The sharp, deafening crack of gunfire echoed inside the wooden walls of the camp.
Bellamy paced behind a line of five vetted delinquents, his hands resting on his hips as he barked out orders. They had set up a row of wooden targets stuffed with dried grass near the back wall.
"Control the recoil!" Bellamy shouted over the ringing in their ears. "Pull the stock tight against your shoulder and fire in short, controlled bursts! You just waste ammo if you hold the trigger down!"
Leaning casually against the cool metal of the dropship, Aleksander watched the makeshift militia train. The raw firepower was a massive tactical advantage, but as the gunshots rang out, a familiar, cold prickle of awareness brushed against the edge of his Fey senses.
He didn't move his head, but his dark eyes shifted toward the dense tree line beyond the eastern wall.
There were minds out there. They weren't erratic and feral like the Reapers, nor were they filled with the immediate, hot bloodlust of a raiding party. They were patient. Calculating. They were watching.
Clarke, who had been organizing medical supplies nearby, noticed the sudden, icy stillness in Aleksander's posture. Octavia and Bellamy caught it a second later. Recognizing the silent alarm, Bellamy held up a fist to pause the firing line, and the three of them quickly crossed the camp to where Aleksander was standing.
"What is it?" Bellamy asked, keeping his voice low so the rest of the camp wouldn't panic. "Grounders?"
"Scouts," Aleksander answered smoothly, his eyes still locked on the distant trees. "They were lingering just outside the perimeter. They just went back."
Clarke's stomach tightened. "They're coming for us."
"They are," Aleksander confirmed, his tone entirely devoid of panic, radiating a cold, ancient pragmatism. "Which is why I am going to layer the defenses. The ward stones will hold the wall, but I am going to weave a perimeter alarm spell into the dirt. I will tether the spell's psychic feedback directly to the minds of the inner circle—myself, the three of you, Wells, Monty, and Jasper."
Octavia frowned, tightening her grip on her rifle. "What does that mean? Tethered to our minds?"
"It means," Aleksander explained, looking at her, "that if the perimeter is breached, you won't need to hear a bell or a shout. You will instantly feel the breach in your mind, like a sudden signal. You will know exactly where the attack is coming from before they even clear the walls."
Bellamy exchanged a grim look with Clarke and Octavia. The reality of their situation was settling in heavily. The grace period of their landing was officially over.
"Do it," Bellamy nodded, his jaw set. "If a fight is coming, we're not going to be caught blind."
Deep in the woods, miles away from the dropship, the Plains Rider scout sprinted back to his commander.
Khal, the exiled prince of the Kalkru, was waiting in a small clearing. He sat atop his massive Hex-Strider, the six-legged beast softly pawing at the earth, its muscles coiled tight. Around him, his fifty loyalists sat atop their heavily armored, four-legged warhorses, their lances resting on their shoulders.
The scout broke through the brush, dropping to one knee before the massive, mutated horse. He was out of breath, his eyes wide with a mixture of anticipation and adrenaline.
"My Prince," the scout gasped, looking up at Khal. "I found the metal ship that fell from the sky. It is a camp. Children of the stars are hiding behind wooden walls."
Khal sneered, resting his hand on the pommel of his broadsword. "Children? Then they are prey. We slaughter them, take their metal, and leave their bones for the scavengers."
"They are not helpless, my Prince," the scout warned quickly. "They possess the weapons of the Mountain. Thunder sticks. I watched them from the trees—they point the metal rods, unleash a deafening roar, and spit fire. They tore thick wooden targets to shreds in seconds."
A heavy, uneasy murmur rippled through the fifty Plains Riders.
Every tribe on Earth knew about the Mountain Men and their thunder sticks. But because Mount Weather was located deep in the western woods, it was almost exclusively the Trikru—the Tree Clan—who suffered their constant raids, kidnappings, and slaughters. To the Kalkru on the distant eastern plains, the Mountain Men were a dark, almost mythical threat. They knew the terrifying stories of the guns, but they didn't have the intimate, bloody experience with them that the forest clans did.
Khal's dark eyes narrowed, his tactical mind instantly cutting through his men's unease.
He knew better than to charge the Mountain Men. Mount Weather was a fortress of steel and stone that no army could breach. But a hastily built wooden camp full of children who had somehow acquired those weapons?
That was not a fortress. That was a treasure chest.
A cruel, ambitious smile slowly stretched across the exiled prince's scarred face. His mind raced past the Sky Children, looking straight toward the capital of the Plains and his brother, Varo. Varo was a brilliant tactician, unmatched in traditional cavalry warfare. But Varo's brilliant mind couldn't stop a wall of lead.
Thunder sticks.
Khal's grip tightened on his reins. If he could wipe out these Sky Children and claim those weapons for his loyalists, everything would change. He wouldn't just have the Hex-Strider. He would possess an army equipped with Mountain Men firepower—a force his brother's traditional cavalry could never defend against. He wouldn't need a massive horde to take the plains; fifty men with those weapons could break a thousand of Varo's riders.
He could ride into the capital and take his throne in a single day.
"We do not fear the thunder, for I ride the storm!" Khal roared, his voice booming through the clearing as his Hex-Strider reared up on its four front legs, letting out a terrifying shriek.
He drew his jagged broadsword, pointing the blade directly toward the west, his ambition burning hotter than a forest fire.
"Mount Weather is a mountain of stone, but this is a camp of wood and children!" Khal commanded his loyalists. "We ride on the metal ship! Kill the Sky Children. Take their thunder sticks. And by tomorrow night... the Kalkru will kneel to their true King!"