"Truce," Lexa corrects. There is a difference, in practice as well as principle, and the outcome of the battle does not displease her. She didn't come looking for Clarke specifically, just a healer, but they are spread thin across the field in the aftermath and Lexa doesn't know enough people to locate one that isn't elbows deep in trying to save someone's life already.

Clarke's greeting—if it can be called that—isn't exactly welcoming but it's words instead of spells, so she takes her chances and closes the distance to stand on the other side of the fallen Templar. Even without any aptitude for healing it's plain to see that the man has no chance at survival, and his wet burbling cough fills the silence between them. Lexa looks at the knife in Clarke's hand, and then back at Clarke, and after a beat she sinks to a knee. The blade in her boot is drawn out and across the man's throat before he has time to cough again, let alone for Clarke to stop her. She presses his eyes closed.

"There are two wounded in the woods," she says, wiping her blade on the edge of her cloak before sheathing it again and straightening up. "Inquisition soldiers. They'll be dead before anyone else finds them."