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The world paused. Everything paused, and Clarke stared, watching as the Ice Queen's guise melted from her features. The feigned terror evaporated. The innocence etched in her expression ceased, and just like that, she turned into something formidable.

A smile seemed to toy at her lips, as she turned on her heels and ran.

"Over here!" Clarke was vaguely aware of the shaking of her hands and she started after her, clutching her gun in a bone-white grip. Fire lurched around her and bodies still littered the ground, but Clarke maneuvered through it, losing sight of the Ice Queen. She regained a visual of her, eclipsed beyond tendrils of flame.

Clarke wanted to scream for Bellamy again, for all eyes to focus on this woman. But she didn't want to draw attention from the Ice Scouts. No, Clarke wanted to stand against that woman herself, and in the hush of war, silence her in front of her people.

Clarke raised her gun and tried for a shot. It missed, fragmenting off one of the stone buildings.

She hissed out a breath and started running again, weaving through the smoke, the fire, the explosions that still made the ground beneath her feet shift. She would not allow herself lose sight of her again. She would not.

Clarke stepped through another dilapidated part of a building, a latticework of branch and rock consumed in flame. She spared just a single glance around, panic rising at the sight of Ice Scouts, a number that was steadily outweighing Grounders. Where were her people? Where were the Sky people?

Clarke forced her legs to move faster, turning the corner she'd seen the woman branch off in, and drew up short.

The Ice Queen stood meters away, facing her, as if in offering. The hood still pulled over her head cast her face in shadows, red hair snaking from beneath it and down like blood. She stood alone, isolated inside the camp, except for other Grounders rushing behind her, and for one ephemeral breath, Clarke wanted to believe that was it.

But she knew better.

As if to prove her right, the Queen drew up her hand-the one with the red cuff- high into the air.

Dread ran like ice water through Clarke's veins, chilling her to the bone as she watched, almost dazedly, as Grounders stepped forward, flanking the Ice Nation's leader.

But these weren't Grounders.

From somewhere in there gear and disguises, they unsheathed seax blades and the Queen drew back inside them. The Scouts held their weapons aloft, tips gleaming like teeth in the firelight. They'd lost their masks and Clarke stared into their faces- at average men, but with something undeniably dark clouding their expressions. They held no remorse for the death that stained the dirt around them; no hints of regret or even traces of pity. They were a stone people, their hearts encased in an eternal ice.

Clarke stood there, dumbfounded. Octavia had been right; they hadn't had much of a chance from the start.

She gazed at the Ice Scouts, feeling the gun in her hands weigh her down. But then one face, the only one she knew, caught her attention. He stood close to his Queen, holding his handgun and blade in either fist. His eyes were hooded, and Clarke could hear his voice in her head, smell the stench of his breath, coppery and sour.

The wounds on her back felt as if they had reopened, or had been made new. Months dissipated and she didn't feel like a leader anymore. She felt like a prisoner, hands bound above her head as her blood mingled with the stoned floor beneath her feet.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, like some caged, feral thing. She wanted to kill the Ice Queen, yes. But something in her screamed for the blood of this man. This tormentor. She wanted him dead, as surely as she wanted her people kept breathing.

"Clarke!"

She whipped her head around, and caught sight of Bellamy with his gun raised to the Scouts beyond her. She dropped to her knees, just as he unleashed a torrent of bullets tearing through the air above her head. She pulled up her own weapon and fired it, ears ringing, sweat pooling in her palms and making her grip slick.

They returned fire, and Clarke dove to the side. She army-crawled over debris, pieces of broken wood and stone digging into her elbows. A flash of pain ripped over her hip, but she dismissed it.

In the distance, Scouts fell. Grounders fell. They crashed into each other like waves, breaking, a roaring storm. Clarke caught the gleam of wet blades doused and dripping in scarlet.

She narrowed her tearing eyes, swallowing the urge to cough. It was bedlam around her, and she squinted through the smoke, trying to locate the Ice Queen. But her gaze swept over the doors and returned to them, on the opposite end of the camp, still open. If the Ice Queen managed escape, that was the end. Of the camp. Of them all.

"Bellamy!" Clarke turned back, to where she'd last glimpsed him, mowing down the first few Ice Scouts. She caught his eyes. "The doors!"

He looked at them himself, and he backed away from the pandemonium.

Clarke returned her attention to the phalanx of Ice Scouts-just as something flashed and buried itself into the closest Scout's chest.

An arrow.

Clarke looked back, behind Bellamy, and she caught the silhouette of a familiar figure. Lincoln stood beyond two pillars of flame, bow in hand. Arrows whistled through the air, seeking targets, filling bodies. But Clarke couldn't spare a second to feel relief at seeing him alive.

Bellamy motioned to him, gesturing towards the entrance. Lincoln nodded curtly, casting one look at Octavia fighting on the sidelines, before the havoc claimed him and he disappeared through the heart of it.

Clarke turned back to the flanks of Scouts, still searching, desperation raking her her spine like nails.

There.

She raised her gun as her eyes caught a flash of red, hidden at the center of her guards; the Queen, the Coward.

If you don't kill her, Octavia's words rang in her mind, we all die.

Clarke aimed.

And something collided against her, knocking the gun from her hand. She turned, just as a force slammed down on her, pain erupting over her cheek. She looked up, and the air in her lungs seemed to dissolve.

The Ice Scout stood before her, the one she knew, the one that had committed himself to her memory. Images flipped through her mind; torture chambers, blades coated in blood. Her blood. She recalled with perfect clarity his pointed jaw. His thin mouth. His brown eyes that weren't molten or enticing like Bellamy's, but lifeless and blood-filled as the dirt.

He lifted a hand again, and Clarke managed to roll out of the way, just as his own gun came down again. She groped for her gun but the Ice Scout was ahead of her. A boot came down on her wrist and Clarke heard a sickening crunch.

Her stomach churned and stars danced in her vision.

Clarke willed herself to stay clear-headed, and moved away, back, back, keeping her eyes on him.

He sauntered forward, that poisonous gaze watching her intently.

Many people had wanted Clarke dead before. She'd glimpsed it in their eyes, that flash of hunger, of desire, of predatory instinct to eradicate the perceived threat.

But this wasn't the look of someone simply wanting to protect his people. There was a hideous gleam in dark eyes, malformed expression that told her he wanted to make this last. He wanted her anguish and more than that, he wanted to be the one to inflict it.

Clarke tried to make a move for her gun. But he was there in an instant, much closer with his blade raised in his other grip. She dove to the right, just as it flashed down, cutting open the earth beside her. Clarke grasped a handful of dirt and ash with her good hand, and threw it in his face.

The Scout hissed out a breath. he scratched at his eyes and Clarke didn't wait. Didn't use the chance to get away. Instead, she hooked her arms around his neck and brought her knee up-into his gut. There was a sharp gasp followed by a roar of anger, all pretenses and facades of unfeeling gone.

Hands went around her and the world turned sideways as her back slammed against the ground, knocking the breath out of her lungs. She gawped, like a fish out of water with the cold fingers still on her, pressing into her. They reached rapaciously for her damaged wrist-and twisted.

An explosion of dark stars erupted across her vision, constellations taunting unconsciousness, and for one terrifying second, Clarke was blind.

A hand grabbed the front of her shirt, pulling her close and her vision cleared just in time to stare into those dark eyes, just inches away from her own.

She couldn't breathe and Clarke was torn between the fear and the rage mounting in her, a torrential fire that sparked inside until she was burning, turning to ash.

The Scout leaned closer, until she could make out the golden flecks in his irises and when he spoke, it was just as dark. Just as cold as she remembered it to be.

"You have no idea how much I wanted to be the one to stop your heart," he murmured, lips cutting a grin. "But not before you got see the fate you've delivered to your people. This is their blood soaking the ground. And it won't stop. I won't stop, until every last one of them is dead." That ghoulish smile broadened. "I will show the Clans, the entire world what happens when you are suicidal enough to think you can fight against us. What happens if you try. And I assure you, some of your people's death will be swift, but others...I will draw it out. And you know how patient I can be."

Clarke's body shook, but her voice was steady, belying the death and destruction that surged around them. "I'm so close, though," she said, "enough to see that the Ice Nation has its rare moments of fear. And for a few of them, you feared me. You feared my people. And I want you to get used to that because now everyone will know; that even the Ice Nation can be broken."

A different kind of fire kindled in those eyes, obsidian, black. His grip suddenly moved from her shirt, to her throat, and the air abandoned her.

Clarke gasped, but nothing came and she tried to kick, to tear the flesh off his bones with her nails if that's what it took. She pushed the heels of her hands against his face, digging her fingers into his skin as deeply as she could. She felt his blood trickle between her fingers.

His grip loosened for a breath, enough for Clarke to kick again and this time, it forced his grip off her altogether. She hit the ground hard, but stumbled back quickly. It still wasn't enough and his expression turned into something she couldn't describe, something that definitely wasn't human and was more monster than man.

He raised his blade, and the edge of it grinned widely at her, excited to be reacquainted.

It tickled the air over her, just as a shot rang out and a stillness came over the Scout. He stared at her. Then another shot tore through the air, striking through his chest. Another bullet. Another. He shuddered with the force of them, staring off into nothing before dropping to his knees. His hold loosened on the sword, and it clattered to the ground.

A second passed and Clarke didn't move. Then she turned in the direction of the gunfire and glimpsed Bellamy, a sputtering flame reflected in his eyes.

His gaze met hers.

And then his shoulder seemed to rupture, droplets of scarlet spraying from the sudden gunshot wound.

Clarke felt her insides contract. She dove for the fallen Ice Scout's gun just as Bellamy tried to raise his own again, but a second shot was issued from the cacophony of crisscrossing gunfire, and this one went through his knee.

The pain of the wound made his leg buckle, and Clarke grabbed onto the weapon, her wrist screaming in pain, and fired blindly.

She felt a bullet chafe her cheek, but she didn't register the pain, firing one round, two, looking back at Bellamy, returning to the remaining Scouts in front of her.

More gunfire broke through the air and from her peripheral vision, Clarke saw Bellamy duck, clutching his other shoulder in his hand. A new wound. He held on to his gun, but she could see the rivulets of red there, staining through his clothes and roping down his arms. She didn't need to look closely to see that the brachial nerve had been severed.

Her simmering anger was replaced by desperation and above that, Clarke couldn't deny the fear that lit in her chest and gripped greedily at her heart.

More Scouts and soldiers poured around them, the mass of them blackening out the Grounders like a closing curtain. There were too many of them and they flooded around the camp, dropping more bodies.

The few war cries left turned into screams. The explosions ceased their rampage and Clarke looked back at Bellamy, Just for a moment, just to see.

It was only for a second, but it gave a nearby Scout enough time to lurch forward and grab her arm, so hard his fingers broke the first layer of skin. She tried to raise her gun, but her wrist protested and against her volition, her hand dropped the weapon. It hit the dirt at her feet.

Clarke was pulled back, away from her people and dragged towards the swell of black. She caught the sight of Bellamy, expression mirroring the terror she felt in her own, and tried to wrestle the hands away.

But the cold click of a gun made her still. The barrel of it pressed to her throat, cold and hard. She could feel her pulse hammer against it.

"You've caused quite the uproar," a feminine voice sneered behind Clarke, close to her ear. She felt the heat of breath waft against her cheek.

Something snarled inside her-something ferocious and deadly, but Clarke remained stoic, made very aware of the gun at her throat. One wrong move, and her blood would decorate the Ice Queen behind her, in crimson badges of honor she'd reaped in this war.

The battle still raged around them, but it seemed distant to Clarke, and she sought out Bellamy, still on his knees with sweat beading on his forehead. Blood flowed down his shoulder in a steady, thin river and he clutched his gun. It shook violently in his hand but he managed to hold onto it, aimed at the Ice Queen. Aimed at her.

The sight was like a punch in the gut and Clarke tried to think through her rising panic. But even she could hear the sound of her own people ringing in her ears. Their screams were wavering, losing strength as they were being snuffed out; they were the heartbeat of Tondc; slowing and threatening to stop.

The Ice Queen tightened her hold on Clarke, bending back her wrist until more dots vaulted up in her vision. "You only have one shot," she mused, words directed at Bellamy. "And you will miss."

Her voice sent a shiver down Clarke's spine. It was too cold, too unfeeling, and like all members of her Nation, too dark to be human. Their leader didn't just have blood on her hands, she was covered in it, drowning in red and yet she still seemed unbothered, as if she weren't treading it like water.

The Ice Queen pushed the barrel harder against Clarke's throat. "If you aren't convinced of your loss yet, I would encourage you to accept it. No one else is coming. My men have surrounded your Mountain and are already killing whatever guards that have managed to worm their way through as we speak."

Tremors made Clarke's hands quake at her sides and her vision seemed to be cast in a reddish hue. But she could do nothing, except watch and wait. She could only stare at Bellamy, hoping he'd see the message in her eyes. Knowing he'd understand if he did.

The Queen's tone turned heckling. "Don't you see? Your hands are tied. At worst, you kill your Commander in vain, and condemn your people to death. Or..." she trailed off and Clarke could hear the pleasure in her voice. "We could settle on a different arrangement."

No, Clarke thought, urging Bellamy with her eyes. Take the shot!

Bellamy glanced between her and the Queen, his expression unreadable. "What arrangement?"

Clarke didn't see it, but she felt the Ice Queen's smile, a wolfish smirk splitting across her mouth. "Surrender. You give me what I want, and I let most of your people live. For now. I will spare them as an...as an act of kindness." The word sounded foreign on her lips.

Bellamy didn't lower the gun. "And her?"

The taunting ceased, replaced by a cold malice that promised blood. "There has to be some repercussions for everything. The damage your people have caused..." the Ice Queen trailed off. "She trespassed onto my territory. Played spy. Escaped. Destroyed our firearms. All transgressions that call for lives as payment."

Clarke expected to feel some sense of fear at the prospect of death, but she didn't. It had become a constant in her life on the ground, lingering just beyond her point of vision, always there, always reminding her. But now it was in her line of sight as Clarke took everything in with an almost blatant clarity:

Bellamy couldn't make the shot, not with his injury, and if he tried, the attempted assassination would only change this war into an execution, and one that wouldn't end until every one of her people lay dead around them.

Bellamy shook his head, gun nearly falling out of his grip, but he clung to it with white, bloodless fingers. "If you kill her, the Grounders-"

"Yes," the Ice Queen interjected. "They will have no Commander. They will follow their moral code of conduct and become sitting ducks in a frozen pond. Sooner or later, they will be picked off and perhaps in a few months, Trikru will cease to be. But it is still a mercy; choose to live for now, and die another day."

Clarke shook her head, but the gun was pushed harder, until it dug painfully into the flesh just beneath her jaw. The sound of battle seemed to fade from her and she watched in silence as blood was spilled, until she was sure the dirt could hold no the corner of her eye, Clarke saw only a sea of black gear. A couple screams, the popping of gunfire. She thought she spotted Octavia somewhere beyond her line of vision, battling against two Ice Scouts. Losing.

"But take the shot if you will," The Ice Queen went on. Something crept over her shoulder and fingers snaked up, through Clarke's hair and they yanked her head back. Pain lanced down her scalp and a strained breath sawed through her lips. "Perhaps a swift death will be doing her a favor."

Clarke glimpsed the fight in Bellamy's eyes. His usually unwavering strength, slowly flickering out. He stole cursory glances around them, as he tried to devise some sort of strategy. A caged animal searching for a way out. But then his attention landed on his sister, fighting for her life. Everyone of their people was fighting for their life, and he had no resolve to crumble beneath because Clarke could see it so perfectly this time, etched in the lines of his face; he didn't know what to do.

I won't be put in that position.

Tears suddenly stung Clarke's eyes and her vision blurred. She wanted him to make the shot, to try, but something deep inside of her refused to let him. No. She wouldn't make him choose. She wouldn't have him carry that burden.

Clarke's hand reached out and she grabbed the gun.

The body restraining her objected, pushing the barrel harder into her. The chill of it kissing her skin turned to a bite, and something wet trickled down her neck. Good.

Clarke grappled with it, pressing her fingers over the Ice Queen's and taking aim of the gun herself. She forced the barrel down from her throat-closer to her own heart, until it teased the flesh just above. She looked at Bellamy.

Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And pulled the trigger.