The great hall of the coalition council feels colder than any mountain Kira's ever seen — not because of the stone walls or the draft that whistles through the high windows, but because every pair of eyes that lands on her is sharpened like a knife.
She stands at Lexa's right again, on the raised dais behind the Commander's throne. It's morning — though the heavy cloud cover outside turns the hall into a gray cave. Long tables form a broken circle around a wide hearth. Above them, banners for the twelve clans hang limp in the still air: red for Trikru, black for Azgeda, green for Floukru, all stitched with symbols that once meant nothing to her. Now they feel like war maps drawn in blood.
Lexa sits, posture perfect. Her armor gleams darkly, wet with melted snow. Her hands rest on the arms of her throne — steady, even though Kira can feel the storm building under that calm mask.
Indra stands near the Trikru table, spear in hand like a quiet reminder: try anything, and bleed for it.
And Titus… he's absent from the hall. Kira doesn't ask where he is. She knows. She knows he's licking his wounds, waiting for a better chance to prove her wrong.
The air crackles when the Azgeda ambassador steps forward. Eisa again — sharp-featured, with frost glittering in her hair. Her fur cloak sweeps the stones as she bows, a gesture so shallow it's almost insulting.
"Heda," Eisa says, voice like ice scraping glass. "Azgeda brings tribute, as agreed."
Behind her, two guards drag forward a bound prisoner — a young boy, maybe fifteen, with shaggy hair and a split lip. He stares at the floor, jaw clenched around his terror.
Kira's stomach twists. She tries not to show it — but Lexa feels her stiffen. The Commander's eyes flick to her, just for a breath, then back to Eisa.
Lexa's voice is calm, but it cuts. "Who is this?"
"A traitor," Eisa says simply. "He conspired with Trikru warriors to sabotage our supply routes. By our law, he dies. But we offer him to your judgment, Heda — as a show of faith."
It's a test. Kira feels it in her bones — the way the other clan representatives lean forward, waiting to see how Lexa will weigh blood and loyalty.
Lexa's jaw flexes once. She looks at the boy — who dares to raise his eyes for a heartbeat. Kira sees it then: the raw spark there. Not defiance. Desperation. A plea he knows will never be spoken.
And she knows what comes next. She's seen it before. The way mercy is weighed in ounces, then thrown aside in pounds.
Kira shifts — just enough that Lexa feels it. Lexa's hand twitches on the arm of her throne. For a heartbeat, their eyes meet — a silent conversation no one else can read.
"Bring him here," Lexa orders.
The guards shove the boy forward. He stumbles, kneels at the base of the dais. His breath comes in ragged gasps, misting in the cold air. He can't be more than a child, Kira thinks — barely older than she was when she started watching The 100 in her dorm, waiting for a world that was never hers.
Lexa stands. The hush that falls is heavy enough to smother the hearth's crackle.
"By Azgeda's law, he is guilty," she says. "By our coalition's law, he must be heard."
Eisa's lip curls. "Heda, this is not your way. Our justice is swift."
Lexa ignores her. She looks down at the boy. "What do you say to these charges?"
The boy's voice is hoarse. "I—I did what I was told. They threatened my sister. Please, Heda—"
Eisa snaps, "He lies. He—"
Lexa lifts a hand. The ambassador's words die in her throat.
A heartbeat. Two.
Then Lexa says, softly, "You are Azgeda, and so your punishment is Azgeda's to decide. But in my hall, no clan may make sport of death for fear alone."
She turns to Eisa. "Take him. Keep him bound until you can prove his guilt beyond threat or torture. If you fail, his life is forfeit to me. If you succeed, he dies by your blade — not as a display."
Eisa's eyes flare with cold anger. But she bows — deeper this time. "As Heda commands."
The boy is dragged away, eyes wide, flicking to Kira as if he knows she did something — though all she did was breathe in the right moment. Was that all it took?
When the guards are gone, Lexa sits again. Her fingers tap once on the throne's arm — a tiny tell, a splinter in her composure.
The rest of the day bleeds by in a blur of words. Grain tithes, weapon counts, scouts reporting Floukru raids. Kira watches, listens, tries to memorize the shape of this world that wants her dead even as it needs her truths.
She feels eyes on her at every pause — especially from the Azgeda side. Eisa never stops watching, and Kira feels the bite of that gaze like frostbite under her skin.
When the session finally adjourns, Lexa dismisses her advisors with a flick of her hand. The hall empties like sand through an hourglass until only Lexa, Indra, and Kira remain. The hearth's embers spit sparks into the gloom.
"You did well," Indra says, voice flat. She doesn't sound pleased — just resigned, like she's acknowledged a problem that refuses to be solved.
Lexa looks at Kira. "You kept silent when you needed to."
Kira crosses her arms, ignoring the chill that slips through the seams of her jacket. "He was just a kid. You did what you had to."
A ghost of a smile touches Lexa's lips — then fades as fast as it comes. "Mercy is a blade. Use it poorly, and it cuts your throat instead of your enemy's."
Kira watches the hearth's glow flicker across Lexa's sharp profile. She wonders how many nights Lexa has weighed that balance — how many mercy-kills and mercy-denials it takes to calcify a heart like hers.
Indra shifts her spear against her shoulder. "Azgeda will not forget this."
"Let them remember," Lexa murmurs. "They need my mercy more than they know."
Indra leaves them then, her boots echoing against stone as she vanishes into the corridors. When the door shuts, the hall feels too large — too quiet.
Lexa stands and descends the steps of the dais. She moves closer until they're nearly shoulder to shoulder, but she doesn't quite touch Kira.
"You disapprove," Lexa says.
Kira snorts. "Is that what I look like?"
Lexa's eyes flicker. "You pity them."
"I pity anyone trapped in this cycle."
A long pause. Then Lexa says, softer, "You pity me."
Kira feels her heart clench. She turns, and for the first time since the council began, she lets her guard down — just enough to show the storm that's been brewing behind her ribs.
"No," she says. "I don't pity you. I want you to live."
Lexa flinches like she's been struck. It's so small, most people wouldn't see it — but Kira's eyes catch the truth of it: the crack under the steel crown.
"Sometimes I think you believe you're already dead," Kira says, voice trembling. "A martyr waiting for the knife. But you're not. You're here. I'm here. And I won't let you be buried by people who say they love you."
Lexa's hand rises, hesitates in the space between them — a fragile, dangerous half-touch. Her breath ghosts against Kira's cheek.
"You speak like someone who knows the end of the story," Lexa whispers.
Kira meets her eyes, unflinching. "I do."
The silence stretches — too long, too raw. Then Lexa's hand closes on her shoulder, warm and heavy.
"Come," she says, voice rough. "Walk with me."
They move through Polis together, winding through the outer walls. Snow drifts in soft spirals around them, landing in Lexa's braids, melting against Kira's lashes.
The city is quieter than usual — rumors of Titus's punishment and Azgeda's humiliation hang over the streets like storm clouds. People watch them pass: the Commander and her strange shadow from the sky.
They pause at the lookout point above the training yards. From here, the rooftops of Polis stretch like broken teeth, smoke curling from hearths that burn even when hope doesn't.
Lexa leans against the stone parapet, arms crossed over her chest. "What do you see?"
Kira joins her, shoulder brushing Lexa's arm. "A city that's held together by fear. And hope. And you."
Lexa doesn't speak. Her eyes are distant, watching warriors spar in the courtyard below — wooden swords clashing, grunts echoing in the cold air.
"You've seen how it ends," Lexa says suddenly. Her voice is a blade drawn too fast. "Tell me again."
Kira's throat tightens. "I see you bleeding out on a floor you never should have fallen on. I see Titus with a gun he never should have touched. I see Clarke arriving too late."
Lexa's jaw flexes. "And if we change one piece—?"
"You change everything." Kira swallows the lump in her throat. "That's why you have me here. Not just to warn you. But to stand in the way."
Lexa turns then, so close Kira can see the snowfall caught in her lashes. Her fingers lift, brushing the ice crystals from Kira's hair.
"Would you die for me?" Lexa asks, so soft the wind nearly steals the words.
Kira's heart stutters. Her mouth shapes the truth before she can stop it.
"No," she says, voice trembling. "I'd live for you."
Something flickers in Lexa's eyes — something dangerous, beautiful, terrifying.
"Good," Lexa murmurs. And this time, when her hand finds Kira's cheek, she doesn't pull away.
The kiss is not gentle. It's not perfect. It's hungry, demanding, like they're both trying to swallow the winter cold between their teeth. Lexa's mouth tastes like the iron tang of blood and the softness of snow melting on skin.
When they pull apart, Kira is breathless — not just from the kiss, but from the truth of it: this world is hers now, tangled up in Lexa's heartbeat.
Somewhere far below, a sword clangs against a shield. An omen. Or maybe a promise.
Lexa rests her forehead against Kira's. "Tomorrow, the clans will test us again."
Kira smiles, teeth chattering with the cold. "Let them."
And for the first time since she woke in this broken dream, Kira feels like she might belong here — right at Lexa's side, blade hidden beneath the banner.
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