Steel met steel in a shower of sparks.
Lincoln barely had time to register the strike before Tristan was already on him, their blades slashing past one another in tight, lethal arcs. The sounds of the larger battle faded into a dull roar as the world narrowed to breath, muscle, and instinct.
Tristan had moved first.
He leapt forward suddenly after the first exchange and not with his sword, but with his fist.
The punch slammed into Lincoln's face with brutal force. Lincoln staggered back two steps with his boots grinding into the dirt as pain exploded behind his eyes. Blood filled his mouth. He spat it out onto the ground, wiping his lip with the back of his hand just as Tristan leveled his sword at his throat.
A slow, cruel smile spread across Tristan's face.
"When last did we cross swords, Lincoln?"
Lincoln straightened up and looked at the man. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. "You talk too much."
Tristan chuckled softly. "Ah… yes. Your training." His eyes gleamed. "And I always seem to remember who wins."
Lincoln didn't answer and simply unged.
The overhead slash came fast and hard, driven by rage and resolve. Tristan ducked smoothly, the blade passing just over his head. It was exactly what Lincoln wanted.
As his sword missed, Lincoln twisted his body sharply, his free hand snapping down to his wrist. A smaller blade slid into his palm. He drove it forward in a tight, unexpected thrust.
Tristan barely managed to twist away. The blade bit into his thigh instead, slicing deep.
He hissed and stumbled back, blood immediately soaking into his pants. "Clever," he snarled. "But not enough."
They clashed again.
Tristan pressed the attack despite the injury, his sword slashing in fast, aggressive strikes meant to overwhelm his opponent. Lincoln blocked, parried, stepped inside the reach of the longer blade and drove his shoulder into Tristan's chest.
They crashed to the ground together and the stunt Lincoln had pulled sent the two swords skittering away into the dirt.
Tristan smashed an elbow into Lincoln's ribs. Lincoln grunted but answered with a headbutt that snapped Tristan's head back. Blood sprayed from Tristan's nose as he laughed, actually laughed through the pain.
"You've grown slower," Tristan taunted while coughing, "Softer even."
Lincoln slammed his fist into Tristan's jaw, "I've grown stronger."
They rolled, trading blows as the dirt and blood mixed beneath them. Tristan clawed at Lincoln's face, nails raking his skin. Lincoln responded by driving a knee into Tristan's gut, forcing the air from his lungs.
"Fall back!" a voice screamed out which Lincoln recognized as Octavia's voice.
Grounders began breaking away, sprinting toward the camp. The tide was turning or collapsing.
Tristan heard it too.
His eyes flicked past Lincoln, to see what the commotion was.
In one sudden motion, Tristan wrenched free and pulled a knife from his belt. He rushed forward, arm cocked back, with murder in his eyes as he locked in on Octavia.
Lincoln charged immediately after him.
The knife left Tristan's hand but it was not towards Lincoln.
Lincoln didn't look or even slow down as his instincts screamed too late.
He stepped inside Tristan's reach and drove his own blade forward with everything he had.
The steel punched through flesh and Tristan froze.
Lincoln felt the resistance, then the give as his blade slid through Tristan's throat. Blood poured over his hands, hot and choking. Tristan's eyes widened, confusion flickering for just a second before his strength vanished.
He collapsed to the ground, gurgling once… then nothing.
Lincoln ripped the blade free and staggered back, breathing hard.
Then he turned.
"No—"
The word tore out of him as he finally saw it.
Octavia lay on the ground a few steps away, having just reached them, her screams rang out as the pain exploded in her whole body. The knife was buried deep in her thigh, blood already spreading fast beneath her.
Lincoln dropped to his knees beside her with shaky hands.
"Damn it, the knife went in deep," he whispered, pressing his hands over the wound, as she smuggled her scream as a show of strength.
———————-
Jason heard the shout cut through the chaos of the battle raging on all around him.
He turned back toward the camp with heavy breaths, sweat and blood streaking down his arms. 'What now?' The thought barely finished forming before the battlefield shifted around him.
People started running away from the battlefield.
Campers retreating hard toward the perimeter. And the grounders hesitated, confused by the sudden movement, some breaking off while others stayed locked in savage brawls with the Reapers, blades clashing and bodies crashing into the dirt. The rhythm of the fight had changed.
As they watched the campers rush away most of the grounders knew of this strategy in battle and how could they not when they had also employed it early. This was a withdrawal.
Jason's eyes snapped left to see Bellamy and Finn.
Pinned down behind a broken section of earthworks, four no, six grounders closing in with their blades raised, Bellamy's gun had long ran empty of bullets. Finn was scrambling for a dropped weapon, hands slick with blood that wasn't all his.
Jason didn't slow as he immediately threw his sword forward. The motion was violent and precise. The blade screamed through the air and punched clean through the skull of the first grounder just as he lunged, the force of the throw carrying the corpse backward into the dirt.
Jason was already moving as he yanked a sword from the grip of a dead Reaper as he passed and didn't even look down and threw again.
The second blade took another grounder through the throat, pinning him mid-step, blood spraying as he collapsed in a choking heap.
Two down.
The remaining four turned around but it was already too late as Jason was already upon them.
The first swung wildly with panic breaking his form. Jason stepped into the strike, slammed his forearm into the attacker's wrist, he felt the bone crack, and drove his knee into the man's chest hard enough to lift him off the ground. As the body fell, Jason twisted, took the dropped blade, and buried it between another grounder's ribs in one fluid motion.
A third rushed him from the side.
Jason caught the sword on his own, let the impact slide, then used the fourth grounder as a shield, wrenching him sideways just as the strike came down. Steel sank into flesh that wasn't Jason's. He shoved the dying man forward, ripped his blade free, and ended the attacker with a clean slash across the neck.
Jason turned to the last one. The grounder backed away with widened eyes. Jason didn't give him the chance to run and killed him by throwing the sword at him.
He spun back toward Bellamy and Finn. "Get up," he snapped. "Now."
Bellamy staggered to his feet, adrenaline keeping him upright. Finn was still staring at the bodies, breathing fast.
"What, what's happening?" Finn said. "Jason, I don't—"
"No time," Jason cut in, already turning. "We need to get back. Now."
Bellamy looked past him and toward the camp.
His face was drained of color as he heard the sound of the retreat.
"…I think I know what's about to happen," he said slowly.
Jason followed his gaze.
Bellamy's eyes widened. "No. No, no—"
He grabbed Finn's arm. "We really do need to go. Now."
————-
Most of the campers made it to the dropship by instinct more than order, they were pulled forward by fear, by smoke, by the sound of battle collapsing in on itself. They ran in clusters, some half-dragging the wounded, others clutching whatever weapons they still had as if letting go would mean death.
Above them, Monty and Jasper were still firing.
Each shot was against the Grounders who got too close and they dropped hard. Then the clicks started.
One sentry fired but the clip was empty, then another and another.
A third tried to reload with shaking hands and caught an arrow in the chest, falling backward without a sound. That was when the rest understood. One by one, they abandoned the elevated positions, climbing down fast, slipping on mud and blood, some getting hit mid-descent, others making it just long enough to sprint for the ship.
Clarke burst into the dropship with a ragged breath, her heart hammering so loud it drowned everything else for half a second. The first thing she saw was a body sprawled near the entrance, a grounder laid dead there.
Her eyes snapped up. "Monty, where's Bellamy and Finn?"
Monty looked up from helping someone onto a bench with a pale face and his hands shaking, "Last I saw them, they were still out there on the far side."
Jasper stumbled in behind her, bleeding from a cut above his eye. "I saw them," he said quickly. "They were with Jason."
Clarke exhaled but it caught halfway.
"What about Octavia?" Jasper asked, already turning back toward the door.
Clarke shook her head. "She went to get Bellamy."
Monty swallowed. "I didn't see her. Not once."
Jasper took a step toward the exit but Clarke grabbed his arm. "No. Don't you can't go out there Jasper it's not safe, Help me help me calm them down. The injured need you." She lowered her voice. "Octavia's probably with Lincoln."
That stopped him.
Jasper looked at Monty. Monty shook his head with a helpless look.
Jasper clenched his jaw, anger and fear warring in his eyes. "…Fine," he said. "What do you want me to—"
The dropship shuddered.
A deep vibration rolled through the metal floor and the lights flickered all around the ship.
Outside the ship the sound of the ship coming to life was heard by Jason. A low, rising mechanical whine that was growing fast. His head snapped toward the ship just as heat washed over his face.
"Oh crap," he muttered.
Those who didn't understand what was going on rushed to the dropship, bodies slamming together, blades forgotten as instinct took over. Jason's eyes widened as he saw them surging toward the open ramp.
"Get down!" he shouted.
But it was too late. From the control deck, Raven closed her eyes.
A single tear slipped free as she whispered, "Forgive me."
The engine fired up and the world outside ceased to be a battlefield and became an inferno.
Incendiary fury erupted outward in a roaring cone of fire and pressure, a force so intense it erased screams before they could finish forming. Grounders and Reapers alike were engulfed and their bodies disintegrating, weapons melting, flesh turning to ash in the span of a heartbeat.
Trees ignited instantly.
The forest became a wall of flame.
The blast rolled outward, flattening everything in its path, consuming rage and blood and war without distinction. Where enemies had stood, there was nothing left but scorched earth and drifting embers.
Inside the dropship, the campers were thrown to the floor, with their ears ringing and the air sucked out of their lungs.
Outside, there was only fire and then silence.