Chapter Text
While Frozen Point wavered between mourning and celebration, Plumeria Wood embraced with joy the honor of a recognized warrior. Glimmer limped toward the Counselor, carrying a renewed pride, barely containing the urge to share the news with the Bow.
Marco and Lance clasped Glimmer’s forearm in greeting and awaited permission to withdraw, turning toward She-ra.
She-ra, now fixated on Catra. In the dim hall, every spark of light in the chandeliers danced across the icy blue. A slight narrowing of her eyes turned that gaze into something predatory - a triumph so intense it seemed to devour the light around her.
Scorpia stood firmly on the ground in a waiting posture, her body swaying gently, as if trying to appear respectful to mask her unease. The weight of her sheathed sword felt doubled by the tension in her fingers, which repeatedly touched it in mechanical motions - too small to be noticed by the untrained, but obvious to someone like Catra, who knew her nervous ticks.
Scorpia’s gaze hung heavy on her. And when she cleared her throat, it tightened. Interrupting She-ra was uncommon, especially in moments when the room seemed made of glass. But the situation had dragged on too long, and the tension threatened to crack through composure.
“Your Bravery…” she said, her voice trembling despite her efforts to keep it steady. “Perhaps it’s the right time to dismiss the Ca-Thing… that thing there… to go serve my daughter and…”
Before the sentence was complete, She-ra raised one hand - the gesture clean, angular, direct. That was enough. Nothing more. No words. The movement spoke for itself, dismissing all replies.
Scorpia stopped immediately, as if she’d hit an invisible wall. Her eyes narrowed with restrained frustration. Her jaw tightened, visibly. A moment later, her hand returned to the sword’s hilt, seeking emotional support. It was her mast, her anchor, her reminder of purpose.
Catra, still kneeling, watched closely. She knew how Scorpia acted when nervous, recognized that habit of rubbing her thumb on the hilt’s leather. She also knew the unease had less to do with the current scene and more with what she, Catra, represented there. Scorpia feared the continued presence of her Hayawan in the room would become an informal trial - and maybe, a final end decreed by the only one with power to overcome the blood of a Born Commander.
Catra didn’t risk eye contact with Scorpia. She knew even a brief glance could be interpreted as condescension, and condescension could turn into sentencing. Here, before a deity walking among mortals but not bound by their logic, every gesture was a risk.
She-ra tilted her face just a few degrees, enough to send shadows dancing across the contours of her stare.
“There’s still the matter of the other host,” she said, looking straight at Scorpia without raising her voice. “Responsibility for the banquet was yours. We were in Crimson Waste territory - they were your guests, under your roof.”
Catra stifled her distaste the best she could upon hearing those words. When the craft had grown so arduous, the Fortress of the Sand Vale no longer seemed to symbolize Alliance unity. Her admiration for She-ra’s warfare methods, once sky-high, began to waver.
Scorpia stiffened, then relaxed. A bead of sweat traced down her neck, cruelly slow between collar and belt. The weight of the statement wasn’t surprising - but it was crushing. And she was relieved the focus had shifted to her.
As a Bloodborn, she was trained to face judgment standing, to answer for her actions with a firm voice and exposed chest. This was her territory. Her responsibility. And if there was failure, let her be judged in her own name.
Scorpia adjusted her belt, a gesture of reaffirmation. She would pay the price, yes. She would pay because it was hers. Because, unlike Catra, she could answer.
“Your Bravery…” she said, voice slightly shrill, “I oversaw the security as required by the…”
Again, She-ra raised her hand. Flawless. Unhesitating. A gesture that had silenced speeches, ended alliances, and even lives.
She-ra walked two steps, turning to the Crimson Waste Sages, their robes heavy as the mood. Scorpia couldn’t hide it. She tried to breathe deeply without seeming like she was swallowing her own name. Her eyes searched the room's corners, looking for an escape that didn’t exist. Nothing there could be negotiated.
“I require formal evaluation,” She-ra declared, her voice unburdened, needing only one more player for the ritual. “What is the payment required for a failure of hosting a warrior’s banquet?”
One of the Sages, voice deep and shoulders stooped by age, replied:
“A cartload of grain, Your Bravery.”
She-ra nodded with her chin, eyes locked on Scorpia.
“I demand thirty thousand.”
Gazes scattered with murmurs. Even the Guardians under She-ra's command shifted the weight of their spines, doubting their own balance. Scorpia grew pale, as if each grain demanded was pulled straight from her marrow.
A sharp whistle escaped the lips of a Green Sea Ambassador. “By the Goddess… thirty thousand?”
His companion, eyes cold, rose slightly on his toes and nudged him with an elbow to the chest.
She-ra continued with the precision of a blade carving decree:
“What is the price for breaking my rest? I was forced to lead judgment - to bleed wisdom where silence should reign.”
Another Sage stepped forward, almost hesitantly:
“A chest of noble fabrics.”
“Thirty thousand,” She-ra repeated, no breath between words.
Scorpia’s hand flew to her belly, instinctive - like one unsure she’d remain upright. This would bleed her Clan’s wealth down to the bone.
She-ra turned her face slowly, the air slicing between columns.
“And what is the payment for an offense against my body, nearly tainted by venom’s impurity?”
Catra remained still, hands folded over her legs, but a thought stirred beneath her skin like a caged beast.
It was dangerously bold. To demand reparations in such volume - thirty thousandfold the value of each fault - was no longer justice. It was challenge.
A whisper. A Sage’s hush:
“A chest of gold coins.”
The goddess with flawless armor and a still-bloodied sword didn’t even blink.
“Thirty thousand.”
There was no sound. No protest. The absence of reaction was, in that moment, more terrifying than rebellion.
Scorpia stood frozen, mouth quivering. To her own horror, her eyes welled with tears - and she refused to blink.
Your Bravery seemed to forget, or perhaps deliberately ignore, that not all around her were as tamed as she wished. One only needed to recall a recent moment when some had seemed more eager to see her returned to Mother Blanca’s embrace than reaffirmed as absolute leader.
Catra pressed her fingers to her thigh. She was skilled at anticipating movement, yet even she couldn’t tell if this was part of a greater plan - or a raw impulse flared too brightly from a heart swollen with titles, honor, or fear.
It’s dangerous , she repeated to herself. But not aloud. Never aloud. Scorpia was her most devoted ally, what could she hope to gain from this?
She-ra walked slowly toward where Catra remained in silence. Her eyes on the warrior held no judgment. They appeared hungry and triumphant, and her posture was so elevated she might well have stood three meters tall of pure determination. “It is necessary,” she said with the faintest trace of warmth in her voice, “that everyone remembers… what a Hayawan is.”
What ?
Her gaze fell upon those present. Every face waited for a declaration. Her voice pierced the mist like an arrow, but to Catra, it sounded far, far away. A wicked heat bloomed at the base of her neck. Her nails dug into the stone floor, unintentionally, as pure reflex.
“A Hayawan, by rite and record, deserves cruel censure, for they thirst for battle as others thirst for water. Because, like birds of prey, they are incapable of bending to obedience or accepting command not born of instinct.”
The Sages inclined discreetly, some murmuring in agreement.
“And therefore, a Hayawan does not belong to themselves. They cannot act in their own name. They belong to another. They are absolute servants. The bond between Hayawan and owner is not merely functional - it is spiritual.”
She turned to the Ambassadors of Crimson Waste, who maintained neutrality, or at least tried not to seem so lost.
“An owner possesses a thing, but is not part of it. And the thing, in return, serves not merely in totality, but without volition. A Hayawan is a tool of use.” She turned back to the hall.
The silence that followed was thick; the audience strained to grasp the meaning. Just moments ago, a clan had been bled to the bone; moments ago, a commander had lost all the blood in her body.
They struggled to keep up.
“Commander Scorpia, you were granted ownership by the judgment of this Hayawan - a category long forgotten and suddenly revived - by the sentencing over the deaths at the Golden Banquet, which included your two Ladies. Is that correct?”
I should’ve let that blonde die!
Breath faltering, Scorpia bit the back of her tongue in alarm. Her eyes, once moist, dried like a field after wildfire. Slowly thawing, Scorpia couldn’t mask her reaction, which was equal parts hostility and fear.
“No intervention in tribunals,” she said sharply, voice edged like a blade. The weight of the law’s words meant nothing to She-ra, and yet she spoke them as a final resort. “Your Bravery...”
She fell silent even before She-ra raised her hand once more.
The gesture felt pre-installed in the air, merely waiting to manifest, and the room breathed empathy. The Counselor from Plumeria Wood still seemed deeply worried about the tributes She-ra demanded.
She-ra took a single firm step forward, her left arm close to her body, her gaze slicing through Scorpia, demanding submission.
There was no rage in her eyes - nor any compassion. “I won’t alter your verdict,” she said simply. “It is your right and will remain unchanged. Instead, I want to know how many would you trade,to pass me the ownership of this Hayawan.”
The hall shrank. The columns stretched too high, the space between bodies too intimate, the air thinned.
The Ambassadors of Crimson Waste exchanged glances, eyes shadowed. A Sage gripped his staff too tightly, and the gem at its top cracked in silence. Scorpia didn’t answer immediately. Her face hardened with a tension that could not be undone. For a brief moment, her eyes sought Catra. The Hayawan stood still - but now she was terrified.
Until then, life had been uncomfortable, but certain. With Scorpia, there was function, there were rules, there were borders. Under She-ra, there was… emptiness.
Not common unpredictability, but total absence of foretelling. And in Etheria, life could be named punishment, and a sword in the heart might serve as reward. Catra knew that.
Scorpia inhaled deeply.
There was a silent war between her hostility and her guilt. But in the end, pragmatism won - because she had a clan, a name, and a home to protect.
“Thirty thousand chests of gold,” she said, her voice breaking. “Thirty thousand chests of fine fabric and thirty thousand wagons of grain, sealed in my name and marked with the Crimson Waste sigil.”
The torches along the walls burst sparks that flew up the pale stone. She-ra remained impassive, but a brief glint crossed her blue eyes, a flash of proud approval. Without a word, she nodded subtly, confirming the price was accepted. Catra did not breathe. Air seemed to evacuate her lungs, as if it knew it no longer had a purpose.
“Not because she’s worth that price,” Scorpia added, eyes fixed on She-ra. “But because it was this creature who washed the blood of Commanders and Counselors from the world. The balance of my territory now depends on what’s done with her, for the weight you ask, I return the weight of all those lives in kind.”
There was no glory in saying it. It was a sale. A loss.
A recognition of helplessness disguised as transaction. Scorpia’s shoulders gave in, her spine seemed to deny its own function. The commander, the warrior, the mother... everything slid into the tight skin of a merchant ashamed of her own currency. But it was necessary. The Clan had to remain whole before the Alliance. Even if that meant placing Catra at the mercy of a hand that could just as easily bless as destroy - on a whim, without explanation.
Catra lowered her eyes. The ground didn’t feel safe; everything felt submerged in distant cotton. She saw She-ra’s lips move, heard fragments - but nothing stuck. The air grew far too heavy. The floor beneath her knees seemed ready to give way. The sounds around her faded into an internal hum, as her breathing shortened like air being rationed.
“For the courage not offered by faith. For the task fulfilled though it was never asked. For the blood not shed in one’s own name, but that served a greater balance...”
She-ra was speaking. She was granting something - Catra knew that much. The words were formal, cadenced, ritualistic - but Catra couldn’t grasp them. She couldn’t.
Her neck was soaked. Sweat rolled down her back and she began to suspect that the cut on her ribs might actually kill her; it had to be what hurt when she breathed.
Catra’s hands left the grip on her pants and touched the ground. It could have been mistaken for reverence, but it was for support. Her pupils dilated. She wanted to run - that would be treason. She wanted to refuse - that would be insubordination. She wanted to live, but that was no longer a guarantee.
She-ra raised a hand above her head. A collective sigh escaped the guardians. Scorpia clenched her jaw, fingers sinking into her sword’s hilt until it groaned. One of the Ambassadors from Green Sea whispered in horror: “May the gods judge us...”
And the voice, now finally audible, shattered the internal blockade. It echoed like a divine decree. Like a sentence. A collar.
“Feline kom She-ra.” Catra - now Feline - remained still, while inside her, everything collapsed in silence.
How did it come to this?
She saw more than heard the footsteps approaching. She was lifted from the floor by strong arms, though not roughly. The touch was careful. The change in name already severed any ties to a past allowed to hurt.
She had to fight back the dinner trying to claw its way back up her throat. Rising was infinitely faster than sinking through her own mind. As they climbed, the thuds of doorposts, the clatter of armor - all of it faded into the rhythmic pulse in her temples. The guardians didn’t rush, nor did they make an excessive ceremony of it.
Did Trouble know one of their assassins was coming here when they told Flutterina about Salinas? Did they expect the guilt to fall on me when they dragged us back?
Each time the firm arms lifted her, she felt the torn mesh shirt brush her freshly treated skin, and the metallic taste mingled with the heat still dancing in her stomach. Felina bit her lip until the pain chased away the nausea. She controlled her breathing in short cycles, syncing her pulse with the guardians’ ordered march.
When the gate opened, the moonlight flooded Feline in a shock of realities. Outside, the desert sky turned deep blue; white banners fluttered in the cold wind; warriors stood in formation on the second wall, and lit bonfires cast flickering flames across sandstone pillars.
Long Mountain Range and Frozen Point could very well have declared a brotherhood to the world when they attacked the Alliance’s Upper Table. She-ra could have both as sworn enemies by now.
Guided by gentle guardians, she walked the long path to the public bath. The carved stone walls breathed coolness; torches in iron holders cast reflections over blessing symbols etched into rock. Steam climbed toward the ceiling, the air thick with moisture and mint.
Two visibly alarmed young warriors awaited her, with jars and trays taken from elite bath chambers. Under the watchful eyes of the Guardians of the Solar Order, they undressed her with calm gestures, every touch measured to avoid alarm. Her hair was drenched with hot water poured from copper jugs, enriched with olive soap and fragrant bay-ash. Hands glided through her strands with soothing circular motions, lifting dust and traces of dried blood. Then, one of them trimmed her nails with an iron-carved scissor.
She-ra knows who was responsible - and placed a child in charge of a clan because of it. She eliminated a difficult ally who asked too many questions. She took me from the hands of a Commander who had been her greatest ally… But she doesn’t seem to want me harmed.
They cleaned her wounds with warm water and myrrh extract, resisting the urge to rush the process while guardians looked on in silence. Each cut was wrapped in new cloth soaked in a sweet and soothing ointment that sealed away pain and fear. Catra, still tense, felt her muscles begin to surrender as she mastered her breath.
She inhaled slowly, the air mixing with the scent of frankincense, mint and damask rose. Exhaled long, letting part of the nausea dissolve into the fragrance.
I’m being prepared like a meal, still more care than I’ve ever received before in life.
The chamber doors opened again. Two other young warriors returned, each carrying a folded set of clothes. The fabrics were finely cut, dyed in scarlet red and snow white - but conspicuously small for her body.
The loose cotton riding pants were deep ruby, baggy at the waist but tight around her ankles and hips. The white linen shirt was unfolded reverently, revealing delicate stitching and golden buttons.
When she lifted it over her shoulders, the fabric touched her freshly washed skin like a feather - but the sleeves barely reached her wrists.
Over the shirt, they offered a reddish-brown leather piece with a golden star on the back. Though the material seemed sturdy, it was too thin to block the cold desert wind.
Finally, they extended a pair of solid boots, forged in thick leather, firm and tightly laced. Catra put them on carefully, feeling the firm support at her arches, but noting how the sides pressed against her ankles.
Standing, wrapped in that incongruous blend of sacred colors, small cuts, and too little warmth - she let out a sigh of resignation.
She dresses me in her colors, so no one will fail to see to whom I now belong. All Sages and Priests will hear of it - they’ll condemn it, but it’ll be too late for protest. That’s striking while the iron’s still hot.
She stepped out, walking on her own this time. It was the entrance to the central tower - the highest point of the fort, where the wind found refuge only on the old hanging walkways.
The guardians lightly supported her as she stepped onto the threshold. Felina straightened her body, felt the weight of the boots and steadied herself without help.
They silently signaled two silver-armored guards, who opened the carved wooden double doors.
Narrow windows released gusts of wind that rustled the tapestries. Brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a flickering glow over walls still stained with fresh plaster.
The hall was an incomplete fusion of power and faith—like it had been warned with little notice that it would be used.
Her gaze, once clouded, now scanned every detail: the cracks in mosaic floors, the subtle scent of incense burned in alabaster vessels, the sun-blistered pillars.
She found She-ra facing away, upright before the tall doors. Her slender hands rested behind her back as she looked out over the stone walkway circling the tower - an open gallery where the wind howled like music.
She-ra turned slowly. Her linen cloak floated behind her, carrying the comforting scent of roses and incense.
She looked freshly washed too - and Catra wondered how long remained before dawn. Now with a clearer mind, she bowed and knelt.
The encounter between the most expensive weapon of war ever forged, and the incarnate divinity at the heart of a fort built in forgotten aridity.