She wakes to the sound of drums.
Not the gentle thrumming of rain on her window, not the hum of her TV left playing overnight, but deep, resonant drums that echo off stone walls and shake her bones until they feel hollow.
Kira's first instinct is to bolt upright — but when she does, her head swims, nausea tightening around her ribs like an iron band. She tastes the tang of old blood on her tongue. Her hair is stuck to her forehead, slick with sweat, and the smell that hits her isn't her lavender candle or cheap laundry detergent but smoke and something metallic. Iron. Rust. No — blood.
"What the…?"
Her words evaporate into the air, snatched by a chill that makes her teeth click together. She blinks, forcing her eyes to adjust. There's no glow of her TV screen, no gentle halo of her fairy lights. Instead, she's staring up at a high, vaulted ceiling of carved wood beams and thick drapes that hang like banners of war. Torches flicker in sconces mounted into ancient stone. There are voices outside, sharp and clipped, speaking a language that curls oddly on her tongue — familiar, yet foreign.
It's not real, she thinks. This is a dream. A vivid, fucked-up dream, because she'd watched The 100 until she passed out on her lumpy couch, half-empty bag of chips on her stomach, tears crusting in her lashes after Lexa's death scene. Maybe this is her brain's messed-up version of a coping mechanism. That would make sense, wouldn't it?
A door creaks open, and cold air rushes over her. Kira's body tenses instinctively. A figure steps inside — all dark leathers, fur-lined cloak, and face painted in that unmistakable Grounder war mark: charcoal streaks across cheekbones and the bridge of the nose. Her brain scrambles to name him.
Aden.
One of the Nightbloods. A child, but already so composed, so sharp-eyed. The sight of him makes her chest tighten — she knows what happens to him. Will happen to him?
He peers down at her, assessing her like she's a wounded animal. He says something in Trigedasleng. Her brain scrapes at her memory for the translation.
"—strange clothes—Sky Person?"
Sky Person. Kira looks down at herself. She's still in her worn pajama pants and oversized The 100 merch hoodie. Ironic. Ridiculous. She tries to push herself up, but her limbs feel heavy, foreign. She swallows around the dryness in her throat.
"Where am I?" she rasps.
Aden stiffens. He glances over his shoulder, says something to the guard behind him — a massive man with tattoos curling up his neck. The guard grunts and vanishes into the hallway. When Aden looks back, there's something almost gentle in his eyes, but it's buried under layers of suspicion.
"You speak English," he says, his accent thick but clear. "Heda will want to see you."
Heda. Lexa.
Panic sizzles at the base of her spine. Lexa is alive. She hasn't died yet. Which means… Kira's heart thunders so loudly she's sure Aden can hear it. She has to see her — has to warn her. If she can even convince herself this isn't just a cruel hallucination.
She sways when she tries to stand. Aden's small hand clamps around her arm — his grip strong, surprisingly so. He eyes her hoodie, her pajama pants.
"You wear strange armor," he says, tone clipped.
Kira huffs out a laugh that turns into a cough. "It's not armor. It's… it doesn't matter."
Another guard arrives, flanking her other side. Together they half-drag, half-guide her out into the corridor.
---
The tower is both exactly how she pictured it and not at all.
The hallways are all rough stone, torchlight flickering against furs and banners bearing the Coalition sigil. The smell is stronger out here — smoke from hearths, the earthy tang of animal skins, the coppery bite of fresh blood. She passes warriors in dark leathers, some eyeing her like she's a ghost, others with open hostility. A Sky Person appearing in the Commander's tower unannounced is reason enough to spill blood. She can feel it vibrating off them: suspicion, curiosity, the constant undercurrent of violence.
But none of that scares her as much as what waits behind the heavy double doors at the end of the hall.
The doors swing open with a groan. Inside, the war room is alive with tension. Maps are spread across a massive table. Warriors stand at attention, their eyes snapping to her immediately. And there, at the head of it all, draped in her dark armor and fur-lined cloak, stands Lexa kom Trikru.
Alive.
Kira's breath lodges in her throat. The TV screen had never done her justice. The real Lexa is somehow sharper, her presence coiled like a blade ready to strike. Her eyes, that impossible shade of green, fix on Kira with the weight of command that's earned, not given. A hush falls over the room.
"Leave us," Lexa says, her voice calm but carrying an edge that makes even the burliest warrior bow his head and slip out without protest. Aden hesitates at her side, but Lexa's glance sends him out the door too. The heavy wood slams shut behind him.
Now it's just the two of them.
Kira's knees threaten to buckle under the weight of it all. Lexa doesn't speak at first. She circles her, boots echoing on the stone floor. Up close, Kira sees the faint scars on her knuckles, the way her braids are pulled tight from her temples, the smudge of war paint at her jawline.
Finally, Lexa stops in front of her. One eyebrow arches, her expression the same mask Kira remembers from the show: unreadable, calm, lethal.
"You are not Skaikru," Lexa says evenly. "Yet you appear here, dressed like one of them. Aden says you speak our tongue, but your words are strange."
Kira swallows. Say something. Don't sound like a raving lunatic.
"I… I'm not Skaikru," she manages. "I'm not from any clan."
Lexa tilts her head slightly. "Then where do you come from?"
Kira opens her mouth. Closes it. What is she supposed to say? Oh, hi, Heda, I'm from a world where you're fictional and I watched you die last night while eating stale chips?
Lexa's eyes narrow a fraction. She reaches out — so fast Kira flinches — and grips her chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. Up close, her eyes are so clear, so alive. Not dead. Not yet.
"You carry no weapon. No marks of clan. No guard could say how you came into the tower. That is troubling."
Kira's breath stutters. "Please… I'm not a threat."
Lexa's grip doesn't tighten, but the threat is there, unspoken. "Then what are you?"
For a moment, the truth tries to claw its way up her throat. She could say it — spill everything, try to convince Lexa she's not insane. But who would believe her? She can almost hear Indra scoffing, the warriors dragging her out to the courtyard, a blade at her neck.
"I'm… a traveler," she blurts. It sounds pathetic, even to her own ears.
Lexa's eyes flick over her again, taking in the pajamas, the frayed hoodie. Her fingers slip from Kira's chin, but the weight of her stare doesn't ease.
"A traveler," she repeats, voice flat. "From where?"
"Far. A place you wouldn't know."
Lexa's lips curl at the corner, not quite a smile. "Try me."
Kira hesitates. She could lie — but some desperate, stupid part of her wants Lexa to know. Wants to protect her, even if she sounds crazy.
"You're going to die," Kira whispers. The words feel like glass on her tongue.
Lexa stills. Her mask doesn't slip, but something flashes in those green eyes — a flicker of something she's never let her people see. Fear? Doubt? No. Lexa doesn't fear death.
Kira forces herself to keep going. "You're going to die here. Soon. Someone close to you will betray you. I know because I… I saw it. Where I come from."
Lexa's silence is worse than anger. She doesn't react, doesn't move. Her hand drifts to the dagger at her hip, but she doesn't draw it.
"And you know this how?" Lexa asks softly, deadly. "You claim to be a seer?"
"No." Kira's voice cracks. "I'm just… I watched. You can believe me or not. But you have to be careful, Heda. Please."
A beat passes. Then another. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
Finally, Lexa exhales through her nose, a quiet scoff. "Do you know how many claim to see my death each moon? To scare me. To sway my decisions."
Kira shakes her head, desperation rising. "I don't want anything! I just want you to live."
Lexa's eyes narrow again. She steps back, that calculating expression settling into place like armor. "If you are lying, you know what will happen."
Kira nods. She does. Her pulse roars in her ears.
Lexa gestures to the guards who slip back in at her silent command. "Take her to a cell. No harm. Yet."
The guards close in. Kira doesn't fight them — her legs are too weak, her mind spinning. As they drag her out, she chances one last look back. Lexa stands alone at the war table, eyes on the map — but her hand is pressed tight to her chest, right where the bullet will tear through her not long from now.
Not this time, Kira swears to herself as the heavy doors close behind her.
Not this time.
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