"Who said anything about the royal heir?"

Bellamy kept his sword out in front of him, trusting his quick reflexes to fight off any arrows Jasper might send flying. But his eyes swiveled to Clarke, who was currently leaning halfway-upright against a tree, face paler than the moon. The worst part was the look of sheer terror in her eyes as she stared at Bellamy, like he was the attacker with the wounding knife in his hands. It was raw, exposed emotion, and he wasn't used to seeing something so plainly on her face.

That's what Jasper said, right? His mind second-guessed his hearing. The royal heir. From the blushing shocked look that was creeping over Jasper's features, Bellamy figured that he wasn't supposed to say that. In the heat of the moment, he'd gotten swept up in emotion.

"What is he talking about, Clarke?"

The foursome stood in silence, like the little patch of forest had frozen over. Bellamy could hear his own racing breathing, the defensive adrenaline pumping through his veins. Clarke, on the other hand, looked like she couldn't even move to breathe.

The second boy – Monty, he inferred – broke the quiet. He addressed his companion: "Way to go, dumbass."

"I didn't- I- Clarke," Jasper pleaded, embarrassed, "It slipped out, I didn't-"

"Shut up, Jasper," Clarke commanded, her voice quiet but firm.

Royal heir. The thought was ridiculous. The only royals left in Ark were of the Griffin family, and that line would end with Queen Abigail's death. After she'd lost her only daughter in that attack those many years ago…

But Bellamy had grown up in Station City, so naturally he'd heard the conspiracy theories: stories that believed that the young princess wasn't dead but alive and in hiding. He knew little about the Griffin family, so he'd stayed out of the debates entirely. It didn't make sense to form opinions about something he didn't know about. And yet, he still heard the theories…

And that's when Bellamy saw Clarke slide her left arm behind her, moving it further back against the trunk. His gaze caught the bandage wound tightly around her wrist – a bandage that she'd refused to remove even while bathing. The little that Bellamy remembered about the Griffin royal family included their tattooed symbol that they each received at their christening. A royal mark that they wore… on their left wrist.

"Show me your arm." When Bellamy spoke, his voice was deeper and chillier than he'd intended. "Your left arm."

"Bellamy," Clarke's face begged him not to push her.

"If you have nothing to hide, then show me."

Bellamy had taken a step forward, so Jasper raised his bow again. "Come any closer and I'll-"

"Fine!" Clarke cried out, forcing herself to stand fully upright. She took an unsteady step forward, and Bellamy could see her wince but fight through it. Grabbing the fabric on her left arm, she tugged the bandage hard. The fading sunlight caught the ink of her tattoo. She held out her wrist. "There. There you have it."

Bellamy's breath caught in his throat. Even upside-down, he recognized a gothic script "G" encircled by the geometric ringlet of a crown. It was the symbol that adorned the flags at the royal palace, the tapestries in the hallways, even the special goblets at the queen's table. It was the mark that he'd seen his entire life, one way or another.

It was the mark he'd watched roll by, painted elaborately onto the side of a luxurious carriage moving through the dusty streets of the capital. He could remember standing in the crowd lining the road, catching a glimpse of the king and queen waving from within the vessel. Deep in the recesses of his memory, he could recall the small blond head of a young princess, with bright eyes and a haughty look on her face. She couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old.

And when Bellamy looked up at Clarke's face, it was like seeing a whole different person. He wasn't seeing the pickpocket who'd snatched his baited money pouch and ran off. He saw a blend of features from the king and queen, the older version of that small princess in the carriage.

Holy shit.

"You?" He choked out, in a word that was somewhere between a dry laugh and a cough. His nose wrinkled in disbelief, "Are you serious? You?"

Clarke's eyes narrowed, "Yes, believe it or not."

"But you're… you're…" Bellamy shook his head.

Monty stepped forward, "Listen, it's not like they're giving those tattoos out to just anyone. That's the royal mark, so she's a royal. The royal."

"They sent me to bring back the heir?" Bellamy spoke slowly, placing the pieces together. In a way, it all made sense: the one-man mission, the secrecy, the urgency.

"Today I turned twenty-one. That means I'll be married off to the Chancellor's son as soon as I reach Station City, and become queen not long after that." Clarke even spoke like it wasn't as big of a deal as it was.

Now that Bellamy saw Clarke – Clarissa? – for what she really was, he couldn't unsee it. He recognized her status in the little things she would do: how calmly authoritative her voice would become when ordering him around, how she kept her head up and above him, the way her eyes scrutinized him with her sharp gaze. For a moment, he tried to recall the image of Clarke from before - how her golden head fit just under his and how she clung to him after the incident at the pool. How she almost made him feel something. Almost.

"Give me a minute," he mumbled under his breath, pushing out of the circle and deeper into the woods. Bellamy wandered off, finding himself following the familiar stream back in the direction of the pool. He ran a hand over his face, his brain feeling sluggish to catch up.

Clarke.

Clarissa.

The princess.

"What an idiot," he growled to himself. He remembered their harmless teasing from the night before, when they were showing off to each other. Her smile was so easy and carefree, but maybe that was just the moonshine getting to her. His boot kicked at a stone, sending it skidding across into the stream.

When Bellamy reentered the pool's clearing, the first thing he saw was the corpse of the assassin. The body had swollen in the heat and become a haven for flies. The sight alone was enough to bring Bellamy's stomach up into his throat. His lips tightened and eyes settled on a nearby patch of looser soil. He nudged it with the toe of his boot, feeling the dirt come apart nicely. It would be easier to dig here.

Crouching down, Bellamy began to dig a deep hole. He started using a rock to break through, then continued with his sword's scabbard for a makeshift shovel. When the deeper rocks became harder to dig through, he switched to his fingers and kept clawing. He was making surprisingly good progress with his hole, and it wasn't long before he had a substantial grave dug into the ground.

Now came the awful part. Bellamy took slow, heavy steps over towards the body, blood pulsing thick against his ears. The bloated face of the assassin was contorted and terrifying to look at, and the only way Bellamy could stomach it was by imaging the crazed look of the killer in action and using that to justify his fate. He bent down to pick the corpse clean, trying not to breathe over the rotting body. The assassin traveled light, but Bellamy was able to claim a few knives and a half-empty bottle of mead. He didn't bother with the rest, instead wrapping the assassin's heavy cloak over his body and using it to drag the corpse into his dug grave.

He re-shoveled the displaced dirt in tedious silence, the only sounds being the steady splash of thrown soil and Bellamy's own breathing. By the time the body was halfway covered, he heard footsteps approaching him from behind. Normally, he would've jumped and been on his sword in the blink of an eye. But he recognized the unsteady footfalls of a limping person and knew it must be Clarke.

"Let me help," she said, and he could hear the tiredness in her voice. It mustn't have been easy to reach him on her injured leg.

"Already done."

He used large handfuls to finish the job, not giving her the satisfaction of joining him. Bellamy kept his back to Clarke, but he could hear her coming closer.

"You didn't have to do that, Bellamy."

"The body was going to rot anyways. At least this way it doesn't disturb the lovely scenery." He could hear bitterness in his voice.

"He was a killer, an assassin sent to kill me," Clarke said. "He didn't deserve a burial like that."

"I was tired of looking at the body." Bellamy rose, dusting his dirty hands off on his pants, then deciding to dunk them in the water instead. As he did, he saw Clarke's reflection from behind him. Her face was pale and concerned.

"I'm sorry," she spoke finally, "Sorry that I didn't tell you."

"Whatever."

"I couldn't trust you. It's not that I didn't want to, but I couldn't trust anyone."

"I understand that," he spoke honestly. "You would've been stupid to reveal something like that to a total stranger. I don't hold that against you, it was the right thing to do."

She folded her arms, still reading his chilliness. "So what's the issue, then?"

What could he tell her? That he wished it wasn't the right thing to do? "It's a lot to process, that's all." He finally rose and turned around, but wouldn't look her in the eye. In fact, he tried pretty hard to look anywhere else.

"You should come back to camp," she said. "It's going to get dark soon."

"We've lost an entire day," he said with a scowl. He remembered the sight of Octavia in the prison cell, and he was internally kicking himself for getting distracted. Damn Clarke getting in the way. "We should have been moving, we're losing too much time."

"Sorry to inconvenience you," Clarke snapped.

"Whatever, Princess." Bellamy fully understood the irony of that name now. "Head to camp. Careful with that leg, I'm not going to carry you back again." He set off down the trail again, walking far ahead of Clarke and not stopping to see – or really caring – if she was following.


Raven wasn't sure if it was possible to fall asleep while walking, but she was definitely coming close. She'd been marching down the same road for hours now, waiting to reach the stables that signaled the start of a trading caravan heading into Station City. In her pockets jingled her savings: enough to get her to the capital in one piece, plus a little extra to get her started on building a new life. Somehow she'd managed to pack all of her belongings in one large bag slung over her shoulder, but thinking about it, it shouldn't have been surprising at all. Raven had never been a girl of many possessions, or worldly attachments. She'd never been used to having much.

She'd had Finn. That was about it.

"Asshole," she growled to herself just thinking about him. Finn had Clarke, and he didn't even bother to tell her about it. Either he thought Raven was too stupid to ever find out, or didn't respect her enough to think she was worth all of his attention. No matter which way she tried to spin it, it left Finn looking manipulative and Raven feeling hollow.

The road she was traveling on turned right up ahead, so Raven followed along. Towards the end she spotted the warm glow of firelight, making out a series of lanterns illuminating a wooden structure in the distance. She felt like an enormous weight was lifted off her shoulder, placing a new spring in her step as she marched towards the stables.

And that's when she noticed that the caravan had already left.

"No," she breathed, "No, no no!" She jogged up to the stables, hurrying to the older man working there. "When did the party leave?"

"Less than an hour ago," he said, gaping holes in his tooth grin. He pointed a bony finger towards another road, this one leading away from the path Raven had taken.

Turning, Raven snatched a lantern off the wall and broke into a run. Her feet carried her swiftly down the road, pumping her left arm while being careful to keep the lantern steady in her right. Grateful that she'd had the foresight to travel in trousers, she adjusted her speed and fell into a brisk jogging pace. With any luck, she'd reach the departed caravan soon.

The road took her past farms and fields, shrouded in darkness as the sun fell. Her face stung from the wind, drying the corners of her eyes. A smile naturally broke over her face; she couldn't help it. Something about the sensation of running – practically flying – her hair streaming behind her and eyes stinging, it forced her to forget for a little while.

Finally, she could make out the silhouette of a carriage bumping along the road. Relief coursed through her veins, and Raven quickened her pace, waving her arms. "Hey!" She cried out, "Wait up, please!"

She could hear nondistinct chatter from the closest wagon and watched as the wheels slowed down. For a brief moment, the wagon came to a halt as Raven approached it. She ran up beside the driver.

"Here," she said, pressing her travel fare in coins into his hand. Her face was flushed and eyes were wild, but she didn't care. Raven was getting out of Tondc if it would kill her. "Please tell me this is enough to cover the ride."

The driver looked down his lumpy nose to count the coins, then gave a nod. "Climb in," he grumbled.

Raven gripped the side of the wagon firmly, propping one leg up onto a lip before hauling herself over. She landed ungracefully, her cloak awkwardly wrapped around her body. As she untangled herself, she caught the face of the other traveler in this wagon.

"John Murphy?"

His features were difficult to make out clearly, but the light from her stolen lantern picked up his sunken eyes and pointed nose. Lank hair fell in a swoop across his forehead, and his posture was one of a man who didn't want to be seen.

Raven leaned closer, lifting the lantern to get better light. Murphy shrank away from the glow.

"Jesus, wanna put that thing down?" He growled, shifting his shoulders.

"I knew it was you." Raven said it with a smirk, like she'd proven something important. "But… why? Last time I saw you, you were working the counter at the City of Light."

"Excuse you, grease monkey, I owned the City of Light. As in, it was mine. Not just a worker, mine."

"Well, I stand corrected. But why are you leaving Tondc, then?" She took in the stuffed bag sitting close to Murphy's feet, assuming that it carried his belongings.

He looked indifferent, but his words were otherwise. "Believe it or not, when you sell untaxed booze almost exclusively for a year, the guard eventually catches up to you. When I caught wind that they were coming for me with an arrest warrant, I skipped town. Boarded up the tavern and everything."

"I'm sorry, Murphy." It felt strange to be comforting someone with such a notoriously tough shell, but Raven felt obligated to do so anyways.

"Why do you care?"

"I'd go to your tavern when I could. I've had a few fun times there." She gave a halfhearted grin. "It was a good place."

"Yeah it was." Murphy uncorked a round jug of liquor – probably the last of his illegal stash – and took a swig. He slumped forward, resting his arms on his knees and lifting an eyebrow at Raven. "You know where I got all my booze from?"

Raven knew there were illegal distillers on the outskirts of town, "Those two kids, you know who I'm talking about? Goggles and the other one."

"Sure. But you know who worked with them, especially during deliveries? That blonde chick, Clarke." His eyes contained a smirk as his gaze held Raven's. "You know Clarke, don't you?"

Any trace of a grin was wiped clean off Raven's face, her expression becoming fierce. She almost dismissed Murphy's reference as accidental, if she didn't spot the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in a haughty, teasing sneer.

"That's real low, Murphy. Even for you." Raven's voice was ice. "Here I am, offering you sympathy for getting caught like a sitting duck, and you retaliate with that."

"So I'm guessing you found out about it, then," he jeered. "Only a matter of time. Your stable boy was good with keeping it secret, but, you know, people talk. Word gets around, and soon half the town knows." He took another swig, "Kind of interesting, the fact that no one thought to fill you in. Guess you didn't have as many friends as you thought."

Raven had half the mind to send a punch across Murphy's smug little face. But the last thing she wanted was to be kicked off the caravan for starting a fight. It doesn't matter anyways, she told herself, You're never going back to Tondc.

"You are one pathetic son of a bitch, John Murphy."

"Don't worry," he tossed his chin upwards, "The feeling is mutual."

Raven sunk backwards, pushing up against the rough wooden walls of the wagon. She curled her knees into her chest, trying to find a comfortable position to sit and maybe even sleep in. But Murphy's barbed words – as empty and stupid as they were – were rattling around in her brain like a marble in an empty jar. Her stomach twisted at the scent of his booze breath.

It was going to be a long ride.


"Here's where my dad and I live," Maya said, pushing aside a curtain that served as their front door. "It's not much, but you can stay here until you get your own place set up. If you want."

Their shack was situated off a side street from the main Underworld courtyard, jammed between other homes so tightly they resembled books on a shelf. The main room was narrow, but Octavia saw how they made up for it. Maya and her father didn't waste space, and every corner was packed with things hanging off the walls, from the ceiling, and piling up on the floor. There was a worn carpet underfoot, made from scraps of fabric much like Maya's dress was. The furniture looked crude and rickety in appearance, but – similar to the homes around them – was much stronger in application. Octavia strolled slowly by a shelf, marveling at the strange assortments of trinkets lined up: glass marbles of different sizes, an old iron pendant, something made from bone, feathers from a strange bird.

"The view's not too bad, either," Maya said, shrugging her shoulders. Something in her face told Octavia that it was an understatement, so the new girl followed her up a set of hobbly stairs. They were steep and compact, slats of wooden arranged more like a ladder than a traditional staircase. Octavia rose up through a hole in the ceiling, reaching the second floor.

"My dad sleeps back here," Maya tugged back another curtain, this one serving as a wall divider. She pushed through, leading Octavia to the front of the home. "I sleep here." There was a makeshift bed pushed against a wall, a stuffed mattress stacked on some crates to lift it off the floor. One circular window hung in the center of the far wall, its glass muddy and hard to see through. Releasing a lever, Maya opened the window and Octavia got her first birds-eye view of the Underworld.

They couldn't be more than twenty feet off the ground, but she could see over most of the underground city. She could see the tops of different buildings and glimpse the town square. In the distant, Octavia made out the shallow cave dwellings, much like Lincoln's. All of The Underworld was caught between light and dark, with torches and lanterns casting a warm fireglow in an otherwise shadowy cavern. These bright spots shone like gold flecks against dirt.

"This is amazing," Octavia muttered, catching the reflection of her awed look in the windowpane.

"Yeah, there is some beauty in a place like this," Maya said.

"No, really. It's incredible that you've survived – that this whole city has survived – right under the nose of the palace." After her experience at the palace, Octavia loved the idea of being just out of their reach. It was like playing mind games with a former tormentor. "And I like to stay you with, if that's fine."

"Of course," Maya offered a smile. "We should probably make one more stop for tonight, there's someone you should meet."

"Alright," Octavia reluctantly parted with the window, heading back down the stairs and out the door behind Maya. The energy of the city was changing, slowing down for the evening.

"Where are you taking me now?"

"To Wick," Maya said, as if that explained everything. "He's sort of- Think of him as our unofficial one-man welcome team. He's great with people, so he takes it upon himself to meet newcomers and make sure they get settled. Plus, you'll probably want to take a look at his shop."

"What does he sell?"

"In fancy terms he calls himself an 'engineer', but in reality he just creates things. Almost anything, especially if it has metal in it. He's surprisingly good at making weapons. You should pick out a knife, or something to arm yourself with."

Octavia's brows furrowed, "I thought I could be safe down here."

"Of course," Maya corrected herself, "It's more for utility than self-defense. But it doesn't hurt to be on your guard. After all," She gave an oddly mischievous grin, "This is a city full of criminals."

Strangely enough, Maya's words didn't make Octavia uneasy, and she was eager to meet this Wick. They approached an entirely-metal hut, with a real hinged door. Maya pushed it open, calling out, "Wick? You in here?"

"In the back." The responding voice was muffled and tight. Octavia followed Maya, navigating among draft tables and piles of all sorts of scrap metal. Maya was right: Wick's workshop had just about anything if it was made of metal.

"New girl here," Maya said, stopping in front of a large hunk of twisted steel at the back of the shop. There was a pair of legs poking out from beneath it.

"New girl?" The voice came from underneath the work in progress, and Octavia heard the thud of a clumsy head hitting the underbelly. Swearing, a figure pushed himself out from underneath his work and rose to standing. Wick was positively filthy, covered in grease and grim and dirt. Over his clothes hung a stained apron, and his hands were covered by long leathery gloves reaching up to his elbows. He brushed his blond hair from his eyes, and it continued to stand up in all directions. But his eyes were bright and his face was inviting.

"Nice to meet you." He stuck out a gloved hand, then thought against it and took the glove off before offering his hand again. There seemed to be grease stains permanently embedded in his skin. "Kyle Wick, Underworld engineer and notoriously handsome devil. The ladies call me Wick."

"Everyone calls you Wick," Maya rolled her eyes.

"True story."

"I'm Octavia," she said, shaking his hand politely. "Maya's been showing me around."

"Doing my job, eh Vie?" Wick teased, calling Maya by what must have been her last name. "No biggie. What can I do you for, Miss Octavia?"

"She needs a knife," Maya answered for her.

"Do you now? You've come to the right place then." Wick rummaged in what looked like a pile of scrap, pulling out a worn case and popping it open. It was filled, brim to brim, with an impressive variety of knives. "What kind are you looking for?"

There was one knife that stood out to Octavia, with a longer blade and a polished bone handle. Something about it seemed fierce and elegant at the same time. "How about that one?"

"This?" Wick scoffed, "It's the knife of a warrior."

"And what says I'm no warrior?" Octavia leaned back and folded her arms.

Wick mirrored her position, egging her on. "Where are you from, Miss Octavia?"

"From the palace. I escaped."

He looked her up and down. "Nobility girl? You certainly dress like one."

"Former playmate of Cage Wallace. And not by choice."

"Ouch," Wick winced at the thought. "I can see now why you ran away."

"Exactly. The palace guards were chasing me, but I made it into the sewers before they could catch me."

"Interesting." Wick answered but shifted his gaze to Maya. Something passed between them, something that Octavia couldn't read. He kept his eyes on Maya but addressed the other girl. "You know how to fight, Octavia?"

"No, but I'm a fast learner."

"No, Wick," Maya said firmly.

"Come on. Not many girls would be able to outrun the palace guards and get away. Not many people for that matter."

"Look, she just showed up, let her adjust-"

"I'm not saying right now, I'm saying we give her some time and-"

"What are you talking about?" Octavia interrupted. "I'm right here."

"Wick is getting ahead of himself." Maya shot him a glare before focusing on the knives in the case. "Have you picked out your knife?"

"Yes, that bone one." Octavia pointed. She reached behind her neck, unclasping her heavy ruby necklace and holding it out. "Will this be enough to cover the knife?"

Wick nodded, accepting the necklace. As he folded up the case, he raised a single eyebrow. "You know, if there's anything else you'd like to be taking off-"

"Wick!" Maya cut him off with another sharp glance, leaving Octavia to blush and smirk a little. They were an odd pair, these two.

"I know, I know. Watch my behavior, use my manners, yada yada ya."

"On second thought," Octavia reached down and stepped out of her awful palace heels, kicking them towards Wick. "Take these too. Maybe use them as fire fuel or something."


"Absolutely not."

"What did you say?"

"You heard me, Princess," Bellamy spat the word. "My instructions were to bring you and only you back to the palace with me. Not you and your little entourage of whoever wants in."

"Monty and Jasper won't leave without me, and I'm not returning to Tondc with them." Clarke stood with her hands firmly on her hips. "So either they come with me or I don't come at all."

Bellamy grabbed her arm above the elbow, seeing a flicker of shock flash in her eyes. "We've been over this before. You don't have a choice, no backing out now."

"Now that the cat's out of the bag," she said, her voice dripping with frost, "I'll remind you that I'm royalty. As crown princess and heir to the royal throne of Ark, I command you to let Monty and Jasper join us."

Bellamy's jaw fell open. Her words hit him like a blow between the eyes. She pulled out of his grip.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"Like you said," she tossed his own words back at him, "I don't have a choice."

With that, Clarke turned on her heels and limped her way back into camp, leaving Bellamy seething in her wake.

.

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Hi folks!

Sorry that this chapter took a little longer to upload; I was out of town visiting some family, then got my wisdom teeth removed. So, it's been busy.

Thanks for sticking with this story! I'm loving the great reviews I'm getting, they really make my day! To respond to a guest reviewer of mine - Wright - Yes, there will be Lexa in this story. She will play an important role coming up. However, this is firstly and always a Bellarke story. So, hopefully that will put your mind at ease :)

Let me know what you're thinking/how you're feeling - about Bellamy and Clarke, about The Underworld, about Raven, about anything here! I love to hear from you guys!

Thanks!

-K.T. Grace