It was over. The wreckage of Catra’s ambition lay scattered across the battlefield.
It had been the final push. The Horde’s entire strength had been mustered for the second battle of Brightmoon.
It had been an army transformed. No longer an incompetent band of child soldiers lead by an equally incompetent leader, but a force capable of putting an end to both the war and the princess alliance once and for all.
When Catra had seized power from Hordak, she had been riding high. She had been living her dream, having finally attained the validation she craved.
But in her elation, she had forgotten the most basic rule of walking the path to power: Don't fall, because it's a long way down.
And now it was over.
I never get to win.
Broken and bruised, Catra clung to one of the many cliffs surrounding Brightmoon, watching smoke billow into the evening sky. For all the effort it took, this was easier than meeting the gaze of the one who'd defeated her.
She had been so close. She had even managed to take She-Ra out of the picture by stealing the sword for the umpteenth time.
But in the end, it had all amounted to nothing.
Her enemies joined forces and allies betrayed her, princess and horde alike conspiring to rob her of victory.
It’s not fair.
Adora hadn’t even needed She-Ra to best her in the end, a simple punch had done just fine.
It’s all her fault.
There was no malice in Adora’s voice, devoid of the anger she had shown when the portal had collapsed. If anything, she sounded regretful.
It was all just too much. So, what? They make nice and forgive each other, tears in their eyes?
We are well past that point.
But apparently, Adora remained as ignorant as ever. She bent down, reaching out to her erstwhile friend.
“Take my hand.”
Forgiveness. Friendship. Love.
Too little too late.
A cold glare conveyed everything; no words needed.
I hate you.
Adora’s eyes widened, comprehension finally dawning in them. She lunged, only a hair too late as Catra let go.
It was a long way down.