The 100: Ashes to Dawn

The sky cracks open with the pale promise of dawn as the Knife moves out. Seventeen shadows slip through the gates of Polis, black scarves tied at their throats, blades strapped tight. They make no sound but the scuff of boots in frost and the low murmur of breath.

First Bridge lies a mile out — an ancient pass of cracked stone and moss-slick rails spanning the river like a ribcage. In the trees beyond, frost clings to the pines like hungry ghosts. It is here the fight will come. It always comes here, between water and wood.

Kira leads from the front. Her steps are measured, boots finding the silent places. Tala stays close on her left, knife spinning idly between calloused fingers. The younger ones keep tight formation behind them — eyes wide, breath ghosting like smoke.

When the Knife reaches the bridge, the sky is gray but not yet full light. Indra is already there, posted with a line of heavy shields — warriors too big to slip through the pines but strong enough to hold the main stones. They nod at Kira as she approaches, but no one wastes words.

Indra steps close, voice low. "The main force will hit the bridge by sunup. Azgeda scouts will flank through the trees. Keep your edges sharp."

Kira's mouth quirks. "I've never been fond of wolves."

Indra claps her shoulder, rough and brief. "Wolves are simple. Traitors are worse."

Their eyes meet, a wordless understanding passing between them. Kira has no illusions — she knows the cut can come from behind just as fast as from the front.

She turns to her blades. Seventeen pairs of eyes lock on her — young, hungry, afraid, but willing.

"Positions," Kira says. Her voice is iron. "Tala, Ruan, flank left. I want eyes on every shadow in these trees. The rest — stay close. Shields tight. We strike fast and disappear faster. You see a wolf, you take its throat."

They nod. It is enough.

✦ ✦ ✦

The Knife melts into the treeline. The pines swallow them whole, branches dripping ice like daggers. Kira crouches behind a fallen trunk, heart drumming slow and steady. Tala lies prone beside her, arrow nocked, eyes narrowed on the clearing ahead.

Below, at the river's edge, Azgeda warriors gather. Shapes like armored insects — fur cloaks, painted masks, heavy axes glinting dully in the low light. They move with the quiet arrogance of predators who think the hunt is theirs by right.

Kira smiles, baring her teeth. She loves when they underestimate her. It makes the lesson that much sweeter.

She waits. Breathes. Counts.

One… two… three shadows slip from the main force, circling toward the trees — exactly where they expect the Knife to hide. Wolves testing the underbrush.

Kira lifts her hand. Tala draws the string to her ear.

The first arrow flies, humming like a wasp. It takes a warrior in the throat — no warning, just a wet rasp and a body crumpling into frost. The second dies before he can turn. The third makes it two steps before Kira drops from her perch, blade catching the dawn.

She lands in a crouch, knife buried in ribs, warm blood steaming against her wrist. The dying man gasps, eyes wide, trying to speak. Kira hushes him with a twist of her blade. There is no mercy here — only speed.

She glances back. Tala flicks her fingers — two more shadows in the brush, moving left. Kira signals, and three of her younger blades break off to intercept. She hears the scuffle before she sees it — the dull crack of bone, a muffled grunt, then silence.

Good. They're learning.

✦ ✦ ✦

By the time the sun bleeds fully into the sky, the bridge erupts in steel. From her vantage, Kira watches Indra's wall hold steady — shields braced, spears thrusting in the tight gaps. Azgeda throws bodies at them like meat into a grinder. The river below runs red, ice floes bobbing in the current like severed limbs.

But the real danger comes in the pines.

The wolves keep circling, slipping through the fog, hunting for gaps. The Knife is the gap — the bait and the blade both. They strike quick and vanish. A throat here, a tendon there, a whispered death in the underbrush.

Kira moves like water, ducking a wild swing, slashing low, turning a man's dying gasp into a warning for the next. Tala watches her back, arrow after arrow loosed without a wasted breath.

Between kills, Kira's mind drifts. She thinks of Lexa — standing somewhere behind Polis's walls, eyes on the horizon, trusting Kira to hold this narrow throat of the world. Trusting her to do what must be done, no matter the cost.

It is an honor. It is a curse.

✦ ✦ ✦

A scream cuts through the fog — sharp and close. Kira snaps her head around to see one of her blades, barely sixteen, pinned against a tree by an Azgeda brute. The boy's eyes are wide with terror, sword trapped against his side.

Kira moves before she can think. Her feet eat the distance, blade a glint of death in her hand. She doesn't shout, doesn't warn — she drives her knife up into the brute's kidney, twists, then drags the edge across his throat as he roars.

Warm blood splashes her cheek. The boy scrambles free, gasping, eyes huge. Kira grabs his collar, jerks him close.

"Stay in the shadows!" she snarls. "Don't fight a bear head-on — be the snake."

He nods, too fast, and scurries back to formation. Kira wipes her blade on the dead man's cloak. Her hand trembles, just a flicker, then goes still.

She glances through the trees. The Knife regroups, pressing the flank. Indra's shields still hold at the bridge's center. The wolves in the pines grow fewer by the heartbeat.

They might just hold.

✦ ✦ ✦

Hours pass. The sun crawls higher, cold light burning off the mist. The forest reeks of blood and churned earth. Crows circle overhead — black sigils of what's left behind.

Kira calls her blades to her — all of them blood-smeared, breath ragged, eyes too bright. Tala's shoulder is wrapped in a torn scrap of cloth, but she grins like a wolf.

"The pass is clear," Tala pants. "No more shadows moving."

Kira nods. Her own ribs ache from a glancing blow she took dodging an axe — the bruise will bloom purple by morning. She can live with it.

She counts the heads — seventeen. No gaps. Relief flickers through her like a dying ember. They did not break. Not today.

She gestures toward the bridge. "Come on. Let Indra see your faces. Let the wall know we kept our teeth."

They slip from the trees — seventeen ghosts stepping into daylight. The warriors on the bridge cheer when they see the Knife emerge, grimy but whole. Indra raises her blade in salute. Kira lifts hers in answer, though the weight of it drags at her wrist.

✦ ✦ ✦

By dusk, they stand at the edge of Polis again. Smoke drifts from the ramparts, carrying the iron stink of burned bodies. The gates creak open at their approach, guards bowing them through with wide eyes.

Lexa waits just inside. Her armor is immaculate — no blood, no dirt, no sign she's touched a blade today. But her eyes… her eyes are raw edges when they meet Kira's.

The Commander steps forward, says nothing at first. Just looks at each of the Knife — seventeen pairs of eyes that stare back unblinking.

"You held," Lexa says finally. Her voice is soft enough the wind nearly eats it. "Good."

Kira swipes a smear of dried blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. "They won't test the bridge again soon."

Lexa's eyes linger on the bruise forming under Kira's collar, the fresh cuts on her knuckles. Her hand lifts, hesitant, then settles on Kira's shoulder. Her grip is light, but Kira feels it like a brand.

"You did what you were forged to do."

Kira's lips twitch. "And you?"

Lexa's mouth curves, but the smile is tired, fragile. "I do what I must."

They stand there — a heartbeat, then two — the smell of smoke and sweat and frost curling around them like a noose. There are no words left for the things they might say, the things they might want. The world is a knife. The world is always a knife.

Finally, Lexa drops her hand. Her eyes harden again, the Commander sliding back into place like a mask.

"Rest your blades tonight," she says. "Tomorrow, we sharpen them again."

Kira watches her go, cloak swirling like a ghost in the dying light. Then she turns to the Knife — seventeen battered shadows, alive when they had no right to be.

"Come on," she murmurs. "Let's find something strong to drink."

They follow her through the gates, boots crunching on frost, laughter sparking low and ragged among the ruins.

Above them, the walls hold. For now.

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