Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

First act

“May the path of our Goddess She-Ra guide us.” She speaks these words to conclude the ceremony.

The entire mass, an intense gaze had distracted her—so much so she nearly misspoke while reading from the sacred text. It wasn’t the first time Adora had watched her with that soft yet arrogant expression, though usually it didn’t last long. The princess would look away the moment Catra shot her a reprimanding glare. But today, that gaze lingered through the entire service.

Catra lifts the book to close it. She needs to stop dwelling on foolish thoughts. Turning away, she removes her stole and folds it with the reverence the act demands.

“I wish to confess.” The princess interrupts, her voice firm and assured—a royal trademark.

“As you wish, Your Majesty, though I fear it must wait until evening mass.”

Adora nods, answering with regal poise. “Very well. Come to my chambers after sunset.” Before Catra can reply, Adora departs, leaving her alone in the temple with only She-Ra’s presence as company.

–

The afternoon arrives faster than expected. The evening mass is a mere repetition of the morning’s rites, devoid of surprises. Before leaving the temple, Catra eyes the statue perched atop the altar. If it were up to her, she’d burn it all. The idea that the Goddess walked among mortals was a lie. The divine power once recounted with such fervor in the sacred texts? Just stories—myths that may never have been real. Yet her duty bound her to this church, this kingdom, and her princess. She’d play this farce for a lifetime if it meant serving the one she loved.

With measured steps, she retreats to her quarters. The sun still clings to the horizon, though gusting winds herald the approaching night. Her room is simple: a narrow bed, a desk. She could claim the high priest’s chambers—her rank entitles her to it—but she refuses. That place holds no happy memories.

She swaps her heavy ceremonial robes for lighter, informal attire. From a drawer, she retrieves ink, a quill, and paper to draft tomorrow’s sermon. The routine feels stifling. Fifteen years of this. Her mother had demanded it since she was twelve. As Shadow’s only daughter, the church’s legacy fell to her.

Once the monotonous speech is written and the ink dried, she folds the paper neatly into thirds. Through her small window, the sun’s dying light flickers. A guard knocks: the princess summons her. Catra sighs, tucks the heavy tome under her arm, and strides toward the royal chambers.

A servant announces her arrival. Inside, she isn’t surprised to find Adora caked in mud. Their training days are long past, yet the blonde still insists on keeping fit. Catra glares at the servant until they retreat, then turns to Adora.

“My lady, let your squire assist you.” The priestess’s tone is chastising.

“You’re giving orders to your princess now?” Adora’s frown belies her playful lilt.

“Never, Your Majesty. I merely advise.”

Seeing Catra won’t indulge her, Adora sighs and tugs at a stubborn shoulder strap. It snags; she yanks harder.

“You should’ve removed the gloves first,” Catra scolds again.

“Still lecturing me,” Adora murmurs, her voice dancing on the edge of flirtation. “Then help me. No one knows how to dismantle this armor better than you.”

Catra hesitates. In their youth, they’d been mistress and squire—Catra trained with Adora, dressed her, polished her weapons, guarded her. That ended not by choice, but fate’s cruel redesign.

She steps forward. With practiced grace, her fingers undo each knot, each buckle of the heavy plating. All the while, she fights the urge to trace the sculpted lines of Adora’s body beneath. Focus.

As the final greave clatters to the floor, Catra rises. Avoiding Adora’s eyes, she moves to the desk where her tome awaits.

“What is it you wish to confess, Your Majesty?”

Instead of answering, the blonde fires back a question:

“Did you think we were friends?”

“We were .” Catra’s gaze fixes on the sacred book. Then, softer: “We are .” She lifts her eyes. “But our stations now demand respect.”

“Friendship holds respect too.”

“Princess.” A razor’s edge in Catra’s voice. “You know what I mean.”

She watches the light drain from Adora’s face. She knows. Knows what the princess wants—what she wants too—but cannot allow. Adora’s coronation looms; soon she’ll ascend as monarch, and Catra herself will officiate the marriage rite. She can’t let Adora slip back into her life like those gilded childhood days. To have her this close, only to lose her again? Unbearable.

“What happened, Catra?” Adora’s voice fractures. “Why won’t you speak to me like you used to?”

“It isn’t proper.” The words bite, her composure crumbling. She needs to regain control—now.

Adora reads her tone—after all, she knows her too, perhaps better than her own dead mother.

“I’ll tell you my confession… on one condition.” Adora lifts her dirt-stained shirt, baring her naked chest. Catra flushes, desperate to look away but knowing she mustn’t; to ignore her princess mid-speech would be an insult. “That you hold your princess tonight.”

Catra’s breath deserts her, leaving her dizzy. In childhood—and even into their youth—they’d shared a bed, stealing warmth from each other on frigid nights. They’d huddled close, fleeing icy walls and sometimes… something more.

“My lady, that’s not—”

“It’s an order from your princess,” Adora declares, iron in her voice.

Catra watches as she strips off her leggings, standing utterly bare before her. Seeing Adora like this—her body flawless, luminous—Catra thinks perhaps kings are gods on earth: beings born to reign over others.

The blonde could sleep just so, but she’s already pushed Catra far enough. She slips on a thin cotton tunic and slides into bed.

When Adora pats the space beside her, expression soft and inviting, Catra knows she’s lost. Slowly, she moves to extinguish the room’s candles, hyperaware of Adora’s gaze burning into her. At last, she reaches the final candle by the princess’s bedside. With a delicate exhale, she snuffs out the light, plunging them into darkness.

The only guide left is Adora’s wide, desperate blue eyes, pleading for her to come closer. And she does—lifting the blanket to join the woman she loves in her bed.

Chapter Text

Second Act

The sun has yet to rise, but the sky begins to lighten. Slowly, she becomes aware of her surroundings—a soft breath against her neck sending shivers down her spine, one arm wrapped possessively around her waist, the other cradling her head like the most comfortable of pillows.

The temptation to stay here forever seduces her. She could be her lover—all kings and queens have them. She could lie in this woman’s bed every night she’s needed, and damn the world’s opinion. For a moment, she lets herself wish it were possible.

But she knows better. Adora needs her—needs her protection—and she can’t provide that if she surrenders to this. Reluctantly, she slips free from her princess’s embrace with practiced stealth. Adora whimpers at the loss of warmth, and the sound wrenches her heart—but she swallows the feeling. She moves to the desk, retrieves her book, and is nearly out the door when a voice stops her.

“Come back,” Adora pleads, voice thick with sleep.

“I have the dawn rites,” Catra replies evenly. “I’ll return when my duties are done.”

Adora watches her with sorrowful eyes but nods, permitting the escape.

-

The castle corridors are tomb-silent. Not even the lamplighters tasked with extinguishing candles are awake yet.

In her chambers, she dons her vestments, gathers her sermon, and strides to the chapel to begin the rituals.

By midday, all is completed—Monday’s services are mercifully light. She returns to her room, hoping to rest or read, but the figure waiting inside dashes those plans.

“You didn’t return.” Not an accusation—a lament.

“I just finished.”

Adora nods. She perches on the edge of Catra’s narrow bed while Catra deliberately chooses the chair at her desk instead.

“You could use the High Priest’s quarters,” Adora offers, transparently grasping for conversation.

“Unnecessary. A bed to sleep in, a desk to read and write—that’s all I need. The rest is vanity.”

They both know that’s not the whole truth. Those quarters belonged to her mother . Within those walls, she’d been drilled relentlessly into the role fate forced upon her. Her teenage rebellions had met with brutal reprimands—all swallowed by those four soundproofed walls.

“I wish to confess.”

Catra eyes her warily, then yields with a silent sigh.

“I’m in love,” the princess blurts, as if shedding a weight.

Catra’s heart plummets . She’s not ready for this conversation. She knows exactly who Adora means, whose face haunts her thoughts—but she can’t let her say it.

“You must marry a prince or princess from another kingdom, Your Majesty. It’s your duty.” She hates these words. She’s pushing Adora toward a fate neither of them wants—but one that must be.

“Why?” Adora’s voice climbs, fraying at the edges. “The kingdom and the council already suck me dry! I’ve given everything to this land and its people. Their war took my parents ! Why must it take this too?” Desperation bleeds into venom.

“It’s the blessing the Goddess gave you—to guide mankind.” What she wants to say: ‘The curse our parents left us.’

Adora never wanted the crown. But as an only child, she’d resigned herself young to its weight—until now, when it seems she’s finally reached her limit.

“A blessing ?” Adora laughs bitterly. “How can it be when it stops me from loving you ?”

Catra’s body locks rigid at the words. For the first time, she breaks away from those piercing blue eyes.

“Adora.” She hasn’t spoken her name in years. “You know we can’t.”

“Why not ?” Adora surges forward. “Just ask it of me, and I’ll fight the world.”

Silence. Catra can’t ask that. It would be selfish—a disaster for the kingdom, for everyone.

"Don’t you love me?" Adora’s voice fractures. "If not, tell me now—so I may bury these foolish feelings. So I may tear out my own heart."

The look the princess—the future queen—gives her is desperate, ruined with pain. Catra cannot lie.

"Adora, I do love you, but—"

Before she can finish, Adora crashes their lips together in a kiss that tastes of wildfire and salvation. Every movement of their mouths screams finally , as if they’ve shattered not just their own barriers, but those erected by their parents, by the world itself.

She doesn’t know when they moved to the bed. Adora is above her now, kissing with reckless hunger, while Catra’s arms lock around her neck like vows. They could have stayed this way forever—but the stolen moments are severed by the tolling of bells.

Three chimes. Catra must return for evening rites; Adora to her royal duties. Neither wants to part, but caution is vital. If the council were to discover this transgression, the consequences would be dire.

"You must go back," Catra murmurs, unwinding Adora’s arms. The princess whimpers at the loss, and the sound sends a forbidden thrill through Catra’s chest.

"Promise you’ll come to my chambers tonight." A plea.

"I promise." One last kiss, and Adora is gone.

-

Alone, the weight of their mistake crushes her. Adora’s marriage was never hers to choose. Catra knows exactly what the four noble houses expect of their queen-to-be.

The evening ceremony passes in a haze. She recites sermons etched into her bones, performs each rite flawlessly. No one notices her absence—until the temple empties, and reality returns.

Her eyes trace the altar’s statues—the Goddess she defends with such public fervor. The irony. She, the church’s highest symbol, is its greatest blasphemer. Hellfire surely awaits her for preaching lies. But if I’m damned, she thinks, let me at least taste paradise first.

-

The last candle snuffed, she steals through shadowed halls to Adora’s door. No knock—just the turn of the handle.

Inside, the princess waits in silk, reclined, her smile brighter than the moon. Catra closes the door with excruciating care, turns the lock against prying eyes, and slips between the sheets like a thief.

Adora’s arms engulf her instantly. Catra feels the heat of the blonde’s body—the swell of her breasts against her back, the possessive curl of hands around her waist. I could die now, she thinks. A heart attack would be mercy—to perish this happy.

"I’ve never been so happy," Adora breathes against her ear.

The act sends an electric shiver through her entire body. Adora's hands drift upward slowly, until they brush against Catra's left nipple. The priestess stifles a moan. Seeing this restrained reaction, the blonde withdraws, burying her face in Catra's thick hair. Catra turns to see her princess's expression.

With one hand, she coaxes Adora from her hiding place, offering what she hopes is an encouraging, understanding look - she's here for her lady, for whatever she needs. It seems to work; Adora's breathing steadies. Then Catra cradles her face and begins kissing along her strong jawline, trailing her lips down to the neck before biting where it meets the shoulder. This earns her a soft whimper from the princess.

With devotion, Catra maps her mouth across her lady's powerful body. Through the fabric, she licks and suckles at Adora's breasts, rewarded with the sweetest sounds she's ever heard. She continues southward, using one hand to lift Adora's tunic, revealing toned abs that flex under the back of her caressing hand. When she kisses the inner thigh, she feels Adora's entire body tremble.

Suddenly, fingers tighten in her hair. Catra looks up, slightly confused.

"You don't have to—"

"But I want to, Your Majesty. Do you want this too?"

Adora hesitates, then tightens her grip in Catra's hair before releasing to stroke it gently.

"Yes," she whispers, as if confessing the gravest sin.

Catra resumes her slow descent. She kisses and licks each thigh, torturously avoiding the center. When she nips at Adora's hip instead, the princess finally begs:

"Please."

That desperate voice spurs Catra to obey. She moves to where Adora is already wet, tasting her princess like the sweetest delicacy. Adora doesn't last long, arching off the bed with a cry. Catra guides her through the aftershocks, diligently cleaning the evidence of her devotion.

The entire time, Catra burns with her own need - seeing her lover like this had ignited her. But she could live with that; serving her lady is happiness enough.

As Adora's breathing calms, a hand strokes Catra's hair. She sighs at the tender touch. Then suddenly, she feels another hand lifting the tunic she still wears.

"Let me help you," the princess murmurs, her voice low and rich.

Catra allows it, lets Adora hike up her nightgown higher and higher. The princess gestures for her to rise, and she obeys her lady's commands with devotion. In less than a minute, the flimsy garment is discarded, her naked body exposed to the woman she loves.

Adora wastes no time rearranging them. Soon Catra finds herself seated in the blonde's lap as Adora takes her nipple into her mouth like a starving child. All Catra can do is moan; she'd dreamed of this moment countless times - Adora's hands exploring her body, that hot mouth on her skin. She surrenders to those calloused yet impossibly gentle hands that touch her with such tenderness.

Adora's hand travels lower, brushing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

"Your Majesty-" the priestess whimpers.

"My Catra," the blonde breathes against her skin.

In Adora's eyes she sees fire and lust, and the sight alone makes her core throb. Today she doesn't doubt that her Goddess's blood runs through her beloved - the unique light she emits, the strength she possesses are all the proof Catra needs to renew her faith. She believes in Adora, believes she's She-Ra's chosen one.

The blonde gently pushes her thighs apart, all while watching Catra's flushed face.

"May I touch you?" Adora asks, her voice trembling with unexpected shyness.

"My lady-" She could take anything from anyone, take everything from her. She doesn't need to ask.

"Answer me," Adora demands.

Catra feels tears prick her eyes - even now, Adora cares for her, ensures her beloved wants this too. She hides her face in the blonde's neck and whispers her reply: "Do as you wish."

"I only want what you want."

Catra squirms at the response. She's such a fool.

"Then I want what's best."

Adora chuckles at the answer. She presses a kiss to Catra's forehead before her hands resume their work. Fingers brush her clit, drawing a deep moan. The princess takes the bundle of nerves between her fingers, applying gentle pressure that makes Catra writhe and whimper.

"Please, Adora-" Her plea is shameless; she wants more, wants to feel Adora inside her.

"Slowly," Adora murmurs, stopping her movements. "Slowly for me." Her hand moves up to cup Catra's face. "Let me care for you."

It breaks Catra. She wants Adora desperately, yet wants to please her princess too. Seeing her dilemma, Adora captures her lips in a searing kiss while her hand returns below, barely grazing her wet folds.

The priestess arches into the touch, but Adora's other hand holds her hips firmly in place. In one fluid motion, Adora changes their positions, laying Catra back on the bed. Now above her, the princess trails the back of her hand along Catra's side, taking time to admire every curve of the woman beneath her.

"You're beautiful," Adora breathes, spreading Catra's legs and testing her entrance with one finger.

Catra's back arches as she moans, terrified Adora might withdraw. The blonde keeps a firm hand on her hip, pumping her finger slowly, watching how the measured pace unravels Catra completely. She's clay in Adora's hands.

When a second finger joins the first, Catra reaches her limit. Feeling her walls clench, Adora quickens her pace, sending the dark-haired woman over the edge with a strangled cry. Catra's back bows off the mattress, eyes screwed shut as white heat consumes her.

She doesn't know how long she floats in bliss, but when awareness returns, she feels Adora withdrawing her fingers - then tasting them. The sight nearly sends Catra spiraling again.

"Catra," the blonde whispers, "you're so beautiful."

"My lady," Catra breathes.

Adora captures her chin, drawing her into a kiss that starts soft but quickly turns demanding. Her tongue claims Catra's mouth as her hands return to tease her breasts, drawing fresh moans between kisses.

"Adora, please-" Catra warns, but the princess doesn't stop.

"I want to," the stronger woman insists.

Catra surrenders to her love. She's nothing but a doll in those strong hands, those sweet, burning kisses. They love each other through the night, tomorrow's consequences forgotten.

Chapter Text

Third Act

They wake to sharp knocks at the door. Catra jerks upright—she’d been curled beneath her lady’s chin, Adora’s arm draped possessively over her.

“Shhh. I’ll handle this.” Adora presses a kiss to her crown and rises, shrugging on a tunic before yanking the door open.

“Who dares disturb me?” Her voice is winter-steel.

The servant flinches. “F-forgive me, Your Majesty. But the council awaits your presence.”

Catra shudders. Today. The day Adora’s coronation date would be set—and her future spouse chosen.

“Tell them I’ll come when it pleases me.” She slams the door before the man can sputter a reply.

“My lady,” Catra murmurs, knowing this defiance will only worsen what’s coming.

Adora turns, her expression shattered. She understands the consequences as well as Catra does.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispers, voice fraying.

“You won’t.” A half-lie. Catra will burn the world to see Adora crowned—even if it means punishment for her own insolence. “I have a plan. But you must go to the meeting. I’ll join you there. I promise. ”

Adora hesitates, crushing Catra in an embrace, as if sheer will could keep her there. Catra holds her just as fiercely, swallowing her own terror—until, minutes later, she coaxes her away.

“Go, Princess.” I’ll break these chains myself.

The blonde nods. Catra seals the vow with a searing kiss—a silent oath that they’ll meet again.

-

Catra dresses swiftly and rides to Mystacor. She wears her finest vestments, the ones reserved for holy rites. When she arrives at the great estate, she demands an audience with the noble within.

Nowy had once served as Mara's right hand - Adora's own mother. Though he'd retired years ago, hoping to make way for new leadership to guide the kingdom's future, that transition never came to pass. When this succession failed to materialize, he found himself the unexpected keeper of the very artifact Catra now required.

“Your Excellency.” The old count greets her, his white hair thinning, a cane steadying his gait. Time had not been kind—yet surviving war and famine made his very movement a miracle.

“Count, I need the sword,” Catra states, bypassing courtesy.

Nowy’s brow furrows. “The sword may only be wielded for the coronation rite.”

“Adora must be crowned today .” Catra’s voice is flint. “The council delays only to manipulate her.”

Nowy isn’t surprised. He knows the nobles’ hypocrisy well. When he left the council after Mara’s death, they’d seized power—reducing the young heir, a girl of fourteen, to a puppet in their grasp. A regret that haunted him; once out, reentering their ranks was near impossible.

“Patience. They’ll yield before spring.”

Catra knows the man’s temperament—calm, measured. It’s why he’d thrived beside Mara… until war came. His caution had blinded him to its approach.

“We don’t have until spring. They mean to wed the princess to Prime before winter’s end.”

For years, Catra had thwarted this. But if she resists further, they’ll uncover the truth: her love for Adora is anything but platonic.

Nowy pales. Prime—Emperor of the Horde, a man of venom and cruelty, seeking any pretext to conquer. His empire had sprawled unchecked until Etheria’s war left his forces weakened. Now, he covets a new weapon: marriage. With it, he’d claim Etheria’s most powerful relic—and vengeance for his past defeat.

“I see,” Nowy murmurs, grasping the stakes. “I’ll retrieve the sword.”

Both know this act breaks their vows: Nowy’s neutrality by siding with the church, Catra’s allegiance to the council. Every member must vote to approve the coronation and marriage. For years, she’d delayed the marriage vote as they postponed the coronation.

Today, that ends.

-

Catra returns to the palace at breakneck speed. The council remains in session when she slips into the chamber, schooling her features into perfect neutrality. The four nobles glower at her arrival—their irritation as predictable as the tides. After years of dealing with these petulant old men, their tantrums barely register.

"Forgive my tardiness, Your Majesty," she lies smoothly, taking her seat at the princess's right hand. "A matter of vital importance delayed me."

"Keeping the entire assembly waiting is disrespectful, Priestess," snaps Duke Badcode—Adora's great-uncle, a leech who'd profited endlessly from being brother to the late consort Randolf. You shouldn't even be here, Catra thinks bitterly. Your son died in the war. Kelar at least served the kingdom loyally. That grandson of yours was still swaddled when you stole his family's seat.

"Enough." Adora's voice cuts through like a blade. "No apologies needed. I trust your business was resolved satisfactorily?"

Catra reads the subtext flawlessly: Give me hope.

She studies Adora discreetly. To the room, the princess appears unshakable—spine straight, shoulders squared. But Catra sees the strain in the way she holds herself, the clenched jaw betraying hours of enduring veiled insults disguised as courtly praise.

"Yes. By nightfall, all will be settled." She prays Adora catches the promise beneath the words.

"Good." The princess's tone is regal, but Catra detects the faintest exhale of relief.

"First order of business," announces Huntara, the royal guard moderating the agenda. "The coronation."

"If I may interrupt," Badcode interjects, oily as ever. "Surely we must address another matter first—"

"What could possibly outweigh crowning our queen?" Catra's disdain drips like poison. "The people demand a ruler, not endless delays."

"But a queen cannot rule alone. She requires a consort." The duke's smile is all teeth. "I propose we settle this… prerequisite."

"I veto the motion." Catra doesn't hesitate.

"Your Excellency," Badcode chuckles. "We haven't even voted."

The outcome is inevitable. When Huntara calls the vote, all four nobles raise their hands in smug unison. Catra watches Adora's posture turn to stone as these relics decide her future—whether she's "ready" for the birthright her own mother would've secured for her without debate.

Mara would've burned this chamber to the ground before letting them vote on her daughter's worth.

But Mara has been dust for years.

Beneath the table, Catra’s fingers brush Adora’s clenched fist. She knows her fury—but patience is vital. The princess exhales as their hands entwine, her tension easing at her lover’s touch.

“Very well,” Duke Badcode preens. “Princess Adora, have you reconsidered our proposal?”

Adora’s breath hitches. Catra feels her restraint—the effort it takes not to drive her fist into the smug noble’s face.

“Yes.” Adora’s voice is flat, ironclad. “And I refuse. I will not marry Emperor Prime.”

“Your Highness—” Marquis Zagraz leans forward. “Think rationally. This union would eradicate war. No more border raids. The Horde’s army remains formidable—one slight, and we’re back on the battlefield.”

“She-Ra’s power has always protected us.” Adora’s tone turns razor-sharp. “The sacred sword is our shield—yet you deny me the right to wield it. No wonder thieves multiply like rats.”

Badcode slams the table. “What are you implying?”

“Her Highness merely stresses,” Catra interjects smoothly, “that coronation must precede war theories.” So close now. One misstep could ruin everything.

“No coronation without a wedding,” the Marquis counters.

“Then we’re at an impasse.” Catra feigns resignation.

Badcode rounds on her. “Why indulge this girl’s whims, Excellency? One vote from you, and this ends.”

Catra’s jaw locks. Unanimity binds Adora—but she’d never betray her. “Marriage must be voluntary. Our Goddess decrees it.”

Play the faithful. She can’t defend Adora outright—not without exposing them both.

“Surely your Goddess prefers peace to war,”   Duke Badcode prods. “Even if it requires… compromise.”

“ Our Goddess—” Catra stresses the possessive, “—desires peace. But forced marriage defiles her doctrine.”

“And what doctrine is that?”

A month ago, she’d have faltered—the fraud priestess with no answers. But last night, skin-to-skin with the woman beside her, she’d understood .

“Love.”

Badcode barks a laugh. “Religion has addled your mind.”

“It is truth .” Catra’s voice rings like a temple bell. “For love, She-Ra forged the sword. For love, she let Marlene I drink her blood. I will not condemn her daughter to chains.” She locks eyes with each noble. “Adora carries the Goddess’s own blood. Nothing can change that.”

The nobles freeze at her words, fear flashing across their faces. Only royalty can wield the Sword of Grayskull—only they can protect the kingdom... or destroy it. The chamber falls silent. Duke Badcode fumes in his seat, but what surprises Catra most is the flicker of genuine fear—and perhaps even regret—in the eyes of the other noble houses.

Let them tremble. She no longer cares for their politics. She’ll burn this council to ash before they touch her princess again.

"This session is adjourned," Huntara announces. "Your Highness, the next council meeting is scheduled in one month."

Adora nods curtly. When she rises, the entire assembly follows suit.

"Next time, I expect better solutions. I will only marry for love—just as my mother did." She strides from the room before any can protest, Catra close behind.

They walk in silence until they're safely out of earshot.

"Come to the temple at the sixth bell," Catra murmurs.

She turns to leave, but Adora catches her wrist. "Wait." Cupping Catra's face, she presses a chaste kiss to her lips. "Thank you."

Catra smirks before dragging her into something deeper, hungrier—stealing the breath from her princess's lungs.

"Don't thank me yet," she whispers against Adora's mouth. "If my plan works, you'll never have to worry about those fools again."

They part ways. Catra heads straight for the temple, where Nowy awaits.

But simply giving Adora the sword isn't enough—the ritual must be prepared, the divine power channeled through her veins.

Fortunately, Catra has been ready for years.

Ever since taking charge of the church, she's been waiting for this moment—to crown her princess queen.

-

The sixth bell tolls sooner than expected. Adora arrives clad in her training armor, the same worn leather and steel she dons daily. Catra drinks in the sight—the way the fading light haloes her, ethereal as a vision.

“Catra? What is all this?” Adora’s voice is equal parts awe and confusion.

“Your coronation. After tonight, the council will have no choice but to kneel.”

Catra moves swiftly, stripping away each piece of armor before pressing a white-and-gold ceremonial robe into her hands. While Adora changes, she retrieves She-Ra’s chalice—the very cup from which the Goddess is said to have let the first queen drink.

“We must hurry,” Nowy urges. “The sun nearly sets.”

Catra growls at the time constraint. The ritual must occur at the precise moment day and night become one. Miss this window, and they’d need to wait until dawn—by then, it might be too late.

“Begin.” No time left to grind the sacred berries properly. “Kneel, Princess.”

Adora obeys, lowering herself before the altar.

“Princess Adora Grayskull, today we gather to crown you sovereign of this land.” Normally, she’d recite verses from the holy texts—but tonight demands brevity. “You stand ready to receive the power entrusted to your bloodline: to guard your people, to guide their path.”

“Adora Grayskull, do you swear to wield this power for the people’s good—never your own?”

“I do.” No hesitation.

“Do you swear to raise this sword against all who threaten Etheria?”

“I do.”

As Adora vows, Catra crushes the berries into pulp, mixing them with wine. “Drink from this chalice. Let the Goddess’s soul flow through you, for in flesh, you are already one.”

Adora drinks deeply. Within moments, her breath quickens—chest flushing, fists clenching. The berries’ essence is said to awaken dormant power, though none alive have witnessed it. Catra watches as Adora trembles, caught in the tide of her ancestors’ judgment.

A full minute passes before she finally stills.

Catra takes the sword from Nowy and kneels. “Rise, my Queen. Take what has always been yours.”

Adora stands, slow and reverent, and grasps the hilt.

“Speak the words your mother spoke… and hers before her.”

“For the honor… of Grayskull.”

Light erupts—blinding, glorious. When Catra’s vision clears, the princess is gone. In her place stands a warrior-queen, three meters tall, radiant as dawn.

Catra unveils the hidden crown. Adora kneels once more.

“With this crown, I name you Queen of Etheria.” Her voice cracks. “Long live Queen Adora.”

Nowy rings the temple bells. Catra burns the sacred herbs, white smoke curling skyward as the peals spread across the kingdom— a proclamation in sound.

She turns to the altar, kneeling before She-Ra’s effigy. Defying the council means exile. Perhaps execution. But as she prays, she feels no regret. Her purpose is fulfilled.

“Don’t fear, Catra.” Adora’s voice—human again—cuts through her thoughts. “I won’t let them take the woman I love.”

Catra believes her. She’d never truly believed in the Goddess… but she’d always believed in those blue eyes. Perhaps she was never the lost lamb her mother claimed.

Perhaps she’d always had a shepherdess.

And she stands before her now.