Deep in the shadows of the forest, the air grew colder as the elevation rose. Bellamy held Clarke's map steady, his eyes darting between the charcoal lines and the jagged silhouette of the peak ahead.
"We're close," Bellamy whispered, his breath hitching. He looked at Lincoln, whose face was still a ghostly mask of limestone and dried blood. "What if we run into real Reapers? Won't they wonder where you've been? Won't they realize you're not one of them anymore?"
Lincoln's eyes were distant, fixed on a point only he could see. "All they see is the Red," he said, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "Once you take it, nothing else matters. You don't see friends, or pasts, or faces. You only see how you get more."
Bellamy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. "How much do you remember? From when you were on it?"
"Everything," Lincoln replied. He stepped behind Bellamy, his movements sudden and sharp. "Turn around."
Before Bellamy could protest, Lincoln hoisted a heavy, jagged log and rested it across Bellamy's shoulders, forcing him to hunch forward, it now looked like a Reaper was driving a fresh prisoner toward the mountain.
"Keep your head down," Lincoln commanded. "The Red is coming."
——-
Miles away, near the outskirts of Tondc, the peace of the woods was shattered by the sharp 'thwack' of a bowstring.
Clarke stumbled, the wind of a passing arrow whistling by her ear. She spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs, to see Quint emerging from the brush. He held a recurve bow, another arrow already notched and leveled at her throat.
"Not so brave now without the butcher, are you, Skygirl?" Quint sneered, his eyes filled with a petty, murderous glee.
Clarke didn't wait for a second taunt. She ducked behind a massive oak just as another arrow slammed into the bark where her head had been a second before. She saw him through the branches, hoisting his weapon, moving with the practiced ease of a hunter who knew his prey was cornered. She turned and sprinted, the sound of his heavy boots crashing through the undergrowth behind her.
Back at Camp Jaha, the atmosphere was thick with the sounds of grunts and the dull thud of flesh hitting flesh. A group of Grounder refugees and warriors were engaged in brutal hand-to-hand combat in the clearing.
Kane stood on the perimeter, his arms crossed as he watched the display with a mix of wariness and respect. "Impressive, aren't they?" he remarked to Octavia, who stood beside him, her eyes tracking every move. "What doesn't kill them really does make them stronger."
Indra stood in the center of the ring, her presence commanding and cold. She watched a young man get sent to the dirt and nodded. "Good, Fio," she said in Trigedasleng. "Who's next?"
Octavia stepped forward, her jaw set in a hard line. "I am. We're supposed to be allies now, right? That means we train together."
Indra didn't even turn to look at her fully. "Only warriors train here, girl."
"I saved your life," Octavia countered, her voice rising. "I've fought for my people, and I've fought for yours. Jason says a warrior is defined by their actions, not their origin."
Indra finally turned, her lip curling at the mention of the name. She ignored Octavia's first point entirely. "Jason is a warrior. Perhaps you should go to him for your lessons instead of wasting my time."
"Yeah, well, he's not here, is he?" Octavia snapped back. "He's busy keeping your people from killing each other in Tondc. That's why I'm asking the only other good warrior I know."
Indra's eyes flashed. She stepped closer to Octavia, her shadow falling over the younger girl.
"My mistake," Indra said, her voice dropping into a low, venomous hiss. "Did I say the Butcher was a warrior?"
She leaned in, her gaze piercing. "I corrected myself. He is a monster, Octavia of the Sky. A beast that mimics the shape of a man. Do not mistake his appetite for blood as the discipline of a warrior. A warrior fights for honor. A monster fights because it is the only thing that makes him feel alive."
Back in Tondc, Jason moved through the village square, his eyes scanning the crowd with a restlessness he couldn't shake. He approached one of the gate guards, his voice low and urgent.
"Where's Clarke?"
The guard merely shook his head, offering a blank, silent stare. Jason turned, his gaze catching a group of Grounder warriors huddled near a hut. They were whispering, their eyes darting toward him before flickering back to the tree line. One of them let out a short, jagged laugh that set Jason's teeth on edge.
He looked toward the dark expanse of the forest and felt a cold, sinking feeling in his chest.
"Shit," Jason hissed.
He didn't wait for permission or an escort. He kicked off, his boots thudding against the dirt as he sprinted toward the woods, his mind racing. 'Damn it, Clarke. I told you to stay close.'
Deep in the brush, Clarke's lungs were burning. Every snap of a twig behind her sounded like a death knell. She burst through a thicket, her eyes wild, and saw a figure standing in a small clearing ahead.
Panicked, she raised her pistol, her finger trembling on the trigger then she froze.
"Byrne! Thank god!" Clarke gasped, stumbling forward. "It's Quint—he's—"
Major Byrne turned around slowly. Clarke's words died in her throat. The Major's face was ghostly pale, and her left arm had been crudely, violently severed at the shoulder. Blood soaked her uniform in a gruesome, spreading stain.
"Save... yourself..." Byrne rasped, her eyes rolling back into her head. She crumpled to the forest floor, dead before she hit the dirt.
———
Murphy stood on the edge of the clearing, leaning on a mop as he watched the guards drill.
"Save your bullets for the Grounders," Murphy called out, his voice dripping with his usual brand of cynical boredom.
Thelonious Jaha, standing nearby, turned his head. "I take it you don't approve."
Murphy ignored him, focusing on a spot of mud on the floor.
"I asked you a question, John," Jaha pressed.
"Who cares what I think?" Murphy snapped, finally looking up.
"I do. Or I wouldn't have asked."
"I think the Grounders can go to hell," Murphy said flatly. "And we're probably going with them."
Jaha stepped closer. "I got you off work detail."
Murphy narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"You knew my son. I'd like you to take me to his grave. Now that there's a truce, I want to see his body."
"Then go get someone else to take you," Murphy muttered, turning back to his mop.
"I'm told the graves are unmarked," Jaha said, his voice soft but commanding. "Only you can show me which is his. You have a choice, Murphy. You can hold a mop, or you can hold a gun."
Jaha offered a gun. After a long beat of hesitation, Murphy took it, the weight of the metal familiar and cold in his hands.
Across the yard, the tension was rising. Indra watched her warriors spar with brutal efficiency while Marcus Kane supervised the guards at the shooting range.
"Easy," Kane coached. "Control your breathing. Squeeze the trigger, don't pull it."
"Sir," a guard whispered, nodding toward the fence. "We've got an audience."
Kane looked back to see several Grounders watching the target practice with intense, wide-eyed fascination.
"Hold your fire," Kane ordered. He took a rifle from a guard, checked the chamber, and settled into a solid stance. He fired three rounds, each one a perfect bullseye. He turned back to the Grounders, offering the weapon. "Would you like to try? I could teach you. Your enemy has guns. You should, too."
"Penn, stand down!" Indra barked, her voice like a whip. "You know better."
"It's alright, Indra," Kane said calmly. "I offered."
"We do not need your weapons," Indra spat, her eyes flashing with a deep-seated anger. "Back to training, all of you!"
As the Grounders dispersed, Kane shook his head. "Guns could keep them alive. It's like they're afraid of them."
"They are," Octavia said, stepping into the light. "Legend has it that if a Grounder picks up a gun, even to shoot another Grounder then Mount Weather will wipe out their entire village. Can't have your blood supply defending themselves, right?"
Kane looked at the primitive spears and swords littering the ground. "They're unarmed against a modern fortress. We can't win like that."
"Like hell we can't," Octavia countered, her jaw set.
"We don't know enough about these people, Octavia," Kane sighed.
The guard next to him looked at Octavia's war paint and the way she held herself. "She sure seems to."