Prologue

He was a warrior. He was a general. He did not fear death. He was not afraid to die, for the sake of his clan. For his kwin. He did not give up fighting, even in the face of agony and torture.

He did not cry.

So why, in the face of such a small girl, did he feel the need to start now? How is it that he forgot his training? Forgot where his loyalties lie when the sight of the sky-girl entered his vision? He was Azgeda, a general of the Az Kwin's army. He did not-

A gasp ripped from his lips as the Wanheda entered the tent and he was reminded. Reminded that this wasn't a mere sky-girl like Ice Queen Nia would have her people believe. She was one of the two Legends the Sky had borne. The Blake Childe, Octavia - Skairipa - had become her own Legend from both within the bounds of Arkadia, taking in contenders for over a year; a fighter that has not fallen.

Wanheda was a different story. While Skairipa has won in the ring, taking the lives of every opponent who dared face her in the Skaikru's Gladiator gonplei, Wanheda had become more than just 'The Woman Who Felled The Mountain'. So much more. More than a warrior or a healer or a leader or an assassin. She had filled her name as the Commander of Death.

She had slaughtered whole armies and villages. Had gone into the heart of Azgeda and assassinated the Az Kwin's weapon Ontari and left a trail of bodies on her way past the borders. She had stained the ground of entire fields with blood and ash. Had gone into villages and turned them into armies of tremendous skill to take down their oppressors. Azgeda wasn't the only clan that Klark kom Skaikru had her eyes set on to burn. No, she had upturned at least three others and caused enough mayhem and strife to become hunted by any bounty hunter or warrior who wished for death, at any rate.

Right then, he could see why. And he did not wish to.

Blood matted her entire body. Her golden mane, cut to the middle of her neck, was slicked with blood and dirt, her clothes cut up and blooded. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he knew that whatever he expected was surpassed with just this sight. Her skin, though stained red with blood, was a pale tan not known to most of the Clans. It near matched the skin of his people. She was wearing black leather pants that filled with her flesh, old boots he knew were from the Sky People, and a stiff jacket without arms that opened in the middle, revealing a taut and scarred stomach and a hint of breast hidden behind a brown half shirt that barely passed her womanly bust. On her hip was one of the Maunen's weapons. 'Pistol', he believed it was called. On the other hip were two skulls were without backs, both clean and pure white, as if in they were set in the sun for weeks on end. The first skull was that of a beast, large and intimidating. The second was human, hollow and haunting. Strapped to her back were two swords, blood still dripping off the sharp tips. She was the picture of death and destruction.

"You know who I am," Wanheda acknowledged as she saw him take her in. She took him in as well, hands tied behind his back and legs tied to the chair he couldn't leave. Cuts littered his body and he could feel a large bruise blooming on the side of his head, large and daunting. One of his general scars he'd gotten months ago had reopened, blood trickling but already scabbing. He could feel it.

"The Commander of Death," he replied, unconsciously leaning away from her as she walked forward. She kneeled down, making him want to get away or avert his eyes. Her gaze were as the stories told; as blue as the sky but as hard as the ground. Wanheda cracked her bloodied and scarred hands, twisting them until they cracked no more. Each crack sent a ripple of nervousness- almost fear- through his spine.

He did his best to straighten his back and harden his heart against whatever torture the Legend would use against him. But she did nothing. Wanheda continued to stare at him; to watch him with those old eyes he swore had seen everything. And then she turned and walked away to a bucket he hadn't noticed.

Wanheda pulled out a wet rag and twisted it in her hands, wringing out the into the bucket. A wince of pain crossed her features as she shrugged her jacket from her shoulders, revealing toned skin and pale scars. The half shirt she wore barely hung onto her frame by two thin straps. He couldn't help but notice that wherever she hid, she was eating well if her strong body said anything about her. On her lower back to the right, written in black ink of the Trikru were words in gonasleng. As both general and ambassador, he had been taught to both read and write in the language of warriors. Without trying to make it seem obvious, he narrowed his eyes to read the bloody words.

Clarke

Prisoner 319

Princess

Klark

Wanheda

The words were written in a column, bold and black on her skin. Names. Titles. What she was called. He knew her name was Klark or Clarke in gonasleng. And he'd heard a rumor of the first of the Sky being traitors to their peoples' laws. He'd heard from rumors and stories that those considered children were locked away while the adults were executed. And then a 100 child prisoners were sent from the Sky to die.

'They were true,' he realized with slightly widened eyes. He wasn't sure what the title below 319 meant, but he was sure it was an emotionally investing if she permanently marked it to her skin. Klark was how they wrote her name in their own language. Unsure of what it meant, he moved on to the next: Wanheda. The Commander of Death. It was a name that all twelve clans feared but only four have felt her wrath. It was one of the reasons he was there, sent with an army of a hundred warriors to capture the Mountain from Wanheda's hands and bring her to the Az Kwin if he could.

Wanheda had taken out four tents before any one of his warriors knew she was among them. It was chance, from what he could tell, that one of them could sound the horn before being put down like caged animals. After that, the slaughter of his people began.

He blinked when Wanheda started cleaning herself in front of him, wiping the dirt and blood off onto the rag and then washed the fabric out with the water in the bucket. It was also then he noticed a pair of scars, one line on her back and a longer, matching one that split the button of her stomach in half.

'She shouldn't have survived that,' he thought absently, giving in to the the Legend and rumor that surrounded the Wanheda. One in particular: Klark kom Skaikru could not die. He believed it now, as he watches the healed scar becomes visible with each swatch of dirt and blood that was removed. Even the power to slaughter armies pales in comparison to immortality. Especially in the eyes of a warrior or his Kwin. To bypass Death, the one spirit that came to every person without fail, would be a power even the Commander could not hope to match.

If he could only get capture Wanheda…

She rubbed the rag across her neck, the dirt giving way to more marked skin on both sides of her throat. Around the front was a thin scar, stretching from one side of her throat to the other. On the left side of her neck was another tat. This one was small, the size of his palm, possibly. Three ovals pointed three different ways and banded together at one end, cut by a circle in the middle. Wanheda's known symbol, 'Etsy', he believed it was called.

"Why are you here?" Wanheda asked him, still wiping her body and rinsing the rag of dirt and blood in the bucket.

He didn't answer, tilting his up defiantly. He would not be intimidated into answering. He would stay by his Kwin. He would not give her-

There wasn't any time to gasp as she was suddenly in front of him, throwing the rag flat on his face, tipped his chair back, and then started to pour the bucket of dirty water onto him. He couldn't breathe. He was drowning on land, tied to a chair with no way to draw breath. His lungs were on fire, desperate for the air he couldn't live without.

The rag was ripped off and the hand he hadn't noticed holding his head back by his long hair. He held his head down as water burst from his lips and nose, desperately trying to take in any air that he could get. The only sound in the tent was his heavy breathing, huffing exhausted breaths. When he could breathe without his lungs burning, he looked to Wanheda, his eyes wide in a way he couldn't help. She'd just drowned him on land, something that seemed so simple yet hadn't been used by Azgeda even once. He'd had tortured hundreds of enemies to the crown, traitors or informants or warriors of other clans, and he'd never used anything like she'd just did. Death was on his heels, following him as he drowned in air. And Wanheda had commanded him to leave.

It shook him, more than he ever wanted to admit. To himself or his Kwin.

"Why did Nia send an army here?" Wanheda asked. He didn't want to answer, and it showed on his face. The Commander of Death only sighed, pulled her gun from the strap at her waist, and pulled the trigger.

The General's body hit the floor with a thud as the chair tipped back. Blood splattered on her face again and with a tired, exhausted sigh, she wiped the rag across her cheek. It was a shame, he didn't want to talk. She would have probably gotten more information out of him than she did his second. He was Nia's general after all. But she got enough information to know that Nia and the other clans were planning an all-out war.

It was a resigned breath that followed a thought she hoped she'd never have to voice: "I have to go home."

After two years and scores of bodies, she was going back to Arkadia.

Maybe she could put it off...