Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

War was not the only truth mankind knew.

Seventy-nine years ago, Praimfaya consumed the world we once called home.

From the ashes we rose,

From the ground we thrived.

The Flamekeepers tell us Bekka Pramheda fell from the sky,

She brought salvation with her.

Her blood made us strong— it allowed us to walk the earth unburned .

She became the first Commander, the first Heda .

There were other survivors, other clans,

She tried to help them but they didn’t believe in her.

Instead they called her a curse . They blamed her for the fire. And they burned her .
All that was left of her was the Flame .

A piece of herself amongst the ashes.

Her people, out of rage , despair , and love , avenged her.

They stormed the bunker where the man who burned her hid,

They killed him.

Him, and every soul in his clan. Erased from the bloodline.

This is where our story begins.

Politics arose and a new Commander had to be chosen.

And so the Flame chose.

A Natblida who would lead us all.

Someone who carried the blood of Becca Pramheda.

Heda Teon kom Trishanakru.

He divided the people into twelve clans,

Each was given purpose— skills to ensure survival.

Each wanting to overpower the other.

Trikru, Azgeda, Flokru, Sangedakru,

Trishanakru, Yujledakru, Boudalankru,

Podakru, Ouskejonkru, Ingranronakru,

Delfikru, Louwoda Klironkru.

Each clan wanted to lead,

To rise above the others.

Some chose peace ,

Others chose war .

This is the world I was born into.

The world I will die in.

As Commander we are to lead our people without fail,

Without fear. Without love.

We are meant to survive.

This world.

Its tests.

Each other.

From the chaos , the Flame chose once more.

Hundreds of Commanders ascending,

Leading wars and battles.

None to bring peace.

But from that war was a child.

A Natblida born to ascend with the Flame.

Raised to lead. Trained to kill.

Her legacy: unity or destruction.

My name is Lexa kom Trikru,

The youngest to ever ascend.

And this…

This is my story.

Chapter Text

Polis. 88 Years after Praimfaya.

The sun is already high when Lexa rolls onto the training floor, sweat clinging to her skin, limbs aching. She doesn't complain. Pain is proof she’s still standing.

Ari lunges at her with the wooden staff, and she ducks, sliding low. The momentum throws her off— too far left. A mistake. Luna doesn’t miss it. She doesn’t miss anything.

“Too slow, Lexa!” Ari calls, laughing as he helps her to her feet. Luna says nothing, but her eyes are sharp, searching.

They've been at it since dawn, the three of them. Nightbloods . Marked from birth, chosen by blood. Children raised with one purpose; to ascend and claim the Flame . Watched and trained by the Flamekeepers . But here, now, they're just kids with bruised knuckles and stubborn hearts.

“Again,” Lexa says, breath steadying. Luna nods, spins her staff, and the training continues.

The three Nightbloods are the best in their class. Each with their own strengths and weaknesses.

Ari, fifteen, is the eldest. From Flokru . Smart, cunning, kind. As a Commander, he’d be gentle— too gentle for the clans to follow. If not for his blood, the Flamekeepers never would’ve looked twice. Along with him is his sister, Luna kom Flokru. The best weapon Polis has ever seen in years. Anything in her hands is a weapon. She’s tactical, brutal, and calculated. As a Commander, she would be able to bend the clans to their knees with fear.

And then there was Lexa. From the clan of warriors, she was reaped and trained at the age of two. So young, so promising, so different. From the other Natblidas, only she would ask questions, give radical answers, defy the Flamekeepers. She’s as good with a sword as anybody in the room, but she has yet to best Luna.

Ari swings his wooden staff, aiming for Luna’s head, his sister ducks swiftly and she kicks him off his feet, falling. Lexa takes the opportunity, attacking Luna from behind. She turns and meets Lexa’s staff with her arm, blocking it from hitting her body.

“You must move silently.” Luna lectures her, delivering a blow to Lexa.

“But I wouldn’t be able to distract you so Ari has enough time to recon.” Lexa jokes lightly.

From behind, Luna’s brother tackles her and pins her to the ground. Lexa and Ari tickle her until she’s smiling. Novitiates aren’t allowed any fun but Lexa thinks otherwise— she takes training lighter than most. She is, after all, the youngest.

“What is going on here?” Titus’ voice cracks through the air, sharp as the blades mounted on the walls. The laughter from earlier is gone— swallowed whole by the temple’s silence. The three children snap to attention, paying attention to the front where the man stood. “I asked you a question.” he says. A woman stands behind him, a small smile painted on her face.

“Titus, they’re children. We must let them be children.” the woman answers.

“They are not just children!” he exclaims, his eyes never leaving the three. “You carry the sacred blood. You are being raised and trained to one day take command. This foolishness will not be tolerated.”

“Forgive me, Teacher. It was my idea.” Lexa speaks. Her voice is small.

“Ari, Luna, leave us. Go with Tirya and train with the others.” he orders the other two children.

The siblings leave, looking back at Lexa as a short goodbye. Tirya walks with them but not before leaving a pat on Titus’ shoulder. “Be gentle with her.” she tells him quietly.

Lexa stands alone in front of Titus. He walks towards her.

“You disobey me once again, Lexa.” he begins.

“Teacher, we have been training since dawn. I thought it would be fine to play for a little while.” she defends immediately. “Ari and Luna didn’t do anything wrong. I came up with the idea. Please don’t punish them.”

He hums. Titus has always found Luna to be the best amongst the Natblidas but Lexa always tested him which made him grow fond of her. She always ends up here but never breaks.

“Your defiance of the rules will cost you labor when you return to Anya. I will make arrangements for you to ride at once.” he tells her. “Listen to me, Lexa. When the time comes, you will find yourself in the Conclave against Ari, Luna, and all the other novitiates. They are not your friends. The Flame will choose and you will have to fight to be chosen.” he speaks in a low commanding voice. Lexa has never been afraid of him but she always held him to a high regard.

“Why must we fight at all?” Lexa’s voice is small, but steady. “Some of the novitiates... don’t even want to—”

“It doesn’t matter what you want or not.” he cuts her off. “This is your destiny. You will fulfill it.”

She doesn’t speak again, not as he turns and walks away. The Flame would choose. But maybe, one day, she would too.

- - - - -

The war room reeks of fire oil, sweat, and blood-soaked leather. Smoke from the fireplace curls toward the ceiling like writhing spirits, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. The table at the center— scarred, cracked, and heavy enough to crush a man, the weight of twelve clans and their wars.

Tension ripples through the air like an incoming storm. Generals lean in from every side, voices raised in fury and desperation.

“ Sangedakru is starving! Our people need food!” a woman in desert-worn armor yells, slamming her fist on the table with enough force to rattle goblets.

Across from her, a Trishanakru elder snarls. “Then hunt like the rest of us. We barely keep our own alive. Our soil rots because of Azgeda raids!”

Rakson, an Azgedakru general, leans back in his seat, expression carved from ice. “Azgeda needs nothing from Trishanakru. We take what is owed.”

The air stiffens as another voice cuts in, soft, diplomatic. “Flokru can offer fish. Enough to last the moon cycle.”

The silence lasts all of two heartbeats.

“Do we look like beggars to you?” snaps a broad-shouldered man with Sangedakru tattoos down his arms. The table erupts again, shouting, accusations, threats.

At the head, Commander Saron sits motionless, a phantom carved from dark fabric and steel. His hands grip the armrests of his throne, knuckles pale. The flames catch in his hollow cheeks. His eyes drift from one general to the next, not out of authority, but fatigue. He’s listening, but barely.

“Enough.”

The single word cracks like a whip. The room freezes. Saron’s voice is deeper than it has any right to be, roughened with age and illness, but still commanding.

“These attacks. These arguments. All meaningless.” His voice drags now, like each word costs him breath. “You need food. They need food. On and on it goes... until we all starve with blood in our mouths.”

The doors groan open.

A column of light spills into the room as Titus enters, shadow slicing across his face. The Flamekeeper walks with purpose but not haste, his presence alone enough to silence whispers.

He moves to the Commander’s side and says nothing, yet the murmuring begins again.

General Belha of Louwada Klironkru leans forward, arms crossed, voice dry as kindling. “You sit in that chair and call yourself Heda, but what have you done with it? What victories? What strength?”

Saron doesn’t blink. He stares at her as if she’s already dead.

“You question my leadership?” His voice is calm. Too calm.

Titus places a hand on his shoulder, just briefly. A silent plea: Do not waste your breath on her.

Rakson steps in, voice oily with pretense. “What General Belha means is that the Flame may have chosen you, but you’ve brought nothing but more war.”

Saron shifts in his seat— barely, but the room tightens with the movement.

“Heda doesn’t start the wars,” Titus says before Saron can speak. His tone is flat, dangerous. “But Azgeda always finds a way to finish them.” he meets the general’s gaze. 

“ Sou daun, kom ai laik op. ” Raskon says quietly.

Titus straightens, eyes narrowing. “What did you say?”

“I said watch yourself.” Rakson doesn’t flinch. “Or do you need the words cut into your skin to understand?”

Titus ignores him, Rakson’s eyes burning into the Commander now.

“You may wear the Flame, but the people... they follow strength. If Azgeda does not get what we came for—” he leans forward “You will watch Polis burn.”

That threat lands. Hard. Even the most battle-worn generals shift in their seats. Azgeda doesn’t bluff.

Saron begins to laugh.

It starts low, dry, raspy, almost hollow. It grows, echoing through the chamber like a cough from the underworld. The generals glance at each other uneasily. He laughs harder, until it breaks into a violent, rattling cough that won’t stop.

He doubles over in his chair. The sound of his sickness is raw and unmistakable.

The room watches.

No one speaks. But they all see it now: the rumors are true. He’s dying.

Titus is at his side instantly. One hand on the Commander’s back. The other raised to the room.

“This council is over,” he declares, voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “We reconvene tomorrow. Go.”

There’s a moment of hesitation— but no one dares argue. The generals rise. Boots scrape against stone. The chamber empties like a sinking ship.

When the doors close, the air stills.

Saron sinks back in his chair, chest heaving. He doesn’t meet Titus’s gaze, doesn’t pretend to recover.

“Heda,” Titus says quietly, kneeling beside him. “Let me speak for you. The clans will listen to the Flamekeeper. You need to rest if you want to see the next moon.”

Saron exhales, slow and cracked.

“It’s no use, Flamekeeper.” He finally looks at him. His eyes are tired, yes, but clear. Honest.

“I’m dying.” A pause. “And no matter who speaks in my name… no one follows a dying Commander.”

- - - - -

The forest is familiar, but quieter than Lexa remembers. Trees bow with the weight of spring, their leaves whispering in a language older than the child on the horse. She rides in silence, a single guard trailing behind her on horseback— close enough to protect, distant enough not to coddle. He says nothing. Like everyone else in Polis, he knows who she is. Who she could be.

Lexa’s reins rest lightly in her hands. The horse follows the path without guidance. Her thoughts drift back to the temple. Titus’ words. His disappointment.

“They are not your friends. The Flame will choose, and you will have to fight to be chosen.”

The idea twists in her stomach. Luna and Ari are all the family she has known since her reaping. Well, them and Anya. A young general who had taken Lexa as her Second . Anya trains her, guides her in leadership.

She arrives in Tondc not long after. The village appears through the trees like a memory she didn’t know she missed. Small homes built from stone and wood. Smoke curling from chimneys. Laughter in the distance. It was home. Most of it.

The village had been rebuilt after an Azgeda attack that left it in ruins. Lexa was five when it happened. Though she was a novitiate, she hadn’t been allowed to fight. Anya saved her. But her parents didn’t survive.

Children pause mid-game as she approaches. A little girl gasps and whispers, “Natblida.” A woman straightens from where she’s chopping firewood and bows her head. Others follow. Not fear. Not reverence, exactly. But pride. She is Trikru’s own, and they see it.

Someone offers her a drink from a wooden bowl. Another hands her an apple. Lexa takes it with both hands, unsure what to say.

Her guard dismounts behind her and nods toward the training grounds. “She’s waiting.”

Lexa nods and walks the rest of the way on foot. She should be dreading what’s to come, but seeing Anya never felt like a punishment.

She enters the small hut, a stairway leading underground. It’s bigger than it looks.

Anya stands in the underground square, arms folded, posture like a blade. She watches Lexa approach, expression unreadable.

“You’re early.” the general says.

“Titus sent me.”

Anya raises an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

Lexa shrugs. “Nothing. Everything.”

A small smile threatens the corner of Anya’s mouth. “Still finding trouble in the temple, huh?”

Lexa doesn’t answer. Anya tosses her a steel sword.

“Good. Let’s work it out of you.”

In the temple, Flamekeepers require every Natblida to wield swords during training— allowing them to feel pain and scar each other before the Conclave. Although Nightbloods are rare. Their job is to stay alive and stay strong.

Anya and Lexa spar. The dirt beneath them kicks up in dry puffs. Lexa is fast, but Anya is faster. A general in her own right versus a natural-born fighter. A few swings, a feint, a sweep of the leg— and Lexa’s on her back.

Anya offers a hand. “ Yu ste daun .”

Lexa frowns, takes it. “I’m not dead, I saw the move coming.”

“Didn’t stop it, though.”

They reset. Again. And again. Lexa lands a few strikes, but Anya always finds the opening.

“Still holding back,” Anya says between hits.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I’m not!” Lexa snaps. She swings aggressively, losing her balance. Anya stops, watching her.

“You can’t let your emotions dictate your actions on the battlefield, Lexa,” she says, gentle but firm. “Your emotions are vulnerable. You must separate feeling from duty.”

“I don’t want to do this if it means fighting my friends,” she huffs.

Anya pulls back, understanding. She offers Lexa a hand, and the younger girl takes it. They rest beside the fire pit, breath heavy, weapons discarded. Lexa rolls her sore shoulder. Anya sharpens her dagger like it's second nature.

“Are you afraid of your fellow novitiates?” Anya asks. She looks over at Lexa, who’s toying with the sand.

“I’m not afraid of them,” Lexa says.

“Are you sure?”

“Luna’s older. She’s better than me. She’ll win the Conclave and become Heda.”

“She’s older. That’s not the same.” Anya’s voice softens. “Lexa, you’re already writing your story in stone when there isn’t anything to write yet. Luna, your friends— you’re all meant for something greater than yourselves. But you can’t let that be the only thing telling you who you’re meant to become.”

Lexa stares at the fire. The thought of fighting Ari and Luna twists her stomach worse than it had in the temple. It’s nothing compared to the idea of becoming Commander. It almost makes her sick.

“Do you think the Flame chooses right?” she asks quietly.

She’s not one to question faith. But being the one reaped, being the one meant to fight, makes her doubt. She’s a child. She knows that. No one would follow a child Commander.

Anya stills. “Sometimes.”

Lexa looks up. “Only sometimes?”

Anya shrugs. “The Flame is sacred. But it’s not perfect. You’ll learn that.”

A beat passes. Lexa pulls the apple from her bag, one given to her by a child in the village. She turns it over in her hands. Skin unbroken. Red like blood.

“If it doesn’t choose me, I’ll still win,” she says softly.

Now Anya smiles, full and unguarded. “That’s the girl I trained.”

“What if it chooses me and I…”

“Fail?” Anya finishes the thought. “Then fail. You’re young. You’ll learn how to lead. What matters is what you do after failing.”

- - - - -

The novitiates gathered around the fire, shadows dancing across their young faces as the last light of day melted into twilight. The crackling flames cast warm hues on the carved stones that circled the pit. Their training had ended hours ago, and now, they sat— bruised, dirt-smudged, and quiet as the evening lesson began.

Luna and Ari sat across from Tirya, who stood with her arms folded in the flickering light. Unlike most Flamekeepers, Tirya wasn’t swallowed by her faith in the Flame. She taught the sacred lessons, yes, but she did not preach. She did not punish. She listened.

“Novitiates,” she began, voice calm, “You all did well today. Remember your training. It will keep you safe and strong.”

She stepped closer to the fire, the hem of her robe brushing the dirt.

“The Commander is sick,” she continued. “The time for the Conclave is nearing.”

Some of the novitiates shifted uncomfortably. They all knew who would win if the Conclave were called tomorrow. And they all knew what that would mean.

“I don’t want you to think about who must die... or who will be the last to stand,” Tirya said, scanning their faces. “Instead, think about what you could do if the Flame chooses you to be the Commander.”

She paused. The fire hissed, sending sparks into the air.

“For nearly seventy years, the clans have not known peace. Only once, under Bekka Pramheda, was there quiet. And even she, in the end, could not stop the blood from spilling.”

Her tone softened.

“Each of you is powerful in your own right. Some in body. Others in mind. But a true Commander leads with more than just strength and strategy. Wisdom. Strength. Compassion. These are the three pillars of Heda.”

“Teacher,” a novitiate piped up, voice unsure, “compassion means to care... to love. Aren’t we taught that love is weakness?”

Tirya smiled. “Is it?” she said gently. “I love each of you as if you were my own. Do I seem weak to you?”

Laughter broke the tension, light and brief.

Then Luna spoke, her voice steady. “If we are to lead with wisdom, strength, and compassion... then why are we forced to fight in the Conclave? Is there no better way to choose a Commander? One that wants to lead?”

Her expression was unreadable. Tirya knew Luna’s doubts— her struggle with the path set before her. It was no secret that Flokru did not celebrate violence the way other clans did. That Luna was their strongest fighter had always felt like a cruel irony.

Tirya hesitated. “The Conclave is not simply bloodsport,” she began. “I agree... there should be a better way. But the Conclave is sacred. A trial. A proving ground. It’s how the Commander earns trust, not just with a blade, but in the choices made within the arena.”

“I wish none of you had to fight. But this is our way. And it has been so... for generations.”

A sharp sound split the quiet, Luna drawing a knife from her belt. She didn’t point it. She simply held it, the firelight flickering against the blade.

“So I wait,” she said coldly, “For the day I kill my brother.”

Gasps. A shift in the circle. Even the fire seemed to pause.

“Yeah right,” Ari joked quickly, trying to break the tension. “I’ll get you first if you don’t watch it.”

“Will you?” Luna stood, her shadow stretching across the fire pit. “Everyone here knows I’m the best in combat. I can take any and all of you. Now , if I had to. Is that what makes me the Commander, Teacher?”

“Settle down,” Tirya ordered, more firmly now.

She reached into her robe and pulled a pinch of herbs, throwing them into the fire. The flames hissed and shifted— a green glow flaring briefly through the red.

“Once, there was a Commander. Heda Nykolai,” she said. “He was strong. Fearless. A destroyer of anything in his path.”

The wind picked up. A breeze swept through the camp.

“But that’s all he did. Destroy.”

Tirya looked at Luna.

“In his mind, the Commander takes and kills. He believed he was the Flame. Creator and destroyer. Pride ruled him. And pride made him cruel.”

“What happened to him?” a novitiate whispered.

Tirya's gaze didn’t waver.

“His people turned on him. Killed him. With his own sword.”

The fire snapped. And no one dared to speak.

Luna sat back down, her movements stiff but quiet. The knife still rested in her lap, forgotten. Tirya’s tale lingered like smoke— thick, warning, and hard to breathe through.

Then Ari leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low.

“Teacher,” he asked, “has there ever been a Commander who didn’t want to be one?”

The question caught even Tirya by surprise. Her expression softened.

“Yes,” she said after a pause. “And sometimes, they are the ones who lead with the most heart.”

Ari gave a small, lopsided smile. “Then maybe that’s the kind of Commander Luna would be.”

Luna rolled her eyes, but it was faint, almost playful. “You saying I’ve got heart now?”

“I’m saying you scare me less when you’re not waving knives around.”

That earned a few quiet laughs. The tension broke, just slightly.

Tirya let the moment settle, then nodded once. “Enough for tonight. You’ve trained your bodies today. Let this fire train your minds.”

The novitiates slowly stood, murmuring goodnights, leaving Luna seated by the fire a moment longer. She stared into the dying flames. Not with fear, not with anger— just thought.

When she rose, she left the blade behind in the dirt.

- - - - -

The Commander's chambers had begun to feel like a mausoleum. The air was cold, laced with the scent of herbs that had long since burned away. Shadows clung to the walls like old regrets. In the hearth, the fire struggled to stay lit, sputtering as if unsure it should still be burning at all.

Saron sat wrapped in heavy furs, his posture sunken into the high-backed chair that once made him seem taller than he was. Now, he seemed small beneath it. The fur-lined collar of his robe brushed his cheek as he turned his head slowly toward the door, sensing Titus before he even heard his footsteps.

The door creaked open. Titus entered with the calm reverence of someone walking into a tomb.

“You’re up late,” he said softly.

“I’m dying, Titus. There’s no ‘late’ for me anymore.”

Titus didn’t smile. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The silence that followed was thick with familiarity. This was not their first quiet conversation beneath low-burning flames, and it would not be their last.

Titus crossed to the opposite chair and sat down without invitation. He carried no scrolls this time, no relics of ritual or doctrine. Only questions. Saron seemed to notice.

“You came to ask,” he said.

Titus didn’t deny it. “The Conclave nears. The Flame must choose soon.”

Saron exhaled slowly, and even his breath sounded tired. “It already has.”

“Luna?”

Saron nodded. “There’s no one else.”

“She’s the strongest,” Titus offered.

“She is,” Saron agreed, but there was no pride in his voice. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Titus furrowed his brow. “You don’t believe in her?”

“I believe in her more than anyone.” Saron looked at the fire, not Titus. “That’s why it pains me.”

Titus let the silence settle, but Saron wasn’t done.

“She doesn’t want it. She’s never wanted it. And yet, everyone has already chosen her. The Flame. The faith. Even me. We are all guilty of forcing her toward a throne she never asked for.”

“She’ll make a good Commander,” Titus said quietly.

Saron turned his head. “That’s what we always say. Every time.”

Titus didn’t answer, not at first. He reached forward, stirred the logs in the hearth with a poker, watching as the embers flared and then dimmed again. The fire was dying slowly— like Saron, like the old ways.

“We choose warriors,” Saron said at last. “People who can wield a sword, end a life without flinching, survive anything we throw at them. And then we wonder why our people don’t know peace.”

“You think the Flame’s been wrong?” Titus asked, gently, but not without weight.

“I think we’ve forgotten how to listen to it.”

A long pause passed between them. The rain tapped softly at the window slits, and far below the tower, Polis slept restlessly.

“She has a good heart,” Titus said eventually. “Even if she’s a reluctant heir.”

“And what do you think happens to a good heart in that seat?” Saron asked. “I sat there once, Titus. And I remember what it did to me. I remember how every death made me quieter, how every sacrifice hardened something inside me I never got back.”

Titus lowered his gaze. “She’ll be different.”

“Will she?” Saron asked, but it was not sarcastic. It was quiet. Painful. Honest. “Or will she carry the same weight I did, alone, with no one to teach her how to bear it?”

“She’s not alone.”

“She will be. They all are.”

Titus straightened slightly, his voice firmer now. “Then what would you have me do? Let another child take her place? One not as strong?”

“No,” Saron said. “I want you to watch the ones we’ve ignored.”

There was something in his voice then, something that made Titus pause.

Saron met his eyes. “There’s a girl in that hall who fights not for power, but for something better. She doesn’t even see herself in that role. That’s why she should be considered.”

Titus’s mouth parted slightly. “Lexa?”

Saron gave a slow, tired nod.

“She’s the one no one chose,” he whispered. “Not the Flame. Not you. Not even herself.”

Titus was quiet.

“Because we think leadership must come from force,” Saron continued. “But she… she questions. She watches. She listens. And one day, she’ll break every rule we hold sacred and be right for doing it.”

He closed his eyes.

“But it won’t be today. Today, the world will want Luna.”

Titus’s voice was soft. “And if Luna doesn’t want the world?”

Saron exhaled again, eyes still closed.

“Then may the Flame choose the one who does not seek power. The one who fears what it will make her become.”

A longer silence stretched between them, filled only by the fire’s quiet crackle.

When Saron spoke again, it was nearly a whisper.

“She will become the Great Commander. The one, true, Heda.”

- - - - -

It was late. Most of the village was asleep, and Lexa still hadn’t finished sweeping out the horse stables. Her arms ached. The broom scratched against the dirt in rhythmic strokes, the only light around her flickering from a single candle near the gate.

“You missed a spot,” Luna’s voice came from the darkness.

Lexa turned, surprised but not alarmed. A quiet smile tugged at her lips.

“You’re not allowed to be here,” she said, leaning on the broom. “Titus will skin you alive if he finds out.”

Luna stepped into the candlelight with that familiar half-smirk. “Let him. I’m already participating in the Conclave.”

Lexa’s smile faded.

She set the broom aside, brushing dirt from her hands. “Come on. Before someone sees you.”

They slipped away to the edge of the village, under a wide-bellied tree that overlooked the outer wall. It had become their spot, far enough that they could pretend they weren’t Natblidas. Just kids again. Just Luna and Lexa.

“What did you do after training?” Lexa asked, breaking the silence.

Luna leaned her head back against the tree trunk. “Teacher told us about Heda Nykolai. Said he was powerful, ruthless, and completely alone by the end.”

Lexa glanced at her.

“She said the best Commanders are sometimes the ones who don’t want it.” Luna added.

Lexa picked at the grass beside her, brow furrowed. She didn’t want to say what she was thinking, that most of the time, people who didn’t want power never had the chance to take it.

“Do you… want it?” Luna asked suddenly. “The Flame. Do you want to be Commander?”

Lexa looked at her, startled. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

Lexa’s throat tightened. There was something different in Luna’s voice. Not just fear— grief, maybe. Like she was already mourning something she hadn’t lost yet.

“I don’t think I’d be a good Heda,” Lexa said. “I’m too small. I ask too many questions. Even Titus thinks I’m a problem.”

“You’re not,” Luna said softly.

Lexa gave a weak smile. “What about you?”

Luna didn’t answer right away. Her hands tightened in her lap. “I think I could win,” she said eventually. “I know I could. I’m the best fighter.”

“You are.” Lexa agreed, with no bitterness in her voice.

“But I don’t want to be a Commander who wins because I’m the best at killing,” Luna whispered. “That’s all they ever choose.”

Lexa swallowed. The words hit her harder than she expected. She knew Luna was strong— unshakable, even, but this felt like watching the ocean still itself just before a storm. Something ancient and quiet breaking open.

“Ari’s going to be in the Conclave too.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to fight him,” Lexa admitted. The words felt small in her mouth, like saying them aloud made them real.

“Neither do I,” Luna said, her voice barely audible. “I don’t want to fight any of you. I don’t want to win. I don’t want to lose. I just… don’t want to do any of it.”

Lexa turned to her, heart pulling painfully in her chest. She didn’t know if it was fear or guilt or some combination of both. But it hurt seeing Luna like this. Like the girl who used to run through the temple barefoot, daring Ari to chase her, was slowly vanishing.

“Then don’t be the kind of Commander they expect.”

Luna met her gaze, startled.

“If you don’t want to be a Heda who destroys… be the one who brings peace.” Lexa said, her voice steady despite her shaking hands. “Maybe that’s what we need.”

Luna blinked fast, looking away before the tears could fall.

“I don’t want to bring anything,” she whispered. “I just want to disappear.”

Lexa didn’t know what to say. She didn’t have the words to untangle the knot in Luna’s chest— didn’t even have the ones for her own. But she knew this: the girl beside her was the strongest person she knew, and even strength could splinter under too much weight.

She leaned closer until their shoulders touched, a quiet gesture that said, I see you. I’m still here.

For a little while, the weight of the world felt like something they could carry, together.

“Peace is the hardest thing to bring.”

Lexa turned. Anya stood beneath the tree’s edge, arms at her sides. It wasn’t clear how long she had been there, but her expression said enough. She’d heard more than a few words.

Luna tensed, wiping her eyes quickly. “We didn’t mean to—”

“I’m not here to scold you,” Anya interrupted, stepping forward. “Just to remind you both to get some rest. We leave for Polis in the morning.”

Lexa nodded, but Anya’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer.

“You listen more than you speak,” she said quietly. “That’s good. You’ll need that, one day.”

There was no prophecy in her voice, just a quiet kind of knowing. It landed in Lexa’s chest like a stone. Not heavy, just steady. Something to carry.

Anya turned without waiting for a reply, already moving back toward the village.

Lexa and Luna stood in the stillness a while longer before following.

The night didn’t offer answers, but it gave them silence, and for now, that was enough.