THE FREE FALL ⇘ Bellamy Blake. [1]

| xxv. RED TIDE

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CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE;

RED TIDE.

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HAVEN STORMED INTO THE SANCTUARY OF OCTAVIA'S TENT, her eyes blurred with unshed tears–though she made no attempt to wipe them away. Inside, she found Orion and Octavia sprawled on their stomachs, engrossed in the pages of a familiar journal Octavia had been thumbing through lately. At the sound of her entrance, the girls turned their heads, their expressions shifting from curiosity to concern in an instant.

Octavia furrowed her brows. "What's wrong?"

"You were right," Haven's groan resonated with weariness as she sank onto the cot beside them, her movements heavy with irritation. She sniffled briefly before continuing. "Jasper's gone mad with power."

Orion's scoff carried a hint of contempt. "Oh yeah? Tell that overgrown beanstalk I can snap him like a twig," she hissed, shifting onto her back so she could see Haven more clearly. "Just say the word, Hav."

A gentle smile graced Haven's face as she absorbed the sight of Orion. Today, the Vincetta girl exuded a familiar aura, embodying her true self once more. It was a sight Haven cherished, a glimpse of normalcy amidst the chaos of their circumstances. And although she was unsure of how long it would actually last–she felt grateful for it nonetheless.

As Haven placed her hand gently on Orion's knee, she peered over her head, utilizing her as a perch to get a closer look at the journal. "What are you guys looking at?"

"Just some pictures," Octavia murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, cheeks tinged with a faint blush as she flipped through the pages, captivated. "Lincoln drew them."

        At once, Haven finally recognized the weathered journal cradled in Octavia's grasp–it was Lincoln's, the same one Bellamy had pressed into her palms amid the chaos of the hurricane. Despite its worn and ancient appearance, the drawings within held a captivating allure, each stroke telling its own story.

Well...most of it.

The most recent page Octavia was studying exuded an eerie ambiance. It depicted a Grounder adorned in a hazmat suit and gas mask, enveloped by swirling, ominous smoke reminiscent of the acid fog they had braved. Yet, it was the clenched fist tightly gripping a hand grenade that truly unsettled her–a detail that foreboded imminent danger.

        Haven did her best to maintain a steady tone in spite of the dread constricting her chest. "Did Lincoln explain what that one was?"