It's the End of the World as We Know it (Silent Moments Series: Book 4)

Chapter 22

"I seek our salvation, Your Highness," I countered, the weight of our dire predicament in my voice.

"Do you deem us savages needing rescue?" he retorted sharply.

"The Praimfaya looms near," I argued, frustration coloring my plea.

"Enough delay," Roan grumbled. "Summon the healer."

Echo entered, my mother in her wake. "What have you done?" my mother whispered urgently. "The Flame might be your end!"

"I'm left with no choice," I responded, my eyes mirroring my desperation.

Roan demanded clarity. "Speak, healer! Reveal how he became a Natblida."

I subtly pleaded for her silence, but she confessed, "Through science."

"You created a nightblood?" Gaia questioned, disbelief tinting her voice.

"Yes," my mother replied briskly.

Roan seized the revelation. "If anyone can be Natblida, if anyone can hold the Flame, then blood cannot be our trust," he declared.

Indra nodded, adding, "Our trust lies with the blade. This war has tarried too long."

But Roan interjected, halting her advance. "Hold," he commanded. "Wanheda speaks truth. War is a poor arbiter of survival. You called for an ascension, yet the climax was omitted."

"A conclave," Indra realized, grasping his proposal.

"A final conclave," Roan confirmed. "One champion per clan. One death, not thousands. The victor claims the bunker."

Offering his fist to Indra, a silent pact was formed. "To the victor, the spoils," she agreed, placing her hand over his. "Trikru joins."

Roan then turned his unreadable gaze to me. "Will you fight? Or will you perish?"

***

Beneath a sky smeared with twilight hues, the desolate city sprawled before us, a haunting battleground. I stood next to Bellamy, our shadows merging on the cracked pavement. "The entire city's transformed into a war zone," I sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. "No time limit, no firearms. It's down to a primal contest—one champion from each clan, a fight to the bitter end."

Bellamy's response was a low echo of my own thoughts, his voice laced with a grim acceptance. "The winner's clan claims the sanctuary of the bunker. Just like that," he said, his eyes reflecting the dying light.

I glanced at him, our shared understanding unspoken yet palpable. The evening breeze carried a chill, whispering through the abandoned streets, heightening the sense of foreboding.

"Stripped of guns and without mastery in Grounder combat techniques... our chances seem perilously thin," he acknowledged, the reality of our predicament hanging heavily in the air.

I moved closer, my voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying a firm resolve. "Hey," I said, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. "We either stand and fight, or we face oblivion."

As we stood there, united in our determination, an unexpected sound pierced the stillness—a rhythmic disturbance, growing steadily louder. It was the sound of someone approaching, their footsteps echoing against the backdrop of the silent city. Tension coiled within us as we turned towards the noise, our senses heightened. From the direction of the dimly lit avenue, a silhouette emerged, growing more defined with each step. The figure's confident stride and unmistakable presence cut through the twilight. As she stepped into the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp, her features became discernible. There, bathed in the soft light, stood Octavia, her arrival both startling and inevitable.