• •

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE;

MIRROR MIRROR.

• •

HAVEN WASN'T AFRAID TO DISAPPEAR. After her first miraculous escape from the jaws of death, each high-wire act over mortality's chasm seemed less formidable, more familiar. She had gazed so deeply into the vacant sockets of death that she discerned the glint of amusement lurking there. Death would not claim her—not yet. It delighted too greatly in the pursuit, relishing each moment of the chase, each dramatic escape. Death wasn't a terror—it was a lover with cold hands, a predator stalking in the shadows, amused by her defiance, addicted to her resistance.

It craved her, obsessed with the hunt, savoring the moments when it could almost taste her surrender.

        . . . It needed her.

        Who else would dare walk so close to the void and yet refuse to fall? Who else could tease the jaws of eternity, only to wrench herself back, again and again, laughing in its face?

        Death toyed with Haven not because she was weak, but because she thrived in its presence. She was its preferred plaything—too slippery to seize completely, yet too intriguing to forsake. Each escape was a victory, each near miss a dance with the inevitable that left her stronger, colder, more untouchable. And the closer its presence began to shadow every single encounter on Earth, it began to feel like an old, haunting melody—darkly welcoming, intimately familiar.

And still . . . she resisted.

Who else could endure such a relentless pursuit by destiny, feel the call of the void, and still find the strength to defy its seductive pull?

Nobody.

Remarkably, as Haven grew more attuned to skirting the edges of death, it was the common, everyday anxieties that began to gnaw at her. Heights, spiders, the claustrophobic clench of narrow spaces, and the dizzying contemplation of her own existential dread—these seemingly trivial fears seeped into her psyche more deeply than any mortal peril. While she could stare down death with a smirk, challenge it with a sneer, these mundane terrors crept under her skin, unsettling her with their persistent whispers.

But even these paled before the terror that consumed her entirely.

Losing her friends. Her family.

She could not—would not—live without them.

And Bellamy, god . . . Bellamy.

        Haven knew exactly how the Blake boy navigated the world. He carried himself with the ironclad belief of his own invincibility—that no weapon forged by the Grounders could claim his life, that he was somehow elevated beyond the reach of death. He lived not for himself, but for those who leaned on him, those who saw him as their pillar. In his view, surrender was a concept alien to his nature; his resilience was as much a part of him as his very breath. In the universe's grand design, nothing seemed capable of breaking his spirit or halting his indefatigable drive.

. . . Except her.

Haven also knew exactly what Bellamy would do if she were to die for good. He would live, of course—he would always live. But it would hollow him out, tear him apart in a way nothing else ever could. He'd wear his usual mask, lead as he always had, but the fire that made him Bellamy would burn out, consumed by the grief he couldn't escape.

The thought of breaking him was far worse than any wound or torment the Grounders could inflict on her.

And so . . . as Haven found herself approaching the Commander's hut behind Clarke, the very heart of the Grounders' power, she clung to a single truth: death at the hands of the Grounders was unacceptable—not out of fear for herself, not due to dread of the abyss that awaited her beyond life, but solely because she feared what her death would do to him.

        The Commander wouldn't kill her.

        Haven wouldn't fucking allow it.

        Not while she still had a reason to fight.

Eventually, the Grounder procession that led the girls through the throng of warriors surrounding Camp Jaha came to a sudden halt. The late morning light cast long shadows across the woodlands, illuminating their path but failing to bring warmth to the warriors' faces. Their expressions remained unreadable, stone-cold masks of granite and brutality. Each glance Haven dared in their direction was met with the same impenetrable wall of stoicism, as if the very act of looking upon them was a challenge she couldn't win.

A man stepped forward.

        He was carved from the same brutal mold as the other Grounder men, his skin a canvas for inky tribal tattoos that seemed to writhe with the power of ancient rites. His dark eyes were pits of endless shadow, void of mercy, void of anything but the primal instinct to dominate and destroy. As he moved, the sound of his weaponry and war adornments clinked—a menacing symphony that punctuated each step he took toward Haven and the blonde.

Most notable of all was his stare, sharp and assessing, hovering over them as if measuring their worth—or how swiftly he could claim their lives.

But Haven didn't flinch.

"If you say much as look at her the wrong way..." he began lowly. "...I will slit your throats."

Well . . . at least he was upfront—?

The warrior's gaze lingered a moment longer before he stepped aside, shifting to the right of the hut's entrance. Without a word, he allowed them passage . . . though his eyes remained murderously diligent.

Clarke was the first to move, while Haven followed closely behind, mirroring her pace like a shadow. As they passed through the drapery at the entrance, Haven could feel Clarke's fingers brush against hers ever so slightly, a fleeting contact that sent the tiniest pulse of comfort through her. It was the same gesture that she had felt when they approached Anya on the bridge during Unity Day—an unspoken promise that, no matter what, they were in this together.

        Haven resisted the urge to gape as she took in the hut's interior.

It was nothing short of fucking commendable—the sheer audacity of the Grounders to construct something so intricate, so carefully crafted, right beneath Camp Jaha's nose, as if the hut had risen from the earth itself.

The structure was robust, supported by thick, sturdy logs that buttressed the tan twine ceiling and walls, imbuing the space with a rugged elegance. Around them, strategy tables and maps sprawled, detailing the dense forest beyond. But it was the drapery at the hut's rear that arrested Haven's attention—a vivid, blood-red fabric that cascaded dramatically. It dominated the space, commanding attention, its presence unmistakable. It was more than decoration—it was a warning, a silent declaration of power, setting the stage for the Commander herself.

At the center, beneath the oppressive weight of the red drapery, sat Lexa . . . the infamous leader of the Grounders.

Her presence was as formidable as it was serene, her legs crossed in quiet anticipation, a dagger casually spinning in her hands. She was framed by a throne not crafted but grown, composed of twisting tree roots that seemed almost alive, poised to ensnare any who dared too close. Porcelain features remained untouched by tribal tattoos, but black war paint encircled her striking blue eyes, making them all the more piercing. A symbol hung assertively between her brows, marking her not just as a leader, but as a force beyond reckoning, a power that transcended the battlefield.

She was beautifully lethal—the very embodiment of beauty laced with danger, a paradox wrapped in the silk of deadly grace. She was not just a leader; she was an epic, a living legend whose very presence was reverential—a warrior's hymn whispered in the rustling leaves and echoed in the hearts of her people.

Of course people went to war for her.

        . . . How could they not?

        Her first words were frostbitten.

        "You're the one who burned three hundred of my warriors alive."

        Yikes. Yikes. Yikes.

        The accusation was a wound in itself, sharp, cold, and deadly. Lexa's voice, though calm, carried the lethal edge of barely restrained fury, a tempest held back by sheer will. Her gaze was relentless, glacial eyes unforgiving as they cleaved into Clarke, penetrating like twin shards of ice.

        Refusing to shrink beneath the frigidity of the Commander's accusation . . . Clarke lifted her chin a fraction higher. "You're the one who sent them there to kill us."

        "And you." Lexa's gaze shifted, the intensity of her scrutiny falling upon Haven with the weight of a thousand mountains. Her movements were deliberate, each one laced with sovereign authority as she planted her dagger into the armrest of her wooden throne. "...I can recognize your presence from a hundred miles away."

Was that a compliment—? An insult—?

Haven resisted the impulse to stutter. "So I've heard."

"The resemblance to your mother is striking," Lexa mused, her tone soft but edged with the sharpness of memory. For the briefest moment, a flicker of something ancient and unspoken crossed her eyes—recognition, perhaps, or sorrow buried deep. "Her death was honorable."

. . . Death?

Haven kept her mouth shut.

Every inch of her anxious mind screamed to unleash the truth, to let loose the details of her mother's survival that had gnawed at her thoughts for so long, decaying her peace of mind. Yet, she understood all too well the precariousness of the information she held—Dahlia's existence was a fragile secret, a thread that, if pulled, could unravel everything.

        Lexa's intentions were murky.

Was this assumption of death a genuine mistake, believing Dahlia had perished, perhaps lost in the horrors within the Mountain? Or was it a calculated move . . . a deliberate probe meant to coax Haven into revealing more about her mother's fate?

        Haven had no fucking clue.

        Still, her heart rioted as she navigated the treacherous waters of the conversation, weighing each word, each silence, against the potential consequences of trust misplaced. The stakes were too high, the risks too great, for any unguarded truths to slip through.

. . . Her mother better have been telling the goddamn truth.

"So...mute," Lexa's voice dripped with cold scrutiny, raking her gaze over Haven like a predator dissecting its prey. Her stare lingered on Haven's sealed lips, as if testing the strength of the silence that clung between them, before drifting over her tense, battle-ready posture and sighing. "Well—do you have an answer for me, Haven of the Sky People?"

. . . HER?

Haven shook her head. "I'm not our leader."

        Lexa's eyes blinked once, a flicker of astonishment slipping through her sharp exterior before narrowing with suspicion. "You aren't—?" she echoed, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Then why are you in my tent? Why do you stand before me and my throne on behalf of your people...if you are not a leader?"

Before Haven could even draw breath to respond, Clarke's voice had already sliced through the silence, stepping boldly into the void. "We've come to make you an offer—"

        "I believe I was speaking to her."

        Lexa's words fell like a death sentence, calm yet devastating, severing Clarke's interruption with the precision of a blade.

        Clarke clamped her mouth shut.

        For a heartbeat, the atmosphere in the tent grew dense, choking the very breath from their lungs, as if oxygen itself had recoiled. Then, Lexa's eyes shifted knowingly back to Haven—an unspoken command, a demand for truth wrapped in the guise of patience.

        Haven held the Commander's death stare and tried really, really hard not to wither beneath it. "Clarke's telling the truth," she began. "We have information we think—"

        "You think or you know?" Lexa cut in. "Speak with confidence. Chin up."

        Stifling the urge to grind her teeth in frustration, Haven exaggeratedly raised her chin, her hands curling into fists at her sides to harness her swirling anxiety. If Lexa thought she could condescend her into something small, something breakable, she was gravely mistaken. Haven stood her ground, acutely aware that showing weakness before the most formidable authority on Earth was not an option . . . nor was allowing her anxiety to slither up her throat and expose her inner turmoil.

The slightest crack would be catastrophic.

"We have information that we know could be vital to your people," Haven declared, the conviction in her tone striking far more fatally than intended. "In exchange... we're demanding an immediate ceasefire. A truce."

Lexa's features remained impenetrable. "Better," she acknowledged coolly. "However, this is not a negotiation."

"...Teik ai frag em op en ge disha odon kom—"

At the sound of the foreign syllables cleaving through the air—Haven's gaze snapped toward the warrior stationed at Lexa's side, a living shadow at the throne's right hand.

        Short in stature yet imposing, the dark-skinned warrior was swathed in a uniform that distinguished her from the typical attire of the femme Grounders, signaling a higher rank or special status. Her presence radiated an air of tightly coiled impatience and bloodlust. The venom she carried was barely restrained, perched on the edge of her tongue, ready to strike. But just as the malice threatened to spill forth, Lexa's hand rose—a single, commanding wave that carried more force than any shout.

        Clarke swiftly seized the moment of silence to speak up again. "We can help you beat the Mountain Men."

        A beat passed.

        Lexa inclined her head. "...Go on."

        "Hundreds of your people are trapped inside Mount Weather...kept in cages," Clarke began cautiously. "Their blood is used as medicine."

The Commander sat still as a statue, yet her entire being seemed to darken, the air around her seething with something raw and dangerous. Her hand tightened on the dagger buried in her throne's armrest, the grip so fierce her knuckles gleamed like bone, as if the blade alone tethered her to the earth. Though her face was a mask, betraying nothing . . . Haven could feel the fury brewing beneath Lexa's calm.

It became clear that Lexa had known of the disappearances, the silent theft of her people, but this—this twisted atrocity of blood as currency—was a fresh wound, festering in the deepest part of her.

        "How do you know this?" she pressed.

        "Because we saw them," Clarke admitted. "My people are prisoners there, too. We were a part of it."

        Lexa's eyes knowingly gravitated towards Haven. "Both of you?"

        Haven nodded in response, swallowing hard against the rising bile that threatened to scorch her throat . . . the memory of the Harvest Chamber clawing at her insides like a living, writhing nightmare.

        "Lies," the female warrior hissed. "No one escapes the mountain."

Clarke refused to flinch. "I did...with Anya," she continued, eyes locked unerringly on the Commander, as though the warrior's interruption was nothing more than a gust of wind. "We fought our way out together."

        "Another lie," the warrior snarled. "Anya died in the fire—you killed her."

        . . . The fire.

        Haven could feel her devastation ripping through her all over again, hollowing her out from the inside at the mere mention of the dropship battle. The warrior's accusation wasn't unfounded—three hundred lives had been obliterated in the hydrazine ring, swallowed by a hellish inferno. Had it not been for Clarke, whispering the impossible truth in the aftermath—that Anya had leapt into the dropship at the very last second, just as Haven had thrown herself out into the chaos—she would have assumed Anya had perished in the flames too.

"And what about you, Haven?" Lexa's gaze was an annihilating force, pinning Haven beneath its incisive scrutiny as it dissected her, atom by atom.. "You escaped separately?"

        Clarke averted her eyes.

"Clarke and I executed the escape plan together," Haven explained, brushing her fingers discreetly against Clarke's knuckles—a whisper of solidarity that spoke volumes in the hush of judgment. "I created a distraction to give her and Anya the chance to run. I got out through the tunnel system later on."

Lexa stared at her suspiciously. "You survived the Repear tunnels by yourself—?"

. . . Barely.

Haven nodded. "I fought my way out."

Under Lexa's intense scrutiny, a flicker of something unreadable flashed in her eyes—a fleeting hint of amusement, or perhaps a glimmer of surprise—gone as quickly as it appeared. "Impressive," she mused, her tone flat but the words carrying a grudging respect. "Our infiltrators haven't even returned successfully."

Infiltrators.

        . . . Dahlia had been telling the truth.

        Realization dawned on Haven at once, heavy with the weight of opportunity. If there ever was a moment in her life when precision mattered most, it was right the fuck now. She needed to navigate this conversation with the utmost care, parsing through Lexa's every word for clues. The knowledge of her mother's covert role as an infiltrator thrummed beneath her skin, a secret weapon burning hot, waiting for the exact moment to strike. But it had to be timed perfectly—too soon, and the revelation would fall flat; too late, and the opportunity would slip away like sand through her fingers.

        If she played her cards just right . . . tactfully weaving through the web of Lexa's disclosures . . . the fragile prospect of a truce might just solidify into reality.

        "You've sent infiltrators into the Mountain before?" Haven's voice was measured, careful, as though she were treading on the edge of a blade. Her features remained a mask of calm, unreadable except for the subtle hint of curiosity, the feigned uncertainty hiding the sharp calculation behind her eyes. "Like...informants?"

        Lexa gave a curt nod. "One."

        "Your mother was a traitor, Natblida."

        . . . Bingo!

Although the term Natblida was beginning to sound like a goddamn slur at this point—Haven couldn't help but savor the sting from the warrior's lips. Her words, laced with vitriol and meant to wound, had inadvertently opened a hidden door. Haven hadn't uttered a single word about her mother, yet here was a fiery confession, slipping out in the heat of anger . . . effortlessly revealing her mother's role as Lexa's informant.

With this critical slip, Haven grasped the sudden upper hand—a pivotal shift that electrified the air around her, infusing her next moves with daunting potential.

She kept her expression carefully neutral. "How so?"

Lexa withdrew her dagger from the armrest, the blade catching the filtering sunlight as she ran a finger along its edge. "I ordered Dahlia to stage an escape from Tondc—our village," she began, her voice as calm and sharp as the weapon she toyed with. "The other warriors, those outside this tent, were led to believe she had fought her way out and betrayed us to the Mountain Men. Discretion was essential. The mission depended on it."

Again . . .  Haven's heart thrummed like a war drum, each beat heavy with the weight of Lexa's confession. Her face remained an unbroken mask, though inside, the truth was incendiary. Dahlia's betrayal—a cold, calculated move—was not the reckless act it had seemed, but a delicate thread in Lexa's web of strategy, spun in darkness, hidden from all but the keenest eyes. The mission, steeped in secrecy, could never have survived the light. If the other Grounders had known of Dahlia's role, if even a whisper escaped into the clutches of Mount Weather, everything—everything—would have unraveled into ruin.

        Dahlia's choices weren't made in desperation; they were pieces placed with precision, part of a deadly game played in the shadows . . . where survival and sacrifice blurred.

        But Lexa couldn't know Haven knew that.

        . . . Yet.

        Haven resisted the impulse to shift on her heels. "Why her?" she asked, cautious of the fragile ground she tread next. "Why would you trust a... sky person? You've spent the last month trying to kill us."

       "Leadership was in her blood," Lexa answered definitively. "Her insight was invaluable. She respected my people, our culture, and carried knowledge of Maun—the Mountain—due to her research aboard your Ark."

Holy fuck.

Each revelation from Lexa refracted through Haven's understanding like a prism scattering light, revealing a kaleidoscope of truths she had never fathomed. Dahlia's harsh, scornful words about the Grounders—uttered with biting cruelty during her time in the Mountain—had all been a meticulously crafted facade. And now, the unveiling of Dahlia's true regard for the Grounders, her earned trust and respect from Lexa . . . struck Haven with the force of a seismic shift.

        Lexa's admiration for her mother transcended mere tactical alliances; it was rooted in a deep-seated recognition of Dahlia's unique insight and her pivotal role as a conduit between divergent cultures. Dahlia had not merely infiltrated; she had become a vital link, a bridge forged from deep understanding and mutual respect, qualities Lexa appeared to value above all.

        At least . . . she thought so.

        "Abductions increased as soon as Dahlia was stationed," the female warrior hissed again, her hand clenching around the hilt of her sword as if she longed to drive it into the heart of the past itself. "The mission failed. It is best she is dead."

        Lexa said nothing.

But her stillness was telling.

Haven's chest tightened, the weight of it pressing down, crushing the breath out of her. She had heard Anya spit the same accusation in the Harvest Chamber, but Lexa's silence—her unwavering impassivity—suggested there was more to the abductions than simple failure. There had to be. But Haven was tired, so tired—tired of her mother's labyrinth of secrets, tired of carrying the burden of defending a woman she barely recognized anymore. Her name had become a weapon, one Haven wielded without knowing if it would cut down her enemies or herself.

Yet, still . . . something gnawed at her beneath that frustration. If there was more to the story—if Dahlia's role had not been a failure, but a linchpin in a larger plan—then her involvement might still be key, not for her own redemption, but for the sake of Haven's friends in Mount Weather. The thought clung to her like a thorn; Lexa wanted answers, and though Haven didn't possess all the intricacies of her mother's involvement inside the Mountain, she had enough—a thread she could pull, something to leverage the fragile truce Lexa dangled before her.

        It had to be enough.

        . . . Here goes nothing.

        "Right," Haven began, her next words falling like stones into a still pond and shattering every last vestige of her self restraint. "...Except, she isn't."

        Lexa froze.

        "LIES!" the warrior cried out at once. "Gada ste spicha! Heda, yu souda nou—"

        "Shop of, Indra," Lexa warned lowly.

        Indra.

        Haven's pulse skyrocketed as recognition finally dawned. Indra, the War Chief of Lincoln's village. A name that carried the weight of legend and bloodshed. Octavia had warned her—Indra was one of Lexa's most trusted advisors, but seeing her now, wild-eyed and trembling with barely restrained fury, Haven understood something deeper. Indra wasn't just an advisor; she was a weapon, a protector who would raze entire villages if it meant keeping Lexa safe.

. . . And Haven had just tossed a nuke into the heart of her lion's den.

        Slowly, Lexa ascended from her throne, crossing the distance to stand before Haven and Clarke, every inch of her oozing control. Indra stood there, hand still on the hilt of her sword, though Lexa's warning had clipped her rage short . . . for now.

        Lexa nodded expectantly. "Speak."

        Haven pointedly lifted her chin higher. "She's alive," she admitted, refusing to crumble under the weight of scrutiny or reveal more than necessary. "That's all you need to know until our truce is honored."

In that breath-held moment, Lexa's dagger traced a sudden, perilous path, its blade whispering secrets of steel as it slashed through the fabric of Haven's shirt. The icy steel barely kissed the skin above her stomach—a stark, threatening caress that promised pain without yet delivering it.

        But Haven did not flinch.

        Rather, she leaned ever so slightly into the cold bite of the weapon, daring it to plunge deeper . . . daring Lexa to fuck around and find out.

        Lexa's threat was murderously serene. "You act like I can't gut the information out of you with my knife."

        With lethal precision, Haven's shot up, her fingers coiling around Lexa's grip and fluidly twisting the blade away from her own flesh. The dagger veered off course, its lethal point now aimed squarely at Lexa's abdomen instead—the cold steel colliding with the hidden armor beneath with a muted, dangerous thud.

        Haven gritted her teeth.

        "You act like I can't kill you before you get the chance to try."

In an instant, the room became a sea of unsheathed blades, the metallic hiss of swords slicing through the air as every weapon leveled itself unflinchingly at Haven's form. Yet, amidst this cascade of pointed steel, her fingers only tightened their hold on the dagger, unwavering, her grip as fierce as the fire burning in her chest. She could feel Clarke's horrified gaze on her, but in that moment, the world shrank. The chaos, the cold ring of death hovering inches away—it all dissolved, senselessly swallowed by the black coal that rimmed the stormy blue of Lexa's eyes.

        Her heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out all else, leaving only one truth in its wake: the visceral, bone-deep need to protect, to save those she loved . . . no matter the cost.

        "Frag op em!" Indra barked. "NOW!"

Lexa raised her free hand authoritatively. "Chil yo daun!" she commanded, dismissing the encircling steel with a mere flick of her wrist, each blade sliding back into its sheath as every warrior in the hut obeyed her order. A smirk ghosted the corners of her lips as she turned her gaze back to Haven. "...She's finally found her voice."

        Haven resisted the urge to sneer in response, instead allowing the tension in her grip to ebb away from the dagger, signaling a cautious truce. Lexa took the opportunity to swiftly reclaim the weapon, sliding the dagger back into her belt and restoring the semblance of peace, however tenuous, between them.

. . . At least neither of them had shanked each other.

Clarke decisively cleared her throat. "Anya also told me you were her Second," she began cautiously, her voice threading through the stillness as she sought a path away from the shadow of recent conflicts. From her pocket, she delicately retrieved a lock of the fallen warrior's hair. "I'm sure she'd want you to have this."

        "We don't even know it's hers," Indra snarled.

        "Shop of, Indra!" Lexa snapped again, pinning her advisor with a damning glare before softening as she accepted the braided strands of hair. "Anya was my mentor before I was called to lead my people." Her eyes were distant, almost . . . wistful, as she mourned the woman who had shaped her. "Did she die well?"

        Clarke nodded solemnly. "Yes...by my side, trying to get a message to you."

        Lexa's eyebrow arched ever so slightly. "What message?"

"The only way to save both our people is if we join together."

        Indra, standing off to the side, clicked her tongue in open disdain, her patience already fraying all over again. "Those who are about to die will say anything."

But Lexa hardly even glanced at her. Her focus remained solely on Clarke and Haven, her sharp eyes shifting between them, waiting—calculating. "I'm still waiting for an offer."

        "The Mountain Men are turning your people into Reapers," Clarke declared. "...I can turn them back."

        The room rippled with the impact of her words, but before the shockwave could settle—Haven's voice ignited the air like starfire, scorching through the space between them.

"The Mountain Men also have my mom working alongside them," she admitted. "It's your choice whether you wish to know if she's with you—or against you."

Honestly . . . Haven still didn't know either. Her relationship with her mother was nothing short of vertigo embodied, a constant freefall where the ground was forever shifting beneath her. Dahlia's hands, always yanking the world from under Haven's feet, had taught her the bitter lesson that stability was a fable told by the naive. But this . . . this made sense. It had to. It was a gamble, one that required her to cling not just to logic, but to the fragile, trembling hope that for once—just once—her faith in her mother wasn't misplaced.

Just this once.

The thought swirled through her like a whisper in the dark . . . a prayer on the edge of a goddamn cliff.

Trust had always been a mirage between the Smith women, shimmering just out of reach, a cruel illusion that slipped through Haven's fingers every time she reached for it. And yet, here she stood, poised on the razor's edge of belief, peering into the chasm of doubt that gaped ominously beneath her. The fire that simmered in her eyes was fierce, defiant, but beneath that blaze flickered something far more treacherous—hope, wild and unbidden, clawing its way to the surface despite every scar Dahlia had left behind.

. . . Just this once.

"Impossible!" Indra hissed incredulously. "Heda, ai beg yu, teik ai frag em op—"

"I've done it with Lincoln," Clarke persisted.

"Nonsense!" Indra's face twisted in contempt, lips curling into a snarl as she abandoned her place beside the woven throne. Her steps thundered furiously as she stormed toward the girls. "That traitor is the reason—!"

"Indra..." Lexa warned.

"—why my village was slaughtered by your people—!"

"EM PLENI!"

        Before Indra's sword could fully clear its sheath, her momentum shattered, her wrath swallowed whole by the unrelenting force of Lexa's authority. A tense breath hissed between her clenched teeth, a bitter scoff barely concealing her frustration as she cast a scornful glance at the two girls. But Lexa's order was law, and Indra, though seething . . . had no choice but to heed it.

        She retreated at once.

Pivoting back towards the girls—Lexa exhaled a deep, guttural sigh, the kind that seemed to pull from the depths of her soul. "...You say you can turn Repears back into men."

Clarke nodded firmly. "Yes."

Lexa's eyes darkened at the admission, her expression unreadable, yet within that stillness was something far more dangerous than anger—calculation, a cold, merciless weighing of the truths laid before her. Time itself appeared to bend, lingering on the brink, awaiting her decision. With her verdict, she held the power not only to shift the immediate tides but to sculpt the very landscape of their futures, bending the arcs of lives and legacies with the mere utterance of her command.

And then . . .

"Then prove it," she hissed out. "Show me Lincoln."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Haven felt her insides twist into serpentine coils, each loop tight with trepidation. The urge to seek Clarke's gaze was a gnawing ache, almost debilitating in its intensity. But she resisted—she had no choice. Even the briefest lapse, a flicker of uncertainty shared between them, would lay bare their intentions to Lexa, causing their meticulously laid plans to crumble into dust. There was no margin for error, no allowance for the smallest of stumbles. They had sculpted every moment, every breath, with painstaking care. Jackson had to pull Lincoln back from the brink; he had to purge the drug from his system, to pull him back from the edge of monstrosity. If he could do that before they reached the dropship . . . then they had a chance.

But if not—if there was even the smallest delay, the slightest crack in their facade—then their plan would fucking shatter.

Everything had to be fine.

        It would be fine.

        One thousand percent fine.

        Because if it wasn't, they were already dead.

"As for you—?"

As Lexa's gaze drifted toward Haven, a subtle ripple of tension coursed up her spine, urging her to stand just a fraction taller. Miraculously, she tempered this instinct, molding her posture into an emblem of calm detachment. Each muscle was schooled in the art of neutrality, her form a bastion of unreadable stillness, poised on the knife-edge of perception.

"There is only one way to prove you aren't bluffing," Lexa began. "Slit your palm."

Haven blinked. "What?"

Fluidly, the Commander unsheathed her dagger again, its blade whispering death as it sliced through the stillness. She thrust the dagger into Haven's grip with a force that made the weapon feel like an extension of her own will . . . compelling Haven's fingers to curl tightly around its hilt.

        "Slit your palm." Lexa repeated, her voice now a steel trap, clamping down with inevitable consequence. "...Or I will do it for you."

Alarms that had lain dormant in Haven's psyche since birth now detonated like mines, a symphony of screams and sirens urging her to flee, to vanish, to retaliate. These were the ancient, primal alerts woven into the very fiber of her being, awakened by the imminent threat to her most guarded secret—her blood, potent and perilous. From the earliest whispers of consciousness, she had been schooled in the art of concealment, taught to bury the truth of her blood so deeply that it might as well have been a myth.

Now, the Commander herself was demanding its revelation, as though the mere sight of Haven's blood would serve as an irrefutable oath, a blood-bound testament to her loyalty, her worth.

        And yet . . . Haven't didn't fear it. Not really.

        There was a whisper of unease, a subtle tremor that threaded through the back of Haven's mind, but it lacked the paralyzing grip of terror she might have expected. Instead, her pulse quickened with a sensation edging towards recognition, a burgeoning understanding.

. . . Natblida.

The term whispered reverently and agitatedly by the Grounders when they spoke of her—had to be tied to the blood coursing through her veins. It was the reason she had managed to survive the battle at the dropship, and why she stood now before Lexa, the most formidable leader she had ever faced.

        Haven hadn't fully unraveled the mystery of her blood's significance, not yet. But there still remained an undeniable truth: somehow, that very blood had been her shield, her unseen protector among those who might have otherwise destroyed her . . . at least for now.

Bellamy was going to kill her.

         . . . Fuck it.

Haven slit her palm. Unflinchingly.

        Black blood welled from the cut, dark and viscous, spilling into the creases of her hand like liquid shadows, twisting and shimmering under the meager light that filtered through the cracks in the hut.

        "Like mother, like daughter..." Lexa's eyes widened, but it wasn't shock that crossed her face—it was something darker, more reverential. She leaned in, her gaze locked onto the black blood as though hypnotized into its depths. Her voice, when it came again, was low and edged with frigid certainty. "Your blood is the bond to your word. If I find out you are deceiving me..."

        Her eyes menacingly flicked back to Haven's.

        " . . . You will die by it."

• •

BELLAMY WAS TERRIFIED OF DISAPPEARING. He strode through life with the audacity of someone who believed himself untouchable, as though fate had stitched invincibility into his very skin. No Grounder, no vicious plague, no bullet—nothing seemed potent enough to drag him down into death's cold grip. It was a conviction forged in fire, unshakable, written deep in his bones. But now, despite that fierce certainty . . . a fear had begun to creep into the cracks, clawing at the edges of his mind like a shadow he couldn't outrun.

        There was a time—just a year ago—when the notion of dying had been a mercy. He might have welcomed it then, arms flung wide, sinking gratefully into the abyss, desperate for the silence that would numb the endless churn of guilt and grief. He would've begged for it, crawling on hands and knees toward oblivion, anything to stop the agony that gnawed at his core, hollowing him out from the inside.

        But now . . . now, death was no longer a refuge.

        Now, it terrified him.

        Because now . . . he had something worth living for.

        The two fragile extensions of Bellamy's soul, the ones who had dug their roots deep into his heart, kept him tethered to the earth, kept him from drifting into the void. They were his anchors, the only reason he kept fighting, breathing, even amidst the chaos that fought to disassemble him. For them, he had become something more than just a survivor. He had become wanted . . . somehow. His existence had weight, meaning, purpose; for them, he would endure anything.

        He wasn't going to die.

        He knew that. He felt it in every beat of his heart, in every lungful of air he sucked in. He was still too stubborn, too interwoven with the ones he loved, to be claimed by death now.

        And yet . . . the anxiety of it ate him alive.

        The fear of losing everything, of disappearing before he could see those fragile ties grow stronger, scorched through him like hellfire unleashed. It coiled around him, relentless and ravenous, gnawing away at the bedrock of his convictions until even his ironclad certainty began to crumble. He could feel it in the quiver of his hands—hands that should have been unyielding—shaking with a haunting tremor. In the still moments, his heart jackhammered with wild, untamed panic, racing against the specter of a future stolen away before its time.

       For the first time, Bellamy truly understood what it was to be afraid—not of death itself, but of the unbearable thought of leaving behind the only things that had ever made his life worth living.

Bellamy never liked to overestimate his importance in people's lives. He was acutely aware of the perilous line between being wanted and needed. If he were to perish tomorrow, the hundred would carry on, just as he had taught them. They would grit their teeth, bury their dead, and push forward because that's what survival demanded. Clarke would lead as she always had. Miller would honor him with a rifle, probably. As for Octavia—her cold detachment over their recent clashes left no illusion; she didn't really mind if he was dead or not.

But Haven . . . god, Haven.

It was her name that made Bellamy's heart falter, her face that haunted his thoughts every time death loomed near. His fear of dying wasn't for himself; it was for her. The thought of leaving her behind, of slipping into a world where she didn't exist, was a horror he couldn't bear to imagine. It wasn't just fear—it was a soul-deep terror, the kind that made his chest tighten until he could hardly breathe. His very existence was bound to hers in ways he couldn't untangle, couldn't ever possibly begin to unravel.

        If she died . . . he would follow.

        There was no question, no hesitation in that truth. Her death would be his end, the final act that would tear him from the world without a second thought. And if she lived—then so would he, because his very existence demanded it. It wasn't a choice; it was a fact. His survival was hers. His life was a shadow of her presence, and without her, he would fade.

        There was no corner of existence that Bellamy could imagine where she wasn't there. He would follow her into the light, into the dark, into whatever hell or heaven awaited them. Her heartbeat was the rhythm of his own. Wherever she went, he would go.

        Into the rest of his life. Into death.

        Whichever dared to claim them first.

So, with all that being said, and with Haven now standing before Earth's highest power without him by her side . . . it was safe to say that Bellamy was unraveling.

        He was a nervous fucking wreck.

        The bravado Bellamy had worn like armor—unshakable, ironclad—had carried him through every battle, every close scrape with death. But now? Now, it crumbled under the crushing weight of his absence. He wasn't there, and that singular fact had his heart rioting like a war drum, relentless and erratic, echoing in his chest until it threatened to rupture. Every second felt like a lifetime, stretching out, suffocating him with the excruciating tension of the unknown.

       He had already stalked through every level of the dropship like a caged beast, the walls too tight, too confining. His legs seared with the punishment of relentless movement, yet the very notion of stillness was anathema to him. He had circled the camp's perimeter tirelessly, eyes fixated on the distant line where earth met sky, as though his sheer will might pierce the horizon and draw Haven back to safety. His hands had been wrung dry, twitching with restless energy, fists clenching in empty air, grasping for the illusion of control.

        Bellamy Blake was a man of action, but right now . . . all he could do was stand there, hands tied, and pray that Haven would walk out of that meeting unscathed.

She would be okay.

       She had to be okay.

       He trusted her, of course he did. Bellamy's faith in Haven was absolute; she possessed a keenness and prowess that ceaselessly filled him with wonder. She was fierce, a luminary that couldn't be snuffed out, and she had navigated far worse dangers than this. But trust alone couldn't silence the storm howling inside him, or the gnawing fear that sank its claws into his gut. He trusted Haven with his life—but this wasn't about his life.

This was about her.

Haven wasn't just capable—she was fucking brilliant, brimming with a tenacity and vigor unmatched by anyone he'd encountered. A pistol, always poised to fire, but with the uncanny ability to pull back just before the trigger fully clicked. Even if she snapped—especially if she snapped—he knew that Haven could recover, spin things back in her favor with the same ease she wielded a blade. She was unfathomably skilled at walking that knife's edge, slipping between chaos and control with an ease that unnerved him.

He'd seen it a thousand times.

The meeting with Lexa, in theory, should be something she could handle. A test of will, a battle of minds—and Haven excelled at both.

. . . But that didn't mean she should have to.

        He should've been with her.

        But he wasn't. He was stuck here, suffocating in his own skin, knowing that everything he feared, everything he fought to protect, was in that meeting without him.

. . . And it was annihilating him.

        "Oh, thank god."

        Bellamy whipped his head away from his lookout, Murphy's hole in the wall long forgotten as he spun toward the sound of his sister's voice. Octavia had dropped the damp washrag she'd been using to soothe the fever that raged through Lincoln's restrained body, though she didn't stray far from him, lending a hand to assist Finn through the third floor hatch.

"Where's Clarke?" Octavia's words tumbled out rapid-fire. "Haven? Orion—?"

Finn clambered to his feet, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Lincoln's motionless, fevered form, still shackled to the floor. "Trying to stop a war."

        But Bellamy didn't particularly give a shit about the presence of Finn Collins. His eyes narrowed, scanning the darkened mouth of the hatch for any sign, any whisper of Haven's presence, any hum of the gravity she carried with her . . . only to be starkly confronted by the portrait of the devil herself.

        His jaw fell slack.
       
        "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

        Out of the hatch, as if clawed from the depths of a nightmare, came Abigail Griffin—once a healer, now a monster in human skin. Doctor turned executioner, executioner turned Chancellor, Chancellor still awaiting the justice that only Bellamy's hands could deliver. Her movements were cold, calculated, a predator wearing the mask of calm. Her hands, though steady, bled with invisible sins, weighed down by the lives she had shattered. Her eyes brushed past Bellamy as if he were nothing more than an obstacle . . . her focus already honed on Lincoln.

No way.

There was no fucking way—no world, no realm of existence—where Bellamy would stand by and allow her to play the role of savior again.

         He took a step, already picturing the satisfying grip of Abby's braid in his fist, already feeling the momentum of slamming her down the hatch with nothing but his bare hands. He could almost hear the snap of her descent, the final punctuation to all the agony she had inflicted. His blood thundered in his veins, his breath ragged, the red veneer of revenge shrouding everything else.

        But before Bellamy could move, before his fingers could even twitch toward her, Finn's hand was on his chest, stopping him cold.

. . . He was going to launch Finn down the hatch after her.

"Back off," he warned. "Now."

"Bellamy—"

"Back. Off."

Naturally . . . Finn refused to listen. "Haven tried to send Jackson instead," he explained, voice hushed, careful not to draw Abby's attention as she slithered through the room. "Abby wouldn't let him."

        Of course she wouldn't.

        Bellamy shook his head, seething. "You should've—"

        "If I didn't bring her here, she threatened to throw me into the stockade with Jaha," Finn cut him off, eyes darting nervously to where Abby knelt beside Lincoln and Octavia, effortlessly playing the part of the concerned healer. "She already threw Orion in there for eavesdropping on our deliberation."

        Bellamy felt his world tilt.

        "What deliberation?" he snarled, swatting Finn's hand away from his chest, his heart pounding so furiously it drowned out everything but the fire burning inside him. His finger shot out, accusing, pointing straight at the woman ahead of them . . . the murderer who still had the audacity to draw breath. "Haven was in the same fucking room as her—? Orion's in the stockade?"

"Long story," Finn huffed. "Haven's fine. Clarke's fine. Orion's fine. Byrne transported her to the stockade—not Scanlon."

The names and assurances swirled around Bellamy, half-lost to the roar of blood in his ears. His heartbeat pounded like artillery fire—but somehow, amidst it all, the slightest trace of relief broke through. Finn wasn't exactly the most reliable narrator, and the fact that Orion had been put into a cell still sat like acid in his gut . . . but at least she had been transported by a female guard, and at least all of them were out of Abby's treacherous reach.

Still . . . his heart ached for its owner.

His voice was strained.

"Where's Haven?"

        "I saw her and Clarke preparing to leave with the Commander not long after us. I-I think they're coming here to see Lincoln," Finn answered, setting his mouth into a grim line as he shook his head. "We don't have time." His eyes drifted resentfully towards Abby. "...Or a choice."

. . . Great.

They were fucked.

        The weight of it all nearly crushed Bellamy to the ground. Lincoln—their only proof, the singular thread holding their plan together—was lying half-dead on the cold floor. The Commander, death in human form, was marching toward them. And perhaps, worst of all . . . Haven was walking willingly at the Commander's side, unknowingly delivering their doom to the doorstep, her steps laced with a devastation she couldn't yet see.

        Abby.

        Again . . . Haven would be thrust back into that sickening theater of lies, where Abby, cloaked in the false robes of a healer, would play the part of a savior she had long since betrayed. The stench of hypocrisy would thicken as Abby laid hands on Lincoln, pretending to mend, pretending righteousness, while beneath it all, the truth rotted like a corpse no one dared exhume.

Everything was falling apart in the cruelest repetition.

        . . . Again.

It took every iota of strength for Bellamy's spine not to bend beneath how fucked things had become. His hands clenched involuntarily, his body taut with the urge to act, to prevent, to shield. But the options were narrowing, the paths to safety overgrown with the weeds of political intrigue and personal vendettas. The storm loomed on the horizon . . . a tempest wrought with specters of past conflicts and the ghosts of their fractured histories.

All he could do now was brace for impact.

"Pupils are unresponsive."

Bellamy's focus whipped to the center of the room at the sound of Abby's voice. She navigated the space around Lincoln's prone form with chilling precision, her hands sifting through the medical supplies from the pack Bellamy had scavenged. To an onlooker, her movements might have seemed as mundane as searching for bandages, but the stakes were dire—it was Lincoln's life teetering on the brink. Octavia sat rigid beside her, clinging to every word, every movement, as though Abby's commands were gospel.

        "Tie off his arm," Abby instructed, seamlessly passing Octavia a rubber tourniquet before delving back into the supply pack. "Tight as you can."

        Bellamy's reaction was instantaneous. "O—don't," he barked, sweeping his hand out, nearly knocking the tourniquet away as though it were venomous. "What the hell makes you think we're trusting you?"

Octavia gasped. "Bell."

But her plea fell on deaf ears. Bellamy's focus remained locked on Abby, his posture rigid, every muscle tensed as if he were a bow stretched to its breaking point. Abby, for her part, exuded a disturbing serenity, her features schooled into an opaque mask. She stooped to pick up the discarded tourniquet, swiftly wrapping it around Lincoln's arm with a precision that only ignited Bellamy's anger further. Her cool composure, so at odds with his smoldering fury, sharpened his irritation to a knife-edge.

Her eyes met his, fiery with defiance.

        "Do you want him to live or not?"

Bellamy clenched his jaw so aggressively he could taste blood on his tongue. "How do we know you're not just going to kill him anyway—?"

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

        Abby's hand stilled for a moment, but her expression remained unnervingly composed, as if she were weighing his words like a surgeon deciding where to cut. "I'm trying to save his life," she spat, her calm cracking ever so slightly. "But if you want to stand there and let him die while you question my every move—then go ahead."

Before her words had the opportunity to fully resonate, Bellamy swung his rifle from where it had been resting against his spine—its barrel rising in a swift, seamless motion to point directly at Abby's forehead.

        "Watch it," he hissed.

"Bellamy, please!"

At the sound of Octavia's desperate plea, Bellamy faltered, his body turning ever so slightly, though his aim—dead set on Abby's face—remained steady.

There, in the fire of his anger, was his little sister.

Bellamy saw her—not the fierce warrior she had become, but the girl he had sworn to protect, the child he would have burned the world for. She was no longer a fragile thing to be cocooned. She had bled, suffered, and clawed her way through the chaos of their world, forged in its unforgiving crucible. She had become a woman, strong and defiant, hardened by every battle. And yet, in this moment . . . she looked at him like she needed her brother again, needed him to make it all right, to fix what was broken.
  
       "Please," Octavia whispered.

. . . Fuck.

His mind spun, tangled in knots of fury, every primal instinct roaring against letting Abby dictate the course. He wanted to stop her—he should stop her—but the weight of Lincoln's shallow breaths and the hollow silence between them spoke louder than any argument he could make.

        They needed Lincoln to live.

He thumbed off the safety of his gun.

With a slow nod, Bellamy signaled for the devil to move. His voice, when it came, was a low growl, barely containing the fury that still simmered beneath the surface.

"...Go ahead."

It wasn't permission, it was a warning—a thread of control stretched so thin it could shatter at any moment. Bellamy's finger lingered near the trigger, a silent promise that if she crossed the line, if Lincoln's life slipped away because of her . . . he wouldn't fucking hesitate.

        Abby got to work at once.

        Operating under the oppressive watch of Bellamy's gun—a familiar yet no less daunting scenario—she sifted through the supply pack with practiced urgency. She swiftly retrieved a vial of crucial medication and a syringe, puncturing the vial's seal to draw the life-sustaining fluid into the needle. Carefully, she positioned the syringe above Lincoln's prepped forearm, the vein taut and ready beneath her hand, poised to deliver the injection that could tip the balance between life and death.

        "Thanks to the supplies your brother found..." she began. "Lincoln might have a chance."

        Octavia observed the needle warily. "What's that—?"

        "This will bring down his fever," Abby explained quickly, her fingers steady as she administered the injection. Suddenly, Lincoln's body convulsed with unexpected vigor, his muscles rebelling against the intrusion. The force of his movement sent Abby staggering backward. "Hold him down!"

        Bellamy's grip on the gun intensified, the cold metal embedding into his palm, a tactile anchor amid the tempest swirling before him. Octavia and Finn, driven by sheer desperation, grappled with Lincoln's violently twitching form. Even Nyko, pulled from his stance of detached observation by the gravity of the moment, threw himself beside Finn . . . the two of them working in tandem to restrain their mutual friend.

But no matter how tightly they held him, Lincoln's body was far beyond their control. His shuddering morphed into a violent storm of seizing—his skin, once warm and alive, now sickeningly pale. His limbs thrashed against the restraints, muscles bulging and convulsing with unnatural force. His neck jerked violently against the floor, his head oscillating wildly as if trying to escape the agony that wracked his body. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth, bubbling more intensely with each choked and strangled breath.

        Every attempt to soothe him, every desperate reach to steady his suffering, only seemed to worsen it.

        Bellamy shifted to tear his eyes away.

        But then . . .

        Lincoln went deathly still.

        "What's happening?" Octavia's voice cracked, her breaths ragged from exertion and fear as she watched Abby's movements shift into a frantic search for life signs. "Why isn't it working—?"

        Abby's admission was quiet, timid, yet charged with enough panic to electrify the entire goddamn room.

        "His heart stopped."

        Bellamy paled.

        . . . No.

        No. No. No.

        "You...you killed him," he whispered initially, the words barely a hiss, choked with grief and shock. Then, gathering a firestorm of rage, he hurled the accusation like a spear. "You killed him! Y-You fucking killed him—!"

        The accusation died on his tongue, turning to ash, smothering his breath . . . as Abby's hands descended in urgent compressions.

Bellamy's pulse turned traitor.

        It was merciless, savage—the way his body so effortlessly betrayed him, how it strangled his protests and suffocated his rage. Every piece of Bellamy Blake, every sharp edge of his identity, was extinguished in an instant, smothered by the cold, indifferent grip of grief. He soundlessly tried to open his mouth, to force words past the tightening in his throat. But the sound died before it even formed, swallowed by the rhythm of Abby's hands pounding against Lincoln's chest.

Everything blurred, the atmosphere collapsing inward—until all that remained was the violent, steady rhythm of compressions, a heartbeat stolen from the air, and the silence that suffocated him in turn.

He couldn't think.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't breathe.

        Bellamy was no stranger to witnessing CPR.

        He had stood on the edge of oblivion more times than he could count, watching Abby's hands wage a desperate war against the stillness of death. He had memorized the haunting rhythm—the relentless push of palms against flesh, the agonizing rise and collapse of hope, always tempered by the inevitability of failure. And when the defibrillator was brought out, it was as if they were summoning the impossible, trying to breathe life back into a heart that had long since abandoned its fight.

But now . . . now, as the edges of reality twisted and bent beneath the crushing gravity of the moment, it wasn't just another body beneath Abby's hands.

It wasn't Lincoln.

. . . It was Haven.

        The girl he loved, the girl whose death plagued his every nightmare. He had seen her, time and again, lifeless beneath his trembling hands—her skin an ethereal pallor, her pulse a fleeting whisper, as though she hovered perpetually between realms. She was always slipping, always fading, a phantom drifting through the cracks of reality . . . never fully his, yet never fully lost.

Not again.

        The world narrowed to a tunnel of panic for Bellamy as his breath hitched, each inhalation sharper, more desperate than the last. Fear clawed at his throat, venom spreading through his veins, cold and ruthless. His fingertips quivered, traitors to his crumbling facade, while cold sweat made his grip on the gun slick, rendering it as futile as a child's toy. He tried—god, how he tried—to anchor himself in the now, to shatter the illusion that this nightmare was reality. He blinked furiously, willing his mind to summon any face but hers, to envision any form but Haven's prone on the unforgiving ground.

Not again. Not again. Not —

But no matter how fiercely the Blake boy fought, the brutal truth clung to him like a relentless shadow. His nervous system, wired on a hair-trigger, blurred the lines between past horrors and present fears—it didn't differentiate; it didn't fucking care.

It was her.

It was always her.

        And still . . . amidst the tempest of his own despair, Bellamy summoned the faintest tether of strength. He stood, though the weight of grief nearly buckled his knees—he stood, not for himself, but for Octavia. His back turned to the unbearable sight, to the horror he couldn't face, he reached out with a clammy hand, shaking but steady in its purpose.

From behind, he gently anchored her trembling form . . . offering what little solace he could as she began to cry.

Once again, the world around Bellamy seemed submerged. Abby's voice reached him as though filtered through dark water—distant and distorted. She called for Nyko, her commands clipped and clinical, instructing him to efficiently open Lincoln's airways. It was all mechanical, a routine he had seen play out too many times, but the details barely registered. The only thing that reached him was the sound—the steady, rhythmic pounding of Abby's hands against Lincoln's chest.

        Bellamy's lip split under the relentless pressure of his teeth, and he could taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. He could feel the slow, steady drip as it stained the sleeve of his jacket. He could hear the repetitive thud, thud, thud of hands against a chest that no longer responded, that no longer held life. The floor beneath him seemed to sway and buckle, as though it were crumbling under the unbearable weight of Lincoln's stillness, his lifeless body pulsing in sync with each compression.

        And then . . . it stopped.

        The sound. The movement. Everything.

"You're stopping..." Octavia panted. "What's wrong?"

In the heavy silence that followed, Abby's next words struck the air with the force of a gunshot.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "He's gone."

        Bellamy spun around in an instant, the world blurring around him as his body moved faster than his mind could catch up. "No," he breathed, the word meant to burst forth with the force of a roar. Yet, it escaped as nothing more than a ragged whisper, weak and fractured—the sound of a man coming undone. "No, no, no. Keep trying."

        Abby shook her head. "I'm sorry."

        "Fuck that," Bellamy rasped. "Fix him!"

        "NO!"

        Shattering irreparably, Octavia's scream ripped through the room—a primal, agonized wail. Her body trembled, wracked by sobs too violent to contain, but she didn't hesitate—flinging herself to Abby's side. She pressed her shaky palms together, fingers interlacing, slamming against Lincoln's chest with a force born of pure desperation, her sobs spilling out with each breath.

"No! It's not possible!" she cried out. "You're wrong! You're WRONG!"

Bellamy felt his heart splinter. "Octavia..."

Before he could stop himself, his gun clattered to the ground, long forgotten. The weight of violence, of defense, of everything he had been prepared for, dissolved in the face of his sister's agony. His knees hit the cold floor beside her, and though his breaths were jagged, wild, as though he were drowning in his own panic, he forced himself to stay present. His vision flickered—Lincoln's lifeless body merging with scorching flashbacks of Haven, of her stillness, her death, and the hollow echo it left inside him.

        But Bellamy had to be brave.

        He had to swallow the rising tide of panic, push back against the invasive memories clawing for dominance. He had to embody the brother Octavia needed now, to be the pillar of strength as her world shattered violently around her. Her sobs broke through the air, wild and primal—each one tearing at the fabric of reality, as if her soul itself was being wrenched from her body. Her small frame convulsed beneath the weight of her grief, drowning in the torrent of it, the kind of loss that stripped away everything.

        The kind of loss that Bellamy understood.

         "Come back!" Octavia's voice shattered, her hands trembling as they faltered on Lincoln's still chest. Her pleas, hoarse and raw, spilled from her lips like a final, broken prayer. "Come back..."

Bellamy went rigid.

        ". . . Come back! . . . "

And in that moment . . . the echoes of Octavia's voice bled into Bellamy's own memories, into the cries he had once screamed into the stillness of his tent.

He could still hear the sound of his own grief, ripped from his throat as he collapsed beside Haven's fragile form, his hands shaking as he tried to revive her. He could smell the harsh, acrid scent of burning wires—the crude, desperate means of trying to restart her heart. He could feel her ribcage—fragile bones shifting under the pressure of his palms as he pumped her chest, every compression a frantic, terrified prayer. He had begged—begged—for her heartbeat to return, his voice breaking, the words coming apart in his mouth as he pressed down harder, faster, each breath a scream.

". . . You have to come back—please! Please! Please! I-I . . ."

I love you.

And then . . .

The hatch creaked open.

Peering over his shoulder, Bellamy felt the familiar tug of her gravity before his eyes could even cross the distance. Her presence seeped into the space unseen—a warmth that seemed to cocoon around him, softening the rigid tension in his muscles, soothing the violent tremble in his fingertips.

Haven was the first one inside.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

Bellamy's gaze swept over her with surgical precision, cataloging every centimeter of her visage, every subtle shift in her posture. The fine slit in her shirt, the bandage wrapped tautly around her hand—silent testaments to recent violence—did nothing to dim the luminescence that seemed to radiate from her core. Despite the shadows of conflict clinging to her, Haven moved with a glow of invincible hope. Each step was a defiance, a bold claim on the future . . . until she stood at the summit, her eyes flaring wide with shock as they met the wreckage of the scene laid before her.

Clarke emerged next.

And then . . .

The Commander.

        Flanked by a procession of five other Grounders, Lexa positioned herself just to the left of the hatch, inches from Haven and mere steps from Lincoln. Her gaze swept over the scene with glacial precision—Octavia's heartrending wails, Abby's pallid lips, Lincoln's lifeless form. Each element under her scrutiny was dissected, weighed, and understood not just with the acumen of a strategist, but with the profound insight of a leader . . . and most harrowingly, as a woman scorned.

. . . By them.

        Haven knowingly met his stare.

        In that fleeting moment . . . Bellamy watched the light in her eyes sputter and die, snuffed out as suddenly as it had flared to life.

It was as if she had always known that hope was a cruel mirage, a vicious cycle of reaching, grasping, clinging, only to fall short, time and time again. Yet, even in the wreckage of her despair, something unbreakable lingered—a stubborn, indomitable will to survive. He saw it in the way her fingers twitched, slow and deliberate, inching upward despite the fear of Lexa's entourage watching their every move. Still, her hand crept closer and closer toward her hidden blade, the one thing between her and oblivion.

        Bellamy didn't need her to speak to get the memo.

He felt her thoughts as clearly as his own.

. . . Get your fucking gun.

Not daring to sever the connection between their eyes—Bellamy moved with agonizing slowness, his hand drifting toward the weapon he had discarded, as if his life depended on the rhythm of his control. The gun was close, so fucking close, salvation in steel, but just as his fingertips curled around its edge . . .

"KILL THEM ALL!"

All weapons were drawn at once.

        Bellamy rocketed to his feet, a blur of lethal motion, his gun aimed dead center at the Commander's chest just as her sword lifted to Haven's throat. Behind her, the spear of a hulking warrior dug into her back, the pressure increasing, poised to drive through her spine at the slightest flinch. Three swords flew toward Bellamy's torso in a heartbeat as he clutched the trigger on his gun, their edges gleaming, inches from ripping him apart. Despite the weapon at her neck and her spine, Haven defiantly held her blade against the throat of the woman in the center—her own sword aimed squarely at Bellamy's heart.

Every nerve shrieked for violence.

        Nobody moved.

        Nobody dared.

        The standoff was wretched, lethal in its silence, polluting the air between the lifelong warriors of Earth and the ragtag assembly of hell-raising teenagers who had plummeted from the heavens above. Each side, forged by different forms of survival, stood frozen—a cruel, tense dance of wills—each waiting, watching, wondering who would be the first to strike.

"Please..." Clarke began, tears scorching her eyes, desperately attempting to seek out the Commander's mercy. "You don't have to do this."

Lexa's lips curled into a snarl sharp enough to draw blood. "You lied," she growled, her words rolling through the air like the first rumble of thunder before a storm cleaved the sky apart. "And you're out of time."

        Bellamy could feel his patience fraying with each agonizing second, his fingers cramping from the relentless grip on his rifle. The trigger was practically begging him to be pulled, especially as the Grounder behind Haven rammed the spear harder into her spine, its sharp tip threatening to break skin. He loaded another bullet with a soft click, eyes darkening as he prepared to swing the barrel away from the Commander, aiming to take down the Grounder threatening Haven's back first.

But then, Haven's eyes caught his—wide, urgent.

        Slowly, almost imperceptibly . . . she jerked her head toward the shock baton lying mere footfalls away from Lincoln's dead body.

        Realization struck him like a blow to the chest.

        Bellamy's breath stilled, his sore heart rioting in sync with the jarring clarity that flooded his senses. The baton. Lincoln. A fragile chance to revive him and flip the nightmare they were trapped in. But the issue was as glaring as the cold steel in their hands—neither of them could reach the baton without sacrificing everything. Bellamy's only leverage was the rifle aimed at the Commander; if he lunged, he'd lose that lifeline, his killshot, and his life . . . probably. And if Haven so much as shifted, the Commander's blade would shred through her neck before she hit the ground.

        Unless . . .

Haven's eyes shifted again—fleeting, almost too swiftly to notice—to the one person neither of them wanted to rely on.

        Abby.

        . . . Fucking hell.

Even with the Commander's blade hovering dangerously close to her ribs—nowhere near close enough for Bellamy's liking—Abby stood just close enough to Lincoln's lifeless form, perfectly positioned to make the impossible . . . possible. She was a treacherous variable, one step away from ruin, and yet the baton lay within reach of her trembling fingers.

All it would take was a single, well-timed kick.

Bellamy could almost feel the enormity of the moment as Abby's eyes locked onto his and Haven's—an unspoken agreement, a shared, bitter understanding of what must happen next.

        His first instinct, hot and incinerating, was to grab the baton himself and ram it into Abby's chest. To electrocute her on the spot, snuff out her life, and spare himself the agony of watching her play the goddamn hero. The notion of her being the one to save Lincoln churned through him like molten iron. But time was slipping through their fingers, the seconds bleeding out, and if Abby failed . . . well, the sword hovering at her gut would provide a fitting end.

Fuck it.

       With his rage roiling beneath a veneer of reluctant necessity . . . Bellamy jutted his foot out, propelling the shock baton across the floor, all the while keeping his gun unflinchingly trained on Lexa's heart.

Snatching the baton from the floor and narrowly avoiding the warrior's sword, Abby charged the unlikely defibrillator—then plunged it fiercly against Lincoln's cold, still chest.

. . . Nothing.

"Hit him again!" Clarke urged.

Unflinchingly, Abby thrust the charged device down against Lincoln's chest once more, gritting her teeth as the blue electricity scorched into his body.

Bellamy kept his eyes locked onto the assembly of Grounders, noting their suspended breaths and widened eyes. As Lincoln's body convulsed, wracked with the current, the Grounders looked on as if they were witnessing a blasphemy, something that shattered the very fabric of understanding. The baton in Abby's hands was no longer a mere tool; to them, it was an arcane artifact, pulsing with raw power, a thing carved from dark sorcery . . . terrifying yet mesmerizing.

A beat passed.

And then . . .

Lincoln gasped for oxygen.

Octavia was the first to break the silence that had swelled around them, lifting her head from her hands and inching closer to Lincoln. Her fingers trembled as she tenderly cradled his face, sweeping away the beads of sweat that clung to his pallid skin. His eyes darted, wide and wild, as he reacquainted himself with the jagged edges of the world that had nearly slipped away—focusing, at last, on her.

"Lincoln—?" she whispered.

Lincoln's face, though drained of color by the shadow of death, no longer bore the crimson veins of the drug that had ensnared him in the savage thrall of a Reaper. As the dark haze finally lifted from his gaze, clarity and recognition flickered in his eyes . . . like the first stars at twilight.

"Octavia..."

His voice, hoarse and frail, carried a tremulous note of wonder and relief—as if her name alone conjured the strength to anchor him back to the world of the living.

. . . Bellamy knew how that felt.

The Commander sheathed her sword.

At last . . . everybody lowered their weapons.

Bellamy's memory blurred at the edges then—the precise moment his gun lowered to the ground lost to him, as was the descent of his body next to Octavia's, sinking to the floor not out of choice but necessity. His body felt like it had been hollowed out, unable to carry the weight of what they'd survived—or what they hadn't. Tears welled in his eyes, unshed but burning, as he watched his sister cradle Lincoln back from the brink of oblivion.

But before they could spill over—before the dam had the opportunity to break—he felt it.

Haven.

She surged toward him, a force of warmth and life made flesh, everything he had been terrified to lose wrapped in the only form that could heal him. As she crouched behind him, she wrapped her arms as far as she possibly could around Bellamy's quivering shoulders, hugging him from behind. Her embrace was tight, unrelenting, her head resting gently on his shoulder. His shaky hands reached up to grasp the arm across his chest, curling his fingers around her wrist, clutching her as though she'd vanish if he let go.

He exhaled, the breath finally breaking free . . . the same breath he hadn't known he'd been choking back since she had left his side.

She was real. She was here. She was his.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

Bellamy's glassy eyes briefly glanced to Lincoln, observing the fragile rise and fall of his chest, sensing just how thin the line of mortality was now more than ever.

. . . But for how much longer?

• •

hii pookies

FIRST AND FOREMOST...... YALL. ANOTHER DOMFIKES SLAY HAS ENTERED THE CHAT. LOOK AT WHAT TARA MADE!!!!

nobody understands this makes my baven brain rot a thousand times more real.... HOLY FUCK. LIKE THIS NEEDS TO BE FRAMED.
😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
domfikes SLAYED TOO HARD!!!

but anyway!!! i am so proud of this chapter. mirror mirror applies to so many aspects of it. haven and lexa... haven and bell... bell and octavia.. lincoln and haven... the shock baton defibrillator and the radio...

when i tell you i teared up so much writing bellamy's pov.... rereading The Tightrope chapter for reference was just agonizing. !!! i literally made him say "come back" specifically to draw this comparison w/ octavia when we got to this point
"never fully his, yet never fully lost" sorry idk why i wrote that....idk why!!! was feeling silly!!! 🤭 ...also this isnt even the pov i was mentioning a few chapters ago that i said was gonna be bad. this is a cakewalk i fear

i try to encapsulate their trauma surrounding their time on the ark/haven's death(s) in ways that both feel fitting for them individually and together and i hope it comes across well. little things, little seperations, small triggers connect to much much deeper trauma for both of them. and believe it or not, this isn't the ugliest version of it and it definitely is not healthy. :( act 1 is uncovering the trauma, act 2 is feeling its true effects for the first time but moving alongside it....act 3 is its full detonation.

LOVE YOU. SO MUCH.

12k words sorry 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭