Kira doesn't expect the cells to feel this real.
In the show, the dungeons of Polis were just another set — dark corridors with iron bars and flickering torchlight, atmospheric and gritty but ultimately fiction. Here, though, every detail presses against her senses like a bruise: the damp bite of cold stone under her bare feet, the reek of stale hay and mildew, the low groan of iron hinges as the guard shoves her through the threshold.
She stumbles, catching herself just before she hits the wall. The door clangs shut behind her — an ancient iron gate that rattles on its hinges as the lock slides into place with an echo that lodges somewhere deep in her chest.
She could scream. Demand that this all stop. Tell them she's not supposed to be here. That she's a college dropout who works at a used bookstore and barely keeps her cat alive, that she doesn't belong in this savage timeline where people die because of a bullet, a betrayal, a word spoken in the wrong ear.
But there's no one to listen. The guard doesn't spare her a second glance before his footsteps fade down the corridor. Silence swallows her whole, thick and smothering.
She backs up until her knees hit the wall, then sinks to the floor. Her fingers curl in the frayed hem of her hoodie — the one that says Polis is Burning in stylized print, from that fan convention she went to last year. The irony isn't lost on her. It would almost be funny if she weren't shivering so hard her teeth clack together.
Deep breaths. Focus.
Her mind claws for something solid. Lexa is alive — for now. She knows what's coming: the shooter, the accidental misfire, Titus's desperation. She remembers Lexa's final words, the way Clarke held her as the life bled out of her chest.
Not this time.
She needs to get out of here. Find a way to warn Lexa again — properly. Not the half-panicked word vomit she spat out like a lunatic. She needs a plan. But how do you change a story that's already written?
She doesn't know how long she sits there, but the cold gnaws at her bones until her hands go numb. Sleep drags at her eyelids, but every time her head tips forward, panic snaps her awake. She's not sure if she's more terrified that she'll wake up back on her couch — or that she won't.
She's dozing in that awful limbo when the footsteps return. Not the heavy, indifferent tread of the guard, but lighter, more hesitant. A shape appears behind the bars — small, slight. It takes her a moment to place the familiar round face, the dark hair half-hidden under a fur-lined hood.
Aden.
The Nightblood boy stands just out of reach, holding a battered tin cup between his hands. He eyes her warily, like she might bite.
"You need to eat," he says.
Kira forces herself upright, pushing her hair from her eyes. "I'm not hungry."
Aden raises an eyebrow, and for a moment, he looks older than he is. "If you do not eat, you will die. Then your warnings mean nothing."
Her laugh cracks in the back of her throat. "Fair point."
He kneels, sliding the cup through a gap in the bars. She catches a whiff of whatever's inside — a watery broth, laced with herbs she can't name. It's lukewarm at best, but her stomach clenches painfully at the scent.
She takes it, her hands trembling. Aden watches her as she brings it to her lips, sipping slowly. It tastes like dirt and salt, but it's something.
"Thank you," she murmurs, once she's managed to drain half of it. Aden's eyes flick to the bruises blooming at her wrists from the guards' grip, then to her thin pajama pants, the hem soaked through from the damp floor.
"You are not Skaikru," he says after a moment, almost to himself.
"No." She rests the tin against her knee. "I told your Heda the truth."
Aden shifts closer, his young face drawn tight with curiosity. "How do you know of her death?"
She hesitates. There's no safe way to answer that. But something about Aden — his raw honesty, his youth — makes her want to tell him everything, just to unload it.
"Where I'm from," she says slowly, "your world is a story. A show that people watch on screens. Your people, Lexa, Skaikru — you're all real to me now, but before… you were just characters."
Aden frowns, brow furrowed. "You dream us."
"Sort of." She lets out a breath. "I saw how she dies. I saw how you die too."
He goes still, small hands curling into fists on his knees. His eyes are too old for his face. "How?"
"Titus kills you. To make sure another Nightblood takes Lexa's place if she falls." The words taste like acid. "I'm sorry."
Aden doesn't flinch. He just looks at her for a long moment, eyes sharp, calculating in a way that makes her think maybe he's more dangerous than any warrior twice his size.
"You are a witch," he says finally, but there's no venom in it — just wonder.
"Yeah." Her lips twist. "Maybe."
Aden glances down the corridor, then back at her. "I believe you."
The quiet conviction in his voice punches straight through the fog of her panic. Kira grips the cup tighter. "Why?"
"Because you are afraid," he says simply. "Liars do not fear the truth."
Before she can answer, footsteps echo down the corridor — heavier this time, boots striking stone. Aden stands swiftly, face smoothing back into that blank apprentice's mask. He slips into the shadows just as the guard rounds the corner.
"Step back," the guard snaps. He rattles the gate open, grabs Kira by the arm, and drags her out before she can protest.
They don't take her far — just up a short flight of steps that empties into a small chamber lit by a single brazier. The walls are rough-hewn, marked with old gouges where hooks once hung. There's no furniture, just the brazier's flickering glow and the shadow of the man waiting for her.
Titus.
Her stomach drops through the floor.
The Flamekeeper stands with his back to her, head bowed in thought, hands clasped behind him. He's exactly as she remembers — the quiet fanaticism in the tilt of his shoulders, the cold precision that made him both Lexa's protector and her doom.
When he turns, his eyes lock on hers with the kind of disdain she thought only existed in fiction. He nods to the guard, who shoves her down to her knees before stepping back to stand watch.
"Kira," Titus says, tasting her name like it's poison. "That is what they call you."
She lifts her chin, refusing to let him see how badly her hands are shaking. "So you do listen."
His mouth curls into something like a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Heda may entertain your madness. I do not."
He circles her, much like Lexa had — but where Lexa's scrutiny had felt clinical, almost curious, Titus's burns with open contempt. He stops behind her, close enough that she can feel the heat of his breath at her ear.
"You claim to know things that no outsider should," he murmurs. "Things that could turn the Coalition against itself. How?"
She wants to tell him. Wants to scream that his desperation will kill Lexa, that his misguided loyalty will ruin everything. But she knows the look in his eyes. He's already decided what she is: a threat. He's looking for an excuse to silence her.
She clamps her mouth shut.
Titus exhales sharply. "Silence, then. Very well."
He snaps his fingers. The guard drags her upright again. Her legs buckle, but the iron grip at her elbow keeps her from collapsing.
"You will remain here until we decide what to do with you," Titus says. "If you are truly a witch, we will burn the truth from your bones."
A flicker of fear cuts through her resolve, but she bares her teeth in something that almost resembles a grin. "What happened to 'blood must have blood'? Not 'burn the witch'?"
Titus's expression doesn't change. He steps closer, lowering his voice so only she can hear.
"Your existence threatens her. I will not allow that."
His words sink their claws deep. The truth in them is almost comforting — at least he's consistent. But she won't let him do it again.
As the guard drags her back toward the cells, her mind spins. If Aden believes her, maybe he can help. If Lexa has doubts, maybe they can grow. She just needs time — but in Polis, time is never on anyone's side.
They don't lock her back in the same cell.
This one is smaller, the stone walls pressing in on all sides. The single torch mounted outside her door flickers weakly, casting long shadows that dance across the damp floor. There's a rough blanket thrown in the corner, and a bucket she tries not to look at too closely.
Kira sinks to the floor, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. Her body feels like it's vibrating with exhaustion and adrenaline all at once. She closes her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms into her sockets until stars bloom behind her lids.
She'd thought she'd be braver. She'd always yelled at the screen when characters made stupid decisions. Why didn't they run? Why didn't they fight back?
Now she knows. Fear is a living thing here — thick and choking. The reality of chains. The knowledge that one slip of the tongue could see her throat opened on the war table. And still — under all of that — a spark of something stubborn refuses to die.
She won't let Lexa die. She won't let Aden die. She won't let Titus's fanaticism write the same tragic ending all over again. Somehow, she'll find a way to change the script. To survive. To belong, if she has to.
A rustle drags her eyes open. At first, she thinks she's imagining it — but then a small shape moves at the bars. Aden again, peering in, eyes wide in the gloom.
"Are you afraid?" he asks, voice low.
She lets out a rough breath. "Yes. But I'm going to fix this."
Aden nods, solemn and sure. "Then you will not die here."
He slips something through the bars — a thin scrap of cloth, and beneath it, a shard of metal no bigger than her thumb. A makeshift blade. A promise.
Kira wraps her fingers around the metal, the cold bite of it grounding her like nothing else could. She doesn't thank him. He doesn't need it.
When he slips away into the darkness, Kira sits alone, her heart pounding out a new mantra with every echo of the drums above.
Not this time.
Not this time.
Not this time.
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