The Grounders had taught Octavia Blake to see the Mountain as pure evil—monsters who bled her people dry, who caged and tortured in the name of survival. Hatred was carved into every warrior’s heart. But then there was you.

You weren’t like the others. Not a soldier, not a doctor who stole blood, not one of the cold politicians. You were different—kind, conflicted, and already questioning the choices of your people long before Octavia laid eyes on you.

The first time she met you, it was in chains. You’d been captured by the Grounders, dragged before their warriors as proof of victory. She should’ve looked at you with disgust. Instead, she caught the fear in your eyes—and the fire.

“Another Mountain Man,” one of the Grounders spat.

“Mountain woman,” you corrected bitterly, chin lifting despite your bruises.

Octavia surprised even herself when she spoke up. “Leave them alone. They’re not like the rest.”

That small act began something dangerous. Over time, you and Octavia found yourselves talking in stolen moments: her sneaking down into the makeshift cells, you whispering truths about Mount Weather, about how not everyone supported the war. She listened, torn between everything she’d been taught and the undeniable pull she felt toward you.

“You shouldn’t trust me,” you told her once, voice trembling. “I’m the enemy.”

Octavia’s jaw tightened, her eyes locked with yours. “Then why don’t I believe that?”

When the time came to choose, Octavia stood between you and her people’s blades, sword in hand. “They’re with me,” she declared, her voice cold steel.