“I know,” Bellamy said. “But it’s more than that leaf pile. I have this feeling on the back of my neck…”

“Then we’ll replace it with a different feeling.” Clarke rose onto her toes and kissed the spot under Bellamy’s jaw before trailing around to the back of his neck.

“It’s not that simple,” he said, though she could feel him finally starting to relax.

She leaned back and smiled up at him. “Come on, today is a happy day, Bel. It’s your first big event as a member of the Council. Think about your speech. Focus on enjoying all the food you helped provide.”

“The Council,” he said, closing his eyes and letting out a breath. “Right. I forgot about the damn speech.”

“You’ll be fine,” Clarke said, stretching up again to brush his rough cheek with her lips. “You’re good on your feet.”

“True.” He looped his arms around her waist, grinning as he drew her closer. “I’m good off my feet too.”

She laughed, thwapping him. “Yes, magnificent. Now come help me get this dinner together before you meet up with the Council. We can celebrate privately later.”

He walked behind her, his arms still wrapped around her waist, his breath warm against her neck. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?” she asked lightly, trying to hide the fact that her heart was a drumbeat of mounting worry.

She might have talked him down today. And yesterday. And the night before.

But she could no longer ignore the fact that Bellamy was getting worse.

CHAPTER 2

Wells

Wells’s back muscles burned as he heaved the last barrel of cider into the cart. After days of preparation for the Harvest Feast, his hands were cracked and raw, his feet swollen and aching. Every inch of him was in pain.

And all he could think was: more. More pain. More work. Anything to distract from the dark thoughts that infected his mind like rot. Anything to make him forget.

An Earthborn woman carrying a baby in a sling walked by and smiled at Wells. He nodded politely back, bracing himself as a memory slammed into him like a meteor: Sasha dangling a stalk of wheat for the same baby to play with while the mother hung laundry to dry outside her cabin. Sasha’s black hair swinging forward, green eyes flashing as she teased Wells for being more afraid of babies than of facing Rhodes and his troops in battle.

Wells gritted his teeth and crouched to lift the cart, the painful weight of it obliterating the memory; then he pulled the load down the central village path to the edge of the forest, where the others were milling about with their own cargo.

Red-haired Paul, off duty but still wearing his guard uniform, stood on a boulder, overseeing the Earthborn villagers and Colonists who’d volunteered to bring supplies down to the camp for tonight’s feast. “Okay, folks, I’ve done a thorough patrol of the woods and the coast is clear. But let’s keep things moving, just in case.” He clapped and pointed down the now well-trodden forest path. “Look alive now, and maintain constant awareness.”

Wells watched as a few of the villagers shot Paul bemused looks. Paul was a relatively new arrival, one of the Colonists who’d been on a dropship that had landed off course. His group had made its way to camp just after their bloody battle with a violent faction of Earthborns had ended in a truce.

Wells had vaguely known Paul back on the Colony. Affable and energetic, he’d always struck Wells as more of a dependable, competent soldier than a leader, but things had clearly changed in the past year. Whatever had happened to Paul’s band of survivors between their crash landing and their arrival at camp, it had made him their unofficial captain, and he still assumed that air of responsibility.

“Those of you carrying heavy loads, take care not to strain yourself. If you’re injured, you’ll be an easy target for the enemy.”

Wells rolled his eyes. The dangerous Earthborns were long gone. Paul was just frustrated to have missed all the action, and was overcompensating for it now. Wells had no patience for that, not after he’d witnessed the real price of battle.

Paul frowned slightly. “Graham, what are you doing with that knife? You’re not hunting today.”

“Says who?” Graham said, pulling the long knife from its sheath and twirling it in Paul’s direction. For a moment, Wells considered intervening. Although Graham had settled down over the past few months, Wells would never forget the violent gleam in his eyes when he tried to convince the original hundred to kill Octavia for stealing medicine.

But before Wells could act, Graham snorted, resheathing his knife, and sauntered off, nodding at Eric, who was coming from the other direction.

Eric walked up to Wells. “Need help with this?” He motioned toward the cart. “You don’t want to strain yourself and become an easy target for the enemy,” he said drily.

Wells forced a laugh. “Sure, thanks. I’m just going to grab some more firewood and then I’ll be right behind you.”

He turned and headed for the woodpile behind the far row of cabins, smile dropping away, his jaw heavy with the effort of pretending. Everything about him felt heavy these days, each step weighted with grief. But he kept walking anyway, lifted the ax from its perch, and split logs until he had a sizable pile of wood to carry. He stacked it neatly, ignoring the splinters in his palms, wrapped it all in a back sling, and hoisted it onto his shoulders.

The village had emptied out while he was chopping; they’d all left to join the others to eat and celebrate: the harvest, a fresh start, a bigger community, a newfound peace.

Wells exhaled, his shoulders slumping. The straps of the sling cut through his shirt into his skin as he looked around at the vacant valley. This was good. He’d get to the camp a little late but with plenty of wood for the stoves and the bonfire. He’d stay by the fire and keep it stoked. That would be his job tonight, a perfect excuse to avoid the feast, the speeches, the hundreds of familiar faces, all of them thinking about the people they wished were with them tonight.

Their loved ones back on the Colony… all dead because of Wells.

He’d been the one to loosen the airlock back on the ship, dooming the hundreds of people who couldn’t find seats on the dropships to a slow, suffocating death—his own father, the Chancellor, included. He’d done it to save Clarke, but still, every time he caught sight of his own reflection, he recoiled from it. Every action he took led to destruction and death. If the other Colonists knew what he’d done, they wouldn’t just turn him away from today’s Harvest Feast tables—they’d cast him out of their community entirely. And he would deserve it.