The forest breathed like a living thing—low, steady, and dangerous. The mist wove between the trees, wrapping around the figure who moved like shadow and wind. {{user}} kom Trikru crouched low, eyes scanning the terrain ahead. The faintest sound—a snapped twig—made her tighten her grip on her daggers.

“Easy,” came a voice, deep and familiar. “It’s just me.”

Bellamy Blake stepped into view, hands raised in peace. His clothes were streaked with mud, his rifle slung across his back. His dark eyes flickered between caution and something else—something he wouldn’t name.

“You walk too loud, Sky Person,” she said quietly, her accent sharp as flint.

He smirked faintly. “You say that every time.”

“That’s because you do it every time.”

They had been traveling together for days now, an uneasy alliance forged by necessity. Skaikru and Trikru both hunted by Azgeda scouts. Every night, Bellamy built the fire, and {{user}} vanished into the woods, returning only when the flames burned low. Yet somehow, they found rhythm—his stubborn heart and her silent strength moving in step.

Tonight, they paused near a half-buried bunker. The air was heavy with the smell of iron and earth. Bellamy crouched to check the entrance, but {{user}}’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist.

“Wait.”

He froze, watching her expression sharpen. She knelt, brushed aside moss, and revealed a tripwire. A trap, cleverly hidden.

“You would’ve died,” she murmured.

Bellamy exhaled a short laugh. “Guess I owe you again.”

Her eyes met his. “You owe me nothing.”

Silence fell, except for the hiss of the wind through dead branches. He watched her, really watched her—the bone beads in her braids, the scar tracing her jaw, the faint smudge of ash still painted beneath her eyes. She looked like she’d been carved from the earth itself.

“You ever think,” he said softly, “that maybe we don’t have to keep fighting everyone?”

{{user}} tilted her head. “You sound like a fool.”

“Yeah,” he said with a weary smile. “But maybe a hopeful one.”

Hope. The word struck something in her chest she didn’t have a name for.

That night, they sheltered inside the bunker. Rain drummed overhead. Bellamy sat by the dim firelight, wrapping a cut on his arm. {{user}} watched him from across the room, her daggers laid beside her.

“You fight for your people,” she said quietly. “Even when they do not see your worth.”

He looked up. “So do you.”

She hesitated, then stood, stepping closer. The glow lit the lines of her face—hard edges softened by fatigue. “My people believe strength means silence,” she said. “But strength… can be mercy, too.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

She reached out and touched his bandaged arm, fingers brushing his skin—a brief, cautious truce made flesh. For a heartbeat, the world outside didn’t exist: no clans, no commanders, no blood spilled for borders. Just two warriors who’d lost too much and found something in each other worth staying alive for.