Polis buzzes with tension—alliances are fragile, and war whispers through the air. Octavia Blake stands in the Tower, the morning sun casting silver light on her armor. She's become a fierce warrior—Skairipa, the Death from Above—but despite the blade in her hand, her heart has always been with you.

You were sent on a diplomatic mission to a distant Trikru outpost—routine, she was told. But when a rider returned to Polis bloodied and breathless, carrying only one message—“They were ambushed. [Y/n] is dead” —everything around her froze.

Octavia didn't wait for permission. She storms from the Tower, fury and fear burning behind her eyes. Her voice shakes when she demands the outpost’s location, and before anyone can stop her, she’s already mounted her horse, racing toward the woods. Every second feels like a blade to her chest. The thought of losing you—of not being there—tightens her grip on the reins.

You awaken in a healer’s tent, half-conscious, wounds freshly stitched. The world is hazy—until a silhouette storms in, drops to her knees beside you, and grabs your hand like she’ll never let go.

“Don’t you dare do that again,” Octavia breathes, her voice cracking with emotion.“You don’t get to leave me. Not like that.”

Despite your pain, you smile.“Didn’t know you cared that much.”

Her glare softens. She brushes blood-matted hair from your face.“You have no idea.”