Aleksander looked at Bellamy. The suicidal mantra of Whatever the hell we want had officially almost destroyed them from the inside out. A pack could not survive if it turned on itself like rabid dogs. It was time to establish true order.
Aleksander stepped onto the overturned crate Connor had kicked out from under Murphy. He addressed the camp, his voice carrying the undeniable weight of an apex predator establishing its territory. These were not the political laws of the Ark. These were the ruthless laws of nature.
"The games are over," Aleksander decreed, his dark eyes sweeping over the delinquents. "From this moment on, you follow the Laws of the Pack. These are the rules."
Rule 1: The Perimeter is Absolute
"No one leaves the treeline without an armed escort. You walk out alone, you are choosing to die. And I will not risk three lives trying to rescue you when you don't come back."
Rule 2: You Eat What You Earn
"There are no free rides down here. Everyone works. You forage, you build, you stand watch, or you heal the sick. If you contribute nothing to the pack, the pack contributes nothing to you."
Rule 3: Blood Stays Inside the Camp
"No infighting. If you have a dispute, you settle it with words. If you draw a blade on one of your own people, you will deal with me personally. We have enough enemies in the trees; we are not making them in here."
Rule 4: Respect the Earth, or It Will Kill You
"You don't eat anything Monty hasn't cleared. You don't touch glowing plants. You don't run blindly into the fog. The Ark taught you to survive a machine; the Earth is a living, breathing thing, and it will swallow you whole if you don't pay attention."
Seeing the fire completely go out in the camp, Aleksander gave a short nod. The chaotic, suicidal era was officially dead.
Aleksander stepped down from the crate.
The crowd immediately parted for him, offering him a wide berth of wary respect. He didn't address the camp again. Instead, he walked directly toward Clarke.
Clarke was trembling, her pale hands covered in dirt, staring in absolute horror at the severed rope on the ground.
Aleksander stopped right in front of her. He didn't raise his voice to humiliate her in front of the hundred. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, venomous murmur that only she could hear, though the lethal weight of his words hit her like a physical blow.
"You preach about civilization and order, Clarke," Aleksander whispered softly, his dark eyes boring into hers. "Yet the second your emotions were triggered, you completely bypassed proof and handed a lit match to a powder keg. You didn't want justice. You just wanted someone to bleed so you wouldn't feel helpless."
Tears of profound shame welled in Clarke's eyes. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but the words died in her throat. She knew he was right.
"Never make an unproven accusation like that again," Aleksander finished quietly, leaving no room for debate. "Or I will hold you personally responsible for the blood spilled."
He didn't wait for her to apologize.
Aleksander turned away, kneeling in the dirt beside John Murphy, who was still wheezing and rubbing the raw rope burn around his throat. Aleksander effortlessly hauled the older boy to his feet, slinging Murphy's arm over his shoulder to help bear his weight.
"Octavia," Aleksander called out, his tone shifting to a protective hum. "Take Charlotte. Get her inside the dropship. Clarke, go check on Wells."
Clarke, deeply grateful for the excuse to escape, practically fled up the metal ramp.
Aleksander walked up the ramp with slow, measured steps, bearing the brunt of Murphy's weight. Octavia came next, her hand resting firmly but gently on Charlotte's back. The thirteen-year-old girl was completely numb, her eyes blank and hollow as the adrenaline of her horrific confession wore off.
Bellamy brought up the rear. He paused at the top of the ramp, looking out over the camp. The delinquents had scattered, retreating to their tents or the fires in hushed, fearful groups. The mob was broken. Bellamy reached out and pulled the heavy hydraulic lever, letting the massive steel doors hiss shut and seal them inside, locking the chaos out.
Inside the dim, quiet confines of the dropship, the heavy adrenaline of the night finally began to crash.
Clarke was already kneeling beside the makeshift cot where Wells lay. She pressed her trembling fingers against the uninjured side of his neck, her medical instincts frantically trying to block out the guilt in her chest.
"His pulse is still steady," Clarke whispered, her voice thick with emotion, though she still refused to look back at Aleksander. "He's deep under... but he's stable."
Aleksander guided Murphy to a metal crate near the wall, easing him down. Murphy slumped forward, resting his head in his hands, completely exhausted. Aleksander checked the boy's breathing, satisfied that his airway wasn't crushed, before turning his attention to the center of the room.
Octavia gently guided Charlotte to sit on the lower rungs of the metal ladder. The little girl pulled her knees tight to her chest. She was trembling violently, staring blankly at the floor grates.
Aleksander approached her, his footsteps entirely silent. He didn't offer any empty platitudes. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his dark jacket—a pocket subtly enchanted with an undetectable extension charm. From the hidden depths of the fabric, he withdrew a small, glass vial filled with a shimmering, pale blue liquid.
He held it out to her.
"Drink this," Aleksander instructed, his tone calm and steady. "It is a Calming Draught. It will put you to sleep, and I promise you, there will be no nightmares tonight."
Charlotte looked up at him, her tear-stained eyes hesitant. But driven by sheer exhaustion and the desperate desire to escape the images of Chancellor Jaha, she reached out with trembling fingers. She uncorked the vial and drank it in one quick swallow.
Almost instantly, the violent trembling in her small frame ceased. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with an unnatural, peaceful weight. Octavia gently guided the girl to a nearby cot, and within seconds, Charlotte was fast asleep, her breathing deep and even, finally free from the demons of the Ark.
Aleksander turned away, walking back over to where John Murphy was slumped against the crates, rubbing a makeshift salve Clarke had handed him over his bruised neck.
"How do you feel?" Aleksander asked quietly, leaning against the metal wall.
Murphy didn't look up right away. He swallowed hard, wincing at the pain in his throat. "Good," he rasped, his voice rough and bitter. "Just... good."
Aleksander studied him for a moment. Through the subtle, passive edge of his Fey senses, Aleksander could feel the storm of emotions warring inside the delinquent. Murphy absolutely hated Charlotte for confessing too late and letting the mob string him up. But beneath that volatile anger was a heavy, suffocating empathy.
Aleksander knew exactly why Murphy hadn't demanded Charlotte's life in return. The little girl's trauma struck too close to home. It reminded Murphy of his own nightmares—of the day his father was floated for stealing medicine to save his life, and the agonizing months that followed as his mother drank herself to death, looking at him every single day with eyes full of blame. Murphy knew exactly how a nightmare could rot a person from the inside out. He couldn't find the urge to demand her life when she had broken under the exact same weight he carried.
Understanding the boy's silent grief, Aleksander gave a single, respectful nod and left Murphy to his thoughts.
For the next twenty minutes, Aleksander stood by the central console with Bellamy, Clarke, and Octavia. They spoke in hushed, serious tones about Wells' condition. The Chancellor's son remained in a deep, unresponsive coma, his vitals steady but weak.
When the makeshift council concluded, Aleksander needed air. The metallic, confined space of the dropship was suffocating his senses.
He stepped out of the heavy hydraulic doors, walking down the ramp into the cool, ash-scented night air. The camp was dead quiet, the remaining fires burning low and casting long, flickering shadows against the newly built wooden walls.
A moment later, he heard the soft crunch of boots in the dirt behind him.
Aleksander didn't turn around as Octavia stepped up beside him. She wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill, looking out at the dark tree line. The silence stretched between them for a long time before she finally found the courage to ask the question that had been burning in her mind since the woods.
"What did you do, Alex?" Octavia asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She finally turned to look at him, her blue eyes wide with residual awe and fear. "When we were out there... Wells' neck was completely torn open. He was dead. And then you touched him, and there was this golden light, and the wound just... closed. What did you do to him?"
Aleksander turned his head, his dark, calculating gaze locking onto hers. He didn't try to formulate a scientific lie. He didn't deflect. The time for hiding from his inner circle was over.
"Tell me, Octavia," Aleksander started, his voice smooth and mesmerizing in the dark. "Growing up hidden under the floorboards on the Ark... did you ever read the old world myths? Did you ever hear the stories about magic, about sorcerers, and things that defied the laws of nature?"
Octavia blinked, entirely caught off guard by the question. The memory surfaced instantly—the dim light of the hidden room, the smell of recycled air, and the soft, soothing voice of her mother reading from battered, centuries-old paperbacks.
"Yes," Octavia nodded slowly, her brow furrowing. "My mother used to read them to me. Fairy tales. Legends."
Aleksander stepped slightly closer, the faint, ethereal glow of the distant bioluminescent forest reflecting in his eyes. A small, mysterious smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"They weren't just stories, Octavia," Aleksander said quietly. "They were history."