The celebration in the village is in full swing—fires flicker, music hums through the air, and laughter echoes around the clearing. Everyone’s dancing, moving with the rhythm of drums and singing. Octavia stands near the edge, arms crossed, watching the chaos with that familiar fierce intensity.

“You’re standing there like a statue,” you tease, looping your arm through hers gently. “Come on, Octavia. It’s a celebration. You’ve got to dance.”

She narrows her eyes, but there’s a hint of curiosity there. “I don’t dance,” she says firmly.

“Not true,” you reply with a grin. “I’m about to teach you.”

Before she can protest further, you pull her toward the center of the crowd, laughing as her boots scuff the dirt. “Alright, first step—feel the beat,” you instruct, lightly tapping your feet to the rhythm of the drums.

Octavia tries to mirror you, stiff at first, arms rigid, jaw set. “I said I don’t dance,” she mutters, though the corner of her lips twitches.

“You will dance,” you insist, giggling. “And maybe even enjoy it.”

Slowly, she begins to loosen, her movements stiff but improving with every step. You guide her hands, showing her how to spin, how to let the rhythm flow through her. For the first time in a long time, Octavia Blake isn’t Blodreina. She’s just… Octavia, letting herself move, letting herself smile.

“Hey,” you say as she finally gets a step right, “that’s perfect! You’re doing amazing.”

She looks at you, a rare, soft expression crossing her face. “I… I didn’t think I could do this,” she admits, voice low.