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CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN;

I KNOW THE END.

[ content warning: extreme violence ]

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"HEY! FUCKFACE!"

HAVEN WASN'T ENTIRELY SURE WHAT SHE WAS THINKING as she locked eyes with the pack of Reapers lurking in the distance. Half of her body jutted out from behind a tree, the fallen log in her hand crashing against its trunk with a thunderous roar. The forest echoed with the violent impact—a desperate summons to lure the Reapers toward her. Lincoln, crouched behind the same trunk, stared around her through wide eyes, his breath quickening as he watched her audacious actions in horrified disbelief.

Surely, this was how she was meant to die. Out of all the reckless decisions she had made since setting foot on Earth, this one stood at the pinnacle of stupidity. Yet, the cruel truth persisted—it wasn't the first time she'd been gripped by this undying will to survive, rocketing her towards the abyss of peril.

        And it certainly wouldn't be the last.

After all, Haven still remained the lionhearted, indomitable force of nature she'd been since their descent onto Earth, the very one who had dared to lure the panther away from her friends—sooner choosing to embrace danger than to preserve her own existence.

She had trembled like a leaf then.

        Now . . . she was grinning.

Slowly, the Repears pivoted to face her. Even from afar, their appearance was horrific, serving enough nightmare fuel to last her for an eternity. Clad in warrior garbs, a twisted fusion of maroon and black, they stood out starkly against the earthy tones of the Grounders' attire. Masks were unnecessary for the Repears; their features alone exuded malevolence. Their eyes blazed scarlet like smoldering coals, piercing her with an intensity that threatened to engulf her very soul. Their pallid skin, tinged with sickly gray, spoke of a life devoid of light and warmth—as though they were birthed from the shadows themselves.

Haven clenched her jaw.

"YEAH, YOU!" she shouted, stepping boldly from behind the concealment of the tree trunk, baring her teeth in defiance. "COME AND GET ME, BIT—!"

The Repears launched into an immediate sprint.

. . . Oh, shit.

Then, Haven spun on her heels, darting into the abyss with a swiftness born of primal dread. The night air clawed at her lungs, each gasp a desperate plea for reprieve as she forced her body to soar. With every stride, she hammered the unforgiving earth beneath her, each footfall echoing like a death knell in the night—dragging the specter of death itself in her wake.

"That was your plan?!" Lincoln's voice thundered incredulously from somewhere amongst the darkness. Although Haven couldn't see him, she could feel his presence, his speed surging effortlessly alongside her. "Octavia was right! Yu laik jova..."

"Spare me the insults—please!" Haven shot back, strategically leaping over a tangle of gnarled tree roots ahead of them, not daring to glance at the danger looming behind her. "I don't speak Grounder!"

Lincoln spat out the words like they were bitter stones. "I was trying to say...you are brave!" he retorted, his voice icy and sharp, as if etched from the cold of the night. Yet, beneath the frostiness—there lingered a glimmer of reluctant admiration. "Insanely, stupidly brave!"

        Against her will entirely, Haven felt her lips betray her. Soon enough, she found herself smiling, beaming like innocent little girl she buried deep inside of her—a stark contrast to the raging idiot she embodied today, charging headlong into the abyss of her own making. She knew her soul consisted of a myriad of unforgiving traits, but in moments like this, where the wind lashed against her cheeks and her heart thundered with something other than the weight of despair, she felt . . . alive.

But, like all beautiful things—it never lasted.

As soon as the dropship slammed into view, Haven's heart plummeted, as if it had been wrenched from her chest and embedded itself deep within the earth beneath her feet. Perhaps it was an act of self preservation, or a feeble attempt to shield itself from the nightmare awaiting her. With each step closer to camp, the ruthless effects of violence manifested in ghastly scenes of carnage, each detail more horrifying than the last, as if reality itself had been torn asunder by the savagery of man.

        The north field was a graveyard.

        Landmines had once lain in wait, erupting beneath unsuspecting footfalls, leaving behind gaping craters of charred earth and billowing plumes of smoke that twisted and contorted in the frigid air. The pungent stench of scorched earth and burning flesh clawed at Haven's senses, annihilating her sinuses and wrenching her stomach in violent upheaval. Bodies littered the ground beneath her feet, their lifeless forms reduced to burnt husks, the explosions obliterating their features far beyond recognition.

She could hardly discern whether she was leaping over dead Grounders or fallen friends.

Gunshots shattered the air like wicked thunderbolts. Screams reverberated blindly across the wind. Repears howled viciously in the horde lurking just beyond her shoulders. Every noise was a searing brand against her consciousness, a stark reminder of the relentless violence that besieged the camp.

Still, Haven forced herself to keep running, her every step a battle cry against the anguished wails of her buried, bleeding heart. There was no space for mourning, no moment to draw breath, only the relentless demand to move, move, move. Even if she wanted to slow down, she couldn't, her body driven by primal instinct to reach her loved ones, by any means necessary.

Suddenly—a deafening, sonic boom cleaved through the twilight.

        The Smith girl skidded to an immediate halt, Lincoln mirroring her, dirt and debris swirling beneath their boots as they huddled beneath the coverage of a nearby shrub. Time itself seemed to stall, suspended in the charged atmosphere, while every creature in the vicinity stood transfixed—the Reapers lurking, the Grounder army poised ahead—each group bound by a silent reverence, their gazes trained skyward.

Golden light tore through the inky clouds converging in the distance, a searing beacon slicing through the darkness with an ominous brilliance. It rocketed through the heavens with the same fiery velocity as the exodus ship. As Haven strained her eyes, she could barely discern the eerily familiar shape—the celestial, satellite home she had called her own for nearly two decades . . . descending to Earth.

        "Oh my god," she whispered. "Oh my god."

        Lincoln's words were a low hiss. "You didn't say anything about reinforcements."

        "It's not reinforcements..." Haven could hardly believe the otherworldly sight unfurling before their wild eyes. "That's the Ark. Our home."

        All at once, the Ark collided into the atmosphere with a jarring jolt. Countless fiery shards detached from the satellite upon impact, erupting across the sky in vibrant hues of halcyon and amber. The remnants of what was lost in the descent scattered across the firmament, twinkling like fallen stars. Meanwhile—the primary satellite, its once pristine form now marred by the chaos of reentry, continued its relentless path towards the ground.

True to form, the Ark had decided to descend just as the war had reached its zenith—what were they if not utterly, fucking useless?

        ". . . TAKE THE GATE!"

        It seemed Haven wasn't the only one jolted out of their momentary daze. A few yards ahead, she could distinctly make out the Grounder army gathering themselves, poised to hurl themselves against the metal barricade—the sole barrier between them and the lives of the children they sought to slaughter.

"The Repears will notice them any second now," Lincoln whispered urgently, stealing a quick glance beyond their hiding spot as he caught sight of the Reapers cutting through the treeline. "Let them attack first, then get the medicine to your friend while they're distracted. I must find Octavia."

"Wait—!"

        Just as Lincoln pivoted to leave, Haven's hand shot out, abruptly seizing him by the forearm.

       He stared at her blankly.

        "I just..." Haven mustered a shaky inhale, miserably attempting to summon the right words, ones that could properly encapsulate the enormity of her gratitude. "Thank you. For everything."

        Lincoln bowed his head, a gesture of ancient respect, laden with an honor that resonated far beyond her realm of comprehension. "I will find you again," he declared solemnly. "Be safe."

Then, he was gone.

"REPEARS!"

Hovering behind the shrub, Haven tore her sights away from Lincoln's retreating silhouette, forcing herself to focus on the imminent clash ahead of her. The Grounders must have surely detected the oncoming horde of Reapers by now, both factions paralyzed by sheer astonishment at the sudden convergence. For a harrowing moment, they stood locked in a deadly standoff. The silence was electric, each side poised on a knife's edge, eyes blazing with the raw intensity of warriors ready to unleash chaos. Every breath, every twitch seemed to hang in the balance, waiting for the first strike to shatter the fragile equilibrium.

        An arrow was the catalyst, slicing through the shadows with lethal precision, embedding itself in the throat of a Reaper at the forefront—killing him upon impact.

        Hell erupted in seconds.

        The bloodshed was horrific, ensnaring Haven's attention in its sinister depths, her gaze locked onto the carnage as if spellbound. The Grounders who had scaled the gate's summit swiftly retreated, wielding their weapons with brutal ferocity against the Reapers, who retaliated with twice the savagery. Limbs were severed in brutal arcs. Heads flew, then rolled. Battle cries and screams of agony melded into a monstrous symphony, a cacophony of violence so overwhelming that Haven failed to notice the stealthy footsteps creeping up behind her.

A cold hand jerked her backwards.

Before Haven could react, her spine was wrenched flush against her assailant's chest, their arm coiling around her throat like a steel vice. Instinctively, her hands flew to her neck, managing to wedge them beneath the stranger's forearm just before it could crush her windpipe entirely. Panicked, she attempted to leverage her weight backward, hoping to topple them both to the ground. Yet, her efforts were abruptly halted by the touch of a familiar dagger against her throat—its glinting edge a silent yet unmistakable menace.

"So we meet again," a voice purred against her temple, distinctly female—and devastatingly recognizable. "Do not make a sound."

It was Anya.

For a fleeting moment, Haven entertained the thought of obeying Anya's command. The circumstances were undeniably fucked, with Haven trapped in a vulnerable position, her still knees embedded in the cold, unforgiving earth. Anya crouched dangerously close behind her, poised to either suffocate Haven's last breath or deliver a swift, merciless demise with her blade, all contingent upon Haven's next, fateful decision.

        Fuck it.

        In one, swift movement, Haven jerked her neck backwards—driving the rear of her skull directly into the forefront of Anya's face. Anya recoiled with a guttural snarl of rage, blood spurting from her nose, promptly relinquishing her grip around Haven's neck. Seething with adrenaline, Haven scrambled to her feet, seizing the precious seconds afforded to her to retrieve a blade of her own.

        "Don't touch me again," Haven's voice hissed through the air like a viper, her eyes ablaze with righteous fury as Anya assumed a defensive stance of her own. With deadly precision, Haven pointed her knife at the warrior, a silent vow of swift retribution. "Back off. Now."

Anya curled her bloodstained lips into a sneer. "Must you always be so hardheaded? I need to—"

"Get the fuck away from me!"

As Anya dared to breach the gap between them, Haven slashed the glint of her blade through the air, slicing a warning arc across Anya's fur cloak. It was eerily reminiscent of their prior encounter on the bridge. Though it spared Anya's flesh this time, as she ventured another step back, they both knew that next time—it wouldn't.

"I just stitched that up!" Anya spat, eyes darkening with fury as she surveyed the shred marring her sleeve. Expelling the heaviest of irritated sighs, she pinned Haven with a death glare. "If only you'd listen...you'd realize I'm trying to help you!"

        Haven went rigid, though her protective stance was hard as iron, unshaken by the surge of bewilderment coursing through her veins.

        "What the hell are you talking about?"

Anya shook her head. "There's too much to explain," she confessed in a low, hushed tone, briefly lifting her glare to observe the escalating conflict unfolding in the distance. "I'm giving you an out. Run before I deploy the troops."

What the fuck kind of war tactic was this?

Memories ricocheted through Haven's consciousness as she further recalled their encounter on the bridge. Amidst the moonshine tainted bits and pieces of information, she could distinctly recall the urgency in Anya's voice, the desperate entreaties imploring Haven to yield, to avoid unnecessary bloodshed—all the while brandishing her dagger dangerously close to Haven's throat.

And now, even amidst the swirling chaos of war, Anya extended a lifeline once more, offering Haven an opportunity flee, to spare her life . . . again.

        "Me—?" Haven's incredulity hung heavy in the air. "Why are you trying to help me?"

        "It doesn't matter!" Anya hissed, her agitation fracturing the oppressive silence between them with an intensity that belied her intent. She cast a furtive glance towards the warriors, ensuring they hadn't overheard. "This is your final chance. Die with your people, or run—now!"

Die with your people.

The words reverberated deep within Haven's mind, embedding themselves deep beneath the mutilated tissue of her heart, seeping into the very barrow of her bones. While the Grounders possessed their army, their livelihood, their futures to fight for, they also clung to the promise of sanctuary awaiting them once the tumult of battle subsided.

        The teenagers had nothing.

        No home to return to. No future to envision beyond their relentless fight for survival. Nothing but the undying resolve to persevere, to live, to fight until they were nothing but ashen skeletons and crimson ruins. Among the debris of their former selves, strewn like tributes to merciless war gods, they clung tightly to the memories of loved ones lost. The hundred were the keepers of eternal memories, guardians of the fallen, a mortal extension of the ghosts of who had once walked beside them. From the moment they landed on Earth, they fought tirelessly to keep their memories alive, knowing that even if it meant meeting their end in combat—their legacy would endure.

Dying to save their own skins was one thing.

To die for each other, for family, for their people . . . it was the purest form of honor, of love they had ever known.

Haven lifted her chin. Defiantly.

        Anya released a hollow scoff.

        "You stupid, stupid girl." 

        Then, the warrior lunged at Haven, a blur of steel and motion, aiming to plunge her dagger into the soft tissue of her torso.

With lethal grace, Haven sidestepped Anya's blade, her eyes tracking the deadly arc of the weapon as it embedded itself in the trunk of a nearby tree.

        "Who's stupid now?" Bitch.

        Sensing the fleeting window of opportunity, Haven lunged forward with calculated precision, her strike a symphony of controlled aggression. Her blow landed with a menacing force against Anya's spine, momentarily immobilizing her, before swiftly redirecting her focus to the vulnerable juncture between joint and shoulder, impeding Anya's attempted to recover and wield her knife once more.

Anya's teeth bared in a snarl of seething rage. "Yield!" she hissed, her voice a venomous command as she swung her fist toward Haven's temple with brutal force, a frantic bid to immobilize her. "Yield, Natblida!"

This time, Haven's movements were primal, entirely devoid of precision or finesse. She didn't hesitate as her blade cleaved through the air, grazing the skin of Anya's cheekbone before plummeting downward, carving a deep laceration across her forearm. A thin rivulet of blood cascaded from the cut on her face, mingling with the existing torrent from her nose. Yet, it was the raw, visceral agony of the wound on her forearm that unleashed a guttural, tortured shriek from Anya's throat.

The warrior's blade collapsed to the earth with a dull thunk, its surrender leaving her utterly defenseless against Haven's approaching form.

        "I am not doing this with you again! You can't say that you want to help me, then try to stab me!" Haven spat out the words as if they were steeped in poison. Her breaths came in jagged gasps, the rhythm of her chest matching the erratic beat of her heart. "If you want to help, call off your fucking army—or die with them!"

        "You heard her."

        The unmistakable click of a rifle reloading startled the both of them, its presence accompanied by the familiar scent of pine.

        Bellamy Blake stood as a formidable pillar to Haven's left, his eyes darkened into twin pools of death, the barrel of his gun trained squarely between Anya's feline eyes—a silent declaration of her imminent demise.

       His shook his head once. Twice.

       "I'm not aiming for your hand this time."

With a final, withering glare, Anya's eyes conveyed a silent plea, a desperate cry for comprehension, before she vanished into the throng ahead.

        "Fuck, Haven," Bellamy cursed through gritted teeth. "Fuck."

Once the warrior disappeared from sight, Bellamy slung his rifle over his shoulder and instinctively tugged Haven into a fierce embrace. His footsteps led them deeper into the shadowy depths of the forest, halting as her spine backed against the rough bark of a towering tree. He held her as if she were the last vestige of his sanity, his fingers clutching her jacket with an almost manic intensity before smoothing over her hair, tracing the contours of her neck, and gripping her shoulders—each touch a fervent affirmation of that she was alive, alive. alive.

        "You're okay," he panted. "You're okay."

For a fleeting moment, the war raging behind them ceased to exist, eclipsed by the thunderous rhythm of their hearts and the tremors coursing through their limbs. It would be so simple to stay here, breathlessly entwined, surrendering the tumult's voracious embrace and allowing it to swallow them whole.

But, they couldn't . . . they couldn't.

Haven was the first to retract from the hug. "We have to get back to camp," she declared shakily, her eyes widening with alarm at the sight of blood adorning Bellamy's forehead. "Are you..."

"I'm fine. It's not my blood." Bellamy affirmed, though the shadows encompassing his eyes hinted at a different truth. Noticing the faint furrow between Haven's brows, he released a tortured exhale. "Octavia...she put her sword through one of their heads to save me."

        "Shit," Haven breathed, fingers fumbling to rid the scarlet traces from Bellamy's brow, the sleeve of her coat offering little reprieve. "Where is she?"

Bellamy's jaw tightened.

Fervent, bone-melting fear slithered beneath Haven's skin, weaving its tendrils through her being, twisting her insides into a labyrinth of tangled knots as she grappled with Bellamy's ominous silence. Octavia couldn't be dead; if she were, Bellamy certainly would've killed himself by now, bound to his sibling by a force that defied comprehension. But, if Octavia was alive, and Bellamy was still staring at Haven as if he were two heartbeats away from shattering. . . what the hell happened?

Haven shook her head. "Bell..."

Agony maimed Bellamy's next words. "She was hit by an arrow after..." His voice fractured as fought to choke out the dreadful syllables, as if the admission itself were a grievous wound. "...after she saved me. It's deep in her leg. She can't walk on it." Glass stretched over his eyes as he sucked in a shaky breath. "Lincoln found us. He's...he's keeping her safe."

        Something tectonic shifted between them.

It was an unspoken truth, a solemn oath that echoed through the chambers of Bellamy Blake's soul: everything he had ever done, every sacrifice, every choice, had always been for his little sister.

From the moment she entered his world, he assumed the mantle as her protector, driven by an instinctual need to shield her from the harsh realities that surrounded them. He abandoned any semblance of a normal life, knowing that his duty lay with her. He enlisted in the Guard, swallowing his contempt for their existence, for her. He shot the fucking Chancellor, boarded a decrepit spaceship bound for a radioactive wasteland, all for her.

It was also no secret that Bellamy had his fair share of grievances against the Grounders, most notably, a wretched history with Lincoln. He kidnapped him. Beat him. Drove a screw straight through the tender flesh of his hand. Yet, in the face of catastrophic danger, when Octavia's life hung in the balance, Bellamy made a monumental decision. Somewhere within him, he unearthed the capacity to believe in Lincoln—to entrust him with the sacred duty of protecting her life.

        Everything Bellamy Blake had ever done in his life was for his little sister, and somehow—he managed to let her go.

        As Haven allowed Bellamy to cling to her, his entire body swaying as if on the brink of collapse, his breath hitching as if his lungs might fail him without the reassurance of Octavia's presence, her resolve crystallized. If the war was destined to tear apart one of the last known pairs of siblings in existence . . .

        the least they could do was fucking win it.

"Lincoln will keep her safe—I know it," Haven assured him, gesturing to the complete and utter mayhem unfolding in the distance with a subtle tilt of her head. "Besides, he helped me with all of this."

Together, they cast their eyes toward the conflict unfolding between the warring factions, witnessing the savage spectacle of bodies torn asunder and the earth drenched in blood—a scene so visceral it seemed to pulse with its own malevolent energy. It was clear that the Grounders were on the brink of triumph, but not without paying a devastating toll, their ranks decimated by the merciless onslaught of the Reapers.

Bellamy gaped. "You...you did this?"

Haven merely shrugged.

        As he pivoted towards the girl beside him, Bellamy couldn't suppress the incredulous, shaky grin that spread across his face. It was an amalgamation of emotions–torn between the urge to scold her for her recklessness, and the overwhelming desire to smother her in affection for being so damn clever.

Yet, amidst it all, one sentiment roared unequivocally louder than the rest.

He was proud.

"NOW, TO THE WALL!"

        Before Haven could fully register the urgency in the foreign battle cry, Bellamy's hand clamped onto hers, yanking her forward with an unyielding force. Lunging into the cramped entrance of a foxhole, they plunged into the tunnel's narrow depths, the earth trembling beneath the intensity of their sprint. Swirling clouds of dirt clogged their lungs, assaulting their senses with the acrid taste of grit and the stench of impending conflict.

        By the time they burst into the heart of camp . . . they gate had already fallen.

        What was once their sole source of protection from the Grounder's onslaught now lay in tattered ruins amongst the dirt. Warriors, heedless of the destruction wrought, trampled over the twisted metal remnants as though it were a plaything, their swords cleaving through the air with deadly precision. Arrows whistled through the plume of debris, finding their marks with alarming accuracy, piercing through the ranks of teenagers who dared to fight against the relentless tide of enemy forces.

Violence was everywhere.

The defensive barrier roared with the force of a thousand suns. Steel clashed against steel in a frenzied dance of death, the air thick with the stench of gunpowder and the deafening roar of gunfire. From the dwindling ranks of gunners, a relentless barrage of bullets tore through the battle, each shot a deadly salvo in the fight for survival. Grenades arced through the chaos, detonating with devastating force at their feet, engulfing the battlefield in flames that licked hungrily at the combatants.

At the south post, Jones emerged as a figure of primal fury, his face smeared with blood as he brought his rifle crashing down upon a Grounder's skull. Beside him, Monroe fought on with fireproof resolve, an arrow protruding from her back as she hurled a spear into the abyss—effortlessly skewering a Grounder through his chest.

And, in the midst of it all . . . Orion.

Flames licking mercilessly at her skin, teeth gritted in defiance, she swung her sword in a vengeful arc—decapitating four Grounders at once.

"HOLY SHIT! DID ANYBODY SEE THAT? THAT WAS SO FUCKING AWESOME! OH MY GOD—!"

        Then, Haven was barreling into the fray.

"Haven—NO!"

Bellamy's felt his heart lurch at the sudden absence of her hand in his. Savage with desperation, he hounded after her, his voice cracking with unparalleled panic. Withdrawn twin daggers gleamed in the firelight as Haven became a whirlwind of unstoppable motion, her movements fluid and lethal. Her speed was a manifestation of lightning itself as she charged headfirst into the turmoil, Bellamy's frantic pleas falling upon entirely deaf ears.

"The dropship!" Bellamy thundered from somewhere behind her. "Get to the dropship!"

        "No! I'm not leaving them!" Haven's decree rang out with the strength of forged iron. "I can't!"

"Haven—!"

"It's not happening!" she shouted, her throat seared raw from the tireless exertion of sprinting. "Raven needs us! We have to hold them back for as long as we can!"

        Bellamy was going to have a heart attack.

        In the midst of literal warfare, there was simply no time to short circuit, no luxury to process Haven's audacious recklessness. The Blake boy knew his pleas were useless, just as he knew that Haven would stop at nothing to save her friends.

So, he furiously accelerated behind her, slung his rifle into his grasp—and killed every single Grounder foolish enough to block her path.

They moved together as one.

Seamlessly. Intrinsically.

       Gripping her blades fiercely in each hand, Haven surged into the tumult, the relentless hail of Bellamy's bullets offering her a lethal shield. Unflinchingly, she drove one blade deep into the nape of a charging Grounder, propelling Jones forward to engage his next attacker. The hot spatter of arterial blood marred her skin, the metallic scent thick in the air as crimson coated her fingers in a slick, gory film. Twisting, she wrenched the blade free, only to bury it mercilessly into the Grounder's chest as he whirled around—his futile retaliation extinguished in mere seconds.

        With a guttural thud, he crumpled to the ground, a lifeless heap amidst the chaos, his final breaths lost in the roar of battle.

Dead.

Another Grounder charged Haven from the opposite direction, brandishing a spear with deadly intent. But before he could reach her, Haven's blade was already in motion, the whir of steel slicing through the air with supernatural speed. The weapon tore through the tender flesh and bone in seconds—finding its mark with unerring accuracy between the Grounder's eyes.

For Drew.

        "GET OFF OF HIM, YOU CUNT!"

At the piercing shrill of Orion's cry, Haven's heart plummeted with dread, her focus instinctively snapping to the nightmare unfolding in the distance. Bellamy, sprawled defenseless on the ground, fought a primal battle against the Grounder looming above him. Every fiber of his being strained against the relentless grip crushing his windpipe—his fingers clawing frantically at the hands that threatened to throttle the life out of him.

       "BELLAMY!"

        Just as Haven poised to unleash her second blade, Orion surged forward with primal ferocity, driving her sword deep into the Grounder's back, then kicking his lifeless form aside like a discarded puppet. With breaths as ragged as Bellamy's, she extended a hand to haul him upright, but before he could rise, Orion was thrust backwards—her body slammed mercilessly into the unforgiving earth by another assailant.

        Gasping for any vestige of oxygen, Bellamy unflinchingly launched himself onto the Grounder's back, seized him by the neck, and twisted—the bone yielding beneath his grip with a sickening snap.

        "HAVEN! ON YOUR RIGHT!"

In the fleeting second it took for Haven to register Monroe's warning—the unforgiving crash of a fist pummeled into her jaw, forcing her to bite her tongue. Stars exploded in a blinding cascade across her vision. Blood pooled devastatingly in her mouth. Before she could even attempt to recover, a sinister grip coiled around her torso, yanking her closer–a dagger hovering dangerously close to the tender flesh of her throat.

The Grounder leered at Haven with a predatory appetite, his tongue slithering across his grime-streaked lips as he appraised her with unsettling intensity. "My...a real pretty one, aren't you?" With a perverse fascination, he lifted his blade from her throat to the flush of her lips, the cold steel pressing softly against their trembling flesh.  "Pets like you," he continued lowly, "...are far too striking to kill outright. How about we indulge in a little...fun first?"

No. Fucking. Way.

If Haven were destined to die—it certainly it wouldn't be at the mercy of this worthless vessel of wasted oxygen. Every instinct within her shrieked for escape, begging for liberation from this putrid prison—yet the proximity of the man's blade to her lips granted little margin for error. Pinned tightly against the repulsive bulk of her assailant's filthy form, her options seemed bleak.

        Yet, by some stroke of divine luck, the Grounder seemingly remained oblivious to the blade clenched within her palm.

        Lips curling into a sneer, Haven sought to plunge her blade deep into his gut—only to be met with a jarring, hollow thunk as her weapon struck the unforgiving barrier of armor.

        . . . FUCK.

The Grounder laughed.

Summoning every last reserve of her willpower, Haven unleashed a frantic barrage of attacks, aiming to stomp on his foot while simultaneously delivering a crippling blow to his crotch. But she froze in abject terror as the Grounder's clammy, film-encrusted palm slithered against the exposed skin at the hem of her jacket.

        His eyes gleamed with predatory menace.

        "You must fight harder than that, fanas."

        Haven spat the blood in her mouth directly at his face.

The Grounder hardly even flinched. His grin, once a mere smirk, contorted into a sinister sneer of delight, revealing yellowed teeth that resembled the jagged edges of a tomb. Rather than swiftly wiping away the splatter, he reveled in it, smearing the blood across his features with deliberate, almost ritualistic strokes—as if seeking ecstasy from the nature of Haven's defiance. Satisfied with his work, he shifted to adjust his grip on the hilt of his blade, eager to deliver the final blow.

But then, as his eyes caught sight of the onyx stain blooming against her lips, seeping into his very fingertips—his expression contorted from one of smug superiority to one of paralyzing shock.

"NATBLIDA!"

        All at once, the cacophony of war fell silent, its relentless drumbeat drowned out by the sheer force of her attacker's proclamation. Every weapon froze in mid-strike, every breath hung suspended in the air, as if time itself had ground to a standstill.

All eyes were glued to Haven.

        The Grounders stared at her as if she were both the catalyst of their demise and the epitome of their most fervent desires. Every gaze bore into her with unwavering intensity, stripping away the veil of anonymity to reveal the raw essence of her being. At the epicenter of their collective judgement, she stood alone—bathed in the unforgiving light of revelation.

        Natblida.

        It was the same word Anya had hurled against Haven earlier in the night. Though she didn't grasp the language of the warriors, "blida" sounded eerily akin to "blood." And as the Grounder holding her captive continued to gape, his wide eyes oscillating between the inky black stain on his fingertips and the furrow forming between her brows, Haven's assumption solidified.

        This term . . . laden with sinister connotations—seemed to encapsulate her very being, branding her in ways she was only beginning to fathom.

"It's her!" The Grounder's voice rang out, devoid of direction, a cry of bewildered urgency meant for any ears willing to listen. "It's HER!"

Somewhere in the distance, another Grounder erupted into an explosive shout, the sound of thundering footsteps accompanying his cry. Though Haven couldn't turn to face him, constrained by the knife at her lips, his words resonated with a dreadful familiarity—it carried the same authoritative cadence as the battle commands that had echoed before the wall collapsed.

"Honor the Commander's orders!" he bellowed sharply, "She lives—but the rest of her people perish!"

Commander?

Why was Anya so ridiculously hellbent on keeping Haven alive—and what the fuck did it have to do with her blood type?

There was no luxury of time for Haven to delve into her umpteenth existential crisis of the past few days. Survival was the only directive now, driving her to break free from the repugnant grasp of her captor, to fight tooth and nail for her livelihood. Locking eyes with the Grounder once more, she aimed to exploit his lingering disbelief, to seize a fleeting advantage before he could gather his wits and strike back.

She was promptly met with a twisted grin.

"Doesn't mean I can't rough her up first."

        Bellamy's scream tore across the twilight with a ferocity that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth.

         "NO!"

         Sprawled across the dirt, pinned beneath the relentless weight of a Grounder's boot, Bellamy fought for every breath, his world narrowing to the suffocating pressure on his neck. His fingers clawed frantically at the gritty soil, desperate to break free—for himself, and for the girl he loved. In a stroke of sheer luck, his trembling hand closed around a jagged shard of metal. Before he managed to suck in a fiery breath, he had already driven the makeshift weapon deep into the Grounder's foot.

The Grounder staggered backward with a shriek, momentarily derailed by searing agony, granting Bellamy a fleeting chance at freedom.

        He ran as if his own life depended on it.

        Just as the Grounder's tightened his grip on Haven's hips, just as Bellamy braced himself to slaughter him—a cascade of feathers descended from the heavens above.

        It was the owl.

        Haven's owl.

        Perched upon the Grounder's shoulder, the woodland creature blinked once, twice—then unleashed a relentless assault, its talons tearing rabidly into the Grounder's eyes.

        Gasping, Haven wrenched herself from the Grounder's grasp, stumbling backward into Bellamy's chest. The metallic tang of blood scented the air as the owl tore into the Grounder's face with savage ferocity—shredding muscle and sinew, shoveling the fleshy remnants into its insatiable beak.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

        "FINISH THEM!"

War resumed at once.

Bodies resumed their sinister dances of death, their movements a twisted symphony of violence as blades and arrows slashed through the air once more. Blood spurted mercilessly in every direction Haven turned. Not a single spot of land remained untouched by the stain of scarlet, nor a soul unscathed by the specter of death.

Now . . . the unspeakable acts of violence were finally registering. She could feel she felt the phantom stab of daggers piercing her friends' bodies as though it were her own flesh being rent apart. She could feel the icy chill of Bellamy's absence from behind her, catapulting her into a disorienting vortex of terror—one that threatened to swallow her whole.

"Bellamy!" she screamed, her voice raw with desperation as she spun wildly, the world around her dissolving into a chaotic blur of motion. "BELLAMY!"

        Amidst the tumultuous press of bodies, the inseparable duo had been violently torn apart—again. A few yards ahead, Haven's frantic eyes finally locked onto Bellamy's familiar crown of curls. He stood perilously close to a scorched patch of earth, the hems of his pants ragged and singed from the flames of a nearby grenade explosion. Against all odds, he had seized a lone spear, thrusting it with brutal force into the torso of a warrior attacking Sterling. Without pausing to see the Grounder fall, Bellamy wrenched the spear free, spun with relentless precision, and hurled it with a savage cry—the weapon finding its mark and embedding itself deep into the skull of another attacker bearing down on Finn.

Three warriors blocked the chasm to reach them.

Heart sledgehammering against her ribcage, Haven swiftly unsheathed the second blade from beneath her shirt, replacing the one she'd embedded between the eyes of the Grounder she killed earlier.

        Then, without thought, she bolted.

        As Haven surged towards the trio of adversaries, her figure seemed to transcend mortal bounds, her outstretched arms casting a shadow of impending doom. Time itself bowed to her will, slowing to a crawl as if to prolong the inevitable clash. Two of the Grounders closed in on her left, their predatory grins belying their sinister intent, while the third lurked on her right, a malevolent specter beckoning her towards oblivion.

        But Haven was no mere mortal; she was an angel of vengeance and everlasting fury, a force of nature that defied all attempts to tame her.

        Blades flashing like twin bolts of lightning, she unflinchingly carved a path in the narrow passage between the warriors—the sharp steel of her blades slicing across their throats with a merciless finality.

They collapsed to earth at once.

Dead.

        Haven felt no remorse as she surged through the remainder of the throng. Panic writhed wretchedly within her, every fiber of her being shrieking for the reassuring hum of Bellamy's presence. They stood ten feet apart, a mere breath away, when their gazes finally collided in a moment of breathless recognition. Bellamy's eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the corpses scattered at her feet. Then, as they darted just beyond her shoulder—his eyes bulged out his fucking skull.

        "GET DO—!"

        Bellamy's warning was uselessly swallowed in the depths of her own scream.

       Something cold had pierced into the flesh of Haven's shoulder, a torturous intrusion—one that severed through the same joint that had been failing her since their fifth day on Earth.

        There was no time to breathe, no time to process the mind-warping, cataclysmic agony that ricocheted throughout her arm. Before Haven could even distinguish whether the next scream was hers–or Bellamy's—she was shoved unforgivingly into the earth. She collapsed flat on her back, her skull cushioned only by the sticky, hot mass of another dead body. Stunned and disoriented, she fought to lift her gaze, only to find herself face-to-face with the same Grounder who had threatened her earlier.

One of his eyes was completely torn out.

And there, buried in the tendons of her shoulder, lay his dagger—the very one that had once caressed her throat and traced the curve of her lips.

       The Grounder loomed over her like a wraith. "Knew you had a weak joint the moment you tried to stab me," he hissed lowly, fingers curling around the hilt of his weapon, tempting fate with a cruel tug. "Too bad the birdy can't save you from your own foolishness, Natblida."

With a malevolent grin—he ruthlessly tore the blade from her body, staining its silvery gleam with the mark of dying shadows.

Haven unleashed a soul rendering shriek.

Just as the Grounder lifted the dagger high above her head, poised to strike once more—a tempest of eternal fury surged forth, a cataclysm of vengeance incarnate.

Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy.

         Thunderously, the Blake boy hurled himself upon the Grounder, driving him relentlessly into the ground until he lay pinned beneath his weight. Gritting his teeth, he unleashed a barrage of cruel blows upon the fallen warrior's face, each strike marring his knuckles with the tinge of foreign scarlet.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" Bellamy roared, every syllable punctuated by the resounding thud of his fist against flesh. "I'LL..." Again. "...FUCKING..." Again. "..KILL..." Again. "...YOU!"

Amidst the fray, an arrow had found its mark in Bellamy's back, yet he seemed alarmingly undisturbed by its bite. Screaming in agony, he ripped the offending projectile from his own flesh, the pain a fleeting shadow against the hellfire raging within him. Then, with a cruelty born of utter madness, he wielded the arrow as his own instrument of vengeance—plunging it deep into the Grounder's heart.

        Blood was everywhere.

        Everywhere.

        "GET EVERYBODY INSIDE!"

        With stars dancing across her vision, Haven struggled to tilt her head, the urgency of Clarke's command barely registering amidst the ringing in her ears. Through the haze, she glimpsed the blonde standing at the ramp of the dropship, tears mingling with soot on her stained skin, her gestures frantic as she beckoned the remaining teenagers inside.

        "LET'S GO! INSIDE! INSIDE!"

The rockets.

This was the apex of everything the defense barrier had fought for, their sole crusade of the night—to survive, and to provide Raven with enough time to ignite the thrusters, annihilating the Grounder army with a catastrophic blaze.

All Haven needed to do was summon the willpower to hoist herself off the ground and drag her battered body onto the ramp—but the mere notion of moving a limb felt excruciating, immobilizing. Frantically, she sought refuge on her elbows, her trembling muscles straining against the weight of her torture. Her right arm complied, inching upward with reluctant obedience. But her left, the very limb desecrated by the Grounder's blade . . . it remained stubbornly inert.

        She couldn't move it.

        Not an inch.

        Not at all.

        "HAVEN!" Bellamy's tortured scream sounded as if it were submerged under distant waters. "GO!"

        Still, Haven remained imprisoned by her own immobility. Despite the fervent pleas of her mind, her body refused to comply, each attempt to rise met with agonizing failure. Tears of frustration mingled with the soot upon her cheeks as she made yet another futile effort, her right elbow digging desperately into the unforgiving earth for purchase—only to be cruelly betrayed by the relentless pull of gravity once more.

       "HAVEN! GET! UP!"

She couldn't. She couldn't.

        No matter how desperately Haven yearned to heed Bellamy's words, to coax her body into obedience, she found herself shackled by the cruel whims of fate. Perhaps this was her destined end, mere yards from salvation, lightyears distant from the boy who desperately cried out into the night—pleading for her to live.

"COME ON!" Bellamy's voice shattered the haze surrounding her, a broken roar that cut through the fog of her consciousness with violent intensity, refusing to be ignored, demanding to be felt. "GET UP, HAVEN! YOU HAVE TO GET UP!"

By some unseen force of the universe, Haven summoned the last reserves of her strength to slowly tilt her head in the direction of his urgent commands. But as her eyes fell upon the harrowing sight that greeted her—her heart faltered, sputtered, then died out entirely.

Ten agonizing feet away, Bellamy lay flat on his stomach, crawling toward her limp form. His eyes scalded with devastating ire, yet his body remained a broken vessel, dragging itself across the bloodwashed earth with a defiance that defied all reason—unable to stand, unable to bridge the chasm between them.

He was miserably choking back sobs.

"PLEASE!"

        And then . . . a whisper of movement, an act of defiance against the looming darkness.

        With a cry that echoed the agony of a thousand lifetimes, her injured shoulder protesting every inch of progress—Haven summoned a reserve of strength she hadn't known existed. Twisting onto her side, she gritted her teeth, determination etched into every line of her face as she willed herself onto her stomach. Every movement was a battle, every centimeter gained a triumph over the abyss. With only one arm to anchor her, the other hanging limp—she crawled towards Bellamy as if her very existence depended on it.

Because it did.

It always did.

Blood marred every inch of Bellamy's skin as he crawled towards her. Wounds festered in places he hadn't even dared to imagine. He collapsed face first into the dirt as his traitorous forearms failed him again, and again, and again—yet even in the depths of exhaustion, he refused to surrender, clawing savagely at the earth, desperate to bridge the gaping void that separated him from her.

Another grenade erupted, the blast searing the earth between them, flames licking hungrily at the wisps of Haven's lashes and scorching the skin of Bellamy's obliterated knuckles.

       Still . . . they kept crawling.

United by a force that transcended mortal fear and physical agony, they pressed on, bodies feverishly carving a path through the desolation—each inch gained an incendiary defiance against the forces that sought to wrench them apart.

        Their fingertips almost touched.

Almost.

        But, the hands of fate had other plans.

        More specifically—the hands of Nathan fucking Miller.

Before Haven could even grasp what was unfolding, Miller had already intervened. With a swift and decisive motion, he tore Haven from the earth, crushing her against his chest with a strength that left no room for resistance—hauling her thrashing body towards the gaping maw of the dropship.

"NO!" Haven shrieked, writhing manically in his grip, only to be guided further and further away from the dying boy in the dirt. With every fiber of her being, she fought against his inexorable hold, her nails digging unforgivingly into his flesh. "No, no...no! Let me go, Miller! Let me go!"

        "I can't!" Miller's shout was a feeble cry against the torrent of her rage. "I'm sorry, Hav! I can't—!"

        "LET! ME! GO!"

        Seething, Haven summoned every ounce of strength to sink her teeth into Miller's shoulder, eliciting a hiss of irritation from him as he momentarily relented his grip. Seizing the fleeting opportunity, she darted back towards Bellamy's collapsed figure, her heart rioting with terror. But before she could reach him, Miller's iron grip reclaimed her—dragging her back into the suffocating prison of his arms once more.

"I can't!" Miller's muscles quivered under the relentless assault of Haven's thrashing, the strain threatening to plunge them both into the ground. "I promised him!"

        But Haven couldn't hear him.

In the distance, a Grounder had seized Bellamy by the collar of his jacket—only to brutally slam him back into the unforgiving earth. Bellamy's valiant attempts to resist were met with cruel mockery by his assailant. Despite his defiant spirit, his muscles faltered, betraying him in his darkest hour. Each blow from the Grounder's fists was a hammer of despair, threatening to shatter not just his flesh, but the very essence of his being.

His body was failing him.

        Haven's vision blurred into red.

        "Fuck your promise!" Hardly aware of the weight of her own words, she fought with unrestrained ferocity, clawing, thrashing, refusing to yield to the shackles that bound her. "I'm not leaving him! I'm not—"

"Bellamy knew you would do this!"

Miller's voice was barely audible against the blur of movement among them. Bodies pressed inwards at every direction, a desperate surge toward the safety of the dropship's ramp. As Haven's nails raked against his throat, a sudden revelation dawned upon him—his wide eyes detecting a horrific symmetry in her movements. She was only fighting with her right arm, her left ominously immobile . . . a torrent of black blood spewing from her shoulder.

Her arm was poised to detach itself entirely.

"Hav, fuck—stop it!" he scolded, "You're gonna tear your arm off!"

        Still, Haven remained deaf to Miller's words, her focus wholly consumed by the horrifying wreckage unfolding at the camp's perimeter. As Miller relentlessly dragged her away, the violence grew more distant, yet the image of Bellamy's brutal assault remained permanently seared into her mind.

Again, and again, and again—the Grounder's tireless fists pummeled into Bellamy's face. Blood sprayed mercilessly. Bones warped beneath the jarring force of the onslaught. Breath was hardly being drawn. Somewhere amidst the fray, Finn materialized, grasping the nearest weapon in sight and hurling it towards the assailant—a valiant attempt to stem the tide of brutality and save Bellamy's life.

The Grounder flung him aside like a doll.

Haven was shattering, shuddering, choking on the enormity of her devastation. "Miller...please!" she cried hoarsely, "Please, please, please! I'm begging you! He's...he's KILLING him!"

        "We have to go! I'm sorry!" Miller choked out, tightening his hold around her torso, futilely attempting to blink away the mist of grief clouding his vision. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Hav—but I'm not losing both of you! I can't!"

A mere five yards seperated them from the dropship's ramp now.

"You don't have to lose either of us!" Haven countered, straining more violently than ever to wrench herself free. Despite the irreparable torment pulsating through her shoulder, she fought on, driven by a fervent need to defy the looming specter of loss. "We can save him! We have to save him! We just can't just—!" A righteous sob tore from her throat as her desperation spiraled into mania. "WE CAN'T JUST LEAVE HIM TO DIE!"

        "You think I want to?"

        Miller's voice abruptly cracked, his words a tortured admission, a testament to the unbreakable vow that bound him to his duty, a duty born out of respect and admiration for the boy who had risen to lead their camp, a vow he intended to honor—in life, and now, in death.

        "If it came down to him or you...he begged me to choose you! I promised him! I-I swore it!" he confessed, every syllable laden with the excruciating burden of unshed tears. "If he lives, but you die..." He vehemently shook his head. "I-I can't do that to him! I won't! This is what he wanted!"

        By the time Haven finally grasped the tormenting truth behind his admission—he had already shoved her into confines of the dropship, entombing her fate within it's cold, metal depths.

        "We're staying!" Miller thundered decisively, his breath ragged, traces of black blood stark against his jacket and hands as he frantically gestured towards Clarke. "SHUT THE DAMN DOOR!"

         Haven erupted into another torturous scream. "NO!"

Before she could hurl herself down the ramp, Miller lunged forward, his presence a whirlwind of strength and restraint. His arm effortlessly hooked around her waist, a steel vice locking her in place, denying her descent into the abyss below. Tears bled down her cheeks like molten fire, searing her skin, incinerating her from the inside out as she spiraled deeper into the abyss of hyperventilating hysteria—her sobs a cacophony of raw, unrelenting torment.

"Bellamy!" she croaked, coughing and sputtering as her lungs frantically attempted to suck in air, a primal scream clawing its way through the suffocating panic. "BELL...A...MY!"

Somewhere in the distance, Bellamy Blake summoned the last vestiges of his strength, his form crumpled against the unforgiving earth as he fought to draw breath into his ravaged lungs. Brokenly, he strained to lift his head, his gaze colliding with hers in a fragile convergence of recognition.

He offered her a faint, fleeting smile.

Time twisted and contorted, a wounded apparition writhing in agony, its very essence unraveling at the seams, blurring the ethereal barrier between whispered dreams and nightmarish reality. Every atom quivered with dread, caught in the throes of an existential crisis, oscillating between existence and annihilation—uncertain of its endurance amidst the impending separation. The stars darkened in sorrow. The heavens resounded with an earth-shattering wail of defiance. The world itself plunged into a vortex of darkness and despair so wretched that it felt as though nothing could endure the devastation that lay ahead.

        Perhaps nothing would.

        Perhaps there was no salvation, no solace to be found in a universe torn asunder by loss. Perhaps, in the absence of life between the girl who cheated death and the boy who fought for her to live—existence itself lost all meaning.

        Bellamy was dying.

        And still . . . he forced himself to hold the stare of the girl who cradled his heart, battling against the encroaching darkness, straining to capture one final glimpse of her, to convey through silent nods of feeble reassurance that somehow—it would be okay.

        As if any of this could possibly be okay.

        As if he wasn't wilting right before her very eyes.

As if it wouldn't be her fault.

Amidst the shadows, Clarke shifted forward, her gaze torturously sweeping over the desolation that had befallen their once lively camp. As her swollen eyes met Haven's, a silent apology flickered within their reddened depths—the weight of a thousand unspoken words conveyed throughout a grim blink.

Haven shook her head. Once. Twice.

        And then, Clarke's hand found its mark on the door lever—sealing their fates eternally with a decisive pull.

The dropship ramp creaked upwards with a slow, haunting cadence, the grinding metal shrieking against its tracks as if it fought against its own fate. It seemed to yearn to stay open, to offer one last lifeline to any survivors still scrambling for the sanctuary within, a futile resistance against the inferno poised to devour those left behind.

Children had been slaughtered, their last breaths spent in fierce defense of their friends, fighting to protect the fragile semblance of community that had given their lives meaning. There would be no solemn burials to honor their bravery, no final resting places to mark their sacrifice. Instead, their bodies would be swallowed by the voracious blaze, their memories devoured by the flames, their existence reduced to nothing but ashes scattered to the merciless winds of fate—lost forever to the annals of time.

All that would remain of them was the bitter stench of their preordained cremation.

        Bellamy would turn to ash . . . all by himself, isolated in the desolation, after everything and everyone he had fought tooth and nail to protect had been stripped away.

        How many times had Bellamy been there while Haven had taken her final breaths? How many times had he raced through the Ark's corridors, her limp form cradled in his arms, unsure if she still clung to life or if she had already slipped beyond his grasp? How many times had he refused to let her in walk into death, alone?

        Haven had lost count.

And as his face slowly vanished beneath the cold steel of the ramp's ascent . . . her decision had already crystallized.

Fuck promises. Fuck curses. Fuck fate.

She would not allow him to die alone.

        She refused.

         "To love is to go mad . . . it was less of a fight, and moreso a surrender. The two go hand in hand. Either way . . . it consumes you."

        Every atom within the Smith girl's frame convulsed, violently realigning in anticipation of the path ahead, her very essence bracing for yet another totter on the tightrope of her own mortality. Perhaps this was the essence of her mother's whispered tales of sacrifice and tragedy. Perhaps this was the fierce, cataclysmic heartbeat of love.

        Perhaps this was what it truly meant to be consumed.

        Decisively, Haven cast aside the satchel of coagulant, watching as it thudded against the metal floor beside Raven's motionless figure. Her gaze swiftly returned to the ramp, senses attuned to every nuance of movement around her. As Miller's arm gradually loosened its grip around her torso, she seized upon the fleeting opening with razor-sharp precision, her mind calculating the distance between the solid metal slab and the narrow gap that promised her only a slim chance of liberation.

One heartbeat passed. Another.

        Then, propelled by sheer willpower—she lunged forward, slipping through the dwindling gap just as the door threatened to seal shut.

        "NO! HAVEN!"

        Haven couldn't gauge the depth of Miller's protest as she staggered onto the bloodied earth, the echo of his cry swallowed by the cavernous finality of the ramp's closure. Disoriented by the sheer exertion it took to propel herself to freedom, she miserably collapsed onto her knees, her body quivering with exhaustion. Every fiber of her being wailed in agony as she clambered to her feet again. Still, she violently fought against the relentless pull of gravity, knowing that succumbing to the earth meant surrendering to her own demise.

        If she fell down . . . Haven knew that her body would never allow her to rise again.

Find him. Find him. Find him.

        Stumbling through the battleground's aftermath, Haven waded through the tangled mass of bodies strewn at her feet. Most lay lifeless, vacant eyes fixed upon the obsidian expanse above, their scarlet fingers clutching at the earth in a futile bid for salvation. Oblivious to the extent of her own blood loss, she forced herself onward, her vision wavering as the specter of imminent blackout clawed at the edges of her mind. Staggering blindly, she nearly tripped over the familiar weight of a hand-crafted sword, now abandoned and half-buried in the unforgiving dirt.

        Yet, amidst the chaos and carnage, none of it registered, not even in the slightest.

Driven by instinct alone, Haven's body moved as if on autopilot, her consciousness hardly clinging to life. Still, her limbs obeyed the faint call of flickering gravity—tethering her inexorably towards the motionless form of the dying boy in the distance.

Bellamy lay motionless at the camp's edge, sprawled on his back, teetering on the brink of death. Each breath was a faint, ragged whisper, his body a ghostly remnant of the man he once was. His neck remained craned towards the dropship's entrance, his half-lidded eyes fixed on its cold, unyielding barrier as if trapped in a daze, oblivious to the fact that Haven had abandoned its sanctuary.

At last, she collapsed beside him, her own strength utterly depleted.

Haven was devoid of tears as she curled her limp form into the stillness of Bellamy's torso. Wearily, she elevated her head, cradling it within the cleft between his bicep and shoulder, seeking refuge in his ebbing warmth. Despite her weakened state, her fingers clutched fiercely at the hem of his jacket, drawing him nearer with a fervent longing, determined to bind their souls together for all of eternity.

"I think it's rather honorable to die for true love. . . what better way to go down, than to go down fighting for what you love most?"

        At the familiar hum of her presence against his, Bellamy stirred, agony marring every shred of his bloodied features as he fought to suck in oxygen. He could feel the weight of his own deterioration pressing upon him, had even briefly reconciled with the inevitability of his demise. Yet, as his gaze flitted between the half-dead girl beside him and the impenetrable barrier of the sealed dropship door, he summoned every ounce of resolve within him to persist, to live.

"No..." he croaked hoarsely, "...No."

Hydrazine fumes hung thickly in the air.

Just . . . a little . . . longer . . .

Summoning every last vestige of his already fading vitality, Bellamy forced his battered body to move, agony shrieking through every sinew as he leveraged himself onto his trembling forearms. Grunting through clenched teeth, he maneuvered his decaying form over hers—a devastating attempt to shield her from the impending cataclysm.

At the cusp of the explosion's reach, they lay together, bodies poised on the very brink of annihilation. And if the flames dictated they were to be consumed together, reduced to twin skeletons, bound together by nothing more than mingled ashes scattered by the winds of obliteration . . . neither would have flinched.

As her universe finally caved in above her, the final image seared into Haven's consciousness was the sight of Bellamy's body slumping limply against her own, his head resting heavily against her temples—the tendrils of unconsciousness claiming him at last.

        The world ahead of them erupted into catastrophic flames, rupturing the air with its incendiary heat, altering the trajectories of their orbit irreversibly.

        She couldn't stay awake long enough to watch it burn.

• •

.........SURPRISE! THEY'RE DEAD!

just kidding 😈 unless??????

ALSO... HORNY? 🦉🫡 I SALUTE YOU

NOW KEEP READING BITCHES PART 3 OF THE FINALE IS UP RNRNRNRNRNRNRN GOOOOOO GO GOOO!!! LONG AUTHORS NOTE AT THE END

10K WORDS
haven's kill count: 6