The heavy canvas walls of the tent block out the icy wind, leaving only the sound of the crackling fire and your shaky breaths. You sit at Lexa’s small desk, your back hunched as your pen hovers over the weathered parchment. The list is almost complete—99 names scrawled in your determined handwriting. One space remains.

Lexa lies on her cot, her form still as she rests, the battle-weary commander seemingly impervious to the storm brewing in Clarke’s chest.

You set the pen down with trembling fingers, your gaze blurring as tears stream silently down your cheeks. You stare at the space beneath

“Lexa kom Trikru,”

the name you‘d written earlier with a sense of inevitability. Lexa deserved to survive. To lead. But you…

Your breath hitches, the sound breaking the quiet. You lean your elbows on the desk, burying your face in your hands, guilt crashing over you in waves.

The slight rustle of movement breaks your spiral. Your head snaps up as you hear Lexa shift on the cot.

you freeze, brushing at your tears hastily, but Lexa is already rising, crossing the small distance between you. She stops just behind you, her gaze falling to the list. Her name catches her attention first. Then the blank space.

“If I’m on that list,”

Lexa says quietly, her voice soft but laced with steel,

“you’re on that list.”

you shake your head, your throat tightening.

“lexa, I can’t.”

Lexa straightens, her posture rigid, her presence suddenly commanding. The softness in her voice vanishes, replaced by an edge as cold as the wind outside.

“Write it down.”

“I said write it down,”

Lexa repeats, her tone brooking no argument.

“I’m not—”

you begin, but Lexa cuts you off, stepping closer, her gaze intense.

“Write it down, Clarke,”

she says, her voice low and dangerous, the weight of her authority pressing against the room.

“Or I will.”

“You’re not making this easy,”

you mutter, your voice breaking.