Narrow shafts of sunlight filtered through the cracks between the sheets of metal that formed the walls and roof of the cabin. He studied the angle of the light and listened carefully to the sounds outside, trying to figure out where the prison was located. The far-off thwack of an ax hitting firewood told him he was a good distance from the woodpile. A group of boys walked by, right on the other side of the wall, chatting about a Walden girl. Under their voices, he could hear water sloshing, which meant he was near the path people used to get to the stream.

Bellamy strained to identify every sound he could make out. Logs clattering together, blankets and tarps snapping as someone shook them out, a guard’s officious tone as he corrected someone’s stacking technique. But there was only one sound Bellamy wanted to hear, and he held his breath, frustration building in his chest. Octavia’s voice. He wanted—needed—to hear his sister. He would be able to tell from just a few words whether she was happy or scared, in danger or safe. But he didn’t recognize any of the voices floating across the clearing. The place was overrun with newcomers.

Bellamy didn’t even have the strength to be angry anymore. He only cared about Octavia, Clarke, and Wells. If it weren’t for them, he wouldn’t care if he lived or died, if he was executed or set free to live alone in the woods. But what would happen to his sister if he were killed? Who would look after her once he was gone? The hundred had formed a community, but now that Rhodes and all the others were here, all bets were off. He couldn’t be sure anyone would look out for his kid sister when they were all busy looking out for themselves. Just like everyone else had been back on the ship.

A loud thud against the side of the cabin made Bellamy jerk to the side—which sent shooting pain through his upper body. “Jesus,” he grunted. Then he heard scuffling, followed by loud voices. One familiar voice rose above the rest: It was Wells.

“Put the shackles on,” Wells said in a voice Bellamy had never heard before, low and menacing. “Do it now,” he snapped, “and don’t make a sound. If you do so much as open your mouth, I’ll shoot you.” And although it contradicted everything Bellamy knew about his half brother, it sounded like Wells meant it.

Shit, Bellamy thought. Mini-Chancellor is starting to sound like a mini–Vice Chancellor.

There was silence as, presumably, the guard complied with Wells’s order. A few seconds later, two figures burst through the cabin door—a stony-faced, iron-jawed Wells and a flushed, rapidly-breathing Clarke. They fell into the room and rushed over to him, as Bellamy’s head swam with confusion and relief. Were they actually here to rescue him? How the hell had they managed that?

Bellamy’s chest swelled with a feeling he’d never really known before—gratitude. No one had ever done anything this dangerous for him, no one had ever thought he was worth that kind of risk. He’d spent his whole life taking reckless action to protect Octavia, but no one had ever done so much as transfer him a ration point or sneak out past curfew to check on him the few times he’d gotten sick.

Yet here they were, the girl he never would’ve dared dream about back on the ship, and the brother he never knew existed, putting their lives on the line for him.

Clarke sank to her knees next to him. “Bellamy,” she said, her voice cracking as she ran her hand along his cheek. “Are you okay?” She’d never sounded so afraid, so fragile. Yet there was nothing vulnerable about a girl who’d face down a clearing full of armed guards.

Bellamy nodded, then winced as Wells tugged on the cuffs attached to the peg on the wall. “How are you going to get those off?” Bellamy asked, his voice hoarse. The guard outside would alert the others any second. If they didn’t get out of there fast, not a single one of them would live to see another sunset.

“Don’t worry,” Wells said. “She has the key.”

Clarke reached into her pocket and pulled out a slim key, made of the same flexible metal as the cuffs.

“How the hell did you—you know what? Forget it. I don’t want to know,” Bellamy said. “Just get them off.”

Wells took the key from Clarke and began fumbling with the restraints while Clarke switched back into doctor mode and quickly examined his shoulder, muttering to herself as she peeled back the blood-stained bandage. Bellamy couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and a thin sheen of sweat misted her face, but she’d never looked more beautiful.

“Got it,” Wells said as the cuffs sprang open. “Let’s go.” He reached down, wrapped an arm behind Bellamy, and hauled him to his feet. Clarke slipped under Bellamy’s other arm, and helped him hurry across the cabin. When they reached the door, Clarke held up her hand and signaled for them to wait while she listened for sounds outside. At first, Bellamy wasn’t sure what they were waiting for, but then he heard it. A loud crash and series of cries echoed from the far side of the clearing, followed by shouts of “We’re under attack!” and “Guards—fall in!”

A stampede of heavy footsteps thudded past the cabin, toward the commotion.

Clarke turned to Wells and grinned. “She did it! Go, Sasha.”

“What’d she do?” Bellamy asked as he leaned a little harder on Wells. He hadn’t walked in days, and his muscles felt like jelly.

“She rigged up something in the trees to make it sound like the Earthborns were attacking the camp. If everything goes according to plan, Rhodes will have sent all the guards into the woods, and we’ll be able to sneak out the other side.”