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.