the songbird ; b.blake

twenty-three; trigger points

Her eyes widened. "And?"

"There are supplies," I said. "Not a lot of food, but some blankets, gear. A few crates of stuff that might still be usable."

Clarke let out a breath like she'd been holding it all day. "That's— okay. That's good. But... you both look like you went ten rounds with the forest."

Bellamy didn't say anything. I met her eyes.

"We ran into trouble," I said. "We'll explain."

Clarke nodded, already glancing between us again. "Before that... I wanted to talk to you both anyway. People have been acting weird all day. Out of it. paranoid. It's not just stress."

She pulled something from her pocket. A few cracked nuts, pale brown and waxy. "They were in the ration packs. Raven figured it out. They're psychoactive. Monty said they're technically safe, but if you eat enough—"

"You start seeing things," I finished.

Clarke's brow furrowed. "You too?"

Bellamy gave a tight nod. "Yeah."

She looked at me. "What did you see?"

My gaze flicked away. "It doesn't matter."

Clarke didn't press, but her expression softened.

Bellamy shifted the rifle on his shoulder. "There's something else."

Clarke turned back to him. He looked over at me, and I nodded once, slowly.

"There were weapons in the depot," I said. "Real ones. Assault rifles. At least six, maybe more."

Clarke's eyes widened. "You're sure they're still functional?"

"Bellamy tested a few. Most still work."

Clarke exhaled, already doing the math in her head. "That could change everything. Defense. Patrols."

Bellamy raised an eyebrow. But Clarke kept going.

"We'll tell them carefully. Together. If people find out we're armed like this, it had to come with rules."

I nodded. "Then tell them."

Clarke looked between us again, then turned, already heading back toward the fire, where a loose crowd had already formed— shadows pacing, voices sharp, tension rippling through the dusk like static.

Miller was the first to speak, stepping forward with his jaw set. "He's gone," he said, voice grim. "The Grounder. He's not in the dropship anymore."

A few gasps broke the stillness.

Jasper stood stiff near the edge of the circle. "What if he brings other Grounders back?"

"He'll kill us all," someone muttered.

"Or worse," a girl added.

Their panic was already growing, thickening the air. Fear clung to everyone like ash.

Bellamy stepped forward, voice steady and low, but sharp enough to cut through the noise. "Let the Grounders come," he said.

Heads turned. Silence rippled outward.

"We've been afraid of them for far too long. And why?" He swept his arm around the fire. "Because of their knives and spears?"

I watched him carefully. The way he held himself now—confident, clear-eyed—like the man from earlier was already buried in the dirt back at the depot.

"I don't know about you," Bellamy continued. "But I'm tired of being afraid."

I looked around at the firelit faces. They weren't soldiers. They were kids. Barely surviving. But I could feel it shifting, like Bellamy's voice alone had started to turn the tide inside their chests.