Kira has never seen a fire burn so cold.
She stares into the brazier at the heart of the chamber, the flames snapping and twisting, shadows licking up the stone walls. She wonders if Lexa feels the chill that seeps through the cracks in these walls. Or if she's just learned how to bury it deep enough that even the fire can't thaw it loose.
Lexa hasn't spoken since Kira dropped the words — Titus shoots you by accident. She stands across the flame, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes trained on Kira like she's studying a puzzle. Or a threat.
Titus paces in the shadows behind his Commander. Every third step he casts Kira a glance so sharp she half expects it to draw blood.
At last, Lexa breaks the silence. "Explain."
Kira swallows. She tries not to think about how dry her mouth is, or how much her hands shake where they rest in her lap.
"In your quarters," she says carefully. "You and Clarke — you're together. Titus hates it. He wants to protect you, protect the Flame. But he fears you're… clouded by love. And when Clarke tries to leave, Titus tries to stop her. He has a gun —"
She breaks off. How do you explain a gun to a people who have almost never seen one?
"He has a Sky Person weapon. A thing that shoots metal faster than an arrow. He struggles with Clarke, and it goes off. You're standing behind the wall — and it kills you."
A muscle jumps in Lexa's jaw. She's silent for a long time, her eyes flicking to Titus. The Flamekeeper's face is pale, but his voice is steady when he finally speaks.
"Lies," he hisses. "Heda, she is a witch. She poisons your mind with visions of things that cannot be. The Sky People have no weapons left in Polis. I have seen to it."
Kira shakes her head, desperate. "You think you have. But you hide things — the way you hid the Flame when you thought you might lose Lexa to the Sky People's alliance. You think you know best — but you can't see your own fear."
Titus moves so quickly she doesn't even see him cross the floor. One moment he's by Lexa's shoulder, the next he's grabbing Kira by the front of her hoodie, dragging her off the bench.
"You speak of things you do not understand, nontu op. You think you see all — but you know nothing of what it means to carry the Flame."
His breath is hot against her face. She wants to shrink away but forces herself to meet his eyes. Don't cower. He already wants you dead.
"Titus." Lexa's voice cuts through the room like a blade.
Titus's grip doesn't loosen. Kira feels the hard edge of the brazier pressing into her spine as he shoves her closer.
"She must be cleansed," Titus says, eyes never leaving hers. "This poison — these visions — they come from the Mountain. Or worse."
Kira laughs — short, bitter. "You think I'm a demon? I'm not. But you are so blinded by the past you'll kill her future."
Titus raises his hand — for a heartbeat, Kira braces for the strike. But Lexa's voice cracks like thunder.
"Enough."
Titus freezes. Kira feels the tension coiled in his arm, the heat of it. And then he lets her go. She stumbles back against the stone bench, every muscle in her body screaming.
Lexa steps forward, placing herself between them. She doesn't touch Kira — doesn't offer comfort. But her presence alone is a shield.
"Leave us," she tells Titus.
The Flamekeeper's eyes burn. "Heda —"
"Heda kom au." Her voice is soft but merciless. "Go."
He hesitates, jaw working. But he bows his head, his braid brushing Kira's arm as he turns on his heel and stalks out. The heavy door booms shut behind him.
For a moment, the silence is worse than the fight. Kira breathes in shallow gasps, her ribs aching where Titus's fingers dug into her. Lexa stands over her, a silhouette backlit by the brazier's cold flame.
"You speak like a prophet," Lexa says at last. "But prophecy has no place here. Only strength."
"I'm not a prophet," Kira whispers. "I'm just a girl who's already watched you die."
Lexa's eyes flick to the door. "Titus is loyal. He would never raise a hand against me."
Kira flinches. "You don't believe that."
Lexa looks at her for a long moment. Then — to Kira's surprise — she sits. Cross-legged, directly on the floor across from her. No throne, no mask of command. Just Lexa.
"When I was twelve," Lexa says, her voice low, "the Flamekeeper taught me that love is weakness. That to love is to betray the Flame. He believes this still."
Kira nods, her heart pounding. "And you?"
Lexa's eyes meet hers. "I believe love is a burden we choose to bear. And a risk. One I accepted when I became Heda."
Kira shifts closer, emboldened. "Then you have to protect yourself from those who would protect you too well. You think you know him — but you don't see what fear makes people do."
Lexa tilts her head. "And what would you have me do? Kill Titus? He has served the Flame since before I was born."
"No." Kira shakes her head fiercely. "But you can watch him. Don't let him corner Clarke. Don't let him find a weapon he shouldn't have. Keep your quarters guarded."
Lexa's mouth twitches — a ghost of a smile, quickly gone. "You speak like a strategist."
"I've watched this story play out," Kira says, voice shaking. "I know the ending. I just — I don't want it to be the same."
Silence stretches between them. The flames crackle and spit. Kira risks a question she's been holding since she woke up in this nightmare.
"Why didn't you kill me?"
Lexa's eyes soften. Not warm, exactly — but less cold. "Because when you look at me, you do not see a Commander. You see me."
Kira's breath catches. "I do."
Lexa rises, smooth and silent. She extends a hand. Kira hesitates — then takes it. Her fingers are rough with calluses but warm.
"You will stay in the tower," Lexa says. "Not in the cells. You are a guest now."
Kira's eyes widen. "A guest?"
Lexa nods. "A watched guest."
She pulls Kira to her feet. For a heartbeat, their hands stay clasped — longer than they should. Kira feels the heat of her palm, the strength coiled beneath the skin. Don't fall, don't fall, don't fall, she chants silently — but it's already too late.
Lexa lets her hand go. "Come."
The room they give her is small but clean — a narrow cot, a basin of water, a rough wool blanket that doesn't smell like mold. When the door closes, there's no lock that she can see — but she knows better than to think she's free.
She sinks onto the bed, exhaustion hitting her all at once. Every muscle aches, her head throbs with a dull ache. But there's a spark in her chest, too — a flicker of hope.
She's alive. She's not in the cells. And Lexa… Lexa listened.
When sleep comes, it's deep and dreamless.
Kira wakes to the scrape of a tray on the floor. She opens her eyes to see Aden kneeling by her bed, carefully arranging food — bread, cheese, a cup of tea that smells sharp and bitter.
"You made her listen," Aden says softly.
Kira sits up, pushing hair from her face. "She made her own choice."
Aden looks at her with that old-soul gravity she remembers from the show. "Titus will not forgive this."
"I know."
He hesitates, then pulls a small bundle from his sleeve. Kira's breath catches. Another gift? But when he opens it, it's not a blade — it's a coil of thin wire.
"What is this?" she asks.
"For the doors," Aden whispers. "If they lock you in, you can open them."
Kira laughs, the sound raw with exhaustion and relief. "You're too good for this world."
Aden's eyes glint. "Heda says the same of you."
He slips out as quietly as he came, leaving her with bread, tea, and the wire coiled like a snake in her palm.
She's halfway through the bread when the knock comes — not the hard rap of a guard, but a gentle tap.
"Come in," she says, her voice barely stronger than a whisper.
Lexa enters alone this time, a faint dusting of snow melting on her shoulders. Her face is bare, the war paint washed clean.
"You look better," Lexa says, eyes sweeping over her. "You should eat."
"I am."
Lexa paces the small room, not quite looking at her. Kira watches her, noticing the way her shoulders curl inward when she thinks no one sees.
"Did you speak with Titus?" Kira asks.
Lexa nods. "He denies all. Says you twist the truth. Says you want to divide us."
"Do you believe him?"
Lexa turns to her, then — and for the first time, Kira sees something that makes her chest ache. Fear. Not for herself — but for her people. For the weight she carries.
"I believe," Lexa says slowly, "that the truth is a blade with two edges. And that you may be sharp enough to wield it."
Kira smiles, small but real. "Then let me help you."
Lexa's eyes drop to Kira's mouth — just for a heartbeat. When they lift again, her mask is back in place.
"Rest tonight. Tomorrow, you will sit with me in council. I would have them see what I see."
Kira's pulse spikes. "What do you see?"
Lexa steps closer, close enough that Kira smells the faint scent of pine and leather clinging to her skin. She lifts a hand — hovers it by Kira's cheek, then lets it fall.
"I see someone who might change everything," Lexa murmurs.
And then she's gone — the door swinging shut behind her, leaving Kira alone in the dark, heart pounding like a drum in her chest.
Kira curls up on the cot, the coil of wire tucked beneath her pillow, the map folded in her pocket, the metal shard hidden beneath her blanket. Tiny, desperate hopes. Small weapons against the tide.
She's not in Polis just to survive anymore. She's here to rewrite a story she once could only watch.
And maybe, just maybe — she thinks as her eyes slip shut — this time the ending will be hers to choose.
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