Strik Soncha: Ash and Oaths
Summary: After an assassination attempt, tensions rise in Polis. In the quiet aftermath, Reader and Lexa share a moment of honesty that changes everything—on the battlefield and in their hearts.
Word Count: 1.3k
Warnings: grounder typical violence
Series Masterlist
The torchlight burned low in Lexa’s war room, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The air still carried the scent of smoke and iron from the fire pit, mingling with the faint copper tang of blood.
Most of the advisors had gone, their debates on territory lines and retaliatory raids echoing faintly as they disappeared down the corridor. A few generals still lingered at the far end of the hall, murmuring low as they traced strategies across a map of the twelve clans—ash smudging the borders, chalk cracking under calloused fingers.
You stood just inside the door. Inside, not outside, where you'd normally be stationed. You hadn’t moved since the goblet slipped from your grasp and clattered against the stone, crimson wine pooling like fresh blood beneath your boots.
“You’re injured.”
Her voice didn’t rise above a whisper, but the command in it was unmistakable. Her eyes flicked down to your hands, lingering on the red slice along your knuckles.
You straightened, ignoring the sting.
“It’s nothing. Surface cut.”
Lexa stepped closer. Not close enough to touch. Not close enough to let herself feel.
“You shouldn’t have stepped in front of me like that.”
You smiled, dry and tired. “Wasn’t a choice, Leksa.”
Her jaw tensed. She tilted her head slightly, voice more steel than silk now.
“Everything is a choice.”
“Not when it comes to you,” you said, softer than you meant to. The words left your mouth like a secret begging not to be kept.
A silence bloomed in the space between you.
Lexa’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something far more dangerous: vulnerability. She turned from you, footsteps silent as she moved toward the map table, her shoulders taut beneath her armor. Her back to you. Her walls back up.
You could have let the moment go. Let it bleed out quietly like so many before it. But there was something inside you—wild, desperate, shaking against the bars of its cage—that refused to stay silent.
“You want honesty?” you asked. Your voice trembled, pulled from the part of you you always kept locked away. “I didn’t do it because you’re Heda. I did it because you’re Leksa. Because I’d rather bleed out in the dirt than watch you fall.”
Her shoulders stiffened, her grip tightening on the edge of the table. Her breath hitched. She didn’t turn.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she murmured. “Not to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I might believe you.”
She turned then. Slowly. Her face unreadable—but her eyes, her eyes burned.
The candlelight flickered over her features, softening the sharp angles. It caught in the strands of her hair, highlighting the curve of her cheekbone, the small scar along her collar, the vulnerability she was trying to bury.
“Do you?” you asked.
Lexa held your gaze.
“I do.”
She crossed the space between you—one step, two. Her armor brushed yours, your arms barely touching. Close enough to feel the heat of her breath. Close enough to hear her heart racing if the silence stretched long enough.
“You see too much,” she whispered. “You feel too much. And I—”
She stopped.
So you said it for her.
“And you’re afraid.”
She looked down, lashes lowering over her eyes like a curtain. Her voice nearly cracked.
“Yes.”
You reached out. Took her hand. Slowly. Deliberately. She didn’t pull away.
“So am I,” you said. “But I’d rather be afraid with you than numb without you.”
Her hand tightened in yours.
And then—then—she kissed you.
Not like Heda. Not like a warrior. Not like a ruler bound in duty.
She kissed you like Lexa. Like a girl who had fought so hard to be strong for everyone else, and finally, finally let herself want something for her.
Her lips met yours with trembling urgency—soft but desperate. A promise wrapped in ache. Her fingers threaded into your hair, not to pull you closer, but to ground herself, like she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand without you.
You kissed her back with every truth you couldn’t say aloud.
And when the kiss broke, she didn’t step away.
She stayed, forehead resting against yours.
“If I ask you to stay… not as Heda, but as me… would you?”
“Always,” you whispered.
---
The sun split the cloud cover like a blade, slicing the sky into strips of cold light. Polis had awakened with purpose—merchants calling out their wares, temple bells chiming in ritual rhythm, and warriors already bruising the sand in choreographed violence.
You moved through the compound like you always did: armor laced tight, weapons balanced, expression set. But the world felt different. Like something had clicked into place beneath your skin. Not peace. Not yet. But quiet.
The quiet of knowing someone saw you.
Last night lived just beneath the surface of your skin: Lexa’s hands on your cheeks, the press of her lips, the way she had trembled. The way she had looked at you like a person—not a sword, not a protector. Just you.
Your fingers brushed your lips without thinking.
On the training grounds, chaos reigned. Gona shouted. Blades clashed. Dust kicked up in the ring. You moved through it with precision, but you didn’t feel the usual weight.
You felt watched.
And then you were.
Lexa stood across the yard. Armor sharp. Paint perfect. Hair braided tight. Heda again.
Except… her eyes flicked to you.
Just once.
But it landed like a knife pressed gently to your sternum. Not a threat. A promise.
You locked it down. You couldn’t afford to be vulnerable—not here. Not in front of her generals.
The war bell rang. Sparring began.
Indra approached. “You’re against the new seken,” she grunted.
You nodded, stepping into the circle. The seken smirked like she already saw your blood on her hands. But you already knew her tells. Her weak leg. Her off-balance stance. She was cocky. You were carved from steel.
Across the yard, Lexa lingered. Watching.
Your opponent lunged. You didn’t think. You moved.
Block. Parry. Pivot. Strike.
Her arm glanced off your ribs. You twisted, countered, drove her back into the sand.
“You're holding back,” Indra snapped.
Maybe. Maybe not. You were distracted.
With the memory of Lexa’s voice, raw with emotion.
Stay.
You wiped sweat from your brow with a cloth—her cloth, the one stained with black blood from the night before. A talisman. A reminder.
You caught Lexa’s gaze again. Longer this time.
There it was.
That flicker of a smile. Subtle. Private. Real.
Your heart slammed against your ribs as you dropped your opponent and turned before you could do something foolish. Like smile back.
When the session ended, the warriors began to disperse, but Lexa made her way across the field. Every step calculated. Every gaze followed her like shadow.
She stopped beside you, close enough to share breath.
“You fought differently today,” she said, voice low.
“Sha. I had an audience.”
Your voice was dry. Controlled. But your stomach flipped like a coin.
“I meant what I said,” she murmured. “Last night.”
You risked a glance. Her eyes met yours. A flicker of pink rose to her cheeks.
Before you could answer, Titus called her back.
You didn’t bother hiding your glare.
Lexa smirked, amused. Her fingers brushed yours as she turned—not enough for anyone to notice.
But enough for you to feel.
Like a spark.
Like a promise.
