Truce earns something short of an eye-roll: a gesture with her chin, a tilt sideways and a stubborn outward jut, and narrowed eyes above it. The difference between a truce and an alliance doesn't do a thing for her or a few dozen dead villagers. But it isn't something she's going to argue about while a man dies between them—

quickly.

She's not an actress. There's no hiding the relieved slump of her shoulders or the sharpening of her gaze into something less overwhelmed. She blinks a few times, rapidly, for the first time since she first laid eyes on the Templar, and she needs a beat after Lexa speaks to retroactively pay attention and understand what she's saying. Offering.

It's enough to dampen the resentment on Clarke face until it isn't much more than wariness. She slides the knife back into her belt. "Show me."