Chapter Text
She was not scared.
Fear was a weakness, a brittle thing, and Nia had long since torn it out of herself like a rotting tooth. Scared was for fools who lacked control.
And yet—
Her hand curled into a fist, nails biting into her palm. She exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing her breath steady, slow. Not scared. Not anxious, not worried. But the reality of her situation sat heavy in her chest, cold and inescapable.
She had lost.
It was infuriating. Impossible. After years of careful maneuvering, of planting seeds and tightening threads, of watching the coalition unravel at her fingertips, she was here. Trapped in a room that was not hers, in a city that was not hers, waiting for a verdict that had already been decided.
Her head snapped toward the dim candlelight, her reflection flickering in the polished metal of her goblet. Titus. That old fool. If he had done his job properly—if Clarke Griffin had simply died the way she was meant to—none of this would have happened.
She had known Lexa would be difficult to break, but Clarke? She had once been human. Soft. That girl should have shattered under the weight of everything. Instead, she had endured. No, she had done more than that—she had thrived. Thrived, when Nia had spent years ensuring that no one could. She had become Wanheda in all the spirits facets.
Her jaw clenched, rage bubbling under her skin like molten rock.
This had been her game.
She was supposed to break Heda. To strip her of her allies, to press her into desperation until she had no choice but to fall. She had planned for every possible countermove, ensured that every loose end had been tied, every risk accounted for.
And yet. Yet.
Her words had been turned against her. Her own network of shadows exposed to the light.
The irony made her laugh—a sharp, humorless sound that echoed off the stone walls. So meticulous, so precise, so patient, and yet they had found that damning evidence anyway.
Tomorrow, the trial would continue. She already knew how it would go.
Would they present proof of her support for Pike’s rebellion? Of the warriors she had sent in secret, feeding Skaikru’s paranoia just enough to keep them volatile?
Would they reveal how she had ensured that even villagers from other clans starved, how she had forced them into desperation until they had no choice but to steal, to fight, to fall apart, until their leaders had to deal with civil wars, with no choice but to take Azgeda’s help?
Would they—
Her breath stilled.
Would they bring up the Mountain?
The thought sent a slow, creeping chill down her spine. She had been careful. Had ensured that her involvement had been buried beneath layers of misdirection. But they had uncovered so much already—how much more had they found?
If they had proof—if they so much as whispered it before the court—then she was dead before the sun set. She would be lynched before even her execution could be decided.
She flexed her fingers, shaking out the tension, forcing her mind to clear.
No. That wouldn’t do.
She had spent too long weaving herself into this world to let a child with golden hair and a petulant sense of righteousness be the end of her.
She would not beg. She would not kneel. And she would not allow herself to be outplayed. Her mind sharpened, cutting through the fury, through the useless what-ifs. She had always known to prepare for every outcome, even the worst. This was not over.
If she could not win, she would burn the board itself.
Polis would fall before it belonged to them.
Let them believe they had won. Let them believe they had trapped her. Let them think their trial, their justice, their truth had any meaning in the end.
They would fall asleep tonight, expecting to walk into that chamber the next day and deliver a reckoning.
What they would get was war.
With a grimace that was supposed to represent a smile, she racked her knuckles against the stone of the walls surrounding her.
The first man didn’t even have time to scream.
A gloved hand clamped over his mouth as the blade slid between his ribs, sharp and precise. His body slumped soundlessly to the ground, blood pooling beneath him, dark against the stone.
One.
The assassin exhaled slowly, adjusting their grip on the dagger. Ahead, two more guards stood at their posts, unaware of the body cooling just feet away.
They had been given a rather detailed plan on what to do. And though they doubted they’d been made aware of every aspect, they were rather excited about what they did know.
The tower’s defenses were predictable, once one made sense of the system. Their patrols, their blind spots—laid bare by the one who had walked these halls freely for years. The insider had been thorough and exact. Loyal. The assassin smirked.
Two more fell before they even noticed the shadows creeping toward them. The first collapsed, his throat slit before he could reach for his sword. The second turned, eyes widening—he managed half a gasp before the dagger plunged into his heart.
Two. Three.
Polis held almost a thousand citizens, of whom only 200 were trained gona. About Fifty people — most of whom were skilled fighters — inhabited the upper levels of the tower at this moment, not counting the guards, of whom there were ten on the lowest levels, then none up until the guards on the upper levels and the patrols.
The upper level guards should pose no issue if their people within had come through. If all went well, Polis would’ve fallen before dawn, and their queen would walk in it’s ashes.
A faint shuffle of feet down the hall. The assassin pressed back into the darkness, watching as another figure emerged from the stairwell. A guard uniform, with a piece of cloth wrapped around the hilt of his sword. One of theirs.
They exchanged a quick nod.
It had begun.
All across the tower, figures in darkened armor moved quietly, swift, like specters in the night. One by one, the guards fell, their bodies left cooling in shadowed corners, blood seeping into the cracks between stone.
Four. Five. Six. Seven.
On the upper floors, someone whispered a signal, barely audible.
"Oson kwin na sad au.“ The words slithered through the silence like a death knell. The Queen sends her regards. The young man guarding the Azgedan traitors fell, gurgling on his own blood, staring into the eyes of who was supposed to be his best friend.
The assassins moved as one, slinking through the halls of Polis’ mighty tower like a sickness.
The lower floors were already compromised. The streets of the sleeping city had been taken without a whisper. Figures sleeping in silent barracks turning quiet forever one after the other. The guard rotations had been timed, the weaker links already cut.
The real fight would come later. This? This was just the beginning.
The blade slid between another set of ribs.
Eight.
Indra stood against the outer part of the dungeon entrance, alone. She hated the way night had fallen. The city was shrouded in darkness, quiet, asleep. Only the odd light flickering from a window showed any sign of life. It made Indra’s skin crawl in a way silence usually never did.
She did not have a guard shift tonight. Technically, she never did—this was not her duty. But Titus—her grimace was barely concealed— he had been a special exception.
The natrona had earned a cell in Polis’ depths, and after years of standing at his side during war council, watching him whisper into Lexa’s ear, teaching her daughter the duties of the flame, she had taken it upon herself to watch over him these past nights. For security. For peace of mind. For the satisfaction of watching him rot.
But they had all the information they needed now. Lexa had ordered her to rest. Allow others to take over the guard, she had said. And Indra had agreed. Except… she was still here.
Her stomach had felt tight all evening, something wrong curling deep in her chest. She felt as though if she was absent tonight, everything would unravel.
Indra did not ignore her instincts.
She kept to the shadows, watching the torches flicker along the tower’s outer walls. The streets of Polis were still quiet, the air thick with a humid stillness. In the distance, a horse neighed. Somewhere, a door creaked open, then shut.
She almost ignored it, when she felt it; the way everything seemed to shift. Subtle, but noticeable. The kind of thing only years of battles could teach you to recognize.
The torches weren’t flickering from the wind for their fires slowly diminished, the quiet chatter of guards didn’t echo through the otherwise quiet night. If there was one thing Indra knew for certain, it was that the guards were never still.
Indra’s grip on her sword tightened, her fingers curling around the hilt with the certainty of muscle memory. She scanned the courtyard, listening. Waiting.
A breath. A shuffle. A barely-there scrape of leather against stone.
Then—a body slumped forward against the tower’s edge. A guard. The man’s throat had been slit cleanly, his body left propped against the wall, as if still standing at his post.
Her heart pounded once.
She stepped back into the shadows as another figure moved silently up the stairs. Then another. And another.
She counted six. No, seven. They were inside.
There was little time for Indra to make up her mind on what to do, she doubted these seven were the only attackers, she had to warn someone. She needed to reach the alarm.
Not for the first time did she curse the fact that there was only a single alarm in the lower stories tower — something Lexa had been meaning to change for ages — much too far away for her to reach easily, and she doubted reaching the upper floor alarms would be easier for her. But she could not rush. If she did, she doubted she would make it.
Instead, she turned sharply, pressing herself against the cold stone of the corridor. Silent and careful, her every step measured. She moved with the discipline of a warrior, the patience of a hunter.
She had to reach that bell.
Behind her, a whisper of metal—soft, but unmistakable.
Her instincts screamed, and Indra dropped low, pressing into the wall just as a blade swung through the air where her throat had been. It had been much too close for her liking.
She twisted, her own sword flashing upward, catching the dim torchlight as she met her attacker. A woman, unassuming leathers, face half-covered in black cloth.
Indra could not tell the clan — had an inkling as to which one it would be — but still her face scrunched up in distaste. Natronas.
The woman lunged again. Indra pivoted, slamming an elbow into her ribs. She stumbled—just enough. With a sharp inhale, Indra drove her sword through her opponent’s gut.
A gasp. A choked gurgle. A body hitting the ground. She did not wait to watch it still.
She was running now, each step quiet, yet it felt like drums in Indra’s ears. The city’s heartbeat was wrong. She could hear it now— though she could not tell if it was hearing or knowing. There was movement where there should be none, footsteps in places that should be empty.
She rounded a corner. A torch flickered. Another body, slumped at the base of a staircase.
Dead. More dead. Her stomach clenched. She needed to move faster. Another corner.
A guard turned toward her, but his stance was too loose, his hand too slow to reach his sword. Not a guard.
Indra didn’t slow, her blade met his throat before he could react, cutting deep. He gurgled, hands flying up to the wound as he sank to the floor.
A distant shout. Indra cursed quietly, they had seen her. She broke into a sprint. She was close now. Just a little farther—
A figure lunged from the shadows. Indra ducked, twisting on instinct as a dagger flashed toward her ribs. She grabbed the wrist, forcing it aside, using her opponent’s momentum against them. With a sharp twist, the blade turned—buried itself in the attacker’s own side.
A gasp, a shudder, another body. She didn’t linger, the natrona deserved nothing less and reaching the bell was much more important.
She was almost there, just another turn and— Indra almost collapsed in relief when she found it unguarded in front of her.
Her breath was sharp, sweat slick against her skin as she grabbed the thick rope. For a second, she thought she was too late.
Then the first clang rang through the air. The sound echoed across the city, a heavy, gut-deep sound that split the quiet night in two.
Another clang. Then another. Louder, more urgent. The alarm blared, woke the city that had been dying as it slept.
Indra turned, breath heaving as she took in the streets below.
The torches had been snuffed out one by one. Dark figures moved through the alleyways, too many to count.
The first scream cut through the night.
Polis was under attack.
The door was locked.
It hadn’t been part of the plan.
The leader of the group—an warrior with a scar running from his temple to his jaw—pressed himself against the wall, listening. He could hear movement inside, hushed whispers.
They knew.
His hand curled into a fist. Damn it. The natblida weren’t supposed to have any additional guards, and getting rid of those within the hall had been hard enough already. The rest had been supposed to be easy — they were children. Children! Weak. Not defenseless, but no hurdle either.
Except someone had anticipated this, had sent guards to stay within the quarters. Someone had known, or maybe they had just reacted quickly enough once that blasted bell had gone off.
No matter why, they were running out of time now. The alarm bell was still ringing, sharp and heavy in the night. If he were to guess, if they didn’t act soon, they could be overwhelmed before they even got the door open.
He clenched his jaw and forced himself to take a breath. He was overthinking it. They hadn’t expected to take Polis without a fight. He gestured for his seken to call the backup, just in case they’d be facing Heda or Wanheda.
Once his seken had left, he ran through their options quickly, his mind sharp despite the tension tightening his muscles. They had the numbers, six of their best — he hadn’t understood the necessity of such a number until now. He’d been rather certain he could’ve taken on the children with his seken and second in command alone; they were just children after all. But well, they weren’t really lacking numbers either way and he could appreciate it now — but the element of surprise was gone.
He turned to his second-in-command. “Break it down.”
The order was barely out of his mouth before the first warrior slammed his shoulder against the wood. The heavy door shook but didn’t give.
Again. Another impact. The frame groaned. From inside, someone barked an order. Scar’s blood thrummed. They were preparing.
His hands tightened around his axes. “Get ready,” he murmured to his fighters. They spread out, forming a semi-circle around the entrance. The backup shouldn’t take much longer.
One more hit. The wood cracked. Then the door burst open, and chaos erupted.
Luna was already moving.
As soon as the alarm had rung, she had positioned herself at the front, weapon drawn. She was just grateful Indra had had a bad feeling, one both Clarke and Lexa seemed to have felt as well, for she did not wish to know what could’ve happened had the natblida been left without them tonight.
The enemy poured in. Their opponents were fast and skilled, but not skilled enough — she hoped.
She didn’t dare turn to see if the escape route for the natblida remained hidden, hoped so, for she knew they couldn’t hold them all off if some found their way to the kids. She didn’t want to test the efficiency of Clarke and Lexa’s lessons the hard way.
Her trident flashed, catching the nearest attacker in the side. He twisted away, but she followed, striking again, forcing him back.
To her left, Gaia moved in a blur, staff whipping through the air. A warrior lunged, and she caught him across the ribs, sending him staggering. The second charged from behind.
Luna pivoted, grabbed the woman’s wrist before the dagger could sink into Gaia’s back. The blade tore through Luna’s arm instead. She snarled, pushing the pain aside and snapped the woman’s wrist.
The scream was swallowed by another clash of steel that came from Ryker’s direction. Gaia had meanwhile struck the man attacking Luna from behind. Her staff twirled and Luna moved aside. The woman was too slow, as the end of Gaia’s staff caught her in the throat.
They were outnumbered, but not outmatched. Luna had spent years trying to keep her hands clean, live in the peace this world did not offer, but tonight, she would make sure to protect.
She could almost imagine hearing the natblida behind them, their frantic breathing from earlier would not have calmed, there would be a scrape of furniture being pushed against the walls in an effort to barricade themselves tighter. Sya should be ringing their alarm soon, while Aden would be soothing the youngest ones.
They were scared. Luna was scared for them. She hoped they could subdue the enemy before they found the hiding spot. And if not, she hoped their fear would keep the kids alert. Would keep them alive.
She ducked as a sword slashed over her head, twisting low, sweeping her leg out. The attacker hit the ground hard, and Luna drove her trident into his chest.
She pulled it free just in time to see Ryker go down in front of the last two opponents.
“Ryker!” Her voice barely carried over the clashing steel, but he was already moving, rolling away as the second’s warrior’s sword slammed into the floor where his head had been a second ago.
She wasn’t close enough to see the extend of his injuries, but she could tell that he was hurt. Blood streaked his temple. His breathing was ragged.
Luna surged forward, catching the first warrior off-guard. Her trident sang through the air, slicing clean through armor and flesh.
A gurgled cry. A body dropping. A second cry alerted her to the last of the five falling to Gaia’s staff.
Luna sighed in relief, crouching in front of Ryker. “Can you stand?” she asked. He gritted his teeth, struggling to push himself up. “I—”
A shout from behind. Luna turned just in time to see Gaia slam the door shut again, cutting off a fresh wave of attackers.
Trapping them inside, Luna realized belatedly. She exhaled sharply. Of course it was more than just five of them attacking.
Where were they coming from? If she’d gotten a good estimate of this second wave — and she dreaded that she had — they weren’t going to last very long once the door was breached again.
She shifted, rolling her shoulders. “Gaia, help me barricade the door tighter, then prepare to fight. We hold them off as long as we can,” she said. “They cannot reach the natblida.”
Gaia nodded once, eyes hard. Ryker spat blood onto the floor, pushing himself up to help. “Then let’s make them regret trying.”
Someone shoved against the door again. The second alarm rang shrill.
Clarke was violently yanked from sleep. Later, she would not be able to say if it had been the clang of the alarm shattering the quiet of the night — and earsplitting, jarring sound, or the overwhelming sense of death curling around her, screaming at her from every part of the city.
For the briefest moment, she didn’t understand what was happening—her mind sluggish, still tangled in the last threads of sleep, body sluggish and stiff from rest. The bed was warm, the furs soft, the world heavy with silence save for the alarm.
Within a second, her instincts slammed into place. Spirits, she wished she’d been wrong about that bad feeling.
She flung the covers back, heart pounding, breath sharp as the cold air of the room hit her skin. Her bare feet met the stone floor as she surged upright, the abrupt movement sending a rush of disorientation through her still-waking mind.
Lexa was already on her feet, the flickering firelight casting shifting shadows over her skin, muscles tense and coiled, eyes sharp and awake. There was no hesitation in her, no trace of confusion. Only readiness.
Clarke knew, in the depths of her bones, that Lexa had woken the instant the alarm rang. That she had been poised to fight even before her body fully left sleep behind.
For a single breath, neither of them spoke, it’s not like they needed to — The alarm meant only one thing. Polis was under attack.
And to think they’d gone to bed hoping for this all to be over soon. At least they’d had the foresight to keep their chests wrapped and weapons close by.
Clarke’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword as she grabbed it from where it rested beside the bed. She felt too slow. Her mind was still fogged with sleep, her body unarmored, wrapped only in the thin fabric of loose pants and a linen shirt she hadn’t taken off before going to bed — awfully uncomfortable to sleep in, but at least it had been worth it, which was just about the only positive thing she could think of.
Across the room, Lexa had already snatched up her own blades, bare feet pressing silently against the stone, eyes locked on the door.
The moment shattered.
The door burst open with a violent crack, wood splintering against the force. Dark shapes surged forward—ten warriors, no sigils, no markings, nothing to name them but the gleam of their weapons and the promise of death in their eyes.
Clarke cursed the apparent lack of security in the tower — for truly, how could she be attacked within one of the supposedly safest places out there twice in a week — for only a moment, before the world sharpened.
The first attacker moved fast, she had to give him that. Clarke met him halfway, sword raised, the sudden clash of steel against steel jarring her arm. Her muscles screamed in protest—too soon after waking, her body still not quite recovered—but she pushed through it.
The warrior swung again, blade whistling through the air. Clarke ducked, twisted, turned the motion into an opening. Her foot slammed into the inside of his knee. He stumbled—just enough for her to grab his wrist mid-strike.
A sharp twist—crack.
The sickening snap of bone. His sword clattered to the floor. Clarke didn’t give him time to recover. She drove her knee into his ribs, and when he doubled over, she slashed her blade across his throat.
Warm blood sprayed against her skin, a shock of heat against the cold air. He dropped.
Across the room, Lexa couldn’t be described as anything but violence incarnate.
She moved through the attackers like an inferno — sharp, untouchable, unstoppable. Her swords blurred through the air, slicing through armor and flesh like they were nothing.
For a moment Clarke wondered if her presence in the fight was actually necessary. Lexa seemed to have everything under control. So she allowed her aching body a moment of rest, quietly cursing that she hadn’t fully recovered yet.
A warrior lunged at Lexa. She caught his blade between her own, twisted violently, and sent his severed hand flying. Clarke grimaced, slightly disgusted by the spraying blood.
The man barely had time to scream before Lexa drove her sword into his chest and he dropped dead.
The next barely fared better. He swung, desperate. Lexa ducked beneath his blade, shifting past him, and ran her sword deep between his ribs. The life left his body before he even realized he was dying.
Another warrior hesitated, just for a second. It was a second too long. Lexa struck first, a brutal swipe across his gut. Clarke, deciding she’d recovered enough for now, followed, stepping into his space, twisting behind him, her blade carving through the soft flesh of his exposed throat.
He crumpled without a sound.
The last attacker stumbled back, fear flickering in his eyes. Before he could escape, Lexa had already lunged, her blade a flash of silver, her strike merciless as it was absolute. The man barely had time to flinch before the cold bite of steel cut through his body, before the light in his eyes flickered out forever.
The final body hit the ground with a heavy thud.
Silence followed, thick and cloying. The only sound left was the ringing in Clarke’s ears, the sharp rhythm of her breath, and the distant wail of the alarms still crying out over Polis. The scent of blood, thick and metallic, clung to the room, mixing with the sharper bite of sweat and steel.
Lexa was breathing heavily, half-turned towards Clarke, the rest angled towards the attacker who’d just fallen. „Are you alright?“, she asked.
Clarke almost rolled her eyes. „You’re the one who did all the work“, she replied. The and it was hot better left unsaid for now. Lexa smirked, turning to face Clarke fully.
Immediately, Clarke’s eyes locked onto the gash along her arm, dark blood soaking into the fabric of her sleeve. “Let me take care of that,” Clarke murmured, reaching out before Lexa could protest.
Lexa’s expression softened, but her voice carried disapproval. “I’m fine, niron. Leave it, you are not recovered yet.”
Clarke rolled her eyes, already pressing her hand to the wound, ignoring the creeping cold that coiled beneath her ribs as her power flared to life. A sharp burn traced along her own arm, invisible threads of energy tugging the wound from Lexa’s flesh and weaving it into her own. The gash vanished from Lexa’s skin as it bloomed across Clarke’s, deep at first, then shallower, scabbing over in seconds before fading entirely.
Lexa scowled. “Klarke—”
Clarke shut her up the best way she knew how. She grabbed Lexa’s collar and kissed her, quick but firm, swallowing whatever admonishment was about to follow.
Lexa exhaled sharply against her lips before Clarke pulled away. “Shut up and let me take care of you,” Clarke muttered, her fingers lingering just briefly against Lexa’s jaw before she stepped back.
Lexa’s glare wasn’t nearly as sharp as it should’ve been.
Before she could push the issue further, the second alarm shattered through the air.
Clarke’s stomach dropped.
She knew that sound. That alarm. The shrill bell that could only come from the natblida quarters.
Her breath caught in her throat, ice flooding her veins as panic clawed its way through her chest. Lexa saw it—she must have—because her expression hardened immediately. “We need to move.”
Clarke nodded, forcing the rising dread down as she followed Lexa, stepping over the cooling bodies without a second thought. They barely paused to shove on their boots and basic armor before shoving the door open, stepping into—
Nothing.
The hallway stretched before them, too quiet. Too still.
The alarms still rang, but there was no shouting. No echo of battle. Just an unnatural silence pressing down on them like a held breath.
Clarke’s skin prickled, unease curling at the base of her spine. Something was wrong.
A flicker of movement pushed Clarke into action.
Clarke had barely caught the shadow in the corner of her vision before she yanked Lexa down, just as an arrow sliced through the air where her head had been.
More figures surged from the corridor ahead—too many, moving fast, their weapons gleaming in the dim light. Clarke’s jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the sword in her grip.
Lexa raised her swords beside her.
They didn’t need to speak.
They braced for the next wave.
A gurgled scream tore through the night. Xenia’s eyes snapped open.
Her mind barely had time to register the sound before her body reacted, forcing her into motion. She rolled, narrowly dodging the blade that came stabbing down where her throat had been moments before.
A figure loomed above her, face masked in shadows, silent, blade poised to strike again. She desperately reached for her sword, only for her hand to come back empty. Shit.
The assassin struck once more. Xenia kicked out, her foot slamming into his knee, forcing him off balance. She lunged for the dagger tucked under her pillow, fingers closing around the hilt just as he recovered.
A moment too late, as a hand wrapped around her throat.
Xenia gasped, the pressure crushing, her vision darkening at the edges. She thrashed, dagger still gripped tight, but his hold was unrelenting.
Tinol’s scream still echoed in her ears. Was he dead? The thought fueled her rage. Xenia snarled and slammed the dagger into her attacker’s side. The blade sank deep.
He choked, grip faltering. Xenia wrenched herself free, inhaling sharply as she ripped the dagger back out, twisting her body and driving it under his ribs.
A wet gasp. He slumped, blood spilling from his lips. She didn’t look back.
Her gaze darted across the room to find it in utter chaos.
Mikhael was locked in combat, his sword clashing against his attacker’s twin daggers, a deadly, brutal dance. He was barely holding his own.
Decran had already won—his opponent lay motionless, throat slit cleanly.
Niylah’s fight was messy, her dagger buried deep in the assassin’s chest, but her hands were slick with blood, her body trembling with exertion.
And Tinol— Xenia’s breath caught. He was on the floor, the assassin stood over him, blade still lodged in his chest. A cold, merciless final strike.
No.
Fury roared through her. The assassin turned with a vicious grin, and Xenia was already moving. She slammed into him, forcing him back. He barely had time to react before her dagger was in his gut.
She twisted.
His scream cut off as she yanked the blade out and sliced it across his throat. Blood sprayed warm across her face. She let his body drop.
Her chest heaved, hands trembling, mind struggling to keep up with the rage, the grief, the adrenaline.
Tinol was dead.
A sound from behind snapped her attention back. Mikhael had finished his fight, his opponent lying still, blood pooling beneath him. His eyes met Xenia’s—dark, clouded in the same grief and anger that was cursing through her.
“We need to move,” Decran said. He was already at the door, blade in hand, face eerily calm. Xenia forced herself to swallow the grief, the rage curling in her gut. Later.
Right now, there were more enemies to kill. She nodded, stepping over the bodies. They pushed open the door—
And stepped into hell.
The corridor was a war zone. Blood smeared the walls. Figures clashed in brutal, merciless combat—warriors she recognized, people she fought alongside, people she knew, battling against assassins clad in dark armor.
Shouts echoed through the floor, the sound of steel meeting flesh. A cacophony of death. Xenia tightened her grip on her dagger.
Then she charged.
For a moment, Octavia wasn’t sure if she was still dreaming. The world around her was a haze of darkness and noise, distant yet sharp, like a storm creeping in from the horizon. Then Lincoln moved beside her, his body tense, breath sharp, and everything snapped into focus.
The alarm. The shouts. The unmistakable sound of battle echoing beyond the door.
Octavia bolted upright before she fully comprehended that they were under attack, heart hammering against her ribs. The dim glow of moonlight filtered through the cracks in the shutters, casting long shadows across their room.
Lincoln was already moving, bare feet hitting the stone floor. “What the hell—?” she started, but the words died on her tongue when another scream rang out—close, just outside their door. Octavia thought she’d heard the voice before.
Lincoln threw her sword onto the bed. She grabbed it without thinking, fingers closing tight around the hilt. They had trained for moments like this, lived for moments like this. But not here, not when they had gone to sleep expecting peace.
There was no time to think. No time to question who was attacking, nor why. None of it mattered. Survive first, everything else could wait.
A loud crash sounded from the hallway, followed by hurried footsteps. Octavia’s stomach twisted. She and Lincoln exchanged a look, then they moved.
Lincoln yanked open the door. The corridor was chaos.
Firelight from torches flickered off the walls, casting everything in a sickly orange glow. Bodies clashed—figures locked in brutal combat, steel flashing, blood splattering.
The scent of iron hit her hard. Octavia’s grip on her sword tightened.
Across the corridor, Anya was a blur of movement, blade carving through an attacker’s throat before she twisted to block another. Nearby, Raven had pressed herself against the wall, fighting off a warrior twice her size with a dagger, face twisted in pain but determined.
Roan was in the thick of it, locked in combat with an enemy Octavia didn’t recognize. Ontari was beside him, a brutal force, moving like a storm through the battle. Murphy and Emori stood back-to-back, knives flashing.
And somewhere in the chaos, Asa was missing. Or at least, Octavia couldn’t find her immediately.
The world tilted for a fraction of a second.
Then Lincoln let out a sharp breath, his sword lifted high. Octavia’s body had already made the decision for her. She stepped forward and raised her sword, eyes on Raven, who was slowly loosing ground.