the way her daughter’s gaze keeps flickering upward, toward the high balcony of the Commander’s chambers.
"Clarke, look at me. Murphy and Emori are already gone. They disappeared into the woods before the sun was even up. It’s time for us to disappear, too."
Clarke’s breath hitches. "I can't leave her like this. If I go..."
She stops, her voice wavering in a way that makes Abby’s chest ache. The way she says her tells Abby everything.
"She is the Commander," Abby says softly. "She was born for this. You weren't. You've done enough."
Clarke shakes her head, a single tear tracing a path through the soot on her cheek.
"I can't just leave," Clarke whispers.
"You have to," Abby insists, stepping closer. "We can do the most good where our equipment is, Clarke. Not here, hiding in a city that's looking for an excuse to turn on us."
Clarke’s eyes sting. She knows Lexa wouldn't go, even if she could. She is tied to that throne by blood and duty, and Clarke is tied to her people. The two worlds are drifting apart again, and Clarke is caught in the middle, trying to hold onto both until her arms ache.
"We'll be back," Abby promises, reaching out to cup Clarke’s face. "As soon as the city calms. We aren't saying goodbye. We're just going home to get to work."
Clarke looks at the ground, a long exhale escaping her. She thinks of the radiation, the reactors. She thinks of Lexa’s green eyes.
Eventually, she nods. Abby squeezes her arm in a gesture of comfort, a brief moment of relief that her daughter is finally choosing safety – or at least, a different kind of danger.
The sound of heavy boots on stone cuts through the moment. They both turn as Bellamy approaches from the square, his face grim.
"Clarke," Bellamy calls out, his voice echoing under the archway. He stops a few feet away, his gaze darting between Abby’s panicked expression and Clarke’s tear-streaked face.
"What is it?" Clarke asks, wiping her cheek quickly.
"Lexa just sent word," Bellamy says, his hand resting on his holster. "She’s called an emergency meeting. Everyone in the throne room. Now."
Lexa slumps back against the bed, the weight of her body something she is no longer strong enough to carry. She had put on a strong face and a commanding posture to send the guard with her message, but now the effort catches up to her in sharp, throbbing pulses.
Between discussions with Indra and Clarke, her attempts to commune with the Flame have been futile. It remains ever silent.
Thoughts rattle her, unyielding and cruel: Is she still capable as Commander without the knowledge of those who came before? Is she even the same Lexa – the one Skaikru has come to trust, that Clarke has come to respect and care for?
A mild reprieve from her own mind is granted by a knock at the door.
Instantly, Lexa props herself up. She straightens her back, not bothering to hide the wince this time, as no one is yet inside to bear witness. She clears her throat, the Commander’s mask sliding into place.
“Enter.”
Marcus Kane enters first, followed by Octavia, Indra, Lincoln, and Nathan Miller. Indra’s blade contains the faint residue of a kill, a dark smear of blood against the steel. The sight does not rattle Lexa; today, that blood is the doorway to peace.
“Ha yun, Heda,” Marcus Kane says, stepping forward slowly with a dip of his head.
The language does not roll off his tongue easily, but he is a man who tries with every bone in his body to show respect for their culture. Lexa finds that honorable.
She did not have him punished, nor any of the others who were chipped, for she knows the choice was stolen from them. And, if she were to punish them, she would have to punish Clarke, too. Lexa has punished Clarke enough for a lifetime.
She has called this meeting to discuss the steps forward. Indra has pushed for a show of force – to drag Azgeda before the throne and force them to bow. Lexa does not refute the effectiveness of such a plan, but she questions the likelihood of Azgeda complying. Her hope is that Roan will work with her – not just because of duty, but because they both want their people to live.
The door groans open again, admitting the final pieces of the puzzle.
Clarke enters first, her eyes immediately finding Lexa’s. There is a tension in her jaw that wasn't there before, a shadow of something heavy and unspoken that Lexa can read as clearly as a map. Behind her, Bellamy and Abby follow, their expressions guarded.
Lexa feels the shift in the room's temperature. The air, already thin, now feels charged with the friction of two worlds trying to occupy the same small space.
“Now that we are all here,” Lexa says, her voice projecting a strength that costs her every ounce of remaining energy. “We discuss the survival of our people.”
Clarke walks to the side of the bed, her hand hovering near the furs as if she wants to reach out but remembers the eyes watching them. She looks at Lexa, then at the others, her voice tight.
“I agree,” Clarke says, her eyes flicking momentarily toward Abby. “We need to find a way to stop the fire. But the equipment we need, the data... it’s all back at our camp.”
Lexa watches the way Clarke’s eyes dart toward the door, then to her mother, then back to the bed. The tension in Clarke’s frame is a language Lexa has spent a lifetime learning. She sees the war inside Clarke: the agonizing pull between her duty to her people and her desire to stay by Lexa’s side.
Lexa doesn't wait for Clarke to find the words to explain; she knows that every second Clarke spends trying to apologize is a second she looks less like a leader and more like a girl.
Lexa cannot allow that. Not in front of the others.
“The Sky People have work to do in Arkadia,” Lexa says, her voice cutting through the room. She doesn't let her wince show as she shifts her weight. “Your healers and your mechanics are of no use to me here while your own people remain in disarray. I am commanding Wanheda and her people to return to their home at dawn.”
Clarke blinks, taken aback by the swiftness of the decree. She looks at Lexa, seeing the flicker of understanding behind the mask. Lexa is giving her an out – turning a reluctant departure into a strategic order.
“Lexa...” Clarke starts, then catches herself. “Heda. We can’t just leave you like this. Your injuries–”
“I have my own healers, Clarke,” Lexa says, though they both know none of them understand an IV or internal hemorrhaging.
Abby steps forward, sensing the bridge Lexa is trying to build. “I can instruct Lincoln. He’s spent enough time working with me to know how to change dressings and monitor fever. He will stay.”
Lincoln nods, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword. “I will see it done, Abby.”
“And you won't be alone,” Clarke adds quickly. She looks toward the corner of the room where the others stand. “Indra and Octavia will stay too. They’ll protect you and Lexa until we return.”
Indra’s expression doesn't soften, but she places a hand on her chest to show loyalty. Octavia offers a determined nod from Indra's side. She looks ready to fight the entire city if she has to, her eyes still bright from the intensity of the square.
“And Jaha?” Bellamy asks. He shifts his weight, glancing toward the window. “If we leave him here, he won't survive the morning.”
Lexa’s gaze shifts to the corner of the room, her expression hardening at the mention of the man who opened the door for A.L.I.E. “Take him with you. Let his own people decide if he is worth the air he breathes.”
“We’ll put him in the Rover,” Miller adds quietly. “Keep him under guard until we hit the tree line.”
“It’s a good plan,” Marcus Kane says, his voice calm as he nods slightly. “Miller, I’ll need you to coordinate with the remaining guards to ensure the supplies are packed by first light.”
Miller nods, already mentally running through the logistics. “We’ll be ready, sir.”
“But Azgeda is the real problem,” Bellamy interrupts, his voice skeptical as he looks between Lexa and Clarke. “Roan is awake. He has an army at the gates. The moment he sees us heading for the tree line, he’s going to think the Coalition is fractured.”
“I’ll make Roan stand down,” Clarke says firmly.
Bellamy’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s a King, Clarke. He’s not a diplomat.” His gaze shifts to Lexa, looking for her to talk Clarke down.
Lexa meets Bellamy’s eyes. Inside, a cold knot of doubt tightens – she knows Roan better than any of them, knows his pride and his hunger – but she cannot let that doubt breathe.
“I believe Clarke can do it,” Lexa says, her voice steady.
“We just need time,” Clarke says, turning her focus back to Lexa, her eyes softening for a brief moment. “Raven is working on a solution. We need to find a place to hide, somewhere that can withstand the fire. You keep the peace in Polis, and we’ll find a way for everyone to survive the radiation. We’ll reconvene as soon as we have a plan.”
Lexa nods, a slow, solemn gesture. It is the logical plan. It is the only plan. But as she looks at Clarke, she realizes that the spark of their reunion is being doused before it ever truly caught flame.
“I’ll speak to Roan now,” Clarke says, already turning toward the door, her pace hurried. “I need to get to him before Echo does something reckless.”
Lexa watches her go, the heavy wood of the door swinging shut behind Clarke’s retreating back.
“The meeting is concluded,” Lexa says, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears. “Prepare for the departure at dawn. Indra, stay. The rest of you... leave me.”
As the room clears, Lexa allows herself one small breath of pain. Silence settles between her and Indra, though it is not unwelcome. Eventually, Indra steps closer – not enough to intrude, just enough to stand beside her instead of before her.
“The clans will test you,” Indra finally says. “Azgeda most of all.”
Lexa inhales slowly, steadying the tremor in her chest before it can reach her voice.
“They always do.”
Indra’s expression remains the same and she makes no move to speak, sensing that Lexa has more to say. Eventually, Lexa reaches for the dagger on her bedside table and traces a finger along the sharp edge of the blade.
“It will be difficult,” Lexa says evenly, her eyes drifting toward the window. “But difficulty has never been a reason to yield.”
Indra inclines her head once, her shadow stretching long across the floor as the light fades.
Lexa watches the sun begin its slow descent, painting the sprawling stone of Polis in shades of burning amber. The dusk is a beautiful sight above the healing city, and yet Lexa is already calculating the cost of the days to come.
As Clarke reaches the heavy oak doors of the infirmary, a shadow detaches itself from the wall.
Echo steps into her path, her hand already resting on the hilt of her blade. Her eyes are cold, reflecting the torchlight with a predatory gleam.
“Wanheda.”
It isn’t a greeting. It’s a challenge.
Clarke doesn’t slow. She stops just short of Echo’s blade, close enough to make her point clear.
“If you’re trying to threaten me,” Clarke says evenly, “get in line.”
Echo’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking beneath her skin. “Careful, Skaigada.”
Clarke doesn't flinch. She steps into Echo’s space, mirroring the warrior’s intensity. "I’m not here to talk to you. Step aside."
Echo’s jaw tightens, her fingers curling tighter around her sword. For a moment, it looks like she might actually draw steel in the heart of the tower.
"Echo."
Roan’s voice, rough and gravelly, carries from behind the door. It’s weak, but the authority is unmistakable. "Let her in."
Echo bristles, her gaze lingering on Clarke’s throat for a beat longer than necessary before she steps back. She pushes the door open just enough for Clarke to pass, her eyes promising a reckoning that doesn't involve words.
Clarke enters the room. The scent of antiseptic and blood hangs heavy in the air. Roan is lying flat, the clear tube of the IV snaking into his arm.
"You look terrible," Clarke says by way of greeting, stopping at the foot of the bed.
"And you look like you’re about to tell me something I’m not going to like," Roan counters. He winces as he tries to shift, his eyes tracking her every move. "Where’s the Commander?"
"She’s recovering," Clarke says shortly. "And she’s issued a decree. Skaikru leaves for Arkadia at dawn."
Roan’s eyes sharpen. "Leaving? So you save everyone just to abandon them while the city is still bleeding?"
"I’m not abandoning anything. I’m giving you a choice, Roan."
Roan raises an eyebrow at Clarke at Clarke. "Well, this should be good."
“Something's coming, Roan. Something unlike anything we've seen before.”
“What's coming?”
“You know the fire that ended the world. Lexa calls it Praimfaya,” she says. “It'll be like that, a wave of radiation that'll kill everything in its path. We have six months.”
“Our ancestors survived Praimfaya,” Roan says, his voice flat. “And so will we.”
“No you won’t, not this time,” she says, her conviction as hard as the stone walls. “Not without us.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just cut your head off and let my people take out the Commander while she’s down.”
“I just gave you one,” she says. “What more do you want?”
“I want what's best for my people, same as you.”
“Then help me save them.”
Roan is silent for a long beat. He looks at the girl who has spent the last month as both his captor and his savior. He knows she’s right. He also knows that without Clarke in the city, his leverage with Lexa is halved.
Roan lets out a dry huff. "You’re a better negotiator when you aren't holding a gun, Clarke." He sighs, the effort of the conversation visible in the tension of his scarred face. "Fine. I’ll keep Echo on a short leash. I'll stay here and play the loyal subject. But don't stay in the woods too long."
"Thank you, Roan," Clarke says, turning to leave.
"Clarke," he calls out. She pauses at the door. "Tell the Commander... if she dies while you're gone, I'm taking the tower. It’s nothing personal."
"She isn't going to die," Clarke says firmly.
She exits the room, passing Echo without a word. The deal is struck, but as she walks back toward the tower stairs, the weight of leaving feels heavier than ever.
Hours later, the sky over Polis is filled with deep purples and cold blues shifting into the gray of a coming dawn. Below, in the courtyard, the sound of cinching saddles and the low murmur of Skaikru voices echo against the stone. They had spent the night in a fever of activity – packing the Rover, coordinating with Miller on supplies, and finalizing the guard rotation. Clarke had barely seen Lexa at all, the space between them filled with the logistics of a sudden departure.
Clarke’s boots are heavy as she climbs the final flight of stairs. She finds Indra standing guard outside the heavy oak doors, flanked by two Trikru warriors. Indra’s hand is resting on the hilt of her blade, her gaze fixed on the corridor, but she shifts as Clarke approaches.
“The horses are ready, Clarke,” Indra says.
Clarke slows her pace, her eyes lingering on the closed door. “I know. I just… I need a moment.”
Indra nods once, stepping back. The guards pull the doors open, and Clarke slips inside.
The chamber is quiet, save for the crackle of a dying fire. Lexa is propped up against the pillows, her skin pale.
“You’re leaving soon,” Lexa says. It isn't a question.
“I have to,” Clarke says, moving to the bedside. She reaches out, her fingers grazing Lexa’s hand. “If we don’t find a way to stop the radiation, none of this matters.”
Lexa looks at her, her green eyes searching Clarke’s face. The silence of the night they just spent apart hangs between them, heavy with things left unsaid.
“It was quiet last night,” Lexa says softly. She looks away for a second, her jaw tightening. “I find I did not miss your constant fussing over my bandages. The room was much more peaceful without the distraction.”
Clarke lets out a shaky breath, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips.
“Go to your people, Clarke,” Lexa says. She reaches out, her fingers catching Clarke’s this time. “Find a way to save us. I'll be here when you return.”
Clarke looks down at their joined hands, her thumb tracing the line of Lexa's knuckles.
“And you will travel without interference,” Lexa adds, her voice steadying with the weight of her authority. “I have seen to it that Roan’s seal is in Bellamy’s hands. Should your path take you through Azgeda lands, the Ice Nation will let you pass.”
“Always protecting me,” Clarke murmurs. Lexa smiles slightly in response, her green eyes softening with a warmth that she rarely allows to reach the surface.
Moved by a sudden desperation, Clarke leans in. She captures Lexa’s lips in a kiss that is slow and bittersweet, tasting of salt and the cold morning air. Lexa responds earnestly, her hand cupping Clarke’s jaw, her fingers tangling in the blonde strands of her hair.
When they finally break apart, their foreheads remain pressed together.
“Don’t die while I’m gone,” she says. “Roan is already measuring the throne.”
Lexa huffs a weak laugh that turns into a wince, but she doesn’t move her hands from Clarke’s face. “Let him measure. He will find it doesn't fit.”
The horn sounds from the courtyard – the final signal for them to move.
Clarke pulls away and stands slowly. She walks toward the door, her boots heavy. At the threshold, she stops and looks back. Lexa is watching her, her silhouette framed by the rising sun.
“May we meet again,” Clarke says, the words barely more than a breath.
Lexa’s composure breaks for just a moment.
“May we meet again,” Lexa replies, her words soft as her gaze brightens from tears she does not allow to fall.
Clarke turns and exits. The heavy doors thud shut, the sound echoing through the hall as she walks past Indra and toward the dawn.