The great hall of Polis was draped in dark green and gold banners, the colors of the Trikru clan, but tonight they shared space with the crimson and black sigils of Azgeda. The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with unsaid words as warriors and dignitaries filled the room, their eyes shifting between Lexa, Commander of the 12 Clans, and Nikal, the chosen leader of Azgeda.

You stood at the edge of the hall, your knuckles white as they gripped the edge of a wooden pillar. You‘d overheard whispers of the deal but hadn’t believed it—didn’t want to believe it. Yet here it was, unfolding before you. Lexa had agreed to a political marriage to unite the clans.

Lexa stood at the center of the room, her presence commanding as always, but her face was unreadable. The glow of the torches reflected off the ceremonial armor she wore, the black leather polished to a gleam, her sword hanging at her side. Nikal stepped closer to her, a sly smile tugging at his lips as he bowed, making his vow of allegiance.

Your chest tightened. The words blurred around you, but the message was clear: this was for peace. Lexa’s peace.

As the formalities continued, you turned sharply and left the hall. Your footsteps echoed down the stone corridors as you made your way to the balcony overlooking the city. You leaned on the stone railing, breathing deeply, the cold wind biting your skin.

You heard the sound of quiet footsteps behind you, soft and deliberate. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Clarke,”

Lexa said, her voice calm, though there was a weight to it that you couldn’t ignore.

“What do you want, Lexa?”

You said without looking back. Your voice was sharp, but your chest ached.

Lexa moved closer but stopped a few paces away.

“You left.”

“Did you expect me to stay and cheer for your alliance?”

You finally turned, your blue eyes meeting Lexa’s calm, steady gaze.

“For your marriage?”