Kira sleeps, but it's not the kind of sleep that gives rest. It's the desperate, shallow doze of someone too exhausted to fight unconsciousness but too terrified to surrender to it. Every sound — boots on stone, keys jingling, a distant scream echoing through the halls — snaps her eyes open again, heart hammering.
When she wakes for what must be the fifth or sixth time, her hand is still wrapped tight around Aden's gift: the shard of metal hidden in the folds of her blanket. She studies it by the flickering light of the torch outside her cell — a broken piece of a blade, or maybe just a sliver of a tool filed down to a rough point. It's hardly a dagger, but it's something. A promise that she's not completely helpless.
Her mind wanders to the boy who slipped it to her. Aden. In the show, she'd liked him — the earnestness in his eyes, the way he looked at Lexa like she hung the moon. She remembers how Clarke once smiled at him, how he'd bowed his head with such solemn pride. And then — a body on the floor, Titus's hands red with blood that was never meant to be spilled.
Her jaw tightens. Not again.
She needs him. A child — but one with enough training to move through Polis's shadows unnoticed. One Lexa trusts. One Titus is too blinded by tradition to suspect. Aden is her tiny spark in the dark.
When dawn breaks, it's with no fanfare — just a dull grey light bleeding in through the narrow slit of her cell window. She pulls herself upright, fighting the ache in her shoulders and back. The cold has settled deep in her bones, and no amount of shivering shakes it loose.
Voices drift down the corridor. Kira scrambles to her feet, tucking the metal shard into the waistband of her pants, hidden by her oversized hoodie. She brushes her hair back, as if it matters what she looks like.
The guard appears first — the same one as before, burly and broad-shouldered, his hair in tight braids at his temples. He unlocks the cell, then steps aside. And there she is.
Lexa.
No ceremonial paint this time. No war regalia. Just a simple leather jerkin over dark trousers, her hair pulled back in that same half-braided crown that frames her sharp, watchful eyes. Without the trappings of Heda, she looks younger, almost vulnerable. Almost.
Lexa's gaze sweeps over Kira, taking in the blanket clutched around her shoulders, the raw skin at her wrists. There's no softness in her expression — only calculation.
"Leave us," she tells the guard.
The door creaks shut behind them. For a moment, the only sound is the soft crackle of the torch outside.
"You are not Skaikru." Lexa's voice is steady, low, like a blade being drawn very slowly. "You wear their clothing, but you speak of things no Sky Person could know."
Kira forces herself to stand taller, despite how her knees threaten to buckle. "I told you the truth."
Lexa steps closer. She moves with that same quiet grace that made her so mesmerizing to watch on screen. Now, in this cold cell, that grace feels more dangerous than any blade.
"And yet you do not tell it all," Lexa says, tilting her head. "Titus says you are a witch. Do you believe this?"
Kira almost laughs, but the sound sticks in her throat. "I believe I'm trapped in a nightmare I can't wake up from. Does that make me a witch, Heda?"
Lexa's lips twitch — not a smile, exactly, but something close. "You called me that before. 'Heda.' Not 'Commander.' Not 'Lexa.' You know more than you say."
Kira swallows. Her eyes burn with unshed tears. She hates it — the way she can't stop them. "Where I'm from, you're a story. A… hero. A legend. But you die. And I — I can't watch it happen again."
Lexa studies her, and for a heartbeat, Kira could swear she sees something flicker behind those green eyes — doubt, maybe. Or curiosity. It's gone almost as soon as it appears.
"And how do you think you will stop this death?" Lexa asks. "Words are wind."
"You can't trust Titus," Kira blurts out. "He loves you — I know he does — but his fear will kill you. He will make a mistake. You can't let him—"
Lexa raises a hand, and Kira snaps her mouth shut.
"I do not answer to fear," Lexa says softly. "Not mine. Not Titus's."
She takes another step forward until she's close enough that Kira can see the faint freckle at the corner of her jaw, the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheek. Kira's breath catches. Lexa reaches up — and for a moment, Kira flinches, expecting a strike.
But instead, Lexa touches the corner of her eye — catching a tear on her thumb.
"You say you want to save me," Lexa murmurs. "Why?"
Kira's voice cracks. "Because you deserve to live."
Lexa's hand drops away. For the first time, there's no iron in her gaze — just a soft, searching question she doesn't speak aloud. It breaks something open in Kira's chest.
But before she can say anything more, the door opens again. Titus steps inside, his eyes immediately narrowing at the sight of his Commander standing so close to the prisoner. He barely spares Kira a glance.
"Heda, the ambassadors await your judgment," he says stiffly.
Lexa's spine straightens. The mask slides back into place so smoothly Kira wonders if it ever truly slipped at all.
"Return her to her cell," Lexa says. Her eyes flick to Kira's. "We will speak again."
Before Kira can answer, the guard is at her side, pulling her away. She cranes her neck to look back at Lexa, trying to memorize every detail — the faint lines at the corner of her eyes, the shape of her mouth when it's not drawn tight with command.
She wants to hold that look — the briefest spark of something almost human — but then the cell door slams shut, and she's alone again.
The next hours bleed into one another. She tries to sleep but can't. Every rustle of footsteps, every echo down the hall, she hopes it's Aden or Lexa. But the hours pass with no one.
It's nearly dusk when she hears it — the soft scrape of boots on stone, lighter than the guard's. She lifts her head, pulse quickening.
"Aden?" she whispers.
But it's not Aden. A young woman crouches at the bars — dark hair in two braids, a knife strapped to her thigh. She wears the mark of the Trikru on her neck, just below her collarbone. Kira recognizes her vaguely — a face from the background of a scene, never named, just another warrior standing at Lexa's side.
The woman holds a bowl out to her. Stew this time, thicker than the broth Aden brought. Kira crawls forward, wary.
"Who are you?" she asks.
The woman tilts her head, studying her like a hawk might study a mouse. "You spoke words to Heda that made her question Titus. That is enough for now."
Kira takes the bowl, ignoring how her hands shake. "Why help me?"
The woman's mouth twitches — not quite a smile, more a grim twist. "Because not all of us trust the old ways. Some of us would see our Commander live."
Kira sips the stew. It's salty, sharp with some herb she can't name, but it fills the gnawing ache in her belly. "Do you know Aden?"
The woman nods once. "He is wise for one so young. He says you know the future."
Kira lets out a rough breath. "I know enough to see who wants Lexa dead."
The warrior's eyes narrow. "Then live long enough to tell her."
She slips something through the bars — a folded scrap of rough paper, the edges stained with oil and soot. When Kira unfolds it, she sees a crude map of the lower halls, corridors marked with Xs and arrows.
"What is this?" she asks.
"Your way out. If Titus moves against you before Lexa does, you will need it."
Kira stares at her. "Why risk this? If he finds out—"
The woman shrugs, her expression flat. "The Flamekeeper is not our Heda. Remember that."
She melts back into the shadows, leaving Kira with her stew, her shard of metal, and now a map she can barely read.
Sleep comes at last, fitful but deeper than before. In her dream, she's back on her couch — the final episode playing out on the TV. Clarke cradles Lexa's head in her lap, whispering promises to her cooling skin. Blood soaks the sheets, pools on the floor, seeps into the cracks.
Kira screams at the screen, but her voice is muffled, like she's underwater. She pounds her fists against the glass, but it doesn't break.
When she wakes, her cheeks are wet. The cell feels colder than ever, but the metal shard is still there, tucked against her thigh, warm with her body heat. She clutches it like a talisman.
Footsteps again. Not the guard. Not Aden. Heavier, more deliberate. The door swings open — and Lexa stands there, once again.
This time, she wears her war paint, a fresh smear of black across her brow, her eyes lined in the dark kohl that makes her look even more untouchable.
She nods at Kira. "Come."
The guard pulls her to her feet, but Lexa holds up a hand. "She walks on her own."
It's a small thing — but when the guard lets go, Kira feels it like a lifeline. She straightens her spine, tucking the metal shard deeper out of sight. She won't need it now. Not yet.
They walk in silence through the corridors of Polis, the drums echoing from somewhere far above. Kira tries to keep her breathing steady, but every step makes her pulse race.
They emerge into a smaller council chamber — circular, with stone benches lining the walls. A single brazier burns at the center, the flames throwing shadows that dance across Lexa's face.
Lexa gestures for Kira to sit on one of the benches. She stands across from her, arms folded, the Flamekeeper lurking at her shoulder.
"Speak," Lexa commands. "Tell me what you know of my death."
Kira looks at Titus, at the cold hate in his eyes. She thinks of Aden, of the map hidden in her sleeve. Of the shard of metal pressed to her skin.
And she lifts her chin.
"Titus shoots you by accident," she says, voice steady. "Because you trust him more than you should."
The brazier crackles. Lexa's expression doesn't change — but Titus shifts behind her, his jaw tightening.
Kira feels the weight of the moment settle in her bones. She's not just a viewer anymore. Not just an outsider screaming at a screen. She's in it now — neck-deep in the brutal heart of Polis.
And she'll do whatever it takes to make sure the story doesn't end the same way this time.
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