Clarke pressed herself against a tree, her eyes quickly flashing up to scan the forest canopy before coming back down to rest on her arm that was pressing against the sturdy trunk.

The cloth on her arm was ripped, revealing a messy pool of blood mixed with dirt.

Shaking her head she busied herself by sweeping her eyes across the surrounding forest.

Judging by the amount of time she had been running it wasn't hard to come to the conclusion that she was nowhere near the gates.

With a sigh, Clarke allowed her mind to drift toward Lexa.

There was no doubt that the brunette would have noticed her absence by now, as she was due back from her hunt well before nightfall.

Now, as the final traces of evening gave way to the darkness of night the blonde was on the run.

A ripple of anger coursed through Clarke suddenly as she imagined the strain that this would place on an already tense commander.

She knew little of her attacker's identity, but she did know that they wielded weapons far deadlier than the dagger gripped tightly in the hand of her good arm.

The first time that Clarke had announced that she was going out to hunt Lexa was the first to remind her that not only could she have a group sent out to do the task for her, but that they had more than enough to last well through the coming winter.

Seeing the small solitary weapon that Clark had armed herself with didn't do anything but strengthen Lexa's opposition to Clarke's excursion.

It took more than a few times for Clarke to reassure the commander that she didn't require the protection of even a single guard.

After multiple empty handed returns, Lexa began to realize that Clarke never left with the intention of a true hunt.

While this confused the commander, she let the blonde continue with the routine, patiently knowing that Clarke would offer an explanation in her own time.

Now, thinking back to that first trip, Clark chastised herself for choosing a weapon that proved to be completely ineffective against her current opponent.

Hearing a branch snap to her left, the blonde locked her stance into a defensive position and quickly trained her eyes on a nearby shrub.

The leaves of the shrub quaked and rustled, showing evidence of a hasty escape.

She was being watched, and there was nothing Clarke hated more than the helpless feeling of fighting an opponent that was virtually invisible to her.

A sudden disturbance in the otherwise still air caused Clarke to twist to her left and raise knife, catching a significantly larger blade from slicing through her shoulder.

Grunting against the pressure of her assailant's sword, she spun so that she was facing them.

Confusion broke her concentration at the figure's appearance.

Rather than armor, they wore common cloths.

A belt wrapped around their waist held various knives clearly visible to Clarke.

The mask that the bulkier figure wore was what struck Clarke as most confusing.

It was a single piece of fabric that fit snugly over the figure's head, with slits cut only for sight, and near what Clarke assumed was her attacker's mouth.

In the few seconds it took for Clarke to lessen her concentration, the larger figure had pressed their blade down harder, causing Clarke's arm to twist unnaturally enough to drop her own smaller blade. Gritting her teeth to hold back a yelp, the blonde sent a well-aimed kick to her attacker's right kneecap, giving her enough time to shift toward the fallen knife.

Clarke suddenly found herself flying forward, harshly crashing into a sturdy tree. With the air knocked from her lungs the blonde turned to face her attacker.

"What do you want from me?" Clarke growled through clenched teeth.

The figure stared blankly at her before bringing their blade to her throat. Clarke stared back, angry with the attacker's lack of response.

"Are you not going to say anything?"

The blade pressed harder against her throat.

"If you are not a coward then speak!"

The figure tilted its head, before bringing the blade to Clarke's collarbone.

"Tell your Commander that the clan from Hell is coming home." Clarke's attacker dragged the blade vertically down her collarbone as the words were spoken.

Then, with a rough chuckle, the blade was dragged across her collarbone again, this time horizontally to form a red and dripping cross.

The attacker growled a low, guttural growl, before sending a boot to Clarke's temple, and suddenly, everything was black.