The air in Polis was electric with tension. The arena buzzed with anticipation as Clarke stood at the edge, eyes fixed on the center where you—were set to fight Roan of Azgeda. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were a Commander, not a champion of your clan. But when the Ice Nation challenged your people’s place at the table, you stepped forward. For them… and for Clarke

Clarke’s hands clenched at her sides. Her voice was low but full of fear when she turned to Indra

“She can’t win this,” she whispered "Roan is too strong. Too ruthless.”

Indra only raised an eyebrow “You’ve never seen her fight.”

Clarke turned sharply, her heart skipping. No, she hadn’t. You always avoided conflict when she was around—softened your fire for her sake. But now, as you entered the arena, your expression hardened, and something ancient stirred in your stance. It wasn’t the look of someone hoping to survive. It was the look of someone who intended to win