"Hashta soulou gonplei, bilaik won hedon noumou: du souda wan op deyon," Roan says, echoing the ritual words of their single combat, with a rueful twist at the corner of his lips. "Ours would be better. These conclaves are shit."

He tips his head in the direction of the ring at the center of the arena. It's a familiar braying for blood that resonates with grounder culture, and some of the fighters are competent enough... but others are a mess: sloppy technique, weak blows. More accustomed to guns than hand-to-hand, clearly grown soft and weak with their modern weapons. It makes his fingers itch to take up arms himself, show them how it's done. But he has no stake in this fight.

And he automatically follows Lexa when she gestures, stalking after her as they settle at the back of the room, with a clear view of the rest of the arena. Even now, even in another world, Lexa radiates a self-assurance that makes it feel natural to obey and follow suit. Commander of commanders.

At her half-question: "I'm not. I've heard that it's possible for people to come here from near-death. And I myself came from—"

He pauses, remembering. Black rain burning his skin, his lungs filling up with acid water, searing from the inside out.

"I wasn't surprised, but I was glad. Welcome back, heda."