Chapter Text
“I dare you to make a run for it,” Lonnie muttered, not quite under her breath.
Catra caught the words only distantly, as if they floated up through water. She had been turned so far inward that she barely registered the journey until the light shifted. When she surfaced from her thoughts, the day was nearly gone, the sky stained with bruised purple and rose. Ahead, Dryl’s jagged towers rose against the horizon, stark and alien after so long away.
Adora didn’t answer Lonnie’s jab, and she didn’t try to run. Catra noted that much with a detached kind of relief. Her so-called pet had managed to endure the entire trip without breaking a neck or starting a fight—an achievement she might have counted as impressive, if it hadn’t also been true of the lead Horde clone. One quiet day did not a miracle make.
Catra lengthened her stride and took her place at the head of the company.
The courtyard was already prepared. Servants lined the path in neat rows, as picture-perfect as a parade: uniforms crisp, hair lacquered into place, eyes fixed forward. The Horde always liked its masks immaculate—Horde Prime most of all. There was nothing in their posture to betray how he dealt with his people in private.
Not for the first time, Catra found herself wondering how far back it went—how many worlds, how many courts had been dressed up this way, all while Prime hollowed them out from the inside.
If this was meant to impress her, it didn’t.
She glanced over the ranks and felt the imbalance immediately. No sign of the soldiers Prime had promised to supply. A deliberate insult, too petty to mention aloud. Her small detachment looked laughably fragile against the cavernous sweep of the courtyard. And what then, when they were at the border? What dent could this token force possibly make, assuming this venture was real at all and not some elaborate snare?
She didn’t bother giving the thought oxygen.
Her mind ticked over the revisions she had made during the journey. Crude still, but workable. The head clone was supposed to see the men, horses, and equipment settled; in practice, Lonnie would keep everything moving. Rogelio had orders to keep "Mara" under control. That bought her time—a sliver of space to work without eyes on her. Without distractions.
Catra already knew what she would find when she finally turned her attention back to the troops: barracks left in chaos, supplies uncounted, weapons unsorted. Prime’s Etheria based clones seemingly had no concept of preparation, and certainly no interest in discipline.
She would give herself an hour first. An hour to scratch her letters into order, to set down the bones of her plan. After that, she would pick up the mess.
✧
“Use Mara,” Catra told Lonnie later, once her messengers were dispatched and she had a rare moment to breathe. Her voice was casual, but her ears were angled, sharp for any resistance.
Lonnie arched a brow. “Those muscles can’t just be decoration, I suppose.”
“Have her check the inventory,” Catra went on. “I don’t feel like it.”
Lonnie blinked at her, half a laugh tugging at her mouth. “You think she can even read?”
Catra cut her a long, flat look. Lonnie’s smirk evaporated, and she bobbed her head. “Right. Your Highness.”
“Bet you ten coins she can,” Catra drawled, just to twist the knife.
Hands lifted, palms out, Lonnie surrendered. “You know her better than I do.”
Catra could see the question blazing behind her lieutenant’s eyes, unspoken but practically written across her forehead: Why in the name of all the Ancients did you drag your pet here? Prime had seeded the story himself, peddling the image of her as some green fool, half-dazed by her first taste of a bedslave’s charms. It was exactly the kind of rumor soldiers chewed on when they had nothing better to do, and Catra knew full well how her last-minute insistence on bringing Adora along looked. It wasn’t the sort of decision that would burnish her reputation.
But reputation was already ash.
“She can lend your soldiers a hand when she’s done with the inventory,” Catra said, dismissive. “Anything else you need covered, especially the tasks no one wants. If it’s unpleasant, put her on it.”
Her tone carried the faintest edge of amusement, but her eyes stayed hard. Adora might have forced her way into this campaign, but Catra would make certain she earned her place. Even if not in the way the barracks liked to whisper about.
✧
“I always knew you wanted me, princess. Didn’t have to send your bedslave as an appetizer. My cock’s still hard, too. She didn’t let me finish.”
The Head Clone was loud, obnoxious, making sure everyone could hear. He palmed himself as he swaggered into the barracks, dragging his hand slow across his crotch. The dark wet stain blooming at the tip of his pants left nothing to imagination. He squeezed and circled with thumb and finger, just to make the dampness spread, as if daring anyone not to look.
Catra’s ears flicked, but she stayed perfectly still. There weren’t enough witnesses here yet to make it worth teaching him manners, and besides—it was the first day back on Etheria. No point burning the game too soon.
She could almost hear Prime’s smug voice dripping in her ear: Catra, the clones talk rough. Don’t play the maiden. He’d allowed worse to be said to her—about her—smiling all the while at his “little sister’s” humiliation.
So Catra didn’t blush. She tilted her head, let her smirk curl lazy and sharp.
“Wow,” she drawled, ears twitching back. “So you actually got my pet to spread her legs? Big day for you.”
Her gaze flicked down, then back up with a deliberate once-over. She knew Adora hadn't actually fucked this clone, but she had definitely pissed him off. “Though, let’s be real—she’ll get on her knees for anyone. Doesn’t exactly make you special.”
The clone’s grin faltered, jaw ticking.
Catra leaned in, soft and vicious all at once. “Still—congrats on finally finding your dick. Must’ve been a real challenge.”
And then she clapped. Slow. Deliberate. Each sharp smack echoing off stone.
The Head Clone’s face flushed dark, his swagger cracking. Around them, the handful of soldiers tasked with preparing the barracks froze in place, drawn like moths to the tension sparking between Princess and Captain. A few even edged closer, eager to see where it went.
The responses were mixed—some amused, some wary. Many had seen the Head Clone mouth off to Catra before, but never like this.
Wouldn’t it be funny, Catra thought, if he ruined everything on day one? If he blew the whole plan wide open with one temper tantrum? She toyed with pushing him further, bait dangling on her tongue.
And then, against all odds, he pulled back.
“What do you want?” he snapped. And for him—for him—to say that to her? That was practically polite.
✧
“I saved you for last,” Catra said, voice low, teasing, as she stepped into the room. Adora had risen when she entered, which was… almost civil. Almost. She supposed Adora would put on her best behaviour until the moment she decided to strangle her in her sleep and make a run for the border. Catra had grown used to confronting who Adora really was—but she still hadn’t grown used to the fact that she had agreed to bring her along.
The Princess’s chambers at Dryl hadn’t changed much since Catra’s last visit. She wasn’t sure if she would have preferred it if they had. She dismissed Lonnie earlier, and there was something uncomfortably intimate about standing here, alone with Adora.
You saved my life, Catra thought, with a flicker of irritation. And I hate you for it. No. I resent you. You took Shadow Weaver away. You’ve caused every nightmare since.
“You owe the armourer ten coins,” Adora said, bluntly.
Catra raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smirk. That explained why the Head Clone had bbeenso much more manageable than usual. “The armourer,” she said slowly, “should learn to demand payment before she bends over.”
Stepping further into the room was almost painful in its slowness. Catra forced herself to cross the carpet Prime had made her kneel upon, to stride deliberately, as though staking her presence. She went to the sideboard and poured herself a drink, placing herself deliberately near Adora—but she barely noticed her. Adora wasn’t the concern.
Catra’s gaze flicked toward the table. The servants had cleared Adora’s dinner but left a knife behind. Carelessness? Laziness? Or Prime already stretching his long, quiet influence? Catra felt certain Adora had noticed—but had left it. A small, silent test, or just indifference? She shrugged. Her mind darted ahead, desperate for anything to think about besides the trap she was walking into here.
Adora’s eyes widened slightly at the glass in Catra’s hand, like Catra was holding a serpent.
“Relax,” Catra said, wry. “It’s just water. Probably.” She took a careful sip, not as deep as she intended—some caution never hurt, not when she’d learned how quickly decisions could turn on discomfort.
Her gaze wandered over the setup the servants had prepared: chairs, maps, every piece of furniture in its place. Nothing new, and that, strangely, delighted her.
Catra offered a chair to Adora, voice casual but sharp. “Sit. Make yourself comfortable.”
Catra could barely contain the strange, surreal amusement that hit her, standing in the bedchamber of one of Horde Prime’s abducted Princesses with her enemy—her ally, her thorn—Adora of Etheria. They were sharing a room that Prime had filled with his presence, where he’d branded Catra a pet and declared her his new heir.
“You’re staying the night,” Catra said, a sharp edge of humour in her tone.
“No chains? No cuffs?” she asked.
Catra’s amusement ebbed as her mind, given a single unguarded moment, leapt into dark corners she didn’t want to explore—corners where Adora, and restraints, and the lingering memory of intimacy collided.
“You don’t think I’ll bolt?" Adora pressed. “Maybe slit your throat on the way out?”
“Not until we’re closer to the border,” Catra said evenly.
The answer was blunt. Honest. Necessary. Adora blinked at her, expecting a punchline, some hint that this was a game. When Catra offered none, she shook her head.
“You’re unbelievable. Do you even feel anything?” she muttered, tone tight with disgust.
Catra set down her cup with deliberate calm. Then she picked up the knife.
Everything Catra said, everything she did, was usually measured—cold, precise, premeditated. But her temper was quick, a spark that could ignite into recklessness. And in that moment, a spark had. The knife was in her hand, and she stepped into Adora’s space—too close. Intimately close. Closer than ever before, even the last time a knife had come between them in her rooms. Back then, before the blade was discarded, closeness had been… electric. Mara—Adora—had made her feel alive, made her feel something—
Could she have done that if Adora truly hated her?
She had saved her life. She had bent to her knees. She had left Catra gasping and undone—and now they were here again, tangled in indifference. Indifference, the cold gift Catra could give when all she wanted was to strangle her.
The knife would have gone in—so clean, so satisfying. Unlike the night the assassins came, Adora wasn’t ready; she would have been caught off-guard.
But instead, Catra pressed the hilt into Adora’s palm, curling her fingers over it. She held it there, pulling the arm until the tip nudged against the fabric of Catra’s tunic. Just a breath could let it find skin.
“You heard me dismiss Lonnie.” Catra said, voice low. The warmth of Adora’s hand was electric under her own. They shared the same small space, the same stolen breath. Their eyes met, sharp and calculating. A kiss could have happened, had they chosen it. The knife remained between them, a shared pulse, an intimate edge.
“No threats. No posturing.” Catra added. Adora’s gaze darkened, hunger and fury warring there. “If you’re going to do it—do it.”
Heartbeats thundered, fast and uneven. The heat under her fingers thrilled Catra—the challenge, the gamble, the reckless surrender of plans and prudence. Adora wanted it; Catra could see it in her eyes, feel it in the tension of her body. And yes, a part of her wanted it too. A part of her always did.
“I’m sure servants are still awake,” Adora murmured, “How do I know you won’t scream?”
Catra didn’t even laugh. “Do I seem like the type to scream?” Her words were bait, almost daring, almost inviting. She watched the flicker of conflict in Adora’s dark eyes and felt a spark of satisfaction. Cut me down. Make it quick, like you did my mother.
Adora inhaled deeply, steadying herself.
“I’m not going to use the knife—but if you put it in my hand, you underestimate how much I want to,” she said.
Catra’s lips twitched, a faint smile. She tightened her grip on Adora’s hand, tilting her head slightly, thinking. “No, Mara.” she said softly. The tip of her index traced Adora’s knuckle. “I know exactly what it is… to want to kill someone, and to wait.”
Adora stepped back. Catra let go. She kept the knife clutched, as if weighing it, as if the threat was still very real.