Chapter Text
The holding cell thrummed with the low, constant hum of the ship’s core, a vibration that settled into Adora’s bones like rot. Everything around her was metal: the grated floor, the smooth, seamless walls, the ceiling pulsing faintly with artificial light. No windows. No sense of time. Just recycled air that always smelled faintly of blood and ozone.
Ten prisoners shared the cell with her—slumped in corners, sprawled on the floor, or standing with their backs to the walls, conserving energy. Their faces were unfamiliar, drawn and guarded. Some wore tattered remnants of rebel uniforms. Others had no marks at all. No one looked at her for long.
Adora kept her head down and her back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest. Her arms were bare. Her feet, calloused and silent, touched cold steel. The thin grey clothing clung damply to her skin, standard issue for prisoners of the Horde.
The sword was gone. Magic was gone.
She didn’t know which she missed more.
No one recognized her. Or if they did, they said nothing. That was the only grace she'd been granted—anonymity. Her rank stripped, her title abandoned, her identity hollowed out. Whatever she’d once been, here, she was just another body in the dark.
Betrayal had brought her here.
She didn’t think about it. Not now. The memory was a locked door in her mind—one she refused to open. It wasn’t time yet.
The ship shifted, gravity pulsing as it adjusted course. Overhead, the lighting flickered, then returned. Somewhere nearby, machinery hissed and clicked like breathing. The Horde never let silence settle—not truly. There was always a sound. Always a presence.
The door hissed open.
Booted feet stepped through first—standard-issue clone armor, polished to sterile perfection. One of Horde Prime’s newest iterations, identical to the thousands just like him: blank face, buzzed hair, spine too straight, voice always too calm. He carried no weapon. He didn’t need one. The ship was weapon enough.
Behind him came someone else.
Not another prisoner.
Catra.
She strolled just behind the clone, gloved hands behind her back, posture casual in that carefully performed way that said she owned the space. She wore a high-collared command jacket lined with circuit-threaded silver. Flexible armor curved across her chest and shoulders, stylized rather than practical. The gaudy tech of the Imperial Court, the kind of gear worn more for spectacle than protection.
Her boots clinked with some invisible tech beneath the soles. Her tail flicked lazily behind her. She moved like she was bored.
Adora didn’t look up, not at first. She kept her head bowed, chin tucked, as if she could vanish into the floor if she was still enough. Her heart pounded in a traitorous rhythm she couldn’t quiet.
But she could feel Catra’s gaze sweep the cell.
The prisoners shrank back instinctively. Most of them probably didn’t know who she was—just that she was someone powerful, someone dangerous. There was no insignia on her clothes. She didn’t need one. Everything about her said: untouchable.
Adora looked up—just for a second.
Catra’s face was visible beneath the shadow of her collar. Older. Sharper. Beautiful, in that severe, unmistakable way. Her eyes flicked past the prisoners without interest… until they didn’t.
For a heartbeat, they landed on Adora.
Adora dropped her gaze.
Heat flushed across her face, despite the chill of the room. She pressed her hands flat against the floor to anchor herself. She wasn’t sure if Catra had seen her, recognized her—or if she’d just looked at her the way one scans inventory.
Because that’s what they were.
Cargo.
A shipment of bodies, waiting to be sold.
The clone gestured silently, and Catra stepped away from the cell.
The door hissed shut behind them.
Adora exhaled, slow and shallow.
She didn’t look up again.
.°◇~☆°¤°☆~◇°.
It was late—though what that meant in space, Adora no longer knew. The lights overhead dimmed slightly on a cycle, but even that felt arbitrary. The clones didn’t sleep. Why would the ship?
The cell door opened again.
The clone that entered was the same as the rest: identical, interchangeable, perfect in his stillness. He held a sleek black tablet in one hand, his eyes unreadable.
“Designation 7-3211-B,” he said, without looking at her. “Stand.”
For a moment, Adora didn’t move.
Then she rose, slow and cautious. Bones stiff. Muscles aching from disuse.
She didn’t respond. The number was meaningless—except that it wasn’t. Somewhere in the vast reach of the Horde’s empire, there were thousands—millions—of captives like her. Rebels, survivors, strays. If she was 7-3211-B… how many others were there? From how many broken worlds?
The clone stepped forward and affixed a collar to her neck—a thick band of smooth silver that latched shut with a pneumatic hiss. It pulsed once with an inner light, then settled cold against her skin. Cuffs followed, clamping around her wrists. Heavy. Designed more for control than pain, though she could already feel them beginning to chafe.
She didn’t fight.
The clone took her by the upper arm and guided her out of the cell without ceremony. No one spoke. The other prisoners didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at them.
The corridor outside was narrow and eerily silent. Clean, seamless walls glowed faintly blue under strips of overhead light. Every panel was identical to the last. Every turn indistinguishable. The floor barely vibrated with the ship’s movement—another sign of its newer, elite design.
Adora catalogued every detail anyway.
Four turns. Two doors. A vertical lift that didn’t make a sound.
She tried to track their path, but within seconds it was useless. Everything looked the same. The corridors looped and stretched in a way that felt intentional. Designed to disorient. To keep cargo in line.
She hadn’t been trained for this. No one had. Not even when she was at her best.
And she was far from her best.
Still, she watched. Counted paces. Took in layout, spacing, guard presence—or lack thereof. The clone at her side said nothing.
The door slid open with a whisper, revealing a room that didn’t belong on a ship like this.
It was warm. Soft-lit. The walls were paneled in rich, dark material that shimmered faintly—some synthetic luxury Adora didn’t recognize. Plush rugs layered the floor, muffling the sound of her footsteps. There were no sharp corners here. No sterile steel. It was comfort by design, indulgence carved into the bones of a war machine.
In the center of the room, on a velvet-lined chaise, lounged Catra.
She was dressed differently now—her uniform replaced with something looser, darker. Casual but no less commanding. The collar of her top dipped low, exposing the elegant sweep of her collarbone, and her gauntlets were gone, baring her forearms. A chain of fine silver hung from one ear.
She didn’t look like a soldier.
She looked like a ruler.
“Designation 7-3211-B,” the clone intoned beside her, “delivered, as ordered. Princess of the Horde. Future queen of the galaxy.”
Adora’s stomach turned at the sound of it. Princess of the Horde. Queen.
Adora didn’t drop to her knees willingly.
The clone stepped forward, seized her by the back of the neck and shoulder, and forced her down. The metal cuffs on her wrists clanged against each other as she caught herself, steadying on one knee before the pressure made her shift to both.
The floor was soft beneath her—luxurious, layered carpet over steel—but it still felt like humiliation.
Catra reclined against the chaise, one arm draped over the curved back, her gaze tracking Adora with the idle attention of someone watching a performance she hadn't decided if she cared about yet.
She smiled faintly. “What’s your name?”
Adora kept her eyes on the floor. “Mara.”
A soft huff, almost a laugh. “Of course it is.”
There was something calculated in the way she said it. Not disbelief, exactly. Just disinterest in whatever lie she was being told.
“And where on Etheria are you from, Mara?”
“Bright Moon,” Adora said, still not looking up. “Originally.”
That earned a pause.
Catra’s tone remained light, but there was something probing under the surface now. “Hmm. So you’re one of theirs.”
Adora didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Catra leaned forward just slightly, the light catching the silver threadwork in her clothes.
“So how,” she said, voice low and curious, “does someone from Bright Moon end up in a Horde shipment? What happened, Mara? Bad luck? Bad friends?”
Adora’s throat was dry. “I trusted the wrong person.”
Catra nodded once, as if that were the most reasonable thing in the world.
“Mm. That’ll do it.”
Silence stretched. Then Catra tilted her head, watching her closely.
“Did you see She-Ra die?”
Adora flinched—but only slightly. She didn’t let it show in her voice.
“Yes.”
“Up close?”
Adora stared at the floor. “Close enough.”
Catra hummed, almost thoughtfully. “That’s interesting.”
Adora’s fingers curled into her palms.
“Is that the only reason I’m here?” she asked, not lifting her head. “To talk about the war? To help you piece together scraps of someone you never got to kill yourself?”
A beat.
Then Catra stood.
She walked forward slowly, her boots silent on the soft floor, stopping just a pace in front of Adora.
“No,” she said, and her voice was soft now—quiet, dangerous, full of something that didn’t quite sound like triumph. “When we return to Horde Prime’s flagship… you’re staying with me.”
Adora looked up.
And Catra was already smiling. Not kindly.
Triumphantly.
The clone returned without a word, as silent and impassive as before. He took Adora by the arm and hauled her back to her feet with ease, as if she weighed nothing. Her knees ached as she straightened. The collar remained locked around her throat. The cuffs still bit at her wrists.
He didn’t speak to her. Didn’t look at her.
She was cargo again.
He marched her back through the same maze of identical corridors. No words. And when he pushed her back into the cell, the door sealing behind her, it was as if nothing had changed.
No one looked at up her.
She sank to the floor, back against the wall, and stared straight ahead. Her throat itched beneath the collar. Her wrists throbbed. The memory of Catra’s voice—soft, amused, too close—echoed in her head.
When we return to Horde Prime’s flagship… you’re staying with me.
Sleep came in fragments.
.°◇~☆°¤°☆~◇°.
The next cycle began with a jolt.
The ship shuddered around them—a heavy, unfamiliar movement that vibrated through the floor. Some of the prisoners stirred. One stood and clutched the wall for balance. A docking sequence.
Adora’s eyes snapped open. The artificial lights shifted overhead, flickering to a brighter white.
The door to the cell slid open, and the same clone stepped inside.
“Designations 7-3120-A through D, and 7-3211-B,” he said flatly. “Stand.”
Several of the other prisoners moved hesitantly. One woman murmured a name under her breath before pushing herself to her feet.
Adora stood last.
The clone didn’t speak to her directly. He simply turned and led the group out, boots echoing softly against the metal floor. The prisoners followed behind him silently.
They emerged into a docking bay—blinding with clean, sterile light. Through the reinforced viewport, Adora caught a glimpse of the larger ship waiting for them.
Horde Prime’s flagship.
It was massive. Gleaming. Predatory in shape. Like it had been built to consume.
The prisoners were funneled toward a side ramp.
But halfway there, a second clone approached and whispered something into her escort’s ear. The first clone nodded once.
Without a word, he reached out and took Adora by the arm.
She didn’t resist.
The others were led away in one direction.
She was led in another.
No explanations. No commands.
Just silence and the expectation of obedience.
Chapter Text
The new clone said nothing as he guided Adora deeper into the flagship. The halls here were wider, gleaming. Even the air tasted filtered—coated in something artificial and faintly sweet.
Adora didn’t speak.
She kept track of turns for as long as she could, but the ship was impossibly vast, with no seams or corners to mark the difference between one corridor and the next. The lights were constant. No windows. No sense of time. Just the smooth inevitability of being led somewhere you had no choice but to go.
Eventually, they stopped at a tall, narrow doorway. The panel slid open with a sigh.
It was… a bathroom. Or something like one. Not designed for comfort—everything was matte white and chrome, with harsh overhead lighting and no furniture. But the space was warm and steamy, scented with something floral and chemical.
Two more clones waited inside.
One stepped forward and gestured to her cuffs. “Undress.”
Adora froze, just briefly.
Then she complied.
The cuffs stayed on until her prisoner uniform was stripped away—greying fabric that smelled of sweat, metal, and confinement. It fell to the floor in a silent heap. The collar remained, but her wrists were freed.
She didn’t have long to feel relief.
Without a word, the clones began scrubbing her down. Their movements were efficient, impersonal. Gloves. Sponges. Tools she didn’t recognize. They didn’t react to her flinches or her attempts to cover herself. Warm water sprayed from hidden vents in the walls, dousing her repeatedly. She was rinsed, dried, and scented with something sharp and unfamiliar—like flowers soaked in plastic.
The grime of the cell was stripped away piece by piece, leaving her bare, clean, and cold inside.
Next came the clothes.
If they could be called that.
Gossamer-thin fabrics were draped across her skin—sheets of sheer silk in shifting metallic hues, layered and wrapped but doing little to cover her. Jewels were fastened at her shoulders and hips, dangling in delicate strands. The stones weren’t anything she recognized. Pale green. Deep violet. One glowed faintly when the clone’s hand passed over it.
A necklace was clasped around her throat, resting just below the collar. Decorative. Useless.
Then came the hair.
Her curls were brushed out, shaped, sprayed into place. It was pulled high on one side, left loose in the back, looped through with golden thread and glimmering pins. Adora barely recognized herself in the chrome-paneled mirror across the room.
Makeup followed—subtle, strange. The colors matched the silks. Gold at her eyes, a sheen on her lips. Her face looked harder somehow. Exotic. Performed.
She stared at her reflection.
A stranger stared back.
.°◇~☆°¤°☆~◇°.
Adora was silent as the clone led her through the ship.
This vessel was massive—far larger than the cargo ship she’d come from. The corridors stretched endlessly, lined with softly glowing panels and seamless doors. There were no signs, no markings. Just cold elegance and strategic disorientation. Whoever designed it wanted people to feel small.
She didn’t bother trying to memorize the route this time. It wouldn’t matter.
Eventually, they arrived at a door that shimmered with the same pale detailing she remembered from the first ship.
When it slid open, she wasn’t surprised.
The room mirrored the one she’d knelt in before—plush carpets, velvet furniture, soft ambient lighting that tried to hide the weight of surveillance behind it. Lush and cold at once.
And at the center of it, lounging like the throne had always been hers, was Catra.
She wore something different again. More relaxed. Soft fabrics and smooth metal pieces integrated into her outfit, sleeveless and half-unzipped like she’d dressed only for herself. A half-finished drink sat at her side.
Catra’s eyes moved over Adora’s new appearance—and her smirk grew wider by the second.
“I hope this pleases you,” she said with a mockingly formal tone. “I know how gaudy you princess-types like to dress.”
Adora nodded, just enough to acknowledge her.
There was no good answer to that. Refusing would be seen as defiance. Gratitude would be something worse. So she said nothing.
“I figured you were a Rebel, Mara,” she continued, dragging the name out like a joke. “Yet you’re so... compliant. No wonder you were so easy to betray.”
Adora’s jaw clenched.
She kept her head bowed, her hands still, her expression neutral.
And that, apparently, was more than enough.
Catra rose from her seat and began to circle her, slow and amused. Her tail flicked lazily behind her, like she was sizing up an acquisition rather than a person.
“Did I really pick the most pathetic rebel?” she said thoughtfully. “How disappointing.”
Adora's voice came out before she could stop it. Quiet. Controlled.
“Picked for what?”
Catra stopped in front of her, one eyebrow raised.
“I don’t like the word slave,” she said casually. “But in this case, it is fitting. Perhaps "pet" works better.”
Adora looked down at herself—at the barely-there silks, the glittering jewelry strung across her skin like decoration on a doll.
She forced the next words out. “What kind of slave?”
Catra blinked.
Then she laughed. Short, sharp, genuinely startled.
“Oh, ew,” she said, wrinkling her nose with theatrical disgust. “Don’t be gross.”
Adora didn’t reply.
Catra tilted her head, watching her, expression unreadable now—like she was searching for something and not quite finding it.
“You are quite pretty,” Catra said, circling behind her once more. “Are you sure you weren’t one of the Princesses?”
Adora shook her head. “No. I was an orphan.”
Not entirely a lie.
Not the whole truth.
“That’s not exactly a disqualifier,” Catra said lightly. “I was an orphan from Etheria. Now I am Princess of the Horde.”
“I am not a Princess,” Adora said firmly.
“No,” Catra agreed, stepping back into view. “You are my slave. A fitting gift for my recent victory.”
She said it with the ease of someone making a toast.
“Queen Angella and She-Ra,” she continued, with a trace of pride curling at the corners of her mouth. “Struck down in one attack. I heard She-Ra was a tall, blonde, blue-eyed brute.”
Adora’s heart clenched.
She looked at the floor.
“I think you and I are the same height,” she said, before she could stop herself—too defensively. She wasn't being accused of being She-Ra and she couldn't fight the need to .
The air shifted.
Catra blinked slowly. “Perhaps. Am I meant to take that as you calling me short?”
“You’re not tall,” Adora replied, flat.
The silence that followed was sharp and brief.
Then, pain.
A blinding jolt shot through her spine—white-hot, electric, unstoppable. Her body arched and locked. The cuffs bit into her wrists. Her vision snapped to stars. She collapsed onto the fur-lined floor, breathless and twitching, the taste of metal thick on her tongue.
Catra hadn’t moved.
She hadn’t said anything.
She’d just looked—past her, to the clone standing at the wall. That was all it took.
“That will be all,” she said, turning back toward her chaise without a glance.
The clone put away the taser before he gripped Adora’s arm and hauled her upright as if she were nothing more than equipment.
“Take Mara to her new room,” Catra added, already half-dismissive.
Adora didn’t resist as she was dragged away.
She couldn’t.
Adora expected the clone to take her the whole way.
But just outside Catra’s room, he stopped.
Two figures were already waiting in the corridor—neither of them clones. That alone made Adora pause.
The first was a short, broad-shouldered woman with rich brown skin and tight braids pulled back from her face. Her armor wasn’t Horde-standard—it was red and distinctly Etherian in origin.
The other guard was even taller than Adora, his body covered in dark, iridescent scales. A lizard-man, powerfully built, with slitted pupils and a toothy grin that never quite touched his eyes.
The clone handed her off without a word.
The woman grabbed Adora’s arm with one hand, not roughly, but with the ease of someone used to leading leashed things. The lizard-man chuckled low in his throat, falling into step beside them.
“Nice collar,” he said to Adora before looking at the woman. “Looks like the princess has good taste.”
Adora didn’t reply. She didn’t even look at him.
They led her deeper into the ship, into a quieter wing, where the walls began to look less militaristic and more... ceremonial. There were no holding cells here. No doors with locks. Just long hallways and open alcoves—each space like a shrine or a display.
Her “room” wasn’t a room at all.
Just a corner tucked between walls—three of them—lined with plush cushions and blankets in dark purples and deep reds. No ceiling. No door. One open side facing the corridor, completely exposed.
Anyone passing could see in.
There were no windows, no privacy. Only surveillance.
“Home sweet home,” the woman said, motioning her forward.
Adora stepped tentatively toward the space.
The moment she passed the invisible boundary, the collar buzzed faintly. Not painful—yet—but enough to let her know: she wouldn’t be walking out again.
The man pointed at the threshold. “See that line? You won’t be crossing it. Not unless you want another shock.”
“She won’t,” the woman said. “Pretty little things like her learn fast.”
The lizard-man leaned a little closer, peering at Adora like she was an animal in a zoo.
“So this is the new prize, huh?” he said, voice low and amused. “Can’t imagine what the princess plans to do with her, dressed like that.”
“Oh I'm sure you can't,” the woman offered. “I can imagine quite a lot.”
They both laughed.
Adora remained exactly where they left her.
Curled on the cushions. Caged without bars. Painted up and paraded like some exotic prize—and then forgotten.
The makeup itched where it dried on her face. The silks clung uncomfortably to her skin, still faintly damp from the sweat of her nerves. Her hair—curled and perfumed into something unrecognizable—brushed her shoulders in waves she wasn’t used to feeling. She didn’t know what part of her still belonged to herself.
For hours, no one came.
She sat in the corner of her open cell, hugging her knees to her chest. She watched the corridor. Clones passed sometimes—efficient and voiceless—but they never looked in.
She kept her eyes down.
Eventually, the lizard-man returned.
He strolled in with no fanfare, carrying a silver tray piled with what passed for food: some pale, soft cubes, a broth of indeterminate color, a drink that shimmered faintly. He grinned at her as he set it down on a short pedestal near the center of the room, well within the invisible border of her confinement.
He lingered a moment longer than necessary, then left without pressing further.
She waited a couple minutes before touching the food.
When she finally did, she ate in silence, methodically, refusing to let her hands shake. The cubes were tasteless. The broth was salty. The drink was oddly floral.
Then she lay back again. And waited.
Time passed without meaning.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under. With nothing else to do, she fell asleep.
✧
Adora woke to eyes.
Green and Blue. Slitted. Unblinking.
She jerked back instinctively, her breath catching, her heart slamming against her ribs.
It took her a moment to remember the open room. The silks. The collar at her throat. And the way the world had changed.
Then her eyes adjusted.
Catra stood just inside the threshold, swaying slightly—balanced on the edge of sobriety and sleep. She was barefoot, dressed in loose, sleeveless sleepwear that shimmered with a faint gold thread. A half-empty crystal bottle dangled from one hand.
“Good,” Catra said, voice low and slurred, “you’re awake.”
She smiled faintly, as if it were a joke only she understood, and took an unsteady step closer.
Adora pushed herself upright, keeping her posture neutral, but wary. The silks slipped over her shoulder as she moved, and she tugged them back into place automatically, even though they did little to cover her.
Catra tilted her head, eyes roaming, not quite lecherous—just assessing, like she was checking her purchase.
“I chose you because you looked like her,” Catra slurred.
Adora’s heart clenched.
“Like who?”
“Adora... The She-Ra.”
Adora exhaled softly through her nose. “I get that a lot.”
Catra’s expression twisted. The smirk didn’t return this time. Instead, a shadow crossed her face—darker than anger, older than spite. Regret, maybe.
“I really wished I could have been the one to kill her,” she muttered, her voice low and furious. She let the bottle fall from her fingers, and the remaining liquor soaked silently into the cushions. Her hand shot forward, catching Adora by the chin.
Adora flinched as sharp claws dug into her skin—not breaking it, but close. Catra’s grip was too strong for her current state.
“Why?” Adora asked, and hated the rasp in her voice.
“Why?” Catra echoed, venom in her tone. “This is all her fault. He wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t for her.”
Adora’s breath stilled.
“I don’t think she had any choice,” she said carefully. “She was a baby.”
Catra blinked.
It didn’t seem like she expected that answer.
“So you know…” she said slowly, a little too loud, a little too broken. “You know she’s to blame?”
Before Adora could respond, a new voice cut through the room. Clear, clipped, calm—and wrong.
“Little Sister… what are you doing?”
The hallway was lit slightly, and a figure stepped forward.
Another clone—but not. His skin was the same perfect pale. His uniform shimmered the same way. But his eyes had pupils. Deep black, centered in pale blue. He looked aware. Alive in a way the others weren’t. And his voice, though the same pitch and cadence, carried command in it. Authority. Identity.
Catra’s posture went rigid. Just for a breath. Then, like a cat stretching over broken glass, she forced her limbs loose again.
“Prime,” she greeted without turning toward the clone. “What does it matter? You said I could keep another one.”
Another one? Adora’s blood ran cold.
“We are above these sorts of behaviors, Little Sister,” Prime’s voice coiled through the clone’s mouth—softer than it should have been. “This one has been saved from the chaos of her world. Like you were.”
“Yes, Horde Prime,” Catra replied. The coolness in her voice was so carefully placed it had to be practiced. But her eyes never left Adora. And they were seething.
“Apologize,” Prime instructed gently. “And get some rest, Little Sister.”
“…Yes, Horde Prime.”
The clone turned and left, as silent as a shadow slipping beneath a locked door.
Only once the echo of the footfalls disappeared did Catra finally release Adora’s chin. Her claws left behind crescent imprints—just short of drawing blood.
“Later,” Catra muttered. She snatched the near-empty bottle from the floor, drained the last of it with a wince, and stalked out. She didn’t look back.
Adora sat in stunned stillness for a moment.
Then she brought a hand to her jaw and rubbed at the sore skin, feeling where the heat of Catra’s grip lingered. She moved stiffly toward the soaked cushions and pushed them aside.
Eventually, she curled against the cleaner edge of the bedding and let her eyes slip shut.
Chapter Text
Adora woke to the faint squeak of cloth brushing against the cold, hard metal floor.
Her eyes opened slowly to the sight of a boy kneeling just inside the open expanse of her room. His dirty blond hair fell raggedly over his brow, shadows obscuring parts of his lean face. He wore a simple, form-fitting red uniform that clung to his lanky frame, practical and unadorned.
He moved with quiet precision, carefully wiping the floor where a dark stain of spilled wine still marred the cold surface. Each motion was measured, as if erasing evidence of a transgression. It also seemed agitated, like he was anxious to be here next to her.
Adora sat up, muscles loose and unstrained—rested, alert. Her throat was parched, but her mind was sharp, scanning the stranger with cautious curiosity.
“Who are you?” Her voice was calm, not a challenge but an invitation to answer.
The boy’s eyes flicked up, wary but not hostile. “Kyle,” he said simply.
He didn’t pause in his task. After a moment, he reached down and gathered the wine-stained cushions from the floor, holding them carefully against his side. Without another word, he rose smoothly to his feet.
Adora followed his movement, rising as well.
“How many other Etherians are on this ship?” she asked, stepping forward to follow him.
Kyle walked steadily toward the edge of the space, his steps calm and confident. He carried the stained cushions with quiet care as though they were precious, but he made no sign that he would slow or wait for her.
Adora quickened her pace, matching his steps, but the instant she crossed the invisible threshold, a sharp, searing jolt bit into her neck. The collar constricted painfully, and she gasped, stumbling backward.
A low groan escaped her lips as she clutched at the cold band that bit into her skin. She tugged fiercely, but the collar was unyielding, a merciless cage that held her fast.
Her head snapped up just as a figure stepped forward from the shadows—an identical pale clone, standing silent and motionless at the boundary of her cell. His flawless features were blank, unreadable, but his eyes caught hers with unsettling calm.
“Greetings,” he intoned, voice smooth and mechanical.
Without further preamble, he pressed a small button on his wrist.
Adora felt the air ripple in front of her, a subtle vibration washing over the invisible barrier.
“The barrier is lifted. Follow me,” the clone commanded.
She hesitated, heart pounding. Behind the clone, the corridor stretched empty and dimly lit, a vast unknown beyond her fragile sanctuary.
The boy, Kyle, was already out of sight.
Adora drew a steadying breath and stepped forward.
The shimmering wall vanished completely.
She fell into step behind the clone, each footfall echoing softly through the hollow passageways.
The distant hum of the ship’s engines was the only sound accompanying them as she left the safety of her room behind, venturing deeper into the unknown labyrinth of the Horde’s vessel.
As if she hadn’t already been reeling from the sheer size of Prime’s flagship—the endless corridors, the ceilings so high they could have belonged to a city rather than a ship—Adora soon found herself being led somewhere unlike anything she had yet seen.
The air changed first: a low, collective murmur reached her ears, underscored by sharp bursts of cheers and gasps. The corridor widened, the walls curving inward until they opened into a massive, domed arena. The light here was brighter, harsher, spilling down in cold beams from mechanical rings overhead.
Tiered seating climbed high around the pit, and they were packed with bodies—Horde clones, Etherians, and countless alien faces she couldn’t name. Some had horns, others scales, others eyes that glowed faintly in the artificial light. All of them were turned toward the spectacle below.
In the centre, a man wielding nothing but a short, battered sword faced a towering beast. Its hide was mottled in black and ochre, its limbs corded with muscle, its eyes wild. The creature bellowed, a deep, guttural sound that reverberated in her ribs.
Adora’s gut twisted. She didn’t know which she pitied more—the beast, driven to violence to save its own life, or the man, clearly terrified and hopelessly outmatched. Every time the monster lunged, the man staggered back, barely raising his sword in time. The crowd roared at each close call, delighting in the danger as though it were a feast.
She was led down through the rows, weaving past outstretched legs, flicking tails, and the press of too many bodies. Here and there, her presence drew more than passing interest—eyes lingering, smirks curling, whispers traded behind hands. More than a few gazes were openly appraising, lecherous, unashamed. She kept her chin high, but her skin prickled under the weight of it.
At last, they reached a dais slightly apart from the others, positioned for an unobstructed view of the blood sport. Upon a small throne, Catra lounged—or at least tried to. Her posture was constrained by the armour she wore: white metalwork shaped like intricate, cruel jewelry, framing her limbs, curling around her torso and neck. The stiffness of the outfit seemed to restrain her natural fluidity of movement, but the way her tail swayed lazily said she wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.
Adora was forced down onto a small cushion at Catra’s side, the gesture a mockery of courtesy. The cushion was soft, but the position was not—kneeling so close to Catra’s throne left her feeling both displayed and diminished.
They sat in silence for nearly twenty minutes. The battle below raged on; the man was tiring, his swings growing slower, the beast’s snarls deepening with each exchange. Catra watched it all with narrowed eyes, her expression unreadable.
Finally, without turning her gaze from the arena, Catra spoke.
“How are you enjoying the show, Mara?”
Adora bit out a curt, “Sure,” keeping her gaze fixed forward.
“Oh, I’m sure you have a lot to say,” Catra replied, her tone dripping with amusement as she plucked a delicate sweet from the silver plate at her side. She bit into it with slow deliberation, then glanced down at Adora as if remembering she was there. “Hungry?”
She held out the half-bitten confection like an offering, but her eyes said it was nothing of the sort. Adora looked up at her, meeting the taunt with a glare sharp enough to cut.
“No?” Catra’s smirk widened. “Very well.”
She popped the rest into her mouth, chewed once, and swallowed before leaning back on her throne. “This beast is the last of its kind. Prime always puts on a little display when he narrows a great species down to one survivor. It’s quite the crowd-pleaser.”
“Disgusting,” Adora muttered, the word slipping from her lips before she could stop it.
At Catra’s gesture, a clone stepped forward, offering her a goblet. The liquid inside was clear, almost like water, but the faint mineral tang told her otherwise. She took only a sip—enough to soothe the dryness in her throat.
“That’s better,” Catra said, smug satisfaction in her voice. “You sounded hoarse.”
The fight in the arena dragged on, brutal and ugly. Adora watched the man falter, his every movement slower, weaker—until the beast’s claws tore him down for good. The crowd erupted in cheers, their bloodlust satisfied. Catra rose to her feet, clapping lazily, and almost missed Adora catching the small, sharp signal she gave to the clone nearest her.
It wasn’t until two sets of hands gripped her arms and hauled her upright that Adora realised something was wrong. She struggled against their iron hold, her heart beginning to pound. The path they took was unmistakable—straight toward the arena’s gates.
“No—” She twisted, planting her feet, but the clones were stronger, dragging her as if she weighed nothing.
They shoved her into a shadowed chamber, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. She barely had time to turn before another set of gates groaned open—not back the way she’d come, but forward. Into the arena.
And there it was. The beast. Still panting from its earlier fight, its hide was slashed and bloody, its eyes wild with pain and rage.
Adora stayed rooted where she was, thinking—hoping—that if she just remained in the safety of this chamber, the creature might ignore her. But then the floor shuddered under her boots. The tiles beneath her began to rotate, a slow, grinding mechanism pulling her forward no matter how she dug her heels in.
The arena swallowed her whole, the gates slamming shut behind.
She glanced down at herself—and her stomach dropped. She was still in the sheer, barely-there garments she’d been forced into upon arrival, with no weapon, no armour, nothing but the cold weight of the thick metal cuffs on her wrists and the heavy collar at her throat.
The beast saw her now. Its growl rumbled low and deep, and Adora’s pulse kicked hard against the inside of her skull.
She swallowed. Once. Hard.
Adora ran, but each step sent a sick lurch through her skull. The arena floor tilted beneath her in ways it shouldn’t, her balance slipping like water through her fingers. The water—no, whatever it had been—that Catra’s servants had given her. Laced with something. Slowing her, fogging her mind.
The roaring crowd blurred into a dull, throbbing hum, their faces and banners a smear of color above the shimmering forcefield. She was an offering, dressed up and dolled in scraps of silk, meant to be slaughtered for their amusement. Catra’s amusement.
The thought hit her with a hot spike of fear—Catra had wanted to see She-Ra die, even if she never realized it was her.
Her legs buckled and she skidded to a halt, head swimming. The beast—bigger up close than she’d let herself believe—lunged toward her, bleeding from its earlier kill but still feral and strong. The arena floor quaked with its steps.
No time. She staggered sideways, letting it rush past, then scrambled onto its back in a desperate, clumsy climb. Her cuffs clanged against the creature’s hide, metal biting into her skin. She hooked an arm around its thick, corded neck and began pounding its temple—left, right, left—her breath coming ragged, each blow jarring her arms.
It bellowed and thrashed, but her grip was stubborn, adrenaline forcing her through the haze in her head. Another strike, and the creature’s legs wobbled before it crashed onto its side, dust pluming around them. Its chest rose and fell, unconscious but alive.
Silence.
No cheers, no triumphant fanfare—just the restless murmuring of a crowd denied blood. Adora knew instantly she had done the wrong thing. Catra’s wrong thing.
The thought hit like ice, and in a flash of instinct—maybe even survival—she clambered to her feet on the beast’s heaving side. Throwing her fists high, she forced a hoarse shout through her dry throat:
“For Princess Catra!”
It was like flipping a switch. The arena erupted in cheers and chants, Catra’s name echoing from the walls. Relief surged through Adora, almost dizzying in itself. She nearly toppled from the beast’s back, catching herself before she slid down.
The dizziness swallowed her again as two Horde clones strode forward, gripping her by the arms and hauling her toward the platform where Catra waited.
Catra’s gaze was glacial, unreadable except for the faint curl of her lip.
“Well done,” she said, voice low but sharp. “But you didn’t kill it.”
“It’s the last of its kind,” Adora mumbled, her words thick and slow under the drug’s pull.
“No matter.” Catra’s tone was as clean and precise as a knife edge. "It’s fate is the same."
Adora turned her head just in time to see a shimmering shield snap into place over the arena. Without warning, the floor beneath the beast—and the body of the man it had killed—split apart, dropping both into the endless black of space beyond.
Her breath caught, chest tightening as she watched. The beast’s body tumbled weightless, limbs flailing against the void before it began to spin, small and helpless against the stars. It would freeze. Or suffocate. Maybe both.
Tears welled, unbidden, stinging her eyes.
Catra stepped closer, her voice low enough for only Adora to hear.
“The beast was beaten by an underdressed girl-slave,” she said, almost reflective, though her cold delivery never wavered. “No one would watch it win now. You made it worthless.”
She turned away from the sight of the void as if bored, then reached for the plate at her side, plucking another sweet delicately between her claws. She held it out toward Adora, just low enough that Adora would have to kneel or bow her head to take it.
Adora’s pulse hammered. Every instinct screamed to refuse, but the thought of losing whatever thin thread of mercy she had just bought twisted in her gut.
Slowly, she lowered herself, eyes locked on Catra’s, and took the sweet into her mouth.
The sugar melted on her tongue, bitter under the taste of her own defeat.
Chapter Text
As Adora was passed from the clones to Etherian guards once more, she recognized them immediately—Lonnie and Rogelio, the same ones she’d seen before. This time, instead of allowing herself to be swept along in silence, she sharpened her focus, committing their faces and names to memory. If there was any advantage to be gained, it would be from knowing her captors as well as they knew her.
They led her through the winding passages of Prime’s flagship. At first, she thought they were heading directly back to her quarters, but after the fourth turn down yet another identical corridor, doubt crept in. The ship’s maze-like construction seemed to bend and loop without any sense of direction. Adora wasn’t sure if they were genuinely lost or deliberately trying to disorient her. The idea that even they might be confused was a strangely comforting thought—if the ship could swallow up its own guards, then perhaps it wasn’t as impenetrable as it looked.
When they finally reached her room, Adora was surprised to find they didn’t push her inside right away. Instead, they stopped just outside the wide, open threshold and remained there. She was still processing that when Lonnie spoke.
“So you can fight?” Lonnie asked, arms folding across her chest as she gave Adora a pointed look. “How were you captured in the first place? How many people did it take to overpower you?”
“More than two,” Adora replied evenly.
Rogelio’s reptilian eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He took one deliberate step toward her, his clawed hand twitching as though itching for a blow. Adora tensed, already bracing herself for the sharp snap of pain—a backhand, a shove, something. But Lonnie caught him by the shoulder before he could act.
“Leave it,” she said firmly. “She’s trapped and just trying to feel us out.”
Rogelio’s glare lingered, heavy and unblinking, before he let out a sharp huff and turned away. His footsteps thudded down the corridor as he stalked off, leaving Adora alone with Lonnie.
Adora didn’t waste the moment. “Thank you,” she said quietly, the words feeling strange on her tongue. This was the first time since her capture that anyone had intervened on her behalf, however small the gesture.
Lonnie’s expression softened, if only slightly. “Catra can be a bitch sometimes.”
That gave Adora pause. Sometimes? To her, Catra had been nothing but vicious, a relentless blade turned on her every chance she got.
“You may have a death wish, though,” Lonnie continued. “That was Horde Prime’s favourite beast.”
Adora froze. “…Favourite?”
“He never misses a show,” Lonnie said, lowering her voice. “She didn’t tell you that before throwing you in the arena?”
“No,” Adora said flatly. “She didn’t mention a thing.”
She thought about that—really thought about it. She’d only known Catra for, what, three or four cycles? And yet every encounter, every new piece of information shifted her understanding of who Catra really was… twisting it into something colder, uglier, more deliberate.
Catra had drugged her. Humiliated her in front of hundreds. Nearly had her killed in a fight designed for spectacle. And all of it—every move—had been done under the false assumption that She-Ra was dead.
Adora swallowed hard. Imagine if she knew the truth.
Her mind sketched out the possibilities—her body stretched on the rack, her nerves seared with heat or chilled until they snapped, her breath stolen in chambers designed to suffocate slowly. Every torment imaginable, parceled out just to watch her break.
This was the kind of person Horde Prime had raised: a petty tyrant in a princess’s skin. A predator who only struck when her prey had no weapon to fight back.
A brutish coward who thrived on cruelty disguised as power.
.°◇~☆°¤°☆~◇°.
It was not long after she woke the next day that she was greeted by a clone, waiting with the same stiff, unreadable posture as always, ready to escort her back to the baths.
“You were successful in the arena,” he said as they began walking, his voice carrying that strange, lilting politeness that always felt a half-step away from mockery. “You were even so obedient and loyal to Princess Catra. Very good, little pet.”
Adora kept her gaze fixed forward, her jaw tightening at the words. Little pet.
“Horde Prime sends his congratulations on defeating his prized beast,” the clone continued.
She swallowed hard. That wasn’t something she wanted—congratulations from Prime. It made her skin crawl to think of him watching her like some… exhibit.
“What was the drug she gave me before the fight?” Adora asked, breaking the clone’s steady monologue.
“There was no drug, little pet,” the clone said pleasantly, as though correcting a child’s misunderstanding.
“In the water one of you gave me before the fight,” she pressed, her voice sharpening.
“Ah, yes,” the clone replied, sounding almost delighted she remembered. “Helps relax the mind. Princess Catra felt you would be stressed for your first fight. We are so glad it helped.”
The words hit her like ice water. Relax the mind. That explained the haze, the way her body had felt disconnected from her own decisions.
The clone didn’t give her space to dwell on it. He moved seamlessly into a sickly-sweet spiel about Catra and her virtues—her cunning, her loyalty to Prime, her thoughtfulness toward those in her care. Adora listened, but only in the most practical sense. If she ever needed to spin a convincing lie, she could repeat these phrases back word-for-word.
By the sixth cycle, the trip to the baths had become routine. She no longer hoped for any reprieve from it; the ritual was simply another reminder that she was to be kept clean, polished, and on display like a trophy on Prime’s shelf.
But today was different.
When the clone appeared in her doorway, he gave her a new instruction.
“Today you will serve.”
“Serve?” Adora repeated, her voice sharp with suspicion.
No answer. The clone merely turned and began walking.
The trip to the baths was as silent as ever, but when she reached the doors, instead of the usual two or three attendants waiting inside, she was ushered in alone. The heat of the chamber curled around her instantly, steam curling off the surface of the wide pools.
And there, leaning casually against the damp, tiled wall, was Catra.
Fully clothed, of course—Adora’s own stripped-down vulnerability only made the contrast sharper.
“I assumed Prime would have killed you by now,” Catra said, her tone flat, but her eyes glinting with something sharp and unreadable.
“Perhaps he knows you were behind the idea,” Adora replied evenly, her voice low.
Catra was alone. Adora wasn’t restrained. The guards were outside. It would be easy—so easy—to lunge forward, to slam her against the wall, to at least leave some mark for what she’d done.
But easy didn’t mean smart.
Foolish, she told herself. Too soon.
“He has a soft spot for my plots,” Catra said coolly, pushing away from the wall. “He doesn’t care about you. But he might play the gracious host, as you’ve seen.”
“Have you ignored me for six days so we could talk about Prime?” Adora asked, tired of the constant circling, the little games.
“No.” Catra’s tone softened into a hum, almost pleased. “Prime isn’t on the ship right now. Don’t know where. But he can’t see through his clones at the moment. He’s cut off. A rare occurrence.”
She let that information hang in the steamy air like bait.
Then she straightened and said, “Attend me.”
Adora stared, unsure if this was meant to be a joke. Catra’s expression didn’t waver.
"Well?" Catra demanded, the sharp edge in her voice making the humid air between them feel even heavier.
Adora stepped forward, deliberately slow, her eyes narrowed in suspicion but her movements obedient. She reached for Catra’s stiff white jacket, undoing the clasps with careful, precise motions before tugging it free from her shoulders. The material was heavier than she expected—more like armor than clothing—and she hung it neatly on the nearby hook.
Next came Catra’s top. The fastenings were awkward, built for both form and function, and Adora had to work them loose one at a time. When she finally pulled the fabric away, she found herself momentarily distracted; Catra was not quite as slight as she had appeared when clothed. The faint swell of her chest caught Adora off-guard, and she quickly averted her gaze before Catra could read the heat rising in her face.
Catra smirked faintly, as if she’d noticed anyway.
Adora knelt to unfasten her trousers, sliding them down over lean, furred legs. Catra stepped free with fluid grace, her tail flicking lazily behind her, and removed her own undergarments without ceremony before stepping into the water. Steam curled up around her, catching in the golden light of the bath chamber.
She looked back over her shoulder, expression unreadable but impatient. What is taking you so long? was written in the tilt of her ears and the narrowing of her eyes.
Adora removed her own silks, the fabric whispering against her skin before pooling at her feet. Better to set them aside before they clung wet and cold to her. She stepped toward the edge of the bath, bare and unarmed, feeling the strange tension of standing before Catra without the protection of either armor or purpose.
She hesitated.
"Do you need instructions?" Catra asked, her tone dry. "They do bathe you daily. I assumed you’d be observant enough to pick up the gist of it."
Adora didn’t bother replying. Instead, she picked up a bronze pitcher, dipping it into the clear, steaming water before pouring it slowly over Catra’s shoulders. The water beaded and ran along the light, short fur that covered her body, darkening it slightly, pinkening the skin beneath. Pitcher after pitcher, she rinsed away the lingering dust and sweat from whatever business Catra had been about before this meeting.
When she judged Catra wet enough, Adora set the pitcher aside and reached for a fresh cloth. She dipped it in a shallow bowl of perfumed soap, working up a light lather before pressing it to Catra’s back. She began high, between the shoulder blades, her movements brisk but not rough. Gradually, inevitably, she had to move lower—over the taper of her spine, the sweep of her hips, down the length of her legs.
Around to the front.
Adora tried not to linger, but her eyes betrayed her, tracing the lines of lean muscle hidden beneath all that lounging and posturing. Catra’s arms were sculpted with the kind of strength that spoke of long training, not just ornamental status. Whatever else she was, Catra was no stranger to a fight.
Adora rinsed the cloth, then switched back to the pitcher to wash away the suds. As the warm water cascaded over Catra’s ribs and down her side, something caught the light—just beneath her left arm, in the fine layer of fur.
A glint of silver.
Adora frowned and, without thinking, lifted Catra’s arm to look more closely.
The reaction was instant. Catra’s arm snapped back down, her body shifting with sudden wariness.
"Move back," she said sharply.
"What is that?" Adora asked, her eyes still fixed on the spot.
"It’s nothing. Move away." Catra’s voice was tight now, stripped of her usual lazy taunting.
Adora didn’t move. She caught Catra’s wrists instead, holding them in place. "Let go."
"What is that?" Adora repeated, her tone low, insistent. She twisted slightly, trying to angle herself for a better view.
And then she saw it—not clearly, but enough. There was a flicker in Catra’s eyes, not of rage or annoyance, but of something far rarer in her.
Fear.
Catra’s wrists twisted in Adora’s grip with deliberate precision, muscles flexing as she shifted just enough to hook her claws into the soft skin above Adora’s pulse. She dragged down—not deep, but sharp enough to make Adora’s hands flinch open on instinct.
Adora hissed at the sudden sting, but before she could recover, Catra was already on her—swiping with the wild, explosive fury of a cornered animal. Her claws cut the air in blinding arcs, each blow designed to shred rather than bruise.
Adora brought her forearms up to block, but Catra was faster, more relentless. Slash after slash tore into her skin, each fresh strike leaving thin red ribbons behind. The bath water around them began to swirl with pink, the steam thickening with the copper tang of blood.
Adora staggered back, but there was nowhere to retreat to—not in the slippery, shallow pool. Catra’s attacks were a constant, merciless rhythm, her breathing ragged and feral, the sound of her claws cutting through air and skin like tearing fabric.
Adora’s hands shook as she tried to parry, but her grip kept slipping, and each failed block let another lash through. The shallow water churned violently under their movements, splashing up their bare legs and over the stone edges.
She didn’t realize she was screaming until her own voice cracked. Desperation finally overpowered stubbornness, and she broke, turning to crawl away through the slick water.
"I told you to move away!" Catra’s voice tore through the bath chamber like a whipcrack, each word punctuated by another rake of her claws across Adora’s back.
Adora’s arms were trembling too hard to hold her weight. She slipped forward, the wet stone giving no purchase, her knees scraping along the bottom. Blood mixed with the warm water, clinging in thin, ghostly ribbons to her skin before dispersing.
The relentless barrage paused, if only for breath.
"If She-Ra hadn’t killed her, this never would have happened." Catra’s voice was low now, but it held a bitterness that made the air between them colder than the water. "I should have been the one to kill her. No one on Etheria was there for me—or for any of us—after what she did."
Adora coughed through the ache in her chest, her voice breaking. "Who?"
"Who?" Catra echoed, incredulous, her ears flattening against her head. "Shadow Weaver. My mother."
The words landed heavier than any claw.
Adora barely had time to process before the echo of armored boots filled the chamber. Clone guards burst into the baths, weapons drawn—but her strength was already gone.
The last thing she saw was the rippling, red-tinged water rising over her vision as she gave in and let herself sink.
Chapter 5
Notes:
Loving the comments with theories about where this fic is going because none of you seem to know 😄
I wouldn't tell you if you guessed right, but so far, no one has really guessed right.
Chapter Text
"Ow," Adora hissed as the clone’s fingers brushed raw skin. Even through his gloves, his touch was delicate, practiced. He dabbed the ointment onto her back with the precision of someone who had performed the task a hundred times before, but never on someone so stubbornly alive.
"You are healing as expected," the clone said, voice flat and certain as he worked. He smeared another layer of salve along the worst of the gouges, and Adora grit her teeth as fire rippled down her spine. "You really should be more careful."
Her head snapped up from the pillow she was braced against. "You know it was Catra," she spat, fury cutting through the pain. "Catra did this to me."
The clone stilled, only briefly, before resuming his wrapping. His tone didn’t change. "Our little sister would never be so crude." He laid the clean bandage against her skin with care that almost mocked his words. "Therefore, you must be mistaken."
Adora gave a sharp laugh that caught in her throat. "Right. Of course. I must have just slipped and fallen onto a thousand glass shards that immediately disappeared."
"There you go," the clone replied smoothly, as if she’d finally found the logic of things. His hands moved with mechanical efficiency, tucking the bandage into place.
Adora closed her eyes, exhausted by the exchange. Her body was different now, heavier with pain. Silk had been replaced by simple cloth wraps that left her entire top half bare except for the thick lattice of bandages. Her back had been torn so deep the healers hadn’t dared use stitches. Even the guards, who had looked at her with nothing but contempt since her capture, had paused at the sight of her wounds. More than one had murmured she should not have survived.
But she had.
That defiance seemed to shift something.
Even Rogelio—who had glared at her with open hostility since the beginning—now grinned at her from the foot of her bed. His heavy claws clapped her shoulder with rough camaraderie. Pain exploded down her spine, and her vision flashed white for a heartbeat, but she forced herself not to cry out.
"Catra is a stone-cold bitch," Rogelio laughed, sharp teeth flashing.
Lonnie crossed her arms and tilted her head. "How did they even manage to capture you anyway? Clearly you’re one tough bitch."
Adora looked down at her hands. They trembled slightly, though whether from weakness or solemn fury, she wasn’t sure. "I don’t know," she said quietly, voice hollow. "I guess I trusted the wrong person. I thought… there was nothing that could come between us." Her throat closed up. "I guess I was wrong."
Lonnie barked a laugh, quick and cutting. "That’s pathetic."
Adora’s jaw tightened. If she could have shrugged without fire lancing through her back, she would have. Instead she managed a thin smile. "If you say so."
Lonnie tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Honestly, I figured Catra wanted you for… something else. Especially since she had you service her in the baths. ’Bout time, honestly, as frigid as she is. You both really haven’t?"
Adora felt heat crawl up her neck, shame and fury in equal measure. "Between throwing me in the arena, ignoring me for days, and this—" she moved just enough to gesture toward her bandages, hissing as the motion tugged at her wounds "—no. There’s nothing between us."
Except hatred.
That part she swallowed down, though the words burned in her chest like iron fresh from the forge.
Rogelio chuckled, but Lonnie seemed disappointed by the answer. Still, the two of them left her eventually, their footsteps echoing into silence.
Adora sank back into the bedding, every breath catching on pain. She tried to rest, but her mind betrayed her, circling back to the baths.
The warmth of the water.
The way Catra’s fur had dampened and clung to the shape of her body.
The silver glint beneath her arm.
The sudden, terrible fear in her eyes when Adora had reached for it.
And then the claws.
She could still feel them. Every slash replayed in her nerves, a phantom burn. The water had turned pink with her blood, her screams had bounced off stone, and Catra had looked at her with something deeper than rage—something cracked, haunted.
Shadow Weaver.
Adora heard the name again, layered over the memory. The venom in Catra’s voice. My mother.
.°◇~☆°¤°☆~◇°.
Five years ago, it had been Adora’s first true battle as She-Ra. She had fought before, of course—skirmishes at the edge of Bright Moon’s borders, raids against rogue Horde patrols—but this was different. This was not a test, nor a show of power. This was war, the culmination of years of mounting tension between Bright Moon and the fractured, bitter population of the Fright Zone.
Adora could still remember the field when she closed her eyes. The air had been thick with smoke, acrid and choking. Bright Moon soldiers clashed with Horde ranks in the mire of churned earth and blood, steel ringing against steel, the ground shaking under the weight of siege engines. And through it all—moving like a dark tide through the chaos—was Shadow Weaver.
She had been impossible to miss. A figure swathed in shifting black, a stain on the battlefield itself, her magic spilling like tar across the lines of Bright Moon’s defenses. Bolts of shadow ripped through the air, tearing soldiers apart or sending them fleeing in blind terror. To face her was to face a nightmare—one the soldiers had no hope of surviving.
That was why She-Ra had been summoned.
When Adora raised her sword and transformed, the tide of the battle shifted. She had stood taller, stronger, every fiber of her being lit with purpose. Where Shadow Weaver’s magic fell like poison, She-Ra’s light burned it away. Their clash had been terrible—sword against spell, light against darkness. Adora still remembered the feel of Shadow Weaver’s power against her skin, as if the shadows themselves had tried to claw into her chest and hollow her out from within.
But she had stood her ground.
She had fought.
And in the end, She-Ra had triumphed.
When Shadow Weaver collapsed at her feet, her body shrouded in the last wisps of dissipating darkness, silence rippled through the field. The Horde soldiers—terrified, leaderless—threw down their weapons. The Fright Zone residents who had been forced into the fighting backed away, some even kneeling in the mud. The battle ended not with negotiations, but with Shadow Weaver’s corpse cooling at She-Ra’s boots.
It wasn’t She-Ra’s place to know what happened afterward. That had been Queen Angella’s role: to handle the diplomacy, to separate those who had fought under Shadow Weaver’s command willingly from those who had been coerced, and to manage the slow process of stitching some semblance of peace together. Adora had seen Glimmer at her side, the princess taking mental notes even then, Angella guiding her, preparing her to take on the mantle of rule one day.
Adora hadn’t thought of herself as a leader. She was a weapon. A sword for Bright Moon to raise when they most needed her, and nothing more.
She hadn’t known Catra then. How could she? She was only sixteen, and her life until then had been spent inside Bright Moon’s walls, sheltered from the world beyond. She had been taught to fear the Fright Zone, to see it as a wound upon Etheria’s surface, dangerous and malignant.
The first time she heard Catra’s name, it had been years later, when the Horde sent its first envoy to Bright Moon after the war. The revelation that one of their generals—one of their most vicious commanders—was Etherian by birth had struck Queen Angella like a blow. Adora remembered the look on the Queen’s face, the self-recrimination in her eyes.
“If I had done better,” she’d murmured to her advisors, though Adora hadn’t been meant to overhear. “If I had cared for them, if I had not abandoned the Fright Zone to fester… no Etherian child would ever have chosen the Horde.”
It was Angella’s greatest regret.
In her final years, before her death, she had managed with Glimmer and Bow’s help to establish something fragile with the Princess of the Fright Zone. An arrangement of peace, not alliance. A recognition of their autonomy, a promise of aid in times of famine or disaster. It was enough to prevent open war.
But the Fright Zone never severed their ties to the Horde. The chain remained, binding them. And Catra—Etherian-born, Horde-raised—was the embodiment of that link.
.°◇~☆°¤°☆~◇°.
Weeks into Adora’s healing, the atmosphere of the flagship shifted. The clones—once little more than puppets with vacant stares—moved with a faint spark of will again, their voices less hollow, their eyes less glassy. They had been re-coordinated. Prime had returned.
Adora had expected to be left in peace, ignored as she convalesced. Instead, she nearly dropped the bandage she was unwrapping when the door to her chamber slid open, not to reveal a drone or possessed clone—but Horde Prime himself.
He glided inside with that unsettling grace of his, as though the very ship tilted to accommodate his steps. The room seemed to contract around him, shadows bending at the edges, the pale glow of his eyes settling directly on her.
And he wasn’t alone.
Behind him came another figure—Etherian, but not like any Adora had seen before. Tall, though not quite as towering as Prime, and unnervingly slender, their body coiled with a strange tension, as if they were never at rest. Their skin gleamed pale green, their eyes reptilian and unblinking, slitted pupils catching the light like knives. Blonde hair fell in a strange cascade, too golden, too polished, giving them an androgynous quality that blurred lines Adora had always assumed were fixed. They carried themselves with both elegance and menace, every step like the swish of a predator’s tail.
“Mara, is it?” Horde Prime’s voice reverberated, smooth and heavy with false warmth.
Adora bowed her head quickly, heart hammering. She had already learned the cost of defiance—from Catra, from her wounds. She would not make another enemy, not when she was this fragile. The last time she had spoken directly to Prime had been after she struck down his treasured beast.
“Yes, Horde Prime,” she said quietly, forcing her voice not to waver. She kept her gaze lowered, submissive. Safe.
The green-skinned Etherian gave a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. “My, my,” they said, circling her like a carrion bird deciding whether the flesh was still edible. Their tone flickered somewhere between glee and disgust, and Adora couldn’t tell which cut deeper. “She really did tear you up. Look at this mess. Would your little kitten truly do something so… vile?”
The word dripped from their tongue with both fascination and disdain.
“She has been… particularly rebellious of late,” Prime said, his tone measured, but Adora could hear the faint crack of displeasure behind it. “She tests me. And I… do not know how to get through to her.”
“Clearly she needs to be punished.” The androgynous figure’s smile was sharp, reptilian eyes narrowing. “But how?” They tapped a finger against their chin, savoring the possibilities as though imagining different methods of breaking Catra like one might savor wine.
Prime did not answer. Instead, he lowered himself—crouched—in front of Adora. The sheer act was terrifying. The Lord of countless worlds, bending his body down to her level, his piercing gaze close enough to make her skin crawl.
“What would you want done, Mara?” he asked softly, almost kindly, as though he were asking a beloved daughter her preference for dinner. “You have suffered. You have earned the right to say.”
The weight of his attention crushed her. She couldn’t look away, even though every instinct screamed at her to do so. The question wasn’t a gift. It was a test.
Adora swallowed hard, forcing herself to answer. “If it were Bright Moon,” she said slowly, voice low and even, “she would be… exiled. To the Fright Zone. Removed. Far from those she might harm.” She wanted to lie, to say something less revealing, but the truth spilled out. What she wanted most was not Catra’s death, not her destruction, but her absence.
To have her gone.
Prime’s smile widened, sharp and knowing. “Ah. How fitting.” His eyes glimmered with cruel delight. “That is why she is here in the first place, little Mara. Cast away. Banished into my embrace.”
The reptilian stranger gave a hiss of amusement, circling back to Prime’s side.
Prime straightened, looking down at Adora as though she were some delicate, broken toy. “But you are right,” he murmured. “Absence is not enough. Not now. I will find a punishment worthy of her… a poetic justice for the suffering she has caused you.”
His hand lingered in the air above her head for a heartbeat, as if considering whether to touch her in mock-blessing, before he withdrew. He did not need to. His presence alone was suffocating enough.
The air still seemed heavy with Horde Prime’s presence long after he had gone, leaving Adora trembling and hollow. She was staring at her hands, knuckles white against the blood-stained bandages, when the scrape of boots against the corridor floor made her flinch.
Lonnie slipped into the alcove that served as Adora’s quarters, casting a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure no clones lingered nearby. She ducked inside, crouching to grab Adora under the arm, hauling her upright with a grip that was far less gentle than it pretended to be.
“Get up,” she ordered in a low hiss, though her jaw was tight, her eyes sharp with suspicion. “What did you tell him? About your wounds?”
Adora winced as Lonnie tugged her upright, ribs aching under the bandages. “What was I supposed to tell him?” she asked, her voice small, defensive, weary.
Lonnie’s face twisted. Before Adora could even brace herself, a sharp crack split the air. Lonnie’s fist slammed into her cheek, snapping her head sideways and sending her sprawling back onto the bed. Pain flared hot and bright, leaving her ears ringing.
“You’re supposed to be loyal to Catra.” Lonnie’s voice was low, venomous, trembling at the edges with fury and fear. She leaned in, close enough that Adora could see the fine sweat shining at her temple. “Not that thing.” The last words were spat like poison, her lip curling with disgust at the thought of Prime.
Adora clutched her face, blood singing in her ears, too stunned to answer.
For a heartbeat, Lonnie stood there, chest rising and falling hard, caught between the urge to strike again and the restraint that came only from Catra’s unseen leash on her loyalty. Then she drew back, shooting another wary glance down the corridor.
“Don’t forget who pulled you out of that bath alive,” she hissed, her words a knife between her teeth. Then she was gone, boots striking hard against the metal floor as she melted back into the endless lines of marching clones—leaving Adora aching, reeling, and painfully aware that even in her “room,” she had no sanctuary.
Adora let her thoughts drift back to when she had been pulled from the baths. Catra had pulled her out herself before leaving her in the care of the Clones—not without the order: "Don't let her die."
.°◇~☆°¤°☆~◇°.
Hours passed in silence, broken only by the shuffle of distant feet in the corridor outside. Adora had curled on her side, staring at the cold wall, her mind fogging with exhaustion when the shadow of a figure fell across the open threshold.
A clone stood waiting, blank-faced as ever, its voice even and hollow.
“Horde Prime requests your presence,” it intoned. “You must be your best.”
Adora pushed herself upright, every movement dragging through soreness. She didn’t argue; she knew better. These summons had become routine, carved into the shape of her days like the relentless ticks of a clock. A trip to the baths. Another ritual of presentation. Another reminder that her body was no longer her own.
She had already been once today. But the clones did not care, and so she let herself be led.
The baths were steaming when she arrived, attendants moving wordlessly around her with practiced precision. She was stripped without ceremony, lowered into the scalding waters, and washed gently. Oils were smoothed over her body, a pearlescent shimmer that left her faintly glowing under the bright artificial light, like some jewel polished for inspection.
Her hair was curled and pinned back in shining waves, golden strands caught with jeweled combs that glinted with each breath she took. Her lips and eyes were painted with soft strokes of gold and pink—mocking shades of warmth and innocence that felt grotesque when paired with the hollowness in her chest.
Her wounds spared her modesty: her top half remained bare, bandages removed to display the stark brutality of her wounds. To make up for the plainness, they draped her in finery elsewhere. A silken skin—so thin it was almost sheer—was drawn around her waist and hips, light as air and whispering against her thighs. From her wrist cuffs, silks trailed, tethering her as if she were a marionette on strings.
Beads and jewels were woven through her hair, catching the light with every movement of her head. Others were placed wherever they thought she could bear them without tearing open her still-healing body.
Her ears were pierced on the spot. A sharp sting, a rush of heat, and then heavy ornaments dangling from the fresh wounds, weight tugging at tender flesh.
And then—the final humiliation. A silver-green chain was drawn across her chest, each end clipped to her nipples, strings of jewels hanging down in delicate arcs that shone brighter than her pale skin. A display of ownership. A spectacle crafted for another’s gaze.
Adora swallowed hard, holding herself rigid through it all.
Would the humiliations ever cease? No—at this point she knew better than to expect relief. What they inflicted on her no longer surprised her. The only thing left was endurance.
She had become a display piece, their cruelty adorned in silk and metal, proof of Horde Prime’s reach. Proof that even She-Ra could be polished down, made to glitter, and shown off like a conquest.
And so she stood, trembling faintly under the weight of jewels and oils and silks, staring at her reflection in the water. A stranger gazed back at her—painted, decorated, diminished.
A weapon turned ornament.
She was taken then, not back to her quarters, but through gleaming corridors and into the arena itself. The vast space spread out below her, the murmurs of gathered clones, Etherians, and other creatures forming a constant hum, a pressure that settled on her chest as heavily as her ornaments.
But this time, she was not led to the dais where Catra had once summoned her. Instead, she was guided up, higher, until she reached a platform that overlooked the arena from a commanding vantage. She immediately saw the dais where she had once sat, now noticeably bare, its emptiness almost deliberate—as if to mark her displacement.
And there—at the very center—Catra was already kneeling before Horde Prime’s great throne. The light around him caught every angle of his white-gold armor, making him gleam like some terrible star at the heart of the room. Catra’s figure, smaller and defiant even in supplication, knelt in contrast at his feet.
It was clear that Adora had arrived late to whatever discussion had taken place. Catra’s tail lashed once behind her, betraying her mood even in stillness.
“Mara,” Horde Prime said pleasantly, his voice resonant, a sound that echoed in the bones as much as in the ears. “You are just in time. Please, sit.”
His hand gestured lightly, but there was no mistaking the command. A smaller seat rested beside his throne, gleaming white metal cushioned with pale silk. The place of honor—or subjugation. Somewhere Adora imagined Catra would sit, if she were allowed anywhere near his throne at all.
“If you insist, Horde Prime,” Adora answered carefully, the words meant more as a clarification than defiance.
“I do,” he said firmly, the pleasantness vanishing into steel until she obeyed.
Adora’s knees trembled faintly as she moved, the trailing silks from her cuffs whispering across the dais floor, her bare chest glinting with oil and jewelry under the lights. She lowered herself into the seat, the weight of eyes pressing down from all around the arena.
“Now,” Prime said, his tone sharp as a blade, “Catra. Since we have come to find a suitable punishment for your actions, please apologize to your slave, and we can get on with it.”
Apologize?
The word rang inside Adora’s head, jarring in its strangeness. An apology, from Catra?
“Yes, Horde Prime,” Catra said, but the words were venom behind honey. She rose, and Adora immediately saw it—the fury burning in her mismatched eyes, only thinly veiled by the attempt at pleasantness.
Catra approached, and instinct urged Adora to stand. Remaining seated felt wrong—disrespectful to Catra, dangerous in the eyes of Prime. Rising, her silks and jewels shifted with her, the chain across her chest catching faintly in the light.
Catra stopped close, her breath brushing Adora’s cheek. She hooked one finger into the delicate chain linking the jewels across Adora’s nipples and tugged it forward, sharp enough that Adora had to grit her teeth against the yelp that threatened to escape.
Then—softness. A kiss pressed to each of Adora’s cheeks, the shimmering white gloss from Catra’s lips leaving a faint, glowing imprint on her skin. To the crowd, it might have seemed an apology of sorts, a gesture of peace.
But before she could draw back, Catra leaned close, her whisper a lash against Adora’s ear.
“You’re just a whore,” she hissed. “And now you look like the slut you are.”
Adora flinched as though struck, jerking back without thinking. The sudden motion snapped one end of the chain loose with a sting, tearing free from its place. The pain lanced through her chest, dragging a sharp squeal from her throat before she could stop herself.
“See, Prime?” Catra said smoothly, turning the moment into a display. “Mara is just such a willful slave. Wouldn’t you break in a beast in your arena?”
“Yes,” Horde Prime said without hesitation, his voice like judgment itself.
“She has a lot of fight,” Catra pressed, her tone sharp and challenging. Her grin was all teeth, though her claws twitched like she wished she could rake them down Adora’s skin. “But don’t worry. I won’t lay another finger on her… unless she begs for it.”
Prime inclined his head, and without a word, two clones stepped forward in perfect unison. They seized Catra by the arms, one on either side, their grip unyielding as stone.
Adora’s breath caught. Déjà vu struck like a blow—the sight of Catra caught, dragged away by Prime’s enforcers, just as she herself had been.
This was her punishment.
Catra was to fight in the arena, against one of Prime’s beasts.
And Adora, seated glittering beside Horde Prime’s throne, would be made to watch.
Chapter Text
The arena swallowed silence like a beast itself, thick and expectant, broken only by the hum of the energy walls that penned it in. From her place on the high dais—Horde Prime’s place, beside his throne—Adora could feel the weight of every watching eye. The endless rows of clones, the drones whirring faintly in the rafters, and Prime himself, lounging like a god surveying his stage.
Adora’s silks brushed faintly against her wrists as she shifted. She hated how delicate she looked seated here, a display piece. She hated more how easily she could see everything.
The doors opened with a metallic groan, and Catra was released into the arena.
She did not stumble. She strode out with her chin high, armoured plates hugging her form, a glinting sword slung across her back, and daggers at her hips. A fighter’s gear, carefully chosen. Her tail lashed like a whip, ears perked, every line of her body screaming defiance. For a second, Adora almost envied her. Catra had been well equipped for the fight.
It was already more than Adora had been given.
A sharp spark of satisfaction rose in her chest. At last. At last Catra would know what it was to be made into a spectacle. To have the ground pulled from beneath her and be forced into Prime’s arena. For so long, Catra had been the hand at Adora’s throat, the voice in her ear, the smirk that said you’re nothing. And now, here she was, subject to Prime’s whims.
But the satisfaction soured almost instantly.
The opposite gates shuddered open, and the beast emerged—slighter than the hulking nightmare Adora had faced, but no less terrifying. Its body was coiled muscle, shoulders rolling as it prowled forward on clawed hands and feet. Spines bristled like jagged armor down its back, glinting under the pale lights. Its jaw unhinged with a guttural screech, teeth long and slick.
The crowd roared. The sound rattled the arena walls and crawled over Adora’s skin, hungry and eager. They wanted blood.
Adora’s stomach twisted.
This wasn’t justice. This wasn’t consequence. This was cruelty dressed as spectacle. Prime had turned Catra into another piece of theatre, the same way he had displayed Adora—oiled, chained, adorned with jewels as if her suffering was art. Now it was Catra’s turn to perform, whether she lived or died.
Adora’s hands curled tight in her lap, her nails cutting crescents into her palms.
Part of her whispered that this was deserved, that Catra had earned every ounce of what was coming. Adora could still feel sting and ache of all the lashes Catra’s claws had inflicted. She had wanted Catra to face consequences, hadn’t she?
And yet—watching her like this, standing on that bloodstained floor with a monster stalking toward her, the anticipation of violence hanging heavy in the air—Adora felt only dread.
She didn’t want to see this.
The beast lunged first.
It was fast—faster than Adora remembered from her own battle—but Catra was faster still. She ducked under its first swipe, a blur of lithe muscle, sand spraying as she rolled clear. The claws missed her by inches, leaving deep trenches in the arena floor.
The crowd of clones erupted in their mechanical chant, voices pounding like drums. Catra barely seemed to hear them. Her whole focus was locked on the beast, pupils wide, her movements sharp and precise. She prowled on all fours, then sprang aside as its tail cracked against the ground, the impact echoing like a cannon shot.
Adora’s breath caught. For a moment, it looked almost like a dance. Catra flowed around the beast’s strikes, slipping through the narrow spaces where its bulk was slow to follow. A swipe—she vaulted over it, landing lightly on her feet. A slam of its head—she ducked and slid beneath its belly, dragging her blade across its underside before darting away again. The cut was shallow, but it left a vivid red streak in the sand.
The beast roared, spinning, but Catra was already gone, climbing one of the broken pillars that jutted out from the arena floor. She perched for a moment, chest rising and falling in quick bursts, her tail lashing with anticipation. Then she leapt, somersaulting through the air to strike its shoulder with her sword before bouncing away again. The crowd roared approval, a single, unified sound. Catra landed another hit across the beast’s muzzle, earning another bellow of pain.
Already Adora could see the tremors in Catra’s arms, the way her movements, though still sharp, carried the weight of exhaustion. She was burning through her strength. Every dodge cost her more.
And the beast, wounded though it was, was learning too.
The next time it charged, it anticipated her roll, feinted with a swipe and then pivoted with crushing force. Catra barely twisted aside, claws scoring the sand as she skidded. She hissed, feral and furious, but she was a half-breath slower now. The beast closed in, relentless, every blow bringing her closer to being cornered.
And then the beast finally caught her—
The beast caught her mid-dodge, one massive paw crashing down over her torso, pinning her into the sand. The sound was wet, wrong—Adora flinched as something cracked beneath the weight.
The creature lowered its snarling jaws, strings of saliva hanging like threads of glass. Catra struggled, her legs kicking against the sand, claws digging grooves into the sand. Her body twisted in a blur of movement. One dagger slid free from her belt, the gleam of steel catching the arena lights before she jammed it up into the beast’s softer underjaw. The monster reeled, shrieking, and Catra rolled free with a snarl. Her sword came down in the same motion, driving hard into its eye.
The creature convulsed. Its keening wail shook the floor beneath Adora’s feet, a sound of fury and pain and death. Then it collapsed, shaking the floor as it hit the sand.
Catra staggered. Her sword slipped free from her grip, clattering to the ground as she clutched her side. For a moment she stood tall, chest heaving, defiance still etched in every line of her bloodied frame. Then her knees buckled, and she fell.
Two clone guards were already on her. Their faces betrayed nothing as they seized her under the arms, dragging her limp body back toward the gate she had entered.
Adora’s breath came shallow and fast. Satisfaction, relief, horror—all tangled tight in her chest until she could hardly tell one from the other. She wanted to look away, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. Not until Catra’s limp form disappeared through the darkened gate.
Only then did she realize she had been gripping the arms of her seat hard enough to make her wrists throb beneath their cuffs.
"I think dear Catra has learned her lesson," Horde Prime finally spoke, his voice rolling over the sounds of the arena like silk. "I dare say, she will be much more agreeable."
Adora’s fingers clenched in her lap. She didn’t know what response was expected of her. Would thanks seem presumptuous? Would silence seem defiant? She settled for the safest option—she inclined her head in a shallow nod, the movement careful, deferential.
Prime’s smile lingered. "Truth be told, Mara," he began again, tone almost confessional, "I was pleased when I was informed she had purchased you."
The word purchased struck like a stone dropped in her stomach. Adora’s throat closed around the weight of it. A possession. A transaction. Not a person.
"Why?" she heard herself ask before she could stop the word from slipping past her lips.
Prime’s gaze didn’t falter. "She is too angry. Constantly. It is tiring." His voice carried an almost bored disdain, as if speaking of a minor defect in a prized pet. "I assumed she bought you to help her… unwind."
Adora’s breath stilled. Unwind. The implication uncoiled inside her like venom, and she felt her face twist with disgust before she could smooth it over again. Heat rushed to her cheeks—not from shame, but fury that he could so casually suggest it, as if she had no say in her own body, as if intimacy could be ordered like a meal.
Prime’s eyes narrowed fractionally, catching every flicker of her expression. "It would be in your best interest, Mara," he said softly, almost kindly, "to find yourself in Catra’s bed."
Adora swallowed hard, forcing her face into stillness. She dared not speak. She dared not even breathe too loud.
For a time, silence reigned on the dais, broken only by the mechanical rhythm of the clone chants below as they dragged the carcass of the fallen beast away. Eventually, the distant doors opened again.
Catra was brought back.
She was stripped of her armor, her skin scrubbed clean, her hair tamed back into place. To anyone watching, she might have looked untouched, unbroken—but Adora had seen the fight, had heard the snap when the beast had pinned her. She knew better. Catra’s steps were stiff, her jaw set tight, her golden eyes cold.
She ascended the dais without hesitation, bowing her head only enough to acknowledge Prime’s presence. With a curt nod, she signaled to one of the clones.
The soldier stepped toward Adora, metal glinting in its hand. She flinched as the chain clicked into place at her collar, heavy and final. Her breath caught, but she kept her chin high, refusing to let them see fear.
The chain was offered to Catra. She took it without ceremony, without even glancing at Adora, her grip harsh and unyielding.
Catra didn’t spare Prime a word of thanks or deference. She turned on her heel, tugging Adora sharply forward. The chain bit into her throat as she stumbled after her, the dais receding behind them.
Adora cast one last glance over her shoulder. Horde Prime watched them go, a faint, satisfied smile curling his lips.
Catra led Adora through the flagship’s endless, gleaming corridors, each one identical to the last. Cold light glared off polished walls, and the hum of machinery followed them like a low chant. Adora thought she was beginning to know the rhythm of the place—its sterile sameness, its suffocating monotony. But then Catra pulled her down an unfamiliar hallway, one that narrowed and curved, until Adora felt as though she were being swallowed deeper into the ship’s belly.
At last the passage opened, and Adora stumbled to a halt.
It wasn’t metal that greeted her.
The air changed first—moist, warmer, touched with the scent of earth and growing things. She blinked, and her breath caught. They had stepped into a garden.
Plants unlike anything she had seen before stretched high into the vaulted space. Their stems and trunks were rooted in massive pots, each filled with strange soils of different hues—rust-red like clay, silver-gray like ash, even one that glimmered faintly as though made of ground crystal. Some of the flora were familiar enough to be comforting—broad leaves, curling vines, the suggestion of blossoms—but others defied everything she knew. A tree with bark that shimmered like liquid metal; a cluster of pale flowers that opened and closed rhythmically, pulsing as though they breathed; grasses that swayed even when the air was perfectly still.
Overhead, a transparent roof stretched across the chamber like a dome. Beyond it, the void of space loomed vast and infinite. Stars spilled across the black, their light washing over the tallest plants, making their upper leaves glow faintly with borrowed silver fire. For a fleeting moment, Adora almost felt she was outside—under some strange alien sky instead of trapped inside Prime’s ship.
A narrow path wound through the greenery, lined with slabs of dark stone set into the soil. Here and there benches had been placed, grown over with mossy cushions or framed by flowering shrubs heavy with perfumed blooms. Water trickled softly from somewhere unseen, the sound so out of place aboard the flagship that it seemed like a dream.
Catra walked as though none of it mattered, her steps confident, the leash tugging with every stride. She came at last to a bench between two slender trees whose bark looked like polished ivory. Their leaves hung low, thin and translucent, glittering faintly as if dusted with frost, though their touch brushed warm against Adora’s shoulder as she passed beneath them.
Catra sat heavily, elbows resting on her knees, and let out a long sigh. The sound seemed almost fragile in this oasis of life, though her eyes still glinted with sharpness.
"You’re not very smart, are you, pet?" Catra said at last, her tone edged with boredom, though her tail lashed with suppressed agitation. "Whining to Prime. Wasn't exactly one of your brightest moves."
Adora forced herself to meet her gaze. "Why, because you were punished?"
Catra scoffed, rolling her eyes with deliberate disdain. "You really are dense. No, Mara. Because the friendships you had started to build with my guards? Consider those gone. My people value loyalty. They’ll have no tolerance for you now."
The words landed heavier than Adora expected. She had braced for claws, for Catra’s anger, not this—an invisible sentence of isolation. The garden suddenly felt less alive, less forgiving.
Then footsteps came, breaking the fragile stillness.
A tall, familiar androgynous figure entered with a dramatic sweep of motion, their long blonde hair gleaming beneath the starlight roof. They carried a leash like Catra’s, chain links trailing behind them with a soft metallic whisper. At the other end of it walked another Etherian.
The girl was tall, freckled, with a fall of curly white-blonde hair. She moved with a careful hesitance, bare feet silent on the path. Like Adora, she was dressed simply, though without the ornamentation forced upon Adora—her hair was too fine for beads or chains. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, never rising.
"Double Trouble," Catra acknowledged, her voice cooler now. "Thank you for meeting me."
"Oh, Kitten," Double Trouble cooed, their voice dripping with melodrama. "I’m positively thrilled to see you unharmed. Prime’s punishment was much too harsh." Their slit-pupiled eyes slid over Adora for a lingering second, sharp and assessing, before darting back to Catra.
"I know you wouldn’t have done something like this"—they gestured lazily toward Adora’s shredded back—"without good cause."
Catra’s ears twitched, her eyes narrowing. "I heard you were there when Prime interrogated my slave."
Double Trouble’s smile deepened, though it never reached their eyes. "Perhaps we can speak privately," they said, their tone honeyed but edged. "I even brought a new friend to keep her company."
Adora’s leash was clipped to a post sunk into the metal floor, and the other Etherian’s chain fastened beside it. The short length forced them down onto their knees, hunched low against the cold.
Adora’s gaze flicked sideways, tracing the curve of the other girl’s profile, the freckles dusting her cheek, the hair that fell like a cloud to hide her expression. Still, she never once looked up.
"You're Etherian, aren't you?" Adora asked softly, her voice carrying more wonder than suspicion.
The other woman hesitated, then gave the smallest nod. She lifted her head a fraction, enough that the starlight from the glass roof brushed her pale hair. "I was a princess."
Adora blinked, her breath catching. A princess? She hadn’t met many of them—her role as Queen Angella’s weapon had kept her isolated, paraded at the queen’s side but never part of the courts themselves. Faces and names had blurred, glimpses caught from across crowded halls.
"Oh," Adora leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Which one are you?"
"Perfuma." The word came quiet, almost a confession.
The name hit like a spark. Adora knew it. Perfuma, the flower princess—the one who was said to command nature itself, who could bend vines and blossoms to her will. Adora’s gaze swept the chamber, the riot of alien flora surrounding them. For a moment hope flared hot in her chest. They were drowning in greenery. Roots, stems, branches—all the tools Perfuma could need to break free.
But the princess’s face was carved in resignation, her eyes dull with defeat.
"I can’t use my powers out here," she whispered, as if she had heard Adora’s thoughts. "We’re too far from Etheria."
The words landed heavy as stone. Adora’s brief hope guttered out. Even here, in this strange oasis that seemed to breathe life, Perfuma was powerless.
Before she could ask more, the rustle of footsteps broke the fragile moment. Catra and Double Trouble returned, voices low, sharp with the tail-end of debate.
"If tormenting her is the goal, Kitten," Double Trouble purred silkily, "I have some suggestions."
Catra lingered behind, arms crossed, her tail twitching with a restless flick. She didn’t interfere when Double Trouble strode forward, all easy grace and theatrical flourish, their golden hair swaying. With a casual twist, they unhooked Adora’s chain from the post.
The sudden freedom of movement lasted only a second. Double Trouble drew her forward, leash taut, and steered her toward a stone seat further down the path. Their touch was deceptively gentle, almost courtly, as they pressed her down.
Cold metal clinked as her chain was looped tight around the back of the seat, pulling until her spine was forced rigid against its frame. The angle left her shoulders aching almost immediately, her chest thrust forward in a way that made her burn with humiliation. Her wrists were drawn back next, locked to the same chain so that she could not shift, could not shield herself.
Double Trouble leaned in close, their breath cool against her ear, words a serpent’s hiss. "Since Horde Prime dressed you as a whore," they whispered, amusement curdling into cruelty, "why not treat you as one?"
Their eyes flicked toward Catra, sharp with mischief, as though daring her to approve.
Catra didn’t move, didn’t speak. She only watched, ears angled back, her gaze unreadable.
Notes:
I am recovering from surgery, so writing has been hard. I've been barely conscious.
Chapter 7
Notes:
Trigger Warning: you read the warnings and tags. This chapter is why they are there.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Adora couldn’t believe this was happening. Her body betrayed her even as her mind screamed against it. Two fingers curled inside her, slow and deliberate, and she tipped her head back toward the roof. The stars above stared down through the glass canopy, impossibly distant, impossibly cold. She tried to fixate on them, to let her mind wander anywhere else—back to Etheria, to the open sky, to the memory of freedom.
She was determined not to give Double Trouble the satisfaction of making her break.
But her eyes, treacherous, flicked down for a heartbeat. Catra sat only a few paces away, all folded arms and detachment, her eyes unreadable. For a moment, Adora thought she was utterly unaffected—until she caught it, the faintest betrayal: a slow bloom of red creeping across Catra’s cheekbones.
Adora’s stomach twisted. She’s watching. She’s…
The thought was too much. A shudder rippled through her, sharp and uncontrollable.
Double Trouble caught it instantly. A chuckle slid from their lips, smug and knowing. “Oh… I see.”
Their voice began to shift, the pitch sliding, tone reshaping. Their body followed, melting and reforming like wax until the figure kneeling between Adora’s knees was no longer the golden-haired trickster but Catra herself. Catra’s sharp ears, Catra’s narrowed eyes, Catra’s smirk twisting with cruel amusement.
The fingers inside her curled again—only now tipped with fresh claws. The sensation burned sharp and hot, uncomfortable yet not entirely unbearable. The line between pain and something else blurred, traitorous heat sparking at the edges of Adora’s resolve.
Adora cursed under her breath, biting down hard on the sound that wanted to slip free.
But Double Trouble—Catra—wasn’t finished. Their other hand came up slowly, deliberately, and hooked around the fine chain that clamped across Adora’s breasts. With a measured tug, the links tightened, biting cruelly at tender flesh.
The jolt was instant, and this time Adora couldn’t stop it—her body arched, and a moan tore itself from her throat before she could choke it down. The sound echoed sharp against the glass, against the quiet rustle of leaves in the artificial garden.
Perfuma had turned her face away, eyes clenched shut. The real Catra, still on the bench, sat rigid—detached on the surface, but her ears had flattened tight against her skull, her tail twitching like a whip against the floor.
Adora’s chest heaved, her breath ragged. Every part of her burned with humiliation, but she could not deny the tremor of heat winding through her stomach.
Adora couldn’t stop herself this time. Her thighs parted wider of their own accord, trembling as Double Trouble shifted lower, still in Catra’s stolen shape. Fingers slipped free, replaced by the wet heat of a mouth pressing against her.
The first drag of that tongue made her hips jerk violently. A startled, broken moan escaped her lips before she could bite it back. She cursed herself for the sound—but it didn’t matter. The sounds kept spilling out, helpless, betraying her with every wet swirl of sensation.
Her breath grew ragged, every inhale quick and shallow, every exhale shaky. Don’t… don’t give them this, she begged herself. But how could she stop when that tongue was tracing deliberate circles, lips closing around the most sensitive part of her until her entire body was thrumming with heat?
And through it all—Catra. The real Catra. Adora’s eyes flicked to her again, couldn’t help it. She sat like a statue, arms crossed, her tail flicking in restless, agitated arcs. Her expression was carved from stone, cold and detached, but Adora wasn’t fooled. The flush that stained her cheeks was brighter now. Her ears were pressed back flat against her head. Every sharp breath she took betrayed how hard she was fighting not to react.
The knowledge made something inside Adora twist and snap. Humiliation warred with a darker, sharper ache she didn’t want to name.
Her voice broke into desperate moans as the pleasure built too high to ignore. Double Trouble worked her relentlessly, each flick and suck deliberate, practiced, merciless. The coil deep in her belly drew tighter and tighter until her body trembled on the edge of release.
It seemed to stretch on forever—an endless torment of sensation and shame, heightened by the fact that she wasn’t alone, that Catra was watching her unravel.
Finally, the pressure burst. A cry tore from her throat as her back arched off the chair, legs snapping shut around the head between her thighs. Her whole body shuddered, the orgasm crashing over her in wave after wave, unbidden and unstoppable.
Her hands strained uselessly against the restraints behind her back. Her chest heaved, her skin flushed and damp. And when her thighs finally slackened, she slumped against the seat, her eyes hazy with the aftermath, her lips trembling as if she’d spoken something she couldn’t quite hear.
Without ceremony, Adora was untied from the chair and dragged back to the post. The abruptness left her breathless, her knees scraping against the metal floor as the new guard fixed her chains once again beside Perfuma. She was forced down into a kneel, her spine curved in defeat.
She felt dishevelled, raw, her body still trembling from what had been taken from her. Dampness clung between her thighs, humiliating in its persistence, and the slick evidence of her arousal dripped against the cold, unyielding floor below. Each drop felt like a betrayal she couldn’t hide.
When her mind began to clear, her surroundings bled back into focus. Kyle stood nearby, speaking to Catra in an animated rush. Adora couldn’t hear the words, but she saw Catra’s response: an eyeroll, a flick of her ear in irritation, and then she strode after him without sparing Adora a glance.
The garden was no longer still. More figures lingered now among the pots and foliage. Some she recognised—Lonnie, standing stiff-backed with her usual scowl; Rogelio, his scaled tail twitching restlessly as he glanced around the atrium. And another—an Etherian guard Adora didn’t know, someone broad-shouldered with dark braids pulled tight against their scalp. After a curt order was given, the new guard remained behind, and slowly, the rest of the garden emptied out.
For a moment, the silence felt oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the ship and the rustling of plants beneath the artificial breeze.
Perfuma’s voice was so soft that Adora almost missed it.
“You’re lucky to have Catra as your master.”
Adora blinked, convinced she must have misheard.
“Lucky?”
Perfuma kept her eyes down, her voice barely audible. “The other Etherians I’ve spoken to say she is… kind.” A pause. “Is that not your experience?”
Adora barked a bitter laugh, though it held no real humor. “No. I must’ve gotten a different Catra.”
Perfuma’s hand lifted to her hair, fingers nervously tugging the white-blonde strands forward to shield her neck. “She still seems better than Prime.”
Adora didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to give Catra any ground. But the words sat heavily between them, and she couldn’t find a rebuttal. Anything felt preferable to what Perfuma implied—yet the thought of surrendering to Catra’s leash still made her chest burn with fury.
“Is Prime… not kind to you?” Adora asked carefully.
Perfuma’s fingers stilled, clutching her hair against her throat like a child hiding behind a curtain. Her lips parted, closed, then trembled. Finally, she whispered, “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t say.”
Adora shifted closer despite her chains, laying a cautious hand on Perfuma’s shoulder. “Show me.”
Perfuma drew in a shaky breath. Then, with obvious reluctance, she brushed her hair aside.
Beneath the pale curve of her ear, nestled against her neck, a small silver chip was embedded in the skin. Adora had seen them before—on the clones. Only theirs pulsed green with Prime’s signal. Perfuma’s lay dormant, but no less sinister.
Her voice was hollow when she spoke. “He uses my body. For things. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of it. Sometimes I wake with bruises, with… pains. And no memory at all of what he did.”
Adora’s stomach twisted, bile burning at the back of her throat. She wanted to scream, to break the post they were chained to, to tear that chip out of Perfuma’s skin and fling it into the stars. But all she could do was lower her gaze, her jaw tight, shame curdling in her chest.
Neither master seemed preferable.
Two clones approached them from the shadows of the garden. Their gait was looser, less rigid than the drone-like precision Adora was used to. That alone set her on edge. Clones weren’t supposed to saunter.
Before she could voice a thought, one of them reached down and yanked Perfuma up by her collar. The movement was vicious, sudden—Perfuma gagged against the grip, her delicate frame jerking upward with a strangled sound.
“Hey!” Adora barked, but her chain snapped taut, dragging her back into place with a metallic clink.
The clones didn’t even flinch. Their hands roved over Perfuma with casual cruelty, squeezing her arms, her waist, like men pawing at market goods. Perfuma didn’t resist. She only winced, eyes lowered, a flush of shame painting her cheeks as though Adora’s watching was the greater indignity.
“Stop it!” Adora roared, straining forward so hard the post behind her rattled. The collar at Perfuma’s throat cut into her skin as the clone’s grip tightened, forcing another wet cough from her lips.
The guard—Lonnie and Rogelio’s replacement—finally stirred at the sound of Adora’s chains. He turned, unimpressed, his voice flat. “What’s happening?”
One clone glanced at him lazily. “The slave is upset by how we are handling her friend.”
Adora’s eyes widened as the second clone smirked at her. Without hesitation, he slid a hand down Perfuma’s side, disappearing beneath the soft folds of her silk dress. Perfuma stiffened. His fingers pressed further until Perfuma gave a broken whimper, and Adora realised with a rush of horror that he had slipped inside her right there, without ceremony, without care.
“Don’t—don’t you dare!” Adora screamed, her voice cracking. She yanked against her bonds with everything she had, metal chains biting into her wrists.
The clone who had spoken first gave a half-shrug, unfazed. “You should take Mara away before she gets too upset and causes another incident.”
The guard nodded, as if the explanation were perfectly reasonable, and turned his back again—completely indifferent to Perfuma’s muffled cries.
Adora’s breath came sharp, ragged, her fury scorching every vein in her body. But the chains held fast. She could do nothing as the guard moved to unhook her from the post instead.
“Don’t you touch her!” she snarled, but her words meant nothing. Perfuma’s eyes flicked up for the briefest moment—wide, glassy, pleading—and then Adora was dragged backward.
The last thing she saw was Perfuma being held upright between the two clones, her hair fisted cruelly in one’s grip, her lips parted in a silent gasp of pain.
And then the garden was gone.
Adora was marched through the sterile corridors, her chains rattling with every forced step, until the familiar threshold of her room appeared. They shoved her inside without a word.
Alone again.
Adora collapsed to her knees on the cold floor, every breath burning with helpless rage. Perfuma’s broken sound still echoed in her ears, and for the first time in a long while, Adora wished her chains would cut deeper.
It was hours later—hours of sitting alone on the cold floor, chains clinking with every small movement—when a faint scraping of boots finally announced a visitor. A tray of food was slid through the open wall, the aroma faint but surprisingly appetizing. Adora’s stomach twisted at the sight, but hunger was a secondary thought.
The clone lingered, standing with rigid posture as if awaiting some unspoken approval. Adora swallowed hard, her voice rough from disuse.
“I need to speak to Catra,” she said, eyes locked on the clone.
The clone tilted its head, expressionless, but didn’t move. “Princess Catra does not request your presence,” it said evenly.
“I don’t care. I need to see her,” Adora pressed, gripping the edge of the tray so tightly her knuckles whitened. “It’s important.”
The clone paused, then let out a faint sigh that was almost human. “Your request will be conveyed. Wait here.”
Alone again, Adora pressed her face into her hands. Her muscles ached, her body still sore from the day’s horrors, and her mind replayed every humiliating image of Perfuma, helpless before the clones.
She felt a flicker of resolve. She was still a hero, and she would get Perfuma out.
Notes:
Another chapter while I'm lucid enough to read and edit
Chapter 8
Notes:
I might need to add more chapters, but here's a small one
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Adora knew Catra would make her wait. That was just what Catra did—punish her, twist the knife. She told herself it would be a cycle, maybe two. Catra was furious, sure, but she wouldn’t drag it out too long. Not when Adora had made it sound urgent. At least, that’s what she thought.
But the hours dragged. They stretched thin, cruel, until Adora couldn’t tell where one ended and another began. Her legs cramped from sitting too long on the cold floor. Her stomach growled even after she forced down the tasteless food shoved through the door. The silence pressed in, heavier than the walls. Catra had been right about the guards turning against her, and that made seeing her all the more important. If she couldn’t speak to Catra, she couldn’t speak to anyone. There was no way to ask about Perfuma. No way to know if there were others suffering, hidden somewhere else on this cursed ship. Were they alone in it, or was Perfuma just one of many? The not knowing gnawed at her.
When the clone carried her request away, she let herself hope. Just for a moment. The answer came back fast and sharp enough to sting: denied.
Lonnie showed up herself. She scolded Adora like she was a child caught misbehaving, snapping that Catra had been through enough, that she didn’t need to be bothered after everything she had suffered.
Adora almost laughed in her face. She couldn’t stop herself—the absurdity of it was too much. Catra? Suffering? A ragged, bitter laugh slipped out of her chest before she could swallow it down. It was the first real interaction she’d had in cycles, and maybe that made it worse.
Catra had endured one fight. Armed. Ready. In front of an audience.
Adora thought of what she had endured: betrayal. Being sold like an object. Stripped of dignity. Scarred. Raped. Reduced to nothing but a spectacle. And Catra was the one they called a victim? The unfairness of it almost made her choke.
Lonnie didn’t take the laugh well. Her hand came fast, a sharp backhand across Adora’s mouth. Pain flared, metallic blood blooming on her tongue. Then Lonnie turned and left, slamming the door, and the silence that followed was worse than the sting.
So Adora waited. And waited.
The only scraps of news came in snatches, guards muttering as they passed. She caught fragments—Princess of the Fright Zone was aboard, other Etherian emissaries too. Talks of peace. Of alliances.
Alliances with the Horde.
The thought turned her stomach. She wanted to scream, to claw at the walls until her hands bled, anything to fight it. But there was nothing she could do—trapped, voiceless, useless.
Her thoughts always circled back to Perfuma. To the look in her eyes, the shame on her face. Adora couldn’t imagine escaping, not if it meant leaving Perfuma behind in this place. That would be wrong. Unforgivable. She-Ra wouldn’t do that.
And even here, in chains, she couldn’t stop being She-Ra.
✧
Adora woke with a start, breath catching in her throat, as her blurred vision cleared on a pair of mismatched eyes gleaming in the half-light. Catra was crouched at the edge of her cot like a shadow come alive, tail swaying lazily, her gaze unflinching.
Adora’s whole body went taut, heart hammering. For a heartbeat she thought she was dreaming, pulled back to an older memory of Catra rousing her with a drunken leer. But no—this Catra was stone sober, sharp, predatory.
She forced herself upright, shaking off sleep, then carefully lowered to her knees. Her palms pressed flat against the floor, her head bowed until her forehead touched the cold surface. Complete submission.
“Well, this is new.” Catra’s voice was velvety. She sounded amused, but dangerously so, the kind of amusement that could turn to cruelty in a blink. “Maybe I should have everyone on board eat your pussy. Clearly it does wonders for obedience.”
Adora’s shoulders twitched, the words cutting deep. The memory of Double Trouble’s smirk—of Catra’s calculated cruelty through their mimicry—flashed hot in her head. She swallowed hard.
“I want something,” she said carefully, her tone even, though her skin betrayed her. Heat spread traitorously through her body, blooming into a flush that Catra’s keen eyes did not miss. Her face burned crimson; she silently thanked any gods listening that Catra couldn’t see how else the memory betrayed her feelings.
“You want something?” Catra echoed, as if savoring the novelty. She leaned in, grin curling, tail flicking. “That’s rich. Go on, then. Amuse me.”
“The slaves in Horde Prime’s employ… I don’t think they’re treated well,” Adora said, keeping her voice calm, though her pulse thudded violently in her ears.
Catra blinked once, slow, then rolled her eyes. “The slaves? So? They’re slaves.” She straightened as if bored, about to turn away.
“I’ll do whatever you want!” The words ripped out of Adora before she could stop them. Desperation cracked her voice.
That made Catra pause. She cocked her head, smirking. “Go on.”
“I’ll be the perfect slave—the way you want me to be,” Adora said, forcing politeness into her tone like swallowing glass. “You want me to give you reason, publicly, to punish me? I’ll do it. You want me broken down in front of them all? I’ll fall on the sword for you. All I ask is that you help the others.”
“You overestimate the sway I have with Horde Prime.”
“Then at least try,” Adora pressed.
Catra’s eyes narrowed. “And why would I? Am I supposed to believe you actually care about some other Etherian slave? What do they matter to you? From what I’ve seen, you’re the only one so… scarred. Surely the rest are fine compared to you.”
“There are worse things,” Adora whispered.
Catra hummed, low and thoughtful, tail swishing. “You really don’t think, do you?” she said finally. “When someone doesn’t like you very much, it isn’t exactly smart to tell them what you care about. Because then they can use it.”
The blood drained from Adora’s face. Catra’s grin widened at the sight.
“Perhaps I’ve just found myself a new way to torment you,” she murmured. Her claws flexed slowly, deliberately, before retracting. “Tell me, Mara. Would it cut deeper than my claws to watch me slice down your little flower friend?”
Adora’s composure slipped, anger breaking through. “Would that make you happy?” she snapped.
“It might just.” Catra sighed as if the thought genuinely pleased her. Her gaze flicked past Adora then, “Has anyone else spoken to my slave?”
Adora stiffened. Only then did she notice Lonnie standing ten paces behind, silent and still as a guard dog waiting for command.
“Just me,” Lonnie said evenly. “The kitchen clone who brings her meals. And now you.”
Adora’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then her expression fell. “You think this is some kind of trick?”
Catra’s gaze sharpened. “I want to speak to the guard who was stationed with her in the gardens, after I left,” she ordered. Lonnie gave a brisk nod and strode out.
“You really think I’d lie about this?” Adora demanded.
“Shut up,” Catra said flatly, without looking at her.
Silence pressed in until Lonnie returned, dragging in a half-asleep guard who blinked rapidly and straightened the moment he saw Catra.
“Who spoke to my slave in the garden?” Catra asked. “Besides me. Besides Double Trouble. Anyone?”
The guard frowned, thinking. “No one… other than the other slave.” He started to relax, and Catra’s tail flicked in readiness to dismiss him—until he added casually, “Wait. There were two clone guards too.”
Catra’s eyes cut immediately to Adora.
“No—” Adora started, rising to her feet.
“Shut her up,” Catra said without hesitation, already turning away.
And Adora, stripped of patience, stripped of caution, made her choice. She pushed up from her knees and stood tall, ready to defy.
Notes:
I might post another chapter later or tomorrow, depends on if this migraine I have eases up.
Chapter 9
Notes:
As I promised, another chapter
Chapter Text
Seeing no reason whatsoever to cooperate with that order, Adora pushed herself to her feet.
The movement was slow, deliberate—meant to telegraph that she wasn’t intimidated. Her shoulders rolled back, her chin lifted, and her eyes locked on Catra’s with a defiance that was naked, almost reckless.
The effect on the guards was immediate. Both faltered, their steps stalling, hands hovering uncertainly near their weapons. They flicked uncertain glances toward Catra, silently begging for instruction.
Catra narrowed her eyes. Her tail swished lazily behind her, betraying irritation more than true anger. For a long beat, she offered no solution, as if she wanted to see how far Adora would push this.
“You could bring in more guards,” Adora said evenly, her voice cutting through the silence. “If you don’t think you three can take me.”
The room itself bore witness to the tension between them. Behind Adora, the cushions and silk sheets of Adora’s bed lay rumpled and tangled from restless sleep.
“You’re really courting danger tonight,” Catra said at last, her voice a velvet purr.
“Am I?” Adora tilted her head. “I thought I was appealing to your better nature. Order whatever punishment you like, from a coward’s distance. You and Prime are two of a kind.”
It was not Catra who reacted, but Lonnie. The soldier stepped forward sharply, shoulders squared, her lips curling into a scowl. “Watch your mouth.”
Her attire—a simple bodysuit without armor—made her threat feel almost performative. The real danger was the authority she carried by being Catra’s chosen guard.
Adora turned her gaze on her, then let it drift to the second guard. “You’re no better,” she said, voice hardening. “You saw what those clones were doing. And you did nothing to stop them.”
That landed. Both guards stiffened, shame flickering briefly before training clamped it down.
Catra’s hand rose lazily, halting Lonnie before she could take another step.
“What was it they were doing?” Catra asked smoothly, though her tone was sharpened with curiosity.
The other guard hesitated. She shifted, then stepped back slightly as though trying to distance himself from the words. Finally, with a shrug, She said flatly, “Raping one of the slaves.”
There was a pause. If Catra had any reaction, it didn’t show. Her face remained composed, her expression unreadable.
Her gaze shifted back to Adora, eyes gleaming with something cruel. “Does that bother you?” she asked pleasantly. “I recall you being free with your own hands, not so very long ago.”
Adora flushed hot, her mouth opening and closing before she forced words past the knot in her throat. “That was—” She hated the weakness in her voice, hated that the memory Catra invoked was so vivid. “I promise you, those clones did a great deal more than simply enjoy the view.”
“To a slave,” Catra said lightly, dismissing it as nothing.
Adora stared at her. “You don’t interfere with Prime? His clones can just—stick their cocks into anything they want?”
“With my blessing,” Catra replied sweetly.
The sound Adora made was half a scoff, half a groan of disgust.
“Why not?” Catra continued, her smile curling cold at the edges. “They certainly have my blessing to fuck you. But you killed Prime’s favourite beast, and now none of the clones will touch you. Disappointing, really—but I can’t fault their taste. Then again…” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “…maybe if you were clearly on offer, those clones wouldn’t have been so eager to get inside your friend.”
Adora’s stomach twisted, rage clawing at her throat. “This isn’t a scheme of Prime’s,” she said, her voice trembling not with fear, but with fury. “You’re wrong.”
“Wrong,” Catra echoed softly. “How lucky I am, to have servants who point out my shortcomings. What makes you think I’ll tolerate this, even if I believed a word of it?”
Adora’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because you can end this any time you like.”
Catra tilted her head, studying her. A long silence stretched between them, until finally Catra said, “You’re right. I can. Leave us.”
Her tone was calm, but her eyes never left Adora’s. Lonnie and the other guard bowed quickly, retreating through the door without a sound.
When the silence returned, it was heavier, charged.
“I don’t think I need to bring in more guards,” Catra said, stepping forward at last. “I think all I have to do is tell you to kneel. And you’ll do it. Without me lifting a finger to help anyone.”
Adora’s breath caught. She swallowed once, then said quietly, “You’re right.”
Catra’s grin sharpened. “I can end this any time I like?” she purred. “Mara, I haven’t even begun.”
✧
"The Princess’s orders," Adora was told the next day as she was stripped, scrubbed raw, and re-dressed. The garments were plain enough—a simple long tunic of pale silk, the sort of thing that advertised obedience rather than beauty—but the ritual of preparation was deliberate, as though her body belonged to the Horde and could be displayed at whim.
When she asked what the preparations were for, she was told flatly: Tonight you will serve the Princess at the high table.
Lonnie had been the one to deliver this news, pacing back and forth in Adora’s chamber with a soldier’s clipped stride. She spoke like she was lecturing a cadet, voice sharp, eyes hard, every step across the polished floor underscoring her disapproval.
“Pets aren’t usually invited to dine at the high table,” Lonnie said. “You’re not meant for refined company. That she’s taking you there means the Princess sees something in you that I do not. Don’t mistake this for favour. Try to keep silent, keep your head down, and do not touch anyone unless ordered.”
Adora listened, arms folded. The lecture washed over her like cold water. She had no illusions: her excursions under Catra’s command had never ended well. Once to the arena. Once to the gardens. Once to the baths. Each time, degradation. Each time, another piece of herself stripped away. Her body might have healed—scars closing, bruises fading—but none of it had left her.
This time would be no different.
Yet as Lonnie’s words bit the air, Adora’s mind worked elsewhere. Catra’s loyalty to Prime was cracked, brittle as old glass. If Catra could not be swayed, then perhaps Prime himself could be confronted. She had little power, but little was not the same as none.
When the guards arrived, she noted them automatically. Not clones, but Catra’s personal guard in crimson livery. A surprising number of them. Too many to be for her alone. Did Catra always keep herself surrounded like this, or was tonight exceptional?
They led her to Catra’s chambers. The memory of the place struck her—the silk hangings, the lacquered wood furnishings, the faint spice of incense burning in glass dishes. Opulent, suffocating.
Catra emerged from her bedchamber, pausing in the doorway. Her shirt hung half-buttoned, a deliberate negligence that revealed the sharp hollow of her throat. She saw Adora and froze for the briefest instant—then moved forward.
“Leave us,” Catra ordered.
The guards obeyed, unclasping Adora’s restraints before withdrawing. The door sealed with a heavy sound.
“Stand up,” Catra said.
Adora rose slowly. She was just taller than Catra, but the height difference meant nothing here. She had no weapon. No allies. Just herself. Alone, as she always seemed to be with Catra.
And yet—something had shifted. At some point, being left alone with Catra had become dangerous.
Catra closed the remaining space between them, eyes sharp, bi-coloured gaze clouded with disdain. “There is no bargain between us,” she said coldly. “A Princess does not strike deals with slaves. Your promises are worth less than dirt. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly,” Adora answered, her voice level and clipped.
Catra’s expression didn’t soften. She went on, smooth and cruel: “Scorpia of the Fright Zone may be persuaded to request the slaves be sent with her, as part of the trade deal with Prime. If she insists, Prime may even grant her some sort of—loan.” Her lip curled faintly. “A permanent arrangement couched as diplomacy. I have spent the afternoon seeding the idea with Scorpia. The deal will be finalised tonight. You will accompany me to the entertainments. It is Prime’s custom to conduct business in relaxed surroundings.”
"But—: said Adora.
"But?" said Catra, icily.
Adora’s brow furrowed. None of this matched what she expected. Hope tried to stir, but caution smothered it.
“What changed your mind?” Adora asked carefully.
Catra didn’t answer. She only glared at her, eyes hot with hostility.
“Don’t speak unless you’re asked a question,” Catra said at last. “Don’t contradict me. These are the rules. Break them, and I will leave your little friend to rot with joy in my heart.”
Her hand lifted, casually. “Bring me the leash.”
The staff that held it was forged from some alien alloy, heavy and cold in Adora’s hands. The chain itself was delicate, a fragile shimmer of silver links. It seemed so slight, so easily broken—and yet she knew it bound her more surely than any iron shackle.
She picked it up, deliberately slow. “I’m not sure I believe anything you’ve just told me.”
Catra smiled without warmth. “Do you have a choice?”
“No.”
By now, Catra had fastened every button, erasing the vulnerability of her earlier state. She stood immaculate before Adora, every inch of her designed to remind Adora of her place.
"Well? Put it on," Catra said, with a flicker of impatience that made her tone almost casual.
The leash, she meant.
Adora’s hands tightened around the staff, reluctant fingers brushing over the alien metal as though it might burn her. The chain itself looked delicate—mockingly so, considering its weight, its purpose. She hesitated, not out of defiance but because to put it on herself was to acknowledge the role Catra had written for her: not warrior, not comrade, not even enemy—pet.
Scorpia of the Fright Zone was on the ship, that much was true. Adora had overheard whispers from guards, from passing attendants. Scorpia was negotiating, and the Fright Zone’s culture was similar enough to the Horde’s that Adora could imagine slaves being bartered like coin. Perhaps the rest followed. Perhaps Catra had truly seeded the idea, had truly carved out this sliver of possibility.
But Catra wasn’t feigning warmth, or kindness, or anything close to reconciliation. The wall of contempt she wore like armour had not cracked—it had hardened, sharpened, gleamed brighter under the weight of this supposed concession. If she was offering a reprieve, it was only because it served some twisted calculus of her own.
And yet—Adora felt the gnawing awareness that she had placed the fate of the others in this woman’s hands. Volatile. Malicious. Dangerous. Catra was a storm with no compass, and Adora could not trust her, could not predict her, could not even understand the shape of her cruelty.
When the leash clicked into place, Catra’s hand closed over the handler’s staff with easy possession. Her eyes glittered with satisfaction—not at triumph, but at inevitability.
"You’re my pet," she said, her voice purring with mock-pleasure. "That means you outrank others. You don’t need to submit to the orders of anyone except me and Horde Prime. If you decide to blurt out tonight’s plans to him, he’ll be very, very annoyed with me—which, I imagine, you’d enjoy—but you won’t enjoy my response. It’s your choice, of course."
Adora swallowed hard. The words were dressed like an offer, but they cut like a trap.
On the threshold, Catra paused. The archway above threw her face into shadow, making it difficult to read—deliberately so, Adora thought. Catra thrived in the half-light, where her cruelty could be mistaken for charm, where her silence was as sharp as her barbs.
"One more thing," Catra said at last.
Adora waited.
"Be careful of Kyle. The pet you saw with me in the garden."
Adora’s heart gave a single, incredulous thud. Be careful. Not a warning, not a kindness, but an acknowledgement that even among the powerless there were predators.
"Is there anyone on this ship who isn’t my enemy?" she asked bitterly.
Catra’s smile was thin with no warmth.
"Not if I can help it," she said.
Chapter 10
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“So she’s tame?” said one of the emissaries from an alien world. His voice held an uneasy curiosity, like a man speaking of something exotic and half-feared. He reached out, hand hesitant, as though to pat a wild animal and test whether it would bite.
It was a question of which part of the animal he was patting.
Adora’s instincts moved faster than her thoughts—her hand lashed out and knocked his aside, hard enough to sting. The sharp crack of the blow startled him more than the pain.
He gave a sharp yelp and snatched his hand back, cradling it against his chest, eyes wide.
“Not that tame,” Catra drawled, tail flicking behind her.
She didn’t reprimand Adora. Didn’t so much as frown. If anything, the corner of her mouth tugged upward, amused.
She didn’t seem particularly displeased with the barbaric show of claws—so long as they were turned outward, not inward. Like a woman who relished owning a beast that raked at others but curled up to eat peacefully from her own hand, Catra gave her “pet” license others would not dare.
The result was immediate. The emissaries kept their distance, wary, throwing Adora quick, sidelong glances and carefully circling around her. Catra used it to her advantage. Each time they recoiled from Adora, Catra slid easily out of tedious conversations, leaving people flustered and too unsettled to object.
The third time it happened, Adora muttered under her breath, “Shall I growl at the ones you don’t like, or is it enough to just look like a chained animal?”
“Shut up,” Catra said calmly, as though the words were nothing more than an idle command to her pet.
It was said that the First Ones’ Prince kept a great green tiger as his companion, trained to sit at his heel and spring at his enemies. Adora tried not to feel like that tiger now—leashed, displayed, but still dangerous.
Before the negotiations came entertainments, before the entertainments a banquet, and before the banquet this glittering reception. The sequence felt like a labyrinth designed to confuse, weaken, and soften before true matters began.
There were not many Etherians present, but Adora caught one or two familiar faces among the tide of strangers. Across the room, a flicker of green. A glimmer of yellow eyes. Double Trouble lounged like liquid silk, half-curled around the arm of some foreign emissary. Their gaze found hers. With a languid smile, they pressed two fingers to their lips and blew her a kiss.
The Fright Zone delegation arrived late, but they were unmistakable: the severe cut of their uniforms, the harsh lines of their insignia, the weight of their presence.
Catra greeted Scorpia as an equal—which she was. Almost.
It was common, in negotiations of consequence, to send someone of high birth to act as ambassador.
Princess Scorpia was such a person. Younger sister to Serket of the Fright Zone—though “younger” was relative, for Scorpia was a woman in her thirties, with short white hair that caught the light and strong features softened by warmth in her eyes. She bore the formidable scorpion-like appendages of her lineage with an ease that made them part of her beauty rather than a burden.
Relations between Bright Moon and the Fright Zone were friendly and extensive now, but Princess Scorpia and She-Ra had never met. Scorpia had spent most of the past eighteen years on the northern border, commanding campaigns and fortresses while Adora was still a child. Adora knew of her by reputation. Everyone did. She was distinguished, formidable, fifth in line to inherit after the Scorpion King’s litter of three sons and a daughter.
Scorpia’s brown eyes, usually guarded, grew markedly warmer when they settled on Catra.
“Scorpia,” said Catra smoothly. “I’m afraid Prime is delayed. While we wait, I thought you could join my pet and I for some quiet in the garden.”
Adora doubted Prime was delayed at all. She reconciled herself to an evening of listening to Catra lie through her sharp little teeth about everything and anything.
“I’d be delighted,” Scorpia said, genuine pleasure threading her voice. She gestured for one of her own attendants to follow, and together they strolled in a small party: Catra and Scorpia in front, shoulders almost brushing, Adora and the servant a pace or two behind.
The garden was appointed for such retreats. A cushioned bench for officials to recline, a shadowed alcove for servants to fade into silence. Perfume drifted from the gardens below—flowers breathing sweetness into the night air.
Conversation unfolded easily between the two women, though on the surface they had little in common. Of course, Catra was good at talking, at finding the places where differences became curiosities, curiosities became intimacy.
“What news from Bright Moon?” Catra asked at one point, the question shaped like a casual aside but sharpened by intent.
Adora’s head snapped toward her, startled. From anyone else, it might have been kindness. From Catra, it was deliberate. And yet her pulse quickened all the same at the sound of home spoken aloud.
“Have you ever visited the palace before?” Scorpia asked.
Catra shook her head.
“It’s very beautiful,” Scorpia said. “A white palace, built high on the cliffs to command the ocean. But it was a dark place when I arrived. The whole city was in mourning—for the old Queen and for She-Ra. That terrible business. And there were disputes among the Princesses. Factions forming. The beginnings of conflict, dissent.”
“Angela united them,” said Catra. “You don’t think Glimmer can do the same?”
“Perhaps.” Scorpia’s mouth pursed, thoughtful. “Her legitimacy is… an issue. One or two of the other Princesses share the same blood. Not as much as Glimmer, but close enough, once a marriage bed is considered. That sort of situation breeds discontent.”
“What impression did you have of Glimmer?” asked Catra, her tone casual, but her eyes glinting with curiosity.
“A complicated woman,” said Scorpia after a moment’s thought. Her voice carried the weight of careful consideration, like someone used to balancing duty and affection. “Born in the shadow of a throne. But she does have many of the qualities needed in a Queen. Strength. Judiciousness. Ambition.”
“Is ambition needed in a Queen?” Catra tilted her head, her mouth curving into a small, sharp smile. “Or is it simply needed to become Queen?”
Scorpia shifted slightly on the bench, her scorpion tail arching faintly behind her like a punctuation mark. After a pause, she said, “I heard those rumours too—that the death of She-Ra was no accident. But I don’t credit them. I saw Glimmer in her grief. It was genuine. It cannot have been an easy time for her. To have lost so much and gained so much, all in the space of a moment.”
“That is the fate of all princesses destined for a throne,” Catra replied, her voice soft but edged.
Scorpia favoured her with another of those long, admiring looks—warm, unguarded, almost tender in their openness. They were coming with grating frequency now, like a repeated whisper Adora wished she could silence.
Adora frowned, her jaw tight. Catra was a nest of snakes in the body of one person, all coils and venom. And Scorpia—Scorpia looked at her and saw a flower, bright and golden and harmless. The blindness of it made Adora ache.
To hear Etheria spoken of as weakened was as painful as Catra must have meant it to be. Adora’s thoughts snagged and tangled on factional disputes and dissent. If unrest was brewing, it would come first from the north. She remembered maps spread out on council tables, dots of fortifications, arrows showing potential movements. Her chest constricted; she forced the thoughts aside before they showed on her face.
The arrival of a servant forestalled whatever Scorpia might have said next. He was flushed, trying not to show he was out of breath as he bowed low. “Your Highness, forgive my interruption. Horde Prime sends word—he is awaiting you inside.”
“I’ve kept you to myself too long,” Catra said smoothly.
“I wish we had more time together,” Scorpia replied, her tone so warm it was nearly intimate. She showed no inclination to rise until protocol demanded it.
When they entered the reception hall once more, Horde Prime’s face was set in a series of unsmiling lines. The lights above threw his features into relief, each angle sharp, each crease of disapproval deliberate. Still, his greeting to Scorpia was genial, and all the proper formalities were exchanged with impeccable precision.
Scorpia’s servant bowed and withdrew. It was what etiquette demanded. Adora, however, could not follow his example—not unless she was prepared to wrench the leash from Catra’s hand. The thought made her stomach knot.
“Could you excuse Catra and I for a moment?” Prime said at last, his tone silky but heavy with command. His pale gaze came to rest on Catra like a hand pressing down.
It was Scorpia’s turn to withdraw, good-naturedly, though her eyes lingered a fraction too long on Catra before she obeyed.
Adora assumed she was meant to do the same, but Catra’s grip on the leash tightened.
“Little Sister,” Prime said, his patience thinning, “you were not invited to these discussions.”
“And yet, here I am. It’s very irritating, isn’t it?” Catra’s smirk was careless, but her voice had an edge of steel.
“This is serious business between sensible minds,” Prime said coldly. “It’s no time for childish games.”
“I seem to recall being told to take on more responsibility,” Catra replied. “It happened in public, with a great deal of ceremony. If you don’t remember it, check your memory banks.”
“If I thought you were here to take on responsibility, I’d welcome you to the table with open arms. But you have no interest in trade negotiations. You’ve never applied yourself seriously to anything in your life.”
“Haven’t I?” Catra’s voice was low, almost a purr. “Well, then it’s nothing serious, Prime. You have no cause to worry.”
Adora saw Prime’s eyes narrow. The expression was so like Catra’s that for a moment, she felt the hairs on her arms rise. But Prime merely said, “I expect appropriate behaviour,” before turning, his robes whispering across the floor as he preceded them toward the entertainments. His display of patience was more unnerving than anger.
Catra didn’t follow immediately. Her eyes stayed on Prime’s retreating figure, lingering, calculating.
“Your life would be a lot easier if you stopped baiting him,” Adora said quietly, though she regretted it the moment the words left her mouth.
This time Catra’s reply was cold, flat, stripped of all amusement: “I told you to shut up.”
✧
Adora had expected to be placed somewhere at the edge of the hall, a slave kept inconspicuous in the shadows. Instead, she found herself seated beside Catra. Not close—there was a carefully measured space between them, perhaps nine inches, a gulf that felt wider than it looked. Catra’s distance was deliberate, a quiet statement.
Catra sat with perfect composure. Every inch of her posture was conscious, shoulders drawn back, chin lifted, as though the entire table were an audience. She wore her usual severe clothing, stripped of excess ornament, yet the cut and fabric betrayed wealth and command. Only a thin gold circlet adorned her brow, half-concealed beneath her brown hair, catching glints of light when she moved. When they first sat, she unclipped Adora’s leash, coiled it around the handler’s rod, and tossed it to an attendant without even glancing to see if it was caught. The boy fumbled but managed to hold on, blushing as Catra ignored him.
The table stretched on, glittering with dishes, glassware, and cold light from hundreds of candles. On Catra’s other side sat Scorpia, grinning nervously but clearly proud of the placement. On Adora’s other side—unexpectedly, and uncomfortably—was Kyle.
He had no master at his shoulder.
It felt wrong, a breach of protocol, yet he had been dressed carefully enough to pass. His tunic was respectable, his hair brushed neat, his skin free of the gaudy powders and paints that marked pets. Only one detail betrayed him: a long, heavy earring tugged at his ear, twin alien gems dangling so low they nearly brushed his shoulder. It made him look both adorned and ridiculous, exaggerating how young he was.
Adora thought, fleetingly, that Scorpia might mistake him for a emmissary’s son, perhaps, or the child of an Etherian on board. The Horde always played clever with appearances.
Kyle’s beauty was almost startling at this range, but what struck Adora more was his youth. He couldn’t have been more than a boy. His voice, when it came, was unbroken.
“I don’t want to sit next to you,” he muttered suddenly, eyes fixed on his plate. His words were low and sharp, almost panicked in their venom. "Piss off."
Adora’s first instinct was to check if anyone else had heard. Her gaze darted up and down the table, but no one was paying them attention. The first platters of meat had arrived, drawing all eyes. Kyle’s hand, wrapped around a three-pronged utensil, was trembling, knuckles pale with the force of his grip. His eyes flicked about, restless, like he was ready to bolt but had nowhere to run.
Adora leaned a little, softened her voice. “It’s all right,” she whispered. She tried to make it as gentle as she could, careful not to startle him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Kyle looked up sharply, as if he hadn’t expected kindness. His stare pinned her, bright and fevered. For a heartbeat, his features calmed; his face smoothed over into something unreadable.
“Good,” he said flatly—and then stabbed the fork hard into her thigh.
Adora flinched, biting back a cry as pain tore through the silk. She grabbed his wrist instinctively, pulling the fork free even as blood welled up in three small beads.
Catra’s voice slid in, smooth and controlled. “Excuse me a moment.” She turned from Scorpia, her eyes on Kyle.
“I made your pet jump,” Kyle said, smug now, his lips curling as though he’d won some private game.
Catra tilted her head, mouth tugging into the ghost of a smile. “Yes, you did.”
“Whatever you’re planning,” Kyle pressed, eyes narrowing, “it’s not going to work.”
Catra’s tone was almost playful. “I think it will. Bet you your earring.”
Kyle blinked, then gave a tight little grin. “If I win, you wear it.”
Without hesitation, Catra lifted her cup and inclined it toward him, the gesture small but sealing. The bet was struck, as casually as two children swapping toys.
Adora, still pressing her hand against her thigh, felt a wave of disorientation. It was grotesque—their game, the way they seemed to enjoy it. She couldn’t shake the thought that both of them were just kids pretending at war, only the blood on her leg proved it was real.
Kyle waved down a clone for a new fork, and when it came, he resumed eating as though nothing had happened. But with no master to attend to, he leaned into his real sport: needling Adora. His voice came in a low hiss, pitched for her ears alone, a steady stream of sharp-edged insults and obscenities about her body, her past, her imagined habits.
Adora held her face still, refused to give him the reaction he wanted. But his persistence was relentless.
When silence starved him, Kyle shifted tactics. His voice dropped further, venom coating every word.
“You think sitting up here beside her means something? It doesn’t. She won’t touch you. She’s frigid.”
The words struck, but not where Kyle thought. To Adora, it was almost a relief—this subject at least held no power over her. Whatever Catra did, whomever she touched, meant nothing. The thought of Catra in anyone’s bed was hollow, devoid of sting.
Catra fucking anyone bored her.
Kyle’s eyes narrowed, sharp and measuring.
“How long have you been a pet on this ship?” Adora asked, her voice kept low.
“Three years,” Kyle said flatly, with a tone that dripped contempt. It wasn’t an answer—it was a warning. You won’t last three minutes.
Adora regretted asking the moment the words left her lips. Kyle was still a child. Whether his mind had hardened from surviving this place or not, his body had not yet crossed from boyhood into adolescence. Prepubescent. Too small, too young. He looked younger than any other slave she had seen here, all of whom at least bore the faint stamp of puberty. Three years, she thought again, and her stomach churned.
All around them, the dinner went on, oblivious. The Fright Zone and the foreign delegations were engrossed in their own performances of power.
Catra, sitting impeccably at her side, was on her very best behaviour with Scorpia. It was almost uncanny: malice rinsed clean, sharpness softened into wit. She spoke easily of trade routes and the advantages of joint expeditions. She matched Scorpia’s optimism with careful humour, displaying intelligence without ostentation. Every so often, just the faintest edge glimmered—but it came across as charm, not venom.
Scorpia, visibly, was falling into it. Her posture leaned in, her eyes narrowed in concentration, her smile softening at each of Catra’s quips. It was like watching someone walk willingly into deep water, smiling as they drowned.
Adora tried not to think about it.
The banquet rolled forward with endless courses. A “miracle of restraint,” she thought bitterly—only nine. Each was a ribboned or jeweled arrangement of meat, fish, or vegetable, brought in with ceremonial timing. The clones served them with practiced precision, faceless, perfect, efficient.
The pets did not serve at all. Nestled close to their masters, some were hand-fed morsels like indulgent children. Others stole food with playful audacity, rewarded with laughter and caresses instead of punishment. They were lapdogs who had discovered their owners would always find them charming, no matter how insolent.
“It’s a shame I haven’t arranged for you to view the slaves,” Catra was saying, just as the sweets began to arrive—glass dishes of candied fruit, lattices of spun sugar, pastry towers glistening under syrup.
“You don’t need to,” Scorpia replied warmly. “We were shown them earlier. I’ve never seen slaves of such quality, even in the Fright Zone. And I trust your taste, of course.”
“I’m glad,” Catra said.
Adora, still half-focused on Kyle, noticed the boy’s posture change. He was listening now, every muscle alert, though his face betrayed nothing.
“I’m sure Horde Prime will agree to the exchange if you press strongly enough,” Catra added.
“If he does, I’ll owe it to you,” Scorpia said.
At that, Kyle abruptly pushed back his chair and rose from the table.
Adora, alarmed, seized the opportunity to bridge the cold nine inches between herself and Catra. She lowered her voice. “What are you doing? You were the one who warned me about Kyle.”
Catra stilled, then deliberately leaned toward her, her lips brushing Adora’s ear. “I think I’m out of stabbing range,” she murmured, low enough to make it sound intimate. “He’s got short arms. Perhaps he’ll throw a sugar plum instead. If I duck, he’ll hit Scorpia.”
Adora clenched her teeth. “You know what I meant. He heard you. He’s going to act. Can’t you do something?”
“I’m occupied.”
“Then let me—”
“Bleed on him?” Catra suggested lightly.
Adora turned sharply to her, about to snap back, when Catra’s hand rose without warning. Her fingers touched Adora’s mouth, her thumb brushing across her jawline. The contact silenced her more effectively than a gag.
It was the kind of absent caress a master might give a pet in public, a casual gesture of ownership. Yet from the sharp ripple of surprise that ran across the table—the widening eyes, the sudden pause in voices—it was clear Catra never did this sort of thing. Perhaps never had.
“My pet was feeling neglected,” Catra said smoothly, turning back to Scorpia as if nothing had happened.
Scorpia’s gaze flicked between them. “She’s the captive Glimmer sent you? She’s… safe?”
Glimmer had sent her? Not lost in conflict, but sent her?
“She looks combative,” Catra replied evenly, “but she’s really very docile. Very adoring. Like a puppy.”
“A puppy,” Scorpia repeated, skeptical.
To prove her point, Catra plucked up a sweet: a sticky jewel of honey and crushed nuts. She held it out between thumb and forefinger, the way she had at the arena.
“Sweet?” she asked.
The moment seemed to stretch unnaturally long. Adora thought about killing her. Thought about driving the silver dish into Catra’s throat.
Instead, she leaned forward and took the confection in her mouth. It was cloying, syrup thick against her tongue. She did not let her lips brush Catra’s fingers. She forced herself to swallow, and the taste turned her stomach.
Catra immediately dipped her fingers into the washing bowl, rinsing them as though sullied, drying them with a neat square of silk.
Scorpia stared openly. In the Fright Zone, it was always the other way around. Slaves peeled fruit, poured wine, fed their masters—not this.
Conversation stuttered, then recovered. Around them, delicate sugar towers crumbled under eager fingers, glazed pastries split to release perfumed steam. The air grew heavy with spice and syrup.
Adora glanced sideways. Kyle’s chair was empty. The boy had slipped away.
✧
Across the room, Kyle had reappeared. He was speaking low into Double Trouble’s ear, the shapeshifter stooping almost double to catch his words. Kyle looked oddly composed for a boy his age—as though he were used to moving pieces on a board no one else could see. When he finished, he peeled away and came directly toward Adora.
“Did the Princess send you? You’re too late,” he said, matter-of-fact, but with that sly undercurrent that made her bristle.
Too late for what? was the natural reply. But this wasn’t a ship of allies—it was a nest of predators. She held her tongue.
“If you’ve hurt anyone—” she began, her voice low and taut.
Kyle’s mouth curved into a smirk far too old for his face. “You’ll what? You won’t. You don’t have time.” He lifted his chin in mock authority. “Horde Prime wants to see you. He sent me to tell you. You should hurry. You’re keeping him waiting.” His smirk deepened. “He sent me ages ago.”
Adora froze, searching his expression for truth.
“Well? Off you go,” Kyle said breezily, already turning away.
It could easily be a lie. But if it wasn’t—if Prime was truly waiting—then hesitation would be taken as defiance. And defiance here had consequences. She went.
It wasn’t a lie. Horde Prime had summoned her, and when she arrived, he dismissed his courtiers and attendants with a single flick of his hand. Silence deepened around them as Adora stood alone before his chair, the hall lit only by the muted glow of lamps that made the air feel close, heavy.
The warmth and chatter of the feast beyond was muffled, like another world. She bowed, offered all the careful gestures of deference.
“I suppose it excites a slave to plunder the treasures of a princess,” said Horde Prime at last, voice low and deliberate. “You have taken Catra?”
Adora stilled, hardly daring to shift even the air with her breath. “No, Horde Prime.”
“The other way around, then.” His gaze lingered. “Has she taken you?”
“No,” Adora said, more carefully.
“And yet…” Prime leaned forward, eyes sharp as glass. “You eat from her hand. The last time we spoke, you preferred her to be punished. How do you explain this sudden change?”
You won’t like my response, Catra had warned her.
Adora bowed her head. “I serve,” she said. “That lesson is written on my back.”
For a moment, Prime regarded her as though weighing her marrow. “Almost disappointing, if it is only that. Catra might benefit from… steadiness. Someone close to her, with sound judgment. A woman unswayed by charm, who might guide her without faltering.”
Adora’s throat felt tight. “Swayed?”
“Catra is… persuasive,” said Prime. “If anyone could make a woman eat from the hand that struck her, it is Catra. Where, then, is your loyalty?”
And Adora understood—it wasn’t a question. It was a line being drawn, and she was being told to step across it.
Her body ached with the temptation. To stand on Prime’s side would be to stand with power itself, the authority that ruled this ship and all upon it. But her stomach turned with the thought. Not while Catra shielded her, in ways she still barely understood. Not while there was even the chance Catra acted for her sake.
Her voice was steady when she answered. “I’m not the woman you want. I don’t influence her. I’m not close to her. She has no love for Etheria, or its people.”
Prime considered this, eyes narrowing faintly.
“You are honest. That pleases me. As for the rest—we shall see. That will do for now.” He leaned back, voice final. “Go. Fetch me Catra. I prefer her not left alone with Scorpia.”
“Yes, Horde Prime.”
It felt oddly like a reprieve, though she could not say why.
She inquired discreetly and learned that Catra and Scorpia had withdrawn again to the gardens, escaping the heavy, wine-thick air of the hall. As she neared, Adora slowed her step. Voices floated through the cool night air, softened by the rustling leaves.
She glanced back—the banquet hall was out of sight. Prime could not see her here. If they were speaking of trade or negotiation, it was better to give them time.
“—told my advisors I was past the age to be distracted by beautiful young women,” came Scorpia’s voice, warm with laughter.
Adora froze. Not trade.
“And then I met you,” Scorpia went on, “and then I spent an hour in your company.”
“More than an hour,” said Catra, with a teasing lift in her tone. “Less than a day. You get distracted more easily than you admit.”
It startled Adora, but when she thought back over the evening, she realised it had been building all along. Scorpia’s gaze, her attention, her devotion—it had been drowning in Catra. And Catra, impossibly, was letting her.
Adora lingered in the shadows, curiosity pricking sharp as thorns.
“And you—not at all?”
There was the faintest pause, the kind that betrayed something unspoken beneath the smoothness of Catra’s voice.
“You’ve been listening to gossip,” she said at last, dry but not without a faint curl of humour.
“Is it true, then?” Scorpia asked, tone lighter now, as though daring her to deny it.
“That I’m… not easily courted?” Catra’s mouth curved in a slant of irony. “I doubt it’s the worst thing you’ve heard about me.”
“By far the worst—from my perspective,” said Scorpia, warmth in her voice that softened the words into something closer to praise.
That pulled the smallest sound from Catra, half amusement, half acknowledgement—a breath that almost counted as a laugh.
Scorpia’s voice shifted then, low and close, as if she had leaned nearer. “I’ve heard plenty of things about you. But I’d rather judge for myself.”
“And what do you find?” Catra asked, her tone matched in intimacy, though she reclined easily against the bench, feline and unhurried.
Adora had heard enough. She stepped forward, her foot scuffing on the floor.
Scorpia startled, turning with a guilty look—affairs of the heart, or even the body, were things customarily kept private. Catra, in contrast, didn’t so much as flinch. Only her eyes slid lazily toward Adora, sharp with recognition, the rest of her remaining languid and composed. They had, indeed, been standing closer than Etherian propriety would allow—close enough that one more step might have bridged the distance.
“Your Highness, Horde Prime has sent for you,” Adora said, her voice firm.
“Again?” Scorpia frowned, concern etching a small line into her brow.
Catra unfolded herself from the bench, movements lithe, every gesture deliberate. “He’s overprotective,” she said carelessly. And just like that, Scorpia’s line of worry smoothed out at the reassurance.
As she passed Adora, Catra murmured under her breath, too soft for Scorpia to hear: “You took your time.”
Adora remained, left in the quiet glow of the garden with Scorpia. The air smelled faintly of the flowers climbing along the trellises, and from the hall behind them came a distant hum of music and laughter. Here, though, it was still. Adora was uncomfortably aware that she ought to lower her eyes, the way slaves were expected to. She didn’t.
Scorpia’s attention lingered in the direction Catra had gone, a soft light in her eyes.
“She is a prize, a gorgeous wildcat." Scorpia said warmly, with the kind of earnestness that felt almost too honest. “I’ll wager you never thought a princess could be jealous of a slave. But right now, I would trade places with you in a heartbeat.”
You don’t know her, Adora thought bitterly. You’ve only known her one night. You don’t know the teeth beneath the coy smile.
“I think the entertainment will begin shortly,” Adora said instead, her voice carefully neutral.
“Yes, of course,” Scorpia agreed, turning back to her with good humour. Together, they followed the path back into the din of the dining hall.
Notes:
I dont have Netflix at the moment so I've been watching Danny Motta react to She-Ra instead
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Adora had, in her life, been required to sit through many spectacles. But on the Horde flagship, entertainment had taken on a new, more decadent meaning.
When Double Trouble stepped forward, Adora braced herself for something shocking—something that might have made even the most hardened Fright Zone officer faint. And she was not disappointed.
With effortless grace, they shifted fluidly from one form to another, wearing faces and bodies like veils, each change punctuated with a new movement of the dance. It was hypnotic—sensual, teasing, but never clumsy. Even without the shimmer of transformation, the choreography itself was entrancing: strength masked in elegance, athleticism disguised as art.
Adora found herself watching with a new kind of respect. This wasn’t simply playacting; it was discipline. Training. A craft honed over years. For once, the spectacle wasn’t just about degradation or indulgence—it was a performance of skill. She admired it. It was, she realised, the first time tonight she had seen any of the so-called “pets” display anything beyond wearing fine clothes or being used like ornaments.
The audience, lulled into relaxation, murmured their approval. Adora sat at Catra’s side again, the leash clipped to her collar—a tether as much symbolic as it was practical. She suspected she was meant to serve as a kind of chaperone, a display piece to soften Catra’s edges.
Catra herself was carefully composed, her manner the bland politeness of someone politely enduring the attentions of a suitor she had no wish to encourage.
Boxed in by your own cleverness, Adora thought with a flicker of amusement as she watched Scorpia’s servant approach. At Scorpia’s command, the servant produced an Etherian fruit, sliced it with a deft hand, and presented a piece to Catra. Catra accepted without expression, eating the morsel delicately, then wiped her fingers on the silken cloth offered with a flourish. The handkerchief was sheer, edged with silver thread. Catra handed it back carelessly, crushed in her palm.
“I’m enjoying the performance,” Adora murmured, unable to resist.
“Scorpia’s servant is better supplied than you are,” Catra replied, her voice smooth.
“I don’t have sleeves to hide handkerchiefs in,” Adora countered. “I wouldn’t mind being given a knife.”
“Or a fork?” Catra suggested.
Before Adora could answer, a ripple of applause rose from the audience. The performance had ended, and a small commotion stirred at the far end of the hall.
Adora’s amusement vanished. Perfuma was being dragged forward by a clone handler, her feet stumbling against the marble floor. She was scarcely dressed—barely veiled at all—and her face was pale with shame.
A voice piped up, light and teasing, a little too pleased with itself: “Since you like them so much, I thought we could watch one of the Etherian slaves perform.”
Adora turned her head sharply. Kyle. Here again—on the absurd pretext of that wagered earring.
Scorpia, genial but frowning slightly, shook her head. “Catra, something is bothering that one. She can’t even keep still.” Then, after a pause, in a lower voice: “Although she is pretty. Very pretty.”
Perfuma was pretty.
“Pretty or not,” Scorpia continued, “I can’t take a dozen untrained slaves back to the Fright Zone with me. I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”
Adora seized Kyle by the wrist, her grip hard enough to make him wince. “What have you done?”
“Let go! I haven’t done anything!” he protested, rubbing at his wrist when she released him. He shot a glance at Catra, indignant. “You let her speak to her betters like that?”
“Not to her betters,” Catra said smoothly.
Colour flared in Kyle’s cheeks at that, and he fell silent.
Perfuma looked as though she might be sick. Her skin had gone paper white, her lips pressed tight as she fought not to break down in front of the entire hall.
“Stop this,” Adora said sharply to Catra. “It’s cruel. That girl was already mistreated—now you’re humiliating her in front of everyone.”
“Humiliated?” Scorpia repeated, her head tilting in mild surprise.
“Not humiliated—shown off!” Kyle interrupted quickly. “She just can’t handle people seeing her body. Like a prude.”
Scorpia ignored him. Her eyes remained fixed on Perfuma, who stood swaying in place, her gaze glassy, her expression empty with hopelessness.
Scorpia lifted one clawed hand in a decisive gesture. “Bring her to me.”
Perfuma managed a slightly better prostration this time. Her breathing slowed, her trembling eased, and she seemed to calm further in Catra’s presence. It made little sense—until Adora remembered that Perfuma, in her boundless optimism, had once described Catra as kind.
Scorpia, attentive and unexpectedly gentle, asked Perfuma several questions. At first, Perfuma answered in halting, shy fragments, but soon her voice steadied, and her replies began to carry a nervous, budding grace. Scorpia listened carefully, nodding as though each word mattered. Then, with a small and almost tender inevitability, Scorpia’s clawed hand came to rest atop Perfuma’s curls, protective rather than threatening. Perfuma’s lashes fluttered at the contact, as if she had been waiting for it.
Moments later, Scorpia asked Perfuma to sit beside her during the trade negotiations. Perfuma obeyed with hesitant eagerness, her small movements infused with the gratitude of someone who had been adrift and now thought they had found safe harbor. When Scorpia shifted, Perfuma leaned close enough that her golden curls brushed against the thick armor at Scorpia’s neck. She bent reverently to kiss first the claws, then the slope of Scorpia’s shoulder, the gesture instinctive, half-learned, half-desperate.
Adora’s eyes flicked to Catra, searching for any trace of reaction. But Catra allowed it all to unfold as if she had orchestrated the scene herself. She reclined with a languid, unreadable expression, her tail twitching faintly. And Adora—watching Scorpia’s affections redirect, watching Perfuma bloom in the glow of attention—understood. Perfuma offered something Catra could not. There was vulnerability in her, an openness, a hunger for connection so raw it felt like a living thing. She was a mirror of need. Catra, by contrast, was cool as carved obsidian: her profile sharp and perfect, a line of beauty the eye could not resist tracing. But Adora carried the scars on her back as proof—look, but do not touch.
“You planned this,” Kyle hissed. His voice was low, urgent, like a lover’s accusation: How could you! Yet it was sharpened with venom, the undertone of betrayal and humiliation.
Catra’s ears twitched, her smile faint and cruel. “You had a choice. You didn’t have to show me your claws.”
“You tricked me.” Kyle’s face twisted, spite plain on his features. “I’m going to tell—”
“Tell him,” Catra cut in, smooth and dangerous. “Tell him everything. How I schemed, how I disobeyed—and how you helped me. Do you think he’ll be pleased? Shall we find out? I’ll walk with you. We’ll go together.”
For a moment Kyle’s eyes darted, searching for an escape, some angle that might undo the trap he’d walked into. What flickered across his face was desperately calculating, the expression of someone who wanted to wound, even while cornered.
Catra sighed, as though tired of the game. “Oh, will you—enough. You’re learning. Next time, it won’t be so easy to best you.”
Kyle’s jaw clenched. “I promise you, it won’t,” he spat, his voice dripping venom. Then he turned sharply on his heel and left.
Adora noticed one thing as he stormed off: he did not, in his fury, hand Catra his earring.
✧
She was brought to Scorpia on the next cycle, after a long, draining interview with two Fright Zone servants. They had pressed her for everything she knew about the handling of Etherian slaves aboard the ship. Some questions left her fumbling—others she could answer easily. Yes, the Etherians had been trained in Horde etiquette. Yes, they were instructed in language and protocol. And yes, they knew what was expected of them.
Scorpia’s quarters looked much like Catra’s, though smaller and simpler. The carved archways were softened by heavy curtains, the air carrying a faint trace of spiced wine. It felt warmer here—less like a place built for sharp edges, more like a space where someone actually lived.
Scorpia came out from her bedchamber looking rested, draped in loose trousers and a silk robe that fell straight to the ground, parting at the front. She didn’t seem to notice or care what it revealed—her broad chest, defined breasts, the heavy muscles of her carapace arms. The robe settled in comfortable folds around her when she moved.
Through the arch behind her, Adora caught sight of pale limbs tangled in sheets, and a tumble of blond curls against the pillow. Perfuma. The sight struck her with an odd pang, reminding her—too vividly—of Scorpia on the balcony the night before, leaning toward Catra with laughter in her voice.
“She’s sleeping,” Scorpia said softly, careful not to wake the girl. She motioned toward a low table where fruit and tea had been set out. Adora followed her over. The leash at her throat gave a small chime as she sat.
“We haven’t…” Scorpia began, then trailed off. The silence stretched, carrying a weight all its own. Adora waited, braced for blunt words that never came. Then she realised—the pause was the explanation.
“She’s… willing,” Scorpia continued, her voice lower. “But I think something’s happened to her before this. Something bad. I didn’t want to push her. So I thought I’d ask you—what do you know? I don’t want to… hurt her by accident.”
Her clawed hands flexed on the table. For a moment her eyes looked dark and worried, not at all like the blunt, cheerful soldier Adora had known of back in Etheria.
Adora’s chest tightened. This is the Horde, she thought. There isn’t a gentle way to explain what happens here.
“She was… Horde Prime’s personal slave,” Adora said quietly. “Before she came on board, she was probably untouched. But after… no.”
Scorpia’s expression hardened, then fell. “…I figured as much.”
“I don’t know all the details,” Adora admitted.
“You don’t have to,” Scorpia said quickly. “That’s enough. Thanks for being straight with me. And—thanks for what you did this morning, too. You know, in the Horde it’s kind of tradition to give a pet a gift after they do well.”
Her gaze flicked over Adora, assessing. “But you don’t really look like a jewelry type.”
Adora gave a small, wry smile. “Not really, no. But… thank you.”
“Alright, then,” Scorpia said, tilting her head. “Is there something else I could get you?”
Adora hesitated. There was something—something dangerous. Her fingers brushed the polished grain of the imported table, grounding herself.
“You were in Bright Moon,” she said at last. “After She-Ra’s funeral?”
“Yeah,” Scorpia said. “That’s right.”
“What happened to her household? After she died?”
“I think it was disbanded,” Scorpia said simply.
“Disbanded,” Adora repeated under her breath, the word bitter as ash. She remembered swords ringing in Bright Moon’s halls, remembered being too slow to see what was coming.
“Glimmer was furious,” Scorpia went on. “She blamed the guards for what happened. Executed She-Ra’s personal detail—some of the others on duty, too.”
Adora’s stomach lurched. Yes. She had warned Bow. Glimmer would have wanted every witness erased, every loose end cut.
“And… Bow?” Adora asked. His name came out the way she had always spoken it, without formality.
Scorpia gave her a searching look. “…He’s fine. Healthy. And Glimmer—well. She’s expecting. His child.”
Adora froze.
“Whether they’ll make it official with a wedding, I don’t know,” Scorpia continued, “but it makes sense. Securing the line. From the way she acts, she’s planning to raise the kid as—”
“Her heir,” Adora whispered.
Her throat closed around the word. She looked up—and caught Scorpia staring at her strangely. Too intently.
“You know,” Scorpia said slowly, “you kind of look like She-Ra. Just a little. It’s in the eyes. The shape of your face. The more I look at you—”
No.
“—the more I see it. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“No—” Adora cut across her, too fast, too loud.
Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She dragged herself back from the memory of Bright Moon—of Glimmer, of Bow—back into the present, where she sat under Scorpia’s steady gaze, balancing on the knife’s edge of discovery. The only thing shielding her now was the sheer audacity of Glimmer’s deception. A right-minded woman like Scorpia would never even imagine such brazen treachery.
“I—” Adora forced her voice down, made herself breathe. “Forgive me. I only meant—please don’t tell Catra you think I resemble She-Ra. She wouldn’t… take kindly to the comparison. At all.”
That much was safe. It was true. Catra’s mind was already too sharp, too close to guessing. Adora could not risk nudging her any nearer.
“She has no love for She-Ra,” Adora added, carefully, “or for Etheria.”
She ought to tack on something polite, some small flattery about being honoured by the likeness. But the words lodged in her throat. She couldn’t do it.
For the moment, it was enough to shift Scorpia’s focus.
“Yes,” Scorpia said slowly, brow furrowed. “Catra’s feelings about Etheria are… no secret. I’ve tried to talk to her, but…” She shook her head. “I can’t say I was surprised when she wanted the slaves from Bright Moon gone. If I were her, I’d be wary too.”
Adora almost laughed. Bitterly. The thought of Glimmer as a threat to Catra—like imagining a puppy plotting against a tiger.
“I think the Princess can hold her own,” Adora said instead, dry as dust.
“Mm. You could be right,” Scorpia allowed, though her expression was still troubled. “She does have a rare mind.”
Scorpia rose, signalling that their talk was done. In the same moment, Adora heard the faint stir of movement from the bed—Perfuma shifting in her sleep, curls spilling across the pillow.
“I’m looking forward to a renewed relationship with the Horde after her ascension,” Scorpia said as she moved to the door, her robe whispering against the floor.
She gave Adora a crooked grin. “You can tell Catra I said that, if you like.”
Adora inclined her head, murmured something noncommittal, and slipped from the room—her pulse still unsteady. Adora told herself—as the clones escorted her back to her quarters—that once Scorpia departed on the next cycle, she would be free again to look for a way out of this rotting, treacherous place.
✧
Her chance came two nights later, though nothing about it resembled the escape she imagined.
She woke with a jolt. Her first thought was Catra; it was always Catra when sleep was shattered like this. But the figures waiting in the dark were not Catra. Two guards stood over her, Etherians in the Princess’s crimson. Their faces meant nothing to her.
“You’re summoned,” one of them said.
Adora pushed herself upright, still half-caught in sleep. “Summoned where?”
“The Princess,” the other answered with a sly grin, “wants you in her bed.”
“What?” The word tumbled out of her before she could stop it.
A hand shoved her forward, rough enough to knock her to her feet. She stumbled across the cold floor, legs stiff, heart hammering.
“Move,” the first guard ordered. “Don’t keep her waiting.”
Adora braced herself, digging in against the shove. “But—”
“Keep walking.”
She resisted anyway, dragging her heels. The corridor stretched before her in reluctant paces, every step forced.
The guard behind her swore under his breath. “Half those onboard would kill for this. You’d think you’d be grateful at the chance to fuck her.”
Adora’s back stiffened, anger cutting through her fear. “The Princess doesn’t want me for that.” Her voice came out sharp and certain.
“Walk.” His tone dropped low. A moment later the pressure of steel kissed her ribs.
She drew in a thin breath and moved.
Notes:
I hope you're super confused 🙂
Or maybe you have more theories 😁
Chapter 12
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Adora had survived summons from Catra before. She knew the rhythm of them, the cold edge of Catra’s voice, the mockery, the threats. This—this felt different. She had no reason for the sharp tension across her shoulders, for the knot of heat and dread curled low in her stomach.
The walk through the corridors had the outward shape of secrecy, of a clandestine meeting arranged in wHerpers. But Adora knew better. Whatever this looked like, whatever she had been told—it was wrong. Catra didn’t sneak lovers through the halls. Midnight assignations weren’t her style.
That wasn’t what this was.
And yet Catra was impossible to predict. Adora’s eyes moved restlessly across the shadowed labyrinth of passageways, searching for some pattern. Something was off. The guards who normally lined these halls—Lonnie, Rogelio—were gone. Had they been relieved of duty, or cleared away for a reason?
“Did she really say those words—her bed? What else did she tell you?” Adora asked.
The guards gave her nothing. Only silence, broken by the steady rhythm of their boots.
The point of a knife urged her forward when she slowed. She obeyed, each step drawing the unease tighter around her ribs. The halls were empty. Too empty. No guards. No clones. Only her and these men she did not know.
At last they reached a door. A single sentry stood there, dark-haired, dressed in the Princess’s red. A sword hung at his hip. He gave a nod to his fellows. “She’s inside.”
Adora’s breath hitched. Maybe she knew then.
The doors slid open.
Catra was there. Not waiting, not expectant—simply there. She lounged on a reclining couch, feet tucked beneath her in a loose, boyish sprawl. A book lay open across her knees, something from a world Adora didn’t recognize. On the small table beside her sat a clear glass goblet, its contents catching the dim light.
She wore only trousers and a white shirt, the fabric so fine it seemed to shimmer without embroidery or jewel. The folds fell loosely, sketching out the long, effortless lines of her body. Adora’s eyes betrayed her, rising from the soft drape of the shirt to the column of Catra’s throat, the dark hair parting around a sharp, unadorned ear.
Catra looked up.
She blinked once, twice, as if her vision needed to steady. Adora’s gaze flicked to the goblet—yes. She had seen this before: the slight blur of Catra dulled by wine, her sharp edges softened but no less dangerous.
It might have carried the illusion of a secret tryst a few seconds longer. Catra drunk was unpredictable enough to demand anything. But the illusion shattered at once. Catra’s eyes, mismatched blue and green, were startled. She had not been expecting company. And she did not know these guards.
With deliberate care, she closed her book.
And rose.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Catra said.
Catra drifted closer to the archway, shoulders tight, ears twitching at the smallest sound. She looked casual, but Adora knew better.
The hall outside had been too empty. Too quiet. No guards, no Lonnie, no Rogelio. That silence had been the first warning.
The second came when the door shut behind them, and the guard stepped inside. Three of them now. All armed.
“I don’t think the Princess is in the mood,” Adora said, keeping her voice flat.
Catra’s ears flicked. “Takes me a while to warm up.”
Then came the scrape of steel being drawn.
Adora didn’t stop to think. Later, she’d wonder why—why she moved at all. She should have let it happen. Catra had earned her enemies. But her body remembered a night when she’d been caught off guard, when everything she trusted had turned to chaos. And before she could talk herself out of it, she swung.
Her fist connected with the man holding a knife at her back. He grunted, stumbling, the blade slipping from his hand. She drove her knuckles into his stomach, harder this time. He folded over, choking on air.
The second man spun toward her, cursing, sword already coming down. He didn’t even hesitate—he thought she’d be easy.
Too close. She ducked under the swing, grabbed his arm, shoved her weight against his. The impact rattled her teeth, but he staggered back, swearing.
Across the room came a crash of splintering wood. Catra was off the couch, low to the ground, claws out. She met a sword with her bare clawed hands. She yanked the man down with her tail, slamming him into the floor with a nasty thud.
She was smiling now—sharp, wild, blood already streaking her claws.
The man in Adora’s grip spat, “She’s the Princess’s bitch. Kill her!”
That was all the warning she needed to manoeuvre out of the way. And the knife meant for her ran straight into the swordsman’s unarmored chest.
The man with the knife didn’t stay down for long. He pulled himself up, slick with sweat, eyes sharp and calculating. Adora didn’t give him the chance to recover fully. She shoved forward, catching him off guard, and he stumbled back, fingers loosening on the hilt. Without thinking twice, she grabbed him around the hip and shoulder and swung him hard into the wall.
He crumpled, dazed and slack, unable to resist as Adora forced him into a hold. Her arms shook with the effort, but he wasn’t getting free.
Adora glanced over. Catra was standing, breathing steady, eyes cold. She had already dispatched her opponent, rising from over the third man’s prone body, stripping him of the knife.
Adora’s gaze dropped to the knife in Catra’s hand. The blade was serrated, gilded at the hilt, identical to the one lying in the dead swordsman’s hand. Blood coated it almost to the hilt, stark against her pristine white shirt. She looked impossibly calm, untouched by the chaos around her, the dim light flattering her every line.
Adora swallowed, a knot of tension tightening in her chest.
“What do you want me to do with him?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Keep him from moving,” Catra said simply, stepping forward.
Adora adjusted her grip. The man twisted and thrashed, trying to break free, but she tightened her hold, feeling the muscles in her arms coil and lock as she absorbed his struggling.
Catra raised the knife. She sliced with clinical precision, a smooth motion, and the man’s throat opened beneath the blade. The choked, wet sound made Adora flinch. The man’s hands rose to his own throat, instinctive and hopeless. He went down, and Adora’s grip loosened, partly from shock, partly from relief.
Catra’s eyes flicked to her, sharp and calculating. Adora reacted immediately. She lunged forward, moving to neutralize any chance of another attack.
Bodies collided. Adora grabbed Catra’s wrist just as the blade swung. Muscle met muscle, tension crackling between them. Catra pushed back, her own strength surprising, resisting every pound of pressure Adora applied. Adora’s arms burned, her body alive with exertion.
“Let go of my arm,” Catra said evenly.
“Drop the knife,” Adora said, voice firm.
“If you keep holding me,” Catra warned, “it’s not going to be easy for you.”
Adora pushed slightly harder. Resistance flinched, shivered, and then gave way. The knife clattered to the floor. She released her grip immediately, stepping back. Catra mirrored her movement, taking two deliberate steps backward, widening the space between them.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, breathing heavy, muscles taut, the room still humming with tension.
The knife lay on the floor between them. The man with the slit throat was dead, his body rigid, head twisted to one side. Blood had soaked through his clothes, darkening the red of his uniform.
The room was chaos. Catra’s struggles had been far from contained. A table lay overturned, shattered ceramic scattered across the floor, a goblet rolled across the metal tiles, and a wall hanging had been ripped partially free. And blood. So much blood. Catra’s first kill of the night had been messy; this one felt worse.
Breathing was shallow on both sides. Finally, Catra’s voice cut through the quiet: "You can’t decide whether you’re helping me or trying to kill me. Which is it?”
“I’m not surprised three men tried to kill you,” Adora said bluntly, chest heaving. “I am surprised there weren’t more.”
Catra’s eyes narrowed. “There were more,” she said simply.
Adora felt heat rise in her face. “I didn’t choose this,” she said, voice tight. “I was dragged here. I don’t know why.”
“To help,” Catra said.
“Help?” Adora repeated, incredulous. “You were completely unarmed.” She remembered the casual way the man had held his knife, expecting her to either stand by or comply. The thought that anyone could assume she’d let three overwhelm her—even though it was Catra—made her stomach twist.
Catra’s gaze stayed sharp.
“Like the guy you just—” Adora paused, gesturing at the dead swordsman.
“In my corner of the fight,” Catra said, voice low, “the men weren’t exactly helping kill each other.”
Adora opened her mouth, but a sound from the corridor froze her. Footsteps, armour clattering—the distinct sound of armed clones.
They both squared off instinctively toward the bronze doors. The room filled quickly—two, five, seven—numbers stacking against them.
“Your Highness, are you hurt?” one called out.
“No,” Catra replied, now calm and collected.
The lead clone gestured to the others to secure the room and check the three bodies.
“A servant found two of your men dead,” the clone reported. “She came straight to tell us.”
“I see,” Catra said evenly.
Adora felt hands grab her, rough and insistent, pressing her into a restraining grip she remembered all too well from the early days of her capture. She didn’t resist—there was nothing she could do.
Her wrists were twisted behind her back, a hand pressed firmly to the back of her neck.
“Move her,” the lead clone ordered.
Catra’s voice was sharp but calm. “And why, exactly, am I supposed to hand over my slave?”
The lead clone hesitated.
“Your Highness, there was an attack—”
“Not by her,” Catra cut in, voice steady and firm.
“One of the weapons is Etherian,” another clone added.
“Your Highness, if there’s been an Etherian attack on you,” the lead clone said, his voice clipped but uncertain, “then odds are this one’s involved.”
Adora’s stomach dropped. Too perfect. Too easy. And she understood in an instant why the men had dragged her here—it wasn’t to kill her outright. It was to leave her standing over the bodies, framed neatly for the blame. They hadn’t expected to lose, but their plan worked even in death.
And now Catra—Catra, who never missed a chance to see her humiliated, cornered, or broken—had been handed exactly what she needed.
Adora could see it in her eyes. She could feel it, the way Catra’s gaze lingered on her like she was weighing the satisfaction of letting them drag Adora away. Adora’s chest tightened with bitter regret at having saved Catra’s life moments earlier.
“You’ve got it wrong,” Catra said at last. Her tone was flat, but sharp around the edges, like she was forcing the words out. “No one attacked me. Those three went after the slave. Some old grudge.”
Adora’s head snapped up.
“The… slave?” the lead clone repeated, his expression twisting like he couldn’t quite follow what he’d just heard. Adora wasn’t sure she could, either.
“Let her go,” Catra ordered.
The hands clamped on Adora didn’t move. The grip was firm, almost bruising. The clones weren’t hers to command, not really, and the one in charge gave the barest shake of his head, overruling her order without saying a word.
“Your Highness,” he began carefully, “until we’re sure you’re safe, it would be negligent of me to—”
“You’ve already been negligent,” Catra cut in.
The room went still. The officer’s jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffening under the weight of the accusation. He flinched, but only slightly—enough to prove she’d struck home. The hold on Adora eased, the pressure on her arms loosening.
Catra’s voice stayed calm, but there was steel in it. “You turned up late. You manhandled what’s mine. And now you want to pile on by arresting an innocent slave? Against my orders?”
Adora felt the hands on her wrists slip away entirely. She straightened slowly, her pulse hammering.
“I want the room cleared,” Catra said, turning back to the officer. “At once. Inform my men about the disturbance. I’ll summon one of them when I’m ready.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The clone inclined his head stiffly.
As the squad began to move, Catra’s eyes flicked to the bodies still sprawled across the floor. “Am I expected to drag these corpses out myself?”
The officer flushed. “We’ll handle them. Of course. Is there… anything else you require?”
“Yes,” Catra said. “Speed.”
The clones obeyed now.
The table was set back upright, the rolling goblet placed neatly in its spot. Shards of ceramic were pushed into a tidy pile. The bodies were hauled away, their blood smeared and scrubbed at but never fully gone. Made to be soldiers, not servants—their efforts left dark stains, the kind no amount of scrubbing could hide.
Halfway through, Catra stepped back against the wall, arms folded, watching without lifting a finger.
At last, the room was “restored.” But it wasn’t the same. The gaudy elegance of the chamber was broken. It felt disturbed, unsettled. Blood clung to the corners and seams like ghosts.
And then the clones were gone.
Adora’s pulse was still hammering in her ears. Her chest felt tight, as though her body hadn’t caught up to what had just happened—the fight, the blood, the lies that followed so quickly they felt almost rehearsed. Her eyes drifted around the room, taking in the chaos: the upended table, the streaks of blood smeared on the tiles, the half-torn wall hanging sagging like a wounded flag.
Her gaze snagged on Catra.
Catra was watching her, wary, guarded in a way that made Adora’s skin prickle. The request she’d made—to be left alone for the night—didn’t add up. Nothing about tonight added up.
But while the had clones busied themselves setting the room to rights, Adora kept glancing at her, and slowly, something settled into place. Catra’s posture was too studied, her lean against the wall too deliberate. Adora tilted her head, letting her eyes travel from the top of Catra’s mussed hair all the way down to her boots, then back again.
“You’re hurt,” she said at last.
“No.”
Adora didn’t look away. Any other woman would have blushed, fidgeted, given herself away. Even Catra—maybe. Adora half expected it.
Instead Catra met her stare, unflinching. “If you’re not counting your attempt to snap my arm in half.”
“I’m not counting that,” Adora said evenly.
Catra wasn’t drunk, Adora realised now. She was holding herself too carefully, each breath measured. And there was something in her eyes—a brightness that wasn’t health, more fever than fire.
Adora stepped closer, instinct tugging her forward, but Catra’s look stopped her cold. Sharp, defensive. Like hitting a wall.
“I’d rather you kept your distance,” Catra said. Each word was precise.
Adora’s eyes flicked toward the goblet on the table. The clones had righted it absentmindedly, though its contents had spilled across the floor. The faint smear on the tiles glistened under the dim light. When she looked back at Catra, she already knew.
“You’re not wounded,” Adora said quietly. “You’re poisoned.”
Catra’s mouth curved, not into a smile but into something sharper, almost mocking. “Don’t get too excited. I’m not dying from it.”
“How do you know that?”
Catra gave her a sharp look and said nothing.
Adora swallowed hard. Part of her wanted to be angry, but instead she felt this odd, detached clarity. Justice, maybe. She remembered perfectly what it was like to be drugged and shoved into a fight. She wondered if this was the same poison. It would explain why those men had been so confident, so sure Catra wouldn’t last.
And it made her look even guiltier. To anyone else, it was easy to believe she’d turned Catra’s own tactics back on her. Poison for poison. The thought left Adora’s stomach sour.
This place was rotten. Somewhere else, you killed your enemies with a sword. Or you slipped poison into their cup, if you were a coward. Here, it was all layers of manipulation, games within games, so polished and dark it felt suffocating. She’d have assumed the whole night was Catra’s scheme—if Catra didn’t look so plainly like the target.
What was really happening?
Adora moved to the goblet. She lifted it, tilting it slightly. A thin sheen of liquid clung to the bottom. Not wine, she realised, but water. And inside the rim, faint and unmistakable, was a thin ring of green.
She knew that stain. Too well.
“It’s an Etherian drug. It’s a brothel drug,” Adora said quietly, turning the goblet in her hand. “They give it to workers to make them—”
“I know what it does,” Catra cut in, her voice sharp, almost brittle.
Adora’s eyes lingered on her. The drug was infamous back on Etheria. She knew it firsthand—one reckless night when she was sixteen, curious and stupid, she’d tried it herself. Just a taste, and it had burned through her body until she was trembling, desperate. Even then, it had taken three young men to sate the fire. She’d never touched it again.
The residue inside the cup told her the dose Catra had swallowed was heavy. More than enough to break someone’s composure, to drive them past control into pure, helpless want.
But Catra was still standing. Still speaking. Her breathing was shallow, her words clipped, but she hadn’t given in. And Adora realised with a jolt that what she was watching was nothing less than a feat of sheer, merciless willpower.
“It wears off,” Adora said at last. Then, with a faint curl of her mouth that she didn’t bother to hide: “After a few hours.”
The glare Catra leveled at her could’ve drawn blood. Adora didn’t need words to know exactly what it meant—that Catra would sooner cut off her own arm than let anyone know her condition, least of all her.
She let the moment hang, then tilted her head, almost mocking. “What? Think I’m going to take advantage of you?”
The thought hung in the air. Because for the first time since her capture, Adora wasn’t chained, wasn’t watched. The door was open. The guards were gone. Catra, drugged and unsteady, couldn’t stop her.
“It was thoughtful of you,” Adora added, turning toward the door. “Clearing the room like that. I thought I’d never get my chance.”
She’d barely taken two steps when Catra swore, low and guttural.
“Wait.” The word sounded ripped from her throat, as if she hated giving it voice. “You can’t just leave. Not now. Walking out will look like guilt. The clones won’t hesitate—they’ll cut you down the second you’re seen. And I can’t…” she faltered, visibly, painfully, “…I can’t protect you like this.”
Adora turned, incredulous. “Protect me?”
Catra’s pupils were blown wide, her voice taut. “I know you saved my life.”
Adora stared at her, unblinking.
“I don’t like owing you anything,” Catra went on, her tone almost a growl. “That’s the only reason I’m saying this. Trust that, if you can’t believe anything else.”
“Trust you?” Adora barked a bitter laugh. “You tore the skin off my back. You’ve lied, cheated, manipulated—used everyone who’s ever trusted you. You’re poison, Catra. You are the last person in the universe I would ever trust.”
For a moment, Catra didn’t respond. She tipped her head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, studying Adora through long, dark lashes. Adora expected her to snap back, to argue, to claw the words apart.
Instead, Catra laughed. Not her usual sharp, amused laugh, but something softer, frayed.
“Go, then,” she murmured.
Adora’s eyes shifted back to the door.
Notes:
Just 2 more chapters...
Chapter Text
Adora didn’t move. She stayed where she was, eyes fixed on Catra.
Catra still had her composure—or enough of it to pass at first glance. But the cracks were spreading. Her body was held too tightly now, her stillness brittle rather than calm. Her breath slipped out between clenched teeth. A flush, high and hot, burned across her cheekbones, too stark against the rest of her face. One hand pressed against the wall, knuckles bone-white.
Adora watched her for a long while before saying, carefully, “I could help you.”
Catra turned her head, slow as if it pained her. Her eyes narrowed. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You’re the one who said it wasn’t safe for me to leave,” Adora pointed out. “And if you don’t deal with this now, it’s only going to get worse.”
“I am dealing with it,” Catra snapped. The words might have cut, if her voice hadn’t thinned around the edges.
Adora lifted her hands, palms out, mock-surrender. “Fine. Then I’ll just… not watch.”
She crossed the room to the far corner, where the shadows pooled deepest, and turned her back. Stared at the bare metal wall until her eyes blurred. Even shut them, pretending she could block out what her ears were already betraying: fabric rustling, the sharp intake of breath, then—
A hiss. Stifled. Frustrated. Controlled.
Heat crawled up Adora’s neck in spite of herself. She forced her focus on the cold wall in front of her, the faint hum of power running beneath it.
Silence, followed by a muted thud—something knocked to the floor. Then a sound, half-sigh, half-snarl.
“I only need you because you’re the only one here,” Catra said acidly, from behind her.
Adora turned automatically.
“Don’t,” Catra bit out. “Don’t look at me.”
Adora stopped mid-turn, arms folding over her chest. “How exactly am I supposed to help if I can’t even look?”
There was a pause. The rustling had ceased. Then, more softly: “How would you help me?”
Adora let the question breathe for a moment before answering, slow, deliberate. “The fastest way—”
“I’m not letting you put your hands on me,” Catra cut in.
The laugh tore out of Adora before she could choke it back. She covered her mouth, but too late.
“You think this is funny?"
Adora reined herself in, though a smile still tugged at her lips. “Only that you assumed that’s all I meant. I'm going to need to do a lot more than put my hands on you.”
She let the silence stretch, then added, quieter, “I meant with my mouth.”
She risked a glance over her shoulder.
Catra was stretched back on the chaise now, reclined but still wound tight. Her cheeks were flushed deeper, her pupils blown wide. Guarded, yes, but not outright denying. The tension in her body had shifted—not gone, just… redirected.
Adora’s pulse kicked hard. That rare glimpse—Catra not fully in control, her armor cracked—burned hotter in her than she expected. She turned away again, partly to get hold of herself.
“I suppose,” Catra said finally, her tone carefully casual, though her breath betrayed her, “I could bear it. Just this once.” A pause. Then, drier: “And if anyone barges in, it explains why you were here at all.”
She gestured faintly, a flick of her fingers.
Adora crossed the room, slow, wary, every step measured as if this were some trick. Catra lay sprawled on the couch, head tilted against the armrest, hair in disarray over pale fabric. The thin shirt clung damp to her skin. Her legs shifted, parting—not invitation, not exactly, but not refusal either.
“Kneel,” Catra said.
Adora lowered herself beside the couch, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her. Catra’s breath was shallow, her whole body taut with effort. Adora hesitated.
“Well?” Catra snapped.
“I didn’t want to start if you weren’t ready.”
“I’m fine,” Catra said, each word brittle as porcelain. “I just want it over. Then I can salvage a shred of dignity and add this to the short list of humiliations I owe you for.” She drew a breath, her mouth twisting. “And—”
Adora didn’t wait for her to finish. She leaned in, silencing her with action.
Catra froze—not resisting, but not yielding either. Not yet.
When Adora’s mouth closed around her, the air in the room shifted, like even the silence was holding its breath. Catra’s hands stayed rigid at her sides at first, stubborn, but only for a heartbeat. Then cautious fingers slid into Adora’s hair, testing, reluctant—before curling tighter when Adora’s tongue coaxed a sharp breath out of her.
Adora was surprised to find Catra tasted faintly sweet, sharply sour. Adora worked her slow, steady rhythm, not forcing, not demanding, just unspooling Catra’s control thread by thread.
A sound escaped Catra at last, low, half-bitten off. Adora felt it reverberate through her, and pressed on. Neither spoke again.
The only warning was the sudden steel-tight grip in Adora’s hair, Catra’s body shuddering under her hold, thighs threatening to close before she forced them apart again.
Adora drew back when Catra let her, air thick with Catra’s ragged breathing.
“Don’t look at me,” Catra managed, faint, frayed.
Adora stayed kneeling, laughter low in her throat as she turned her face aside. “As you like.”
She heard the rustle of clothing, the drag of breath finally released.
“You’ll never speak of this,” Catra said.
“No one would believe me if I did.”
A beat. Then, quieter: “Still. You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
Catra didn’t answer. She only pushed off the couch, her steps light but not as casual as she wanted them to seem. As she passed, her hand brushed Adora’s shoulder—barely there, but enough.
Then she was gone into the next room.
Adora stayed kneeling, staring at the floor.
✧
Adora was almost startled by her own freedom to return to her room. Catra had actually let her leave without a guard. She wasn’t even fully sure of her path back—maybe fifty percent confident at best—but she retraced her steps carefully, hugging the walls as she turned a corner.
That was when she saw him.
Kyle.
He stood in the middle of the passageway, caught mid-step, like he’d been on his way to Catra’s door and suddenly stopped short. Adora’s gut flipped. For one absurd second, she nearly laughed—tight, nervous laughter bubbling against the panic that pressed hard in her chest. She had braced herself for clones, alarms, a fight if the wrong person assumed the wrong thing. What she hadn’t prepared for was… Kyle. A boy swaddled in a silken robe thrown carelessly over his sleep shirt, curls mussed from a pillow.
Adora broke the silence first. “What are you doing here?”
Kyle blinked at her, then rubbed the back of his neck. “I was sleeping. Then somebody came and woke us up. Told Prime there’d been an attack.”
Us. The word made Adora’s stomach sink.
He took a step toward her, and instinct moved her before she thought—she stepped into the corridor fully, blocking his way. She felt ridiculous standing there like a human barricade, but she didn’t budge.
“She told everyone to stay out of her room,” Adora said firmly. “I wouldn’t try it.”
“Why not?” Kyle frowned, craning his neck to look past her. “What happened? Is she okay?”
Adora scrambled for the quickest way to put him off. “She’s in a terrible mood,” she said flatly. Not untrue, and maybe effective enough.
Kyle hesitated, chewing on his lip. “Oh.” A beat passed. Then, softer: “I don’t care. I just wanted to…” His voice trailed off. Whatever thought had started fizzled before it reached his mouth. He just stared at her, blue eyes wide, curls catching the harsh glow of the lights overhead.
Adora’s heart thudded. What are you doing, Kyle?
At last, he drew himself up, lifting his chin like he was making some great declaration. “I don’t care. I’m going back to bed.”
Except—he didn’t move. He just kept standing there.
Adora let the pause stretch, then gestured sharply down the corridor. “Well? Go on.”
Still nothing. His eyes flicked toward Catra’s door again, and then back to her, like words were pressing against his teeth but refusing to come out.
Finally, in a small, almost pleading voice: “Don’t tell her I came here.”
Adora’s expression softened despite herself. “I won’t,” she promised.
By the time she made it back to her room she was immediately collected by Lonnie and Rogelio—a summons from Prime.
✧
“You must be the fuck of a lifetime,” Lonnie muttered into Adora’s ear before giving her a hard shove.
Adora stumbled forward into the audience chamber. Her knees cracked against the cold metal floor, pain jolting up her shins. When she lifted her head, the first thing she saw was Catra.
Catra stood alone, facing Horde Prime and his circle of clones. Double Trouble lingered near the edge of the gathering, looking faintly amused, though their eyes were shadowed with boredom.
“Little sister has argued very persuasively on your behalf,” Horde Prime said. His voice carried that strange, echoing weight, like it lived in every corner of the room. He let his gaze trail lazily over Adora before turning back to Catra. “You must have some hidden charm. Perhaps it’s your physique she admires. Or”—his lips curved into something colder than a smile—“do you have other talents?”
Catra’s reply came quickly. “Are you implying I bed the slave? What a revolting suggestion.”
She looked nothing like the Catra Adora had left not half an hour before—flushed and fraying under the drug’s grip. Now she was immaculately composed, clad in formal uniform, every line of her posture sharpened into poise. If the drug had left any trace in her body, she’d buried it deep beneath discipline and paint-thin calm.
“Revolting,” Horde Prime repeated, thoughtful. “And yet, you’ve spun quite the tale. Three intruders breaking into your chambers—only to attack her.” His eyes flicked back to Adora, raking her where she knelt. “If you don’t share your bed, then why was she there so late?”
The air itself seemed to drop in temperature.
“I do not lie with slaves.” Catra said evenly, “and I certainly don’t lie with this blonde bitch.”
“Catra,” Prime said, his voice carrying a colder weight now. “If there was an Etherian attack on you, and you are concealing it, we must know. This is no light matter.”
“And I’ve given you my answer,” Catra returned, her tone confident. “I don’t know how your interrogation wandered into my bedchamber, but perhaps you’ll tell me where it plans to wander next.”
Prime’s gaze slid back to Adora, then to his chosen heir. “You wouldn’t be the first young woman misled by a rush of infatuation. The inexperienced often mistake bedding for love. Perhaps she”—he gestured lazily toward Adora—“took advantage of your innocence, convinced you to lie for her.”
Catra tilted her head. “Taken advantage of my innocence?”
“I’ve seen you favour her,” Prime pressed. “Seated beside you at table. Fed by your own hand. These past days, she’s scarcely been away from you.”
Catra’s laugh was flat and sharp. “Yesterday I nearly broke. Today I swoon into her arms? At the very least, make your accusations consistent. Pick one.”
“There’s no need to pick, little sister,” Prime said smoothly. “You have a talent for vice in every direction. Inconsistency is simply the crown on top.”
“Apparently,” Catra so
hot back, “I’ve managed to fuck my enemy, betray my future, and plot my own murder—all at once. I look forward to seeing what impossible feats you’ll accuse me of tomorrow.”
For the first time, Adora really noticed the fatigue edging the scene. Double Trouble, leaning with studied languor, tapped finger against their thigh, expression half-hidden but unmistakably tired of the game.
“And yet,” Prime said, his tone softening into something more dangerous, “the slave ran.”
Catra rolled her eyes. “Are we circling back to this? There was no attack. If four armed assaillants had assaulted me, do you truly think I’d have survived? Much less killed three of them?” She flicked her fingers toward Adora without looking at her. “She was returning to her quarters. On my orders. Yet you don’t believe me.”
“It isn’t about belief.” Prime’s eyes narrowed. “It’s about the way you defend her. It’s unlike you. It suggests… attachment. If she’s led you to sympathise with forces outside the Horde empire—”
“Sympathise with Etheria?”
The contempt in Catra’s voice froze the room. No fiery outburst, no shout. Just flat disgust, more effective than rage. A few clones shifted uncomfortably, as if the chill had cut through their armor.
It was Double Trouble who finally broke the silence. “I hardly think she could be accused of that, not when her mother—”
“No one,” Catra said evenly, her voice carrying clear across the chamber, “has more reason to despise Etheria than I do. If Glimmer’s gift slave had raised a hand against me, it would be the perfect pretext for war. I’d welcome it. But that isn’t what happened. The only reason I stand here now is to state the truth. You’ve heard it. I won’t waste words repeating myself. She is guilty, or she is not. Decide.”
A hush followed.
Horde Prime shifted on his throne, the polished silver of its armrests catching the light as he spread his hands flat against them. “Before I decide,” he said, “you will answer this. If your hatred of Etheria is as absolute as you claim—if there is no secret collusion—why do you continually refuse my commands to serve on the border of the Fright Zone? A loyal daughter of the Horde would not hesitate. She would take up her sword, scrape together whatever is left of her honour, and prove it in battle.”
“I—” Catra began.
But Prime only leaned back, his expectant silence pressing heavier than words.
“It’s a contradiction,” Double Trouble drawled, breaking in smoothly, “but one that could be tidily resolved.” Their golden eyes slid over Catra, measuring, before darting back to Prime.
Catra’s gaze lingered on the both of them in turn—Prime and his pet shapeshifter—before sweeping past them to the ranks of clones. Their faces were expressionless, but their stillness betrayed just how closely they were listening.
The moment balanced on a knife’s edge. Prime was tired of circling the same arguments; he wanted resolution. And Catra had only two choices: keep fighting and risk his wrath, or bend.
Her lips curved in something too small to be called a smile. “You’re right, Prime. I’ve avoided my duties, and it’s only natural that you’d begin to doubt me. That ends here. I’ll take a ship to Etheria. I’ll serve at the border of the Fright Zone, as you command. I don’t want even a shadow of suspicion cast on my loyalty.”
Prime’s hands lifted from the armrests, opening in a gesture of satisfaction. His teeth showed faintly, not quite a smile. “That answer pleases me.”
He turned his gaze to Adora. “And in light of that pledge, I see no reason to question the slave further. She may be acquitted.”
Catra bowed her head. “I submit to your judgment, Prime.”
“Release her,” Prime said.
Adora felt rough hands at her wrists, the restraints loosening. Lonnie was behind her—Adora hadn’t realised until that moment—but Lonnie’s movements were sharp, almost resentful, each tug a jerk against her skin.
“There. Done,” Lonnie muttered.
“Come,” Prime commanded, extending his pale grey hand toward Catra.
She moved without hesitation, stepping forward and sinking gracefully onto one knee. One kneecap kissed the cold metal floor. Her head dipped low.
“Kiss it,” Prime said, his voice soft and absolute.
Catra lowered her mouth to his hand. The curtain of her hair fell forward, hiding her face. She touched her lips to his skin without hurry, then withdrew. She stayed kneeling, head bowed, posture outwardly serene.
Prime studied her. Slowly, his hand rose again—hovering above her before descending to rest on her head. His fingers slid through her hair, pushing it back from her face, stroking with a parody of tenderness.
Catra didn’t move.
Prime’s tone changed, softened into something almost intimate. “Catra. Why must you always defy me? It pains me when we are at odds. You force me into chastisement when all I desire is harmony. You destroy every path laid before you. Given gifts, you squander them. Given opportunities, you waste them. And I…” He sighed, his hand smoothing down the side of her head as though she were still a child. “I hate to see what you’ve become, when once you were such a lovely girl.”
Notes:
My partner is worried for me. I've had such terrible luck lately, I was literally hit by a car today (I'm okay!!). The ao3 curse is hating me for how quick I've been updating 😒.
Chapter 14
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The strange moment of Prime’s “affection” dissolved into finality, and the chamber emptied. Horde Prime rose first, his robes whispering against the polished floor as the clones fell into perfect step behind him. Their retreat was soundless, rehearsed—like one body stretching itself into many.
Catra didn’t move until the last of them had gone. She pushed herself up slowly from where she’d knelt, brushing her hair back from her face as she watched the procession vanish through the tall doors. Lonnie, who had bowed her way out after cutting Adora loose, was gone too.
That left just the two of them.
Adora stood before she’d thought better of it. For half a second she remembered she should have waited for some signal, some permission—but the words were already out of her mouth.
“You lied to him... To protect me?”
She hadn’t meant it to sound accusing. Or maybe she had. The look Catra gave her was sharp enough to cut through either possibility.
“Oh, did I tread on your principles again?” Catra asked coolly. “What’s the correct, virtuous move here? Should I have let you be killed and prayed it made for a cleaner end to the who debacle?”
“That’s not—” Adora’s voice cracked with disbelief. “I just don’t understand. Telling the truth would’ve been safer for you. Why risk it?”
Catra’s expression shuttered. “If you don’t mind, I’ve had my fill of lectures about my character today. Or do you want to go a few more rounds? I can.”
“No—I—” Adora stopped, frustrated. What was she supposed to say? Gratitude. The grateful words of a freed prisoner. They stuck in her throat, wrong-shaped.
And yet. There was no denying it: Catra had saved her life.
I can’t protect you like this, Catra had said. Adora hadn’t understood then what protection might mean. She certainly hadn’t imagined Catra stepping into the fire on her behalf—and staying there.
“I just… I mean I am grateful,” Adora said finally, the words awkward, too small for the weight of the truth.
Catra cut across her, voice flat. “Don’t. There’s nothing between us worth thanks. The ledger’s clear now. No debt, no favours. Don’t expect courtesies I don’t owe you.”
But even as she said it, Catra’s eyes lingered. There was no softness, exactly, but the frown she wore wasn’t entirely hostile either. She looked at Adora too long, as though weighing something she couldn’t name.
“I meant it when I said I don’t like being in anyone’s debt,” Catra added quietly. “And you—” her gaze sharpened, “you had even less reason to help me than I did you.”
Adora let out a breath. “That’s true.”
“You don’t polish your words, do you?” Catra asked, still frowning. “Anyone else in your position would’ve dressed it up—played for pity, guilt, something.”
Adora’s mouth tugged wryly. “I didn’t think guilt was one of your pressure points.”
A twitch at the corner of Catra’s lips. Almost a smile. She turned away, trailing her fingertips across the silver armrest of Prime’s throne as though testing its temperature, and then she dropped herself into it with a boneless sprawl. The gesture was casual, but there was something weary in it too.
“Well, take comfort,” she said, leaning back. “I’m leaving for Etheria soon. Border duty. We’ll be rid of each other.”
Adora tilted her head. “Why does that bother you so much?”
Catra’s eyes slid to hers. “I’m a coward, wouldn't you agree?”
Adora studied her. “A coward wouldn’t have stood up to Prime in front of half his army. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you back away from a fight. More the opposite.”
That twitch deepened, but Catra only said, “True.”
“Then—”
“It doesn’t concern you.”
Silence stretched between them. Catra lounged with deliberate ease in the throne, but her limbs had that loose, drifting quality that made Adora wonder if the drugs hadn’t fully worn off. When she spoke again, her voice was almost casual, almost bored.
“You should’ve tried to escape when you had the chance. Because now? I’m going to lock you up so tightly you won’t be able to breathe, let alone meddle in my business again.”
“Of course,” Adora said, but her tone was different now, stripped of defiance.
Catra tipped her head, that near-smile ghosting her mouth again. “Told you not to thank me.”
✧
How could it be that everything that had happened the cycle before—fantastical, terrifying, impossible—had changed nothing at all? She was still here, locked in the same three walls, a prisoner with no end in sight.
The thought of months like this—years, even—pressed down on her chest like a weight. To be caught here, like an insect in a jeweled snare. And, naturally, her thoughts circled back to the spider at the center of the web. Catra.
Last night she hadn’t had the luxury of thinking about her—about Catra’s part in all of it, or the plot that seemed to revolve around her. Her head had been full of one single drive: escape. Escape and then… Catra’s—
She cut that thought short before it could form, heat rising to her face. She hadn’t had time for Horde scheming then.
But now, alone, with nothing to do except turn the same pieces over and over in her head, the images came back sharper, insistent. The three men. Their strange voices, their knives gleaming with Etherian metal. These men attacked the slave, Catra had said. Why? Why lie, and deny she had been attacked at all? It only served the ones who had sent them.
Adora remembered Catra’s hand flashing with the knife, her body coiled tight in combat, the drug burning in her lungs. There had been easier ways to kill her—Adora knew that.
Pieces began to connect in her mind, clicking together like teeth in a trap. The weapons—Bright Moon steel. The “gift” slave, set up neatly as the scapegoat. The drug in her system. And Catra, slippery as smoke—cutting, talking, lying, killing.
Understanding came like a plunge in her stomach. For a moment she thought she might be sick. The world tilted under her feet, her mind rearranging itself around this new, terrible clarity.
It was obvious. It was right there in front of her, a design so complete she should have seen it from the start—would have seen it, if she hadn’t been blinded, confused, pulled off-course by ideals of escape and momentary lust.
There was nothing she could do now. No way out of this cell, no escape route, no one to plead with. Only to wait. And wait. And wait. Until the next platter of food.
When the door finally opened, she gave thanks, absurdly, for the sight of the silent clone—and for Lonnie, pacing in at his side.
Adora didn’t hesitate. “I need to talk to the Princess. I need to talk to Catra.”
✧
The last time Adora had made a request like this, Catra had come quickly—hair sleek, shoulders squared, every inch the ruler she was pretending to be. Adora had expected the same now, especially after the chaos of last night. She pushed herself up from the bed when she heard movement outside her door, bracing herself.
But it wasn’t Catra.
Horde Prime entered, alone. He dismissed the guards with a flick of his hand, even Lonnie, who obeyed without hesitation.
He strolled inside with the unhurried confidence of someone surveying property that belonged to him. His armour caught the light, silver and white, immaculate as always. On Catra, the throne had been a perch, half a joke, half a dare. On him, it was a natural extension of his body. He carried the same distinction as a warhorse compared to a show pony: power bred for battle, not for display.
Adora dropped into a bow, more instinct than choice.
“Horde Prime,” she said.
“You’re no child,” Prime replied. His voice was mild, but his eyes never softened. “Stand.”
She rose carefully, her muscles stiff with anxiety.
“You must be relieved,” he said, “that little sister is leaving.”
It was a trap of a question, and Adora felt it immediately. Any answer could be used against her.
“I’m sure she’ll bring honour to the Horde,” she managed.
Prime’s gaze lingered on her face, assessing, as if he could read the layers she wasn’t saying. “Diplomatic. For a soldier.”
Adora took a breath, trying to steady herself. “Prime,” she said quietly, with the deference expected of her.
“I wait for a real answer,” Prime said, his voice suddenly sharper.
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m glad she takes up her duty. A princess should learn what it is to lead—before she rules.”
Prime reclined slightly, considering. “Little sister is a difficult case. It was her mother I had wished to see inherit my Horde.”
Adora kept her expression still, though her mind twisted. She knew enough to understand: this wasn’t conversation. Prime had not come here for dialogue, or to listen. For him to visit her, Catra’s slave, at all was strange—and dangerous.
“Why don’t you tell me,” he said at last, “what happened last cycle?”
“Horde Prime,” Adora said carefully. “You already have Catra’s account.”
“Perhaps, in the confusion, she misunderstood. Or left something out,” Prime said, almost lightly. “She does not fight as you do.”
Adora’s silence stretched, taut. What did he know about her?
“I know your nature,” Prime continued. “Your first instinct is honesty. You will not be punished for it.”
“I—” she began, but movement in the doorway cut her off. Her head turned almost guiltily.
“Prime.” Catra’s voice, calm and collected.
“Catra.” Prime’s reply was smoother, but no warmer.
She entered with her usual saunter, deliberate and unhurried, her disinterest exaggerated. It was impossible to know how much she had overheard.
“Did you have some business with my slave?” she asked.
“Not business,” Prime said. “Curiosity.”
“She isn’t my lover,” Catra said immediately.
“I am not curious about your bed,” Prime replied, though the faint curl of distaste at his mouth betrayed the thought had already occurred to him. “I am curious about what happened in your rooms last night.”
Catra’s ears twitched, but her face was steady. “Hadn’t we settled that?”
“Half settled. I never heard the slave’s account.”
“Surely you wouldn’t value a slave’s word over mine?” Catra said, arching an eyebrow.
“Wouldn’t I?” Prime asked. “Even your tone of surprise is feigned. Your mother’s word was iron. Yours… is a tarnished rag. But rest easy—the slave’s story matches yours, as far as it goes.”
Catra’s lips curled faintly. “Did you think there was some deeper plot?”
They looked at each other, long and flat and searching. Prime said, “I only hope the border will do you good. Focus you. Teach you what I cannot. I have nothing left to offer, if you refuse to learn.”
“You keep giving me all these chances to improve myself,” Catra said. Her smile didn’t touch her eyes. “Show me how to thank you.”
Adora waited for Prime’s reply. None came. He only studied her, his heir, with the weight of centuries in his gaze.
Finally, Catra broke the silence. “Will you come see me off tomorrow, Prime?”
“Catra,” Prime said. “You know I will.”
“Well?” Catra asked once Prime had gone, her voice flat, though her tail flicked once against the floor.
Adora swallowed. “I don’t have a petition. I just… wanted to talk to you.”
“Fond goodbyes?” Catra’s mouth twisted like the words themselves tasted sour.
“I know what happened last night,” Adora said. Her voice shook despite herself.
Catra tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Do you?” The tone was cool, the same one she’d used with Prime—measured, a challenge buried inside it.
Adora drew a breath. “So do you. You killed the survivor before he could be questioned.”
Catra crossed the room unhurriedly, lowering herself into a chair with deliberate grace, one leg slung over the other. She leaned back, gaze steady on Adora.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“You killed him because you didn’t want him interrogated. You knew what he would say. You didn’t want him to say it.”
A long pause. Then: “Yes.”
Adora’s throat tightened. “I assume he was supposed to say that Glimmer sent him.”
The pattern was obvious now: Etherian scapegoats, Etherian weapons, everything chosen to frame Bright Moon. To make it convincing, the assassins themselves had probably believed it.
“Yes,” Catra agreed, calm as stone.
“But Glimmer can’t afford war right now. Not with the Princesses divided. If she wanted you dead, she wouldn’t send amateurs, waving Etherian blades and shouting her name. She’d send someone skilled—and quiet. Glimmer didn’t hire those men.”
“No,” Catra said again, without hesitation.
The certainty rattled through Adora, colder than she expected. To hear Catra admit it out loud was different from suspecting it in her head.
“Then… the whole thing was a setup,” Adora whispered. “A confession like that—if Prime had heard it, there’d be no choice but to retaliate. If they’d found you—” She broke off, the words lodging sharp in her throat. Murdered by Etherian knives. Or worse.
“Someone wants a war.”
“You have to admire it,” Catra said, voice detached, almost analytical. “The timing is flawless. Etheria is fractured, Glimmer’s distracted by her squabbling allies. She-Ra—” her eyes flicked, sharp, toward Adora “—is dead. The Horde would rise as one against her. A campaign like that would succeed.” Her mouth curled faintly. “If only my murder weren’t the spark, I’d be applauding.”
Adora’s stomach turned, bile rising at the casual way Catra said it. But she forced herself to ignore the poison in her tone, because the calculation was true. She could already see it in her mind: Horde battalions spilling across Etheria, Bright Moon overwhelmed, her people crushed beneath the weight of Prime’s endless soldiers.
She turned her gaze back to Catra. “Your life hangs on this. If only for your own sake, don’t you want it stopped?”
Catra’s eyes gleamed faintly in the half-light. “I have stopped it.”
Adora’s jaw tightened. “I meant—can’t you put aside whatever fight you’re having, and just tell Prime the truth? Speak to him honestly.”
She didn’t expect the flicker of genuine surprise in Catra’s expression, subtle but unmistakable. It hung in the air between them like static.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Catra said at last.
Adora stepped closer, frustration sparking. “Why not?”
Catra’s voice was quieter now, edged with something colder than her usual scorn. “Because, Mara… Prime is the murderer.”
“But—if that’s true—” Adora started.
And it was true. Not even a surprise, not really—more like something that had been crouching at the edge of her mind all along, waiting to be recognised. Now it stepped into the light with a sharp, undeniable clarity.
She remembered Kyle’s wide blue eyes when he’d stumbled into the hall in his nightclothes. The fear on his face.
“You can’t go to the Fright Zone,” Adora blurted. “It’s a death trap.”
The instant the words left her, she realised Catra already knew. Of course she did. Catra had been careful to avoid border duty.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take tactical advice from a slave.” Catra’s tone was cool, cutting, like she’d been waiting to use it.
“You can’t go,” Adora pressed. “It’s not just about surviving the trip. The second you set foot outside this ship, you give up the idea of the throne. Prime will use that against you.”
Her own thoughts were tumbling faster now, pieces sliding together. Looking back, Prime’s plan stretched out like a game of strategy played years ahead: each move neat, deliberate, merciless. Now it was obvious why Catra had scrambled to cover up the assassination attempt, why she’d executed the survivor. If the truth came out, if war broke, Catra would have even fewer days left to live. Marching into the Fright Zone with nothing but Prime’s clones at her back was suicide.
“Why are you doing this?” Adora demanded. “Is he forcing your hand? Is there really no other way? Or—” she searched Catra’s face, willing her to crack “—do you honestly think your reputation is so far gone that he’s going to kill you no matter what you do?”
Catra’s ears twitched back. Her voice dropped, low and dangerous. “You’re right on the edge of what I’ll let you say.”
Adora ignored the warning, desperation tightening her chest. “Then take me with you to the Fright Zone.”
“No.”
“Etheria is my home,” Adora pushed on. “Do you think I want to see it crushed under Horde troops? I’ll do whatever it takes to stop this war. Take me with you—you need someone you can trust.”
The word slipped out and stung her at once. Trust. Catra had asked her for that last night, and Adora had thrown it back in her face. She could already feel the retaliation coming.
Catra only leaned back slightly, her gaze curious in a cold way. “Why would I need that?”
Adora stared, biting back the frustration that burned through her. She already knew the answer. If she asked, Do you really think you can juggle assassination attempts, command an army, and outplay Prime all at once?—Catra would say yes.
Instead, Catra arched a brow. “Funny. I’d have thought a slave like you would be glad to see Glimmer knocked off her throne, after everything she’s done to you. Why not side with Prime against her—and me? I’m sure he’s made you offers.”
Adora’s jaw tightened. “He has.” She thought of the banquet, of Prime’s sly words. “He told me to sleep with you. Report back.” She lifted her chin. “Not in those exact words.”
“And your answer?”
Heat flushed up Adora’s neck, unbidden memories breaking through: Catra’s taste still on her lips, the sounds catra made. It made her angry at herself for doing it in the first place.
“If I'd fucked you properly, you’d know,” she snapped. “We agreed not to speak of… that.”
A dangerous silence stretched. Catra’s eyes narrowed. Then, coolly: “Yes. Yet here you are, speaking of it anyway.”
Adora set her jaw, refusing to be pulled into one of Catra’s games. “I’m an asset. I know Etheria better than anyone. I’ll do whatever it takes to stop Prime.” She held Catra’s gaze, unflinching. “Use me however you want—just take me with you.”
Catra’s mouth curled in something between amusement and disdain. “You’re so eager to help me? And the fact that it’d bring you back to your precious Etheria doesn’t factor into it at all?”
Adora flushed. “It means you’ll have one more person standing between you and Prime. Isn’t that what you want?”
Catra tilted her head, smile faint and sharp. “My dear slave,” she said softly, “what I want is for you to rot here.”
Her parting words, delivered with relish. She turned for the door.
“You can’t just leave me here while you walk into Prime’s trap!” Adora’s voice cracked with frustration. “This isn’t just about you—there’s more than your life at stake.”
Catra didn’t slow.
“Are you that sure of yourself?” Adora called after her, the words tumbling out. “If you could beat Prime on your own—you’d have done it already!”
Catra froze in the doorway, shoulders tight. For a moment, Adora thought—hoped—she might turn. But she didn’t. The pause lasted only a breath before Catra walked on, the door hissing shut behind her.
✧
It happened in the dim hours before the next cycle, when the ship’s lights were still set to their false twilight. Adora woke with a start to find figures in her room—two clones, motionless as statues, and Lonnie, sharp-eyed and purposeful.
Her voice came rough from sleep. “What is it? Has there been word from the Princess?”
She pushed herself upright, one arm braced against the cushions, the other clutching instinctively at the silks that clung to her.
“Yes.” Lonnie’s tone was clipped, impatient. She tossed a bundle onto the floor beside the bed. The weight of it landed with a dull thud. “Change.”
Adora’s heartbeat jumped. She looked down at the bundle.
Clothing.
Her breath caught. For a long moment she only stared, hardly able to take it in. After the endless confinement, the humiliations, the drawn-out waiting—this felt like a trick. A test. Something she could not quite believe was real.
Slowly she reached for it. Fabric slid beneath her fingers. Trousers. A shirt cut to fit a soldier, plain but sturdy. Boots with a solid shape.
She lifted her gaze back to Lonnie, almost asking without words.
“Well?” Lonnie said. “Change.”
Her voice had no softness, but it was not cruel either—simply matter-of-fact, the tone of a soldier carrying out orders.
Adora stripped off the thin silks, feeling both exposed and defiant. She caught the faint twitch at Lonnie’s mouth as the other woman turned her eyes aside with something like awkwardness.
A bemused curve tugged at Adora’s lips. Modesty, after everything?
Only once did Lonnie break her brisk silence. “No—not like that.” She stepped forward, batting Adora’s hands aside with surprising sharpness. She gestured, and one of the clones moved in with unnerving precision, long fingers deftly retieing a tangle of straps Adora had pulled wrong.
When the final fastening was tugged snug, Adora asked, “Are we—?” The words trailed off as she looked down at herself, strange in this new skin.
“The Princess ordered you brought to the docking bay. Dressed.” Lonnie’s expression did not change. “You’ll be fitted for the rest there.”
“The rest?” Adora’s tone was dry, laced with disbelief. She tugged at the shirt collar. “It’s already more clothing than I’ve been allowed in months.”
Lonnie didn’t answer. She simply jerked her head toward the door and set off at a sharp pace.
Adora followed, her steps uncertain at first, then steadier. She couldn’t deny the strange swell inside her chest—the way the fabric’s weight sat differently on her shoulders, the way boots grounded her feet against the cold deck. Dignity. That was the word. Dignity, creeping back in like a half-forgotten language.
She had asked about “the rest.” She hadn’t really thought about what that might mean.
Not until they stepped into the docking bay.
The great space buzzed with noise and movement: shouts of orders, the clang of metal on metal, the smell of oil and ozone. And from out of that rush stepped a clone carrying an armful of leather straps, buckles, and hardened plates.
He held it out toward her.
Armour.
The docking bay thrummed with life. Orders were barked across the cavernous space, boots rang sharp against the metal deck, and the air was heavy with the smells of oil, steel, and ozone. Armourers moved in brisk rhythm, servants darted back and forth with crates, and the low rumble of a ship warming its engines underpinned it all.
Adora’s eyes moved across the busy scene, catching on familiar faces. The guards who had shadowed her in pairs throughout her confinement, grim as ever. The physician clone who had once tended her injured back—now fully outfitted, apparently joining the march. Even Rogelio, hulking and unmistakable among the bustle.
She flexed her fingers, rolling her shoulders back, spine straightening as though remembering itself. Freedom—if it could be called that—was a physical thing, sharp and electric in her veins. She wasn’t planning escape, not here, not yet. Surrounded by Prime’s soldiers and Catra’s chosen guard, she knew it would be madness. Besides, another urgency pressed heavier on her chest. For now, it was enough to know she was headed home. Back to Etheria.
Her gaze fell to the uniform she wore: Catra’s colours, the insignia of the Horde stitched sharp against her chest. It sat wrong on her shoulders, a weight more psychological than physical. Strange didn’t begin to cover the feeling.
Lonnie returned then, a slate of duties in hand. Her expression was professional, a little tired, like someone carrying out orders she didn’t particularly like.
Adora only half-listened at first. She was to be folded into the company structure like any other soldier—report to her immediate officer, who reported to the Captain of the Guard, who reported to the Princess. Standard. She was to serve and obey, the chain of command drilled into her as firmly as any cadet’s.
But then Lonnie went on, her tone slipping into something tighter, almost reluctant. There were additional duties. Attendant. Direct service to the Princess herself. Personal service. Ensuring her safety. Carrying her messages. Seeing to her comfort. Sleeping in her quarters—
Adora’s head snapped around. “Sleeping in her quarters?”
Lonnie blinked at her, as if surprised by the interruption. “Where else?”
Adora dragged a hand over her face, the gesture halfway between disbelief and exhaustion. “Catra agreed to this?”
Lonnie didn’t answer. She only resumed reading, clipped and efficient, as though the question wasn’t worth her breath.
Adora tuned back in, every word now sharp against her ears. Sleeping in Catra’s quarters. Carrying her messages. Attending to her needs?
So this was the price of freedom: not a chain around her neck, but one tethered at Catra’s side. A closeness she had no say in, no escape from. Enforced proximity. Day and night.
“This can’t be everyone,” Adora said at last once Lonnie had left to ready something.
The thought had been needling her since she stepped into the docking bay, the sound of boots and shouted orders echoing too thin against the vastness of the space. She spoke to Regelio, who stood at her side in the familiar role of guard. Her first concern was simple: the crew looked far too small.
Regelio grunted. “It isn’t. We’re making a stop in the Fright Zone. Prime’s clones stationed there will join us.” His expression flickered as he added, “Not that it will mean much. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Adora’s eyes swept over the gathered soldiers again. “Not enough to hold their own in a real fight. But enough to let Prime’s men outnumber the Princess’s guard, several to one.”
Regelio gave a short nod. “Exactly.”
She studied him then—the grim set of his shoulders, the hard line of his mouth. She wondered if the Princess’s own guard understood what they were marching into: betrayal at worst, and at best months penned up in the Fright Zone under Prime’s thumb. The tension in Regelio’s jaw suggested that they did.
He spoke suddenly, low and cutting. “I just hope she knows what she’s doing with you. That she’s not what Prime says—distracted by her first taste of pussy.”
Adora’s breath caught. After a long moment, she answered, her voice even though her heart kicked hard in her chest. “Whatever else you think, I don’t share her bed.”
It wasn’t a new insinuation, but it cut sharper now. Maybe because Prime’s poisonous speculation had already spread like fire through dry grass, rephrased, embellished. Maybe because the tiniest grain of truth clung to it now, making it sting all the worse. Lonnie’s hand was all over the rewording.
Regelio’s eyes narrowed. “However you’ve managed it, you’ve turned her head. She’s bringing you along.”
Adora forced the corners of her mouth into something like composure. “I’m glad.”
A new voice—cool, sharp, unmistakable—cut across the space. “I could still change my mind.”
Adora froze. Regelio, colour rising up his neck, snapped to attention. “Your Highness.”
Adora turned. Catra was already pacing toward them, every inch of her posture predatory.
“Yes,” Adora said quietly, acknowledging her. “You could.”
Catra’s eyes skimmed over her, armour and all, and Adora saw a jagged flash of distaste—something raw and unguarded—before it smoothed back into cool contempt.
“Too civilised for you?” Adora asked.
“Hardly,” Catra replied.
She was about to say more when movement at the edge of the bay caught her eye. Recognition stabbed cold into her. The clone captain—the one from the other cycle—stood at easy command, issuing orders.
Adora stiffened. “What is he doing here?”
“Captaining the guard,” said Catra, with deliberate nonchalance.
“What?”
“Yes. An interesting arrangement, isn’t it?” Her smile was thin, mocking.
Regelio muttered, “I’ll tell the servants to keep their legs closed.”
Catra’s head tilted, amused, unbothered. “And warn Entrapta,” she added, as though it were a casual afterthought.
Adora’s gaze followed Regelio’s toward the far side of the bay, where a soldier inspected the docking electronics. She was younger than most, with long purple hair and a kind of unselfconscious solidity about her. Attractive, yes, but there was more to her presence than that—she was odd.
Entrapta.
“Speaking of pets,” Catra said, her tone shifting into something quieter.
Rogelio caught the change immediately. He dipped his head, stepped back, and melted into the background of soldiers and servants.
Catra’s eyes had already settled elsewhere—on a slim figure hovering just at the edges of the docking bay’s chaos. Kyle. Without his paint, his face looked younger, startlingly bare. His simple white tunic hung loose at the shoulders, the fabric brushing his knees. His arms and legs were uncovered, his feet in soft flats that seemed almost domestic, out of place against all the metal and armor. He moved carefully through the bustle of clones and attendants until he stood directly before her. And then—he didn’t move at all. Just looked up.
His hair was mussed, falling untidily across his forehead. There were smudges under his eyes, faint but undeniable—evidence of a sleepless night.
Catra arched a brow. “Here to see me off?”
“No.” Kyle’s voice was short, blunt.
He extended his hand, the gesture sharp, almost hostile. Something glittered between his fingers.
Purple gems, clear and watery as glass, dangling together. The earring he’d worn at the banquet. The same one he’d lost, in such humiliating fashion, on a reckless wager. Now he held it like something tainted, refusing even to look at it.
“I don’t want it. It reminds me of you.”
Catra’s gaze lingered. She took the earring from him without comment and tucked it into her pocket with care, as though it was worth more than he believed. Then, after a pause, she reached out. Her knuckle brushed the underside of his chin, a fleeting, oddly gentle touch.
“You look better without the paint,” she said.
She wasn’t lying. Stripped of artifice, his features were clearer, more fragile.
Kyle’s mouth curled. “Think a compliment’s going to impress me? It won’t. I hear them all the time.”
“I know you do,” Catra replied evenly.
His face hardened. “I remember what you promised me. Every word of it was false. I knew it then, and I know it now. And now you’re leaving.”
“I’ll be back,” Catra said, her voice unwavering.
“That’s what you think?” His laugh was sharp, hollow.
Adora felt her skin prickle, unease rippling through her. The scene pulled her back to that night in the hallway, when Kyle had appeared after the attempt on Catra’s life. Every instinct in her screamed to crack him open, spill out the truth he carried and see what hid beneath his surface.
“I’ll be back,” Catra repeated, as steady as steel.
Kyle raised his chin, eyes flashing. “To keep me as a pet? That’s what you’d like. Make me yours, chain me to your side.”
“I would never ask you to do anything you despised,” Catra said. Her tone was cool, deliberate.
“Looking at you is enough,” Kyle snapped.
✧
There was no warmth in the farewell between Catra and Horde Prime—no ceremony, no embrace, not even the pretense of affection. Only a single, dismissive wave of his hand, as though brushing dust from a sleeve.
Catra didn’t bow. She didn’t speak. She accepted the gesture for what it was and turned her back without hesitation.
Adora lingered close, close enough to feel the faint brush of Catra’s sleeve when they moved. The docking clamps released with a deep metallic shudder, the kind that reverberated in bone, and the ship began to slip free of its berth.
The bay fell away behind them, the last tether to Horde Prime severed, and the black of space opened ahead. Adora’s chest tightened—not with fear, but with the sudden, dizzying realization: each breath carried her closer to Etheria. Closer to home.
Notes:
I am excited to continue, but maybe give me a little rest. Subscribe to the series this is listed under if you want to know as soon as I continue ❤️❤️
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