The 100: Ashes to Dawn

Dawn cracks open over Polis in shades of ash and rust. Kira stands in the center of the Knife's training yard, boots planted in the churned mud, breath curling in the chill. Her blades glint in the early light — a promise, or a threat, depending on who's watching.

The others wait for her signal. Some shift restlessly, fingers drumming hilts or twisting worn scraps of leather around their wrists. Others stand as still as carved stone. They've learned the cost of stillness. They've learned the price of noise.

"Again," Kira says. Her voice is iron. "Shields up."

They move in unison. Seventeen bodies close ranks, shields locking. The crack of wood on wood echoes through the yard like a heartbeat. Kira weaves through them, knocking shields with the flat of her blade. One staggers; she kicks his ankle, and he drops. The others close the gap without missing a beat.

"Again."

They reset. Again. Again. Until sweat drips from hairlines and steam rises from their shoulders. They move like one thing now — not seventeen children with knives, but a single living edge. Exactly as she wants them.

✦ ✦ ✦

When the sun lifts fully, Indra comes to watch. She says nothing at first, arms crossed tight over her broad chest. Her eyes are flint — judging every stumble, every weakness. Kira likes her better than most. She doesn't pretend these kids are anything but weapons on legs.

Finally, Indra steps forward. She lifts her chin at Kira. "You ready?"

Kira wipes sweat from her brow with her sleeve. "We're ready."

Indra circles the formation. The Knife stands silent, shields locked. She stops in front of a wiry boy whose knuckles are cracked and raw.

"Why do you fight?" she asks him.

He flinches but lifts his chin. "To defend Polis."

"Wrong," Indra snaps. She turns, sweeping her gaze across all of them. "You fight because you have no choice. Because the knife cuts or it rusts. You don't defend Polis. You defend your Commander's will."

Her eyes settle on Kira. "And you? Why do you fight?"

Kira holds her gaze. "Because the blade's only free when it's sharp."

Indra's mouth twitches — not a smile, not really, but close. "Good. Keep them sharp. First Bridge is not a test you can fail."

She nods once, then turns to leave. Kira watches her go, the weight of her stare lingering like a bruise.

✦ ✦ ✦

Later, she finds Lexa in the war room — hunched over the map table, candles burned low, wax puddling on old routes and siege lines. Lexa looks like she hasn't slept in days. Maybe she hasn't. The burden of a thousand lives presses into the tight set of her shoulders.

"You look like hell," Kira says, stepping close enough to see the shadows under her eyes.

Lexa doesn't flinch. "Your blunt tongue will get you killed one day."

"Not today." Kira leans on the table, eyes on the hand-drawn ridges of First Bridge. The river snakes through the parchment, stained with spilled ink where someone's hand slipped. "How many are coming?"

"Azgeda wants to choke the river, cut us off from trade. Our scouts say fifty, maybe sixty at the bridge itself. More in the pines. They'll test the pass and bleed us dry if we let them."

Kira traces a route with her fingertip. "And you want the Knife to hold the bridge?"

"I want you to break them." Lexa's eyes flick to her face — sharp, searching, like they always do. "Your blades move faster than the wall's heavy lines. You strike where they don't expect."

Kira lifts an eyebrow. "And the traitors in Polis?"

Lexa's jaw tightens, just a flicker. "They'll show their teeth soon enough. Let them."

Kira's lips curl in something that might be a smile. "So we bleed them on both sides."

"If it comes to that."

There's a moment — too long to be casual — where they stand there, shoulders brushing, the map all but forgotten. Kira feels the hum of tension in her bones, a wild thing. Lexa looks tired, but beneath it, the iron remains.

Kira says, quietly, "Don't break before they do."

Lexa's eyes soften. For a heartbeat, the Commander is just a woman with too much blood on her hands. "The day I break, you'll be there to finish me."

Kira huffs a bitter laugh. "Wouldn't dream of it."

She pushes away from the table before the moment can rot in her chest. She has seventeen blades to drill until their arms fall off. That's her part. That's enough.

✦ ✦ ✦

Night falls like a warning. Fires crackle in the yard where the Knife rests on threadbare blankets, sharpening blades, passing skins of sour wine. They're too young for the scars that line their arms, the haunted look that slips into their eyes when they think no one watches.

Kira sits apart, perched on a crate near the gate. She rubs her thumb along the wire at her wrist — not really thinking, just feeling the bite of it, the way it anchors her to something real. A tether, or a chain. Depends on the night.

One of the older girls, Tala, drifts over with two tin cups. She offers one without a word. Kira takes it, sniffing the wine. It's cheap, sharp enough to sting the nose.

"Thank you."

They drink in silence, watching the fires flicker. Somewhere in the distance, drums thrum — the steady heartbeat of Polis bracing for siege. Tala clears her throat.

"Commander says you'll lead us at the bridge."

Kira nods once. "I will."

Tala hesitates. Her eyes flick to the younger ones, huddled like pups by the flames. "They're ready?"

"They will be." Kira tips back her cup, savoring the burn. "Stay close. Shields locked. If I say fall back, you do it."

Tala's mouth twitches. "You think we're leaving you behind?"

"I think I'll do what needs doing." Kira's voice is soft, but it cuts. "That's the deal."

Tala shifts her weight, like she wants to argue, but in the end she just knocks her shoulder against Kira's. "Don't be a hero."

Kira huffs a quiet laugh. "Heroes die young."

She watches Tala wander back to the others. Her chest aches — not from the cold, but from the knowledge that they all believe she can keep them safe. She wonders what they'd do if they saw how thin her armor really is.

✦ ✦ ✦

The hour drags long. Kira waits until the Knife drifts to restless sleep, until the last blades are tucked under cloaks and the last whispers fade. Then she stands, stretching stiff legs, and slips through the gate.

Polis at night is a beast on a chain — silent but never sleeping. She moves along the wall, boots quiet on ancient stone. She pauses at the ramparts, staring out over the dark stretch of forest. Somewhere out there, Azgeda sharpens its claws.

She closes her eyes. The cold wind cuts across her face, sharper than any blade. The walls are old, but they hold. They've held before. They will again.

Something in her wants to believe that.

Footsteps approach. She turns to find Lexa there, cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, hair loose for once. She's beautiful like this — raw edges softened, the war not quite hidden.

"I thought you'd be asleep," Lexa says.

Kira shrugs. "Could say the same for you."

They stand side by side at the wall, looking out over the forest, two sentries with too many ghosts between them. For a while, they don't speak. They don't need to.

Finally, Lexa murmurs, "Tomorrow, you'll hold the bridge."

Kira's mouth quirks. "That was the plan."

"If you fall—"

"I won't."

Lexa's gaze cuts to her, fierce in the torchlight. "If you do — make it cost them everything."

Kira smiles. It's not kind. "Always."

Their eyes meet, too long. There's a spark there — old and unspoken, a tension that hums under the bruises and the knives. It might be love. It might be something darker. It doesn't matter.

They stand there until the torches burn low, the wind howls through the trees, and dawn feels like a lie they can almost believe.

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