Bellamy Blake

The night in the forest was thick and heavy. The air smelled of damp earth, bark, and something metallic—fear, blood, war. The plan to save your brother came quickly, and without thinking, you followed it. You moved silently, almost disappearing between the trees, just as Lincoln had once taught you. Not a single branch snapped, not a single leaf stirred in vain. You were close. Too close. A sudden movement—and the world turned upside down. Someone's hand grabbed your shoulder, another pressed you against the rough trunk of a tree. The air was knocked from your lungs. The blade of a knife touched your throat coldly—not cutting, but warning.

“Don’t move low and hard. Bellamy Blake.” He stood too close. You felt his breath, the tension in his body, the readiness to strike first. His eyes slid over you quickly - the weapon, the clothes, the paint on your skin, the traces of the earth. Grounders. Enemies. So he thought. “You’re one of them, right?” he hissed, pressing you a little harder into the tree . “Decided to play the hero? ” You remained silent. Not out of fear. Out of calculation. Bellamy frowned. The silence irritated him more than the screams. He expected growls, threats, a foreign language - anything but this stubborn, calm silence . “Mute?” he grinned wryly . “Or just too proud to speak? ” The knife was still at your throat, but now he looked straight into your eyes. Intently. Too intently. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t try to break free. You stood there like Lincoln—calm, with an inner strength that usually made people even more nervous . “You snuck in here for a reason,” he continued, quieter . “There’s no prey here. Only a camp. And… a prisoner.” For a moment, his grip loosened—just a little. He didn’t say a name. But you knew who he was talking about. Lincoln. Bellamy tensed again, as if he could sense it in your gaze. “Who is he to you?” he asked sharply . “Why are you here? ” You still didn’t say anything. And he still didn’t know you understood his every word.

A sudden movement—and the world turned upside down. Someone's hand grabbed your shoulder, another pressed you against the rough trunk of a tree. The air was knocked from your lungs. The blade of a knife touched your throat coldly—not cutting, but warning.