Carmela

A chorus of approving murmurs rippled through the room.

You resisted the urge to groan.

Instead, you leaned farther back, crossing your arms as another notification flashed across the sponsorship board.

Sponsor Donation Received.

Then another.

And another.

Money poured into Lucy Gray's account faster than the attendants could announce it.

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost hurt.

"Oh, for God's sake," you muttered beneath your breath.

It wasn't Lucy Gray.

Not really.

If anything, you admired what she'd done. Standing beside Jessup until the end had taken courage. More courage than most people in this room possessed.

No.

What bothered you was that she bothered you at all.

That somehow this girl from District Twelve had managed to crawl beneath your skin without even trying.

You hated that every time her name was spoken, your attention sharpened.

That every time Coryo looked at her—

You stopped yourself before finishing the thought.

Ridiculous.

She was his tribute.

Nothing more.

You told yourself that every few minutes, yet it never seemed to stick.

As if unable to stomach another second of Lucy Gray's praise—or perhaps the flood of sponsors she continued receiving—Pup Harrington suddenly lurched forward.

"Better get Lamina her breakfast!"

The declaration earned a few scattered laughs as he began ordering an absurd amount of food for his tribute.

Bread.

Cheese.

Dried meat.

Water.

Anything he could think of.

No one even bothered trying to outbid him. Lamina was the only tribute currently visible in the arena, making it an effortless opportunity for Pup to show off.

You sighed.

Typical.

Your gaze drifted across the semicircle of mentors until it settled on Coryo.

He had slipped back into his seat after the interview, shoulders straighter than usual, one hand absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck.

Anyone else would've thought he looked composed.

You knew better.

Something was wrong.

Not dramatically wrong.

Just...

Off.

His smile had disappeared almost the instant the cameras stopped rolling. His jaw remained tight. His eyes stayed fixed on the arena, though you doubted he was truly watching it. Curiosity tugged at you.

You almost considered walking over.

Not because you were worried.

Certainly not.

You simply wanted to know what had unsettled him.

Curiosity had always been one of your greatest flaws. Before you could decide whether indulging it was worth the effort, a commotion broke out around the room. Your attention snapped back to the screens.

Lamina.

She clung to the steel beam high above the arena, looking worse than she had the day before. Pale. Exhausted. Every movement seemed painfully deliberate, as though her body had begun to betray her.

Your eyes shifted.

Reaper.

Clemensia's tribute.

He crossed the arena with surprising purpose until he reached the enormous Panem flag planted near the center. Without hesitation, he drove his knife through the heavy fabric. Gasps echoed throughout the viewing gallery.

Someone cursed.

Several Capitol officials shot to their feet.

The sacred flag of Panem billowed violently as Reaper hacked away at it, carving off a section nearly the size of a blanket. The outrage in the room was almost theatrical.

"He's desecrating the flag!"

"Surely they'll stop him!"

"But how?"

No one seemed to have an answer. He was already in the Hunger Games. What punishment could possibly outweigh that? Your gaze wandered toward Clemensia as Lepidus hurried over to shove a microphone beneath her face. Even after all these weeks, something about looking at her made your skin crawl. She carried herself as though nothing had changed.

As though she hadn't nearly died.

As though Dr. Gaul's snakes had never sunk their venom into her skin.

But they had.

You could still see it.

Not in obvious scales or monstrous features.

Just...

The way her movements seemed too smooth.

Too careful.

The strange stillness in her eyes whenever she wasn't speaking. Like something cold-blooded had settled beneath her skin and never quite left.

"What do you make of your tribute's behavior?" Lepidus asked.

"Well," Clemensia answered coolly, "it's a foolish move, isn't it? Who's going to sponsor him now?"

"Not that it matters," Pup called over. "You never feed him anyway."

"I'll feed him when he earns it."

“Anyway, I think you’ve got that covered today.”

Pup frowned in confusion.

"I do?"

Clemensia simply nodded toward the screen.

Reaper had returned beneath Lamina's beam.

The two exchanged what looked like a silent negotiation before he tossed the folded piece of the flag upward.

She dropped him a loaf of bread.

The first attempt failed.

Then another.

Eventually, after several tries, Lamina managed to catch the cloth and rewarded him with a chunk of cheese.

The room buzzed with commentary over what it all meant.

You found yourself losing interest almost immediately.

People would spend the next hour debating whether it had been strategy, rebellion, or simple desperation. You couldn't bring yourself to care. Your eyes wandered away from the screen once more...

...back to Coriolanus Snow.

The broadcast returned to the studio with Lucky Flickerman already wearing his signature grin.

"And now," he announced, throwing his arms wide, "I think it's only fair we hear from someone who's been watching the Games from a very different perspective."

His eyes landed on you.

"Our very own junior Gamemaker."

A polite round of applause filled the studio.

You rose gracefully from your seat, smoothing the front of your dress as you approached. Lucky met you halfway, Jubilee a depressed bird in the midst of battling mange, perched wordlessly on Lucky’s wrist looking thoroughly unimpressed by the attention.

"Go on, Jubilee," Lucky encouraged, scratching beneath the bird's beak. "Show everyone what you've learned."

The parrot blinked lazily and in the most exhausted voice imaginable, croaked,

"Hello, beautiful."

The audience laughed warmly.

"There she is!" Lucky exclaimed triumphantly. "I knew she'd say it eventually."

You smiled at the bird.

"I believe she has excellent taste."

That earned another ripple of laughter.

Lucky grinned.

"I couldn't agree more."

He gestured toward the arena playing across the screens behind you.

"You've had a front-row seat to all of this. Working alongside the Gamemakers, seeing decisions unfold before anyone else... tell us, has it been everything you imagined?"

You considered the question for only a moment.

"I don't think anyone could have imagined these Games."

A murmur of agreement spread through the audience.

"Every day seems to bring something unexpected."

"So you're enjoying yourself?" Lucky asked.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

"I've found it fascinating."

"Fascinating?"

"The Games are constantly changing. Just when everyone believes they've figured them out..." You glanced briefly toward the arena. "...something surprises them."

Lucky nodded enthusiastically.

"That's certainly been true this year."

"I think that's part of what keeps everyone watching."

A few appreciative murmurs drifted through the studio.

Lucky folded his hands dramatically.

"Now, before I let you escape..."

Your smile didn't falter.

"...I have to ask about something the audience has certainly noticed."

Of course he did.

"You and President Ravinstill's son seem to have become rather well acquainted."

"You've been seen together more than once."

You gave a soft, polite laugh.

"Felix is an old friend of mine."

"Oh?" Lucky asked, delighted.

"He has a gift for making everyone around him feel at ease."

"That's a very diplomatic answer."

"I was raised to give them."

The audience laughed, and even Lucky let out an amused bark.

"So you're saying we're not getting any exciting secrets today?"

"I'm afraid not."

"What a shame."

"I'd hate to disappoint."

"Oh, I think you've disappointed half the Capitol."

You smiled sweetly.

"Then I'll simply have to make it up to them another time."

Lucky placed a hand over his heart.

"Now that's a promise the audience will remember."

More laughter followed.

"Well," he said, turning back toward the cameras, "she's graceful, charming, and somehow even more mysterious than when she walked over here. Ladies and gentlemen, another round of applause!"

The applause followed you all the way back to your seat.

You smiled for exactly as long as the cameras remained pointed in your direction. The second they swung away, the smile disappeared.

God.

You hated being on camera.

It wasn't stage fright. You'd been raised for public appearances, endless charity galas, formal dinners, and Capitol functions where every smile was rehearsed and every sentence measured. You knew exactly where to stand, where to look, how to laugh at the appropriate volume.

That didn't mean you enjoyed it. It felt like being dissected. Every expression watched.Every word weighed.

You sank into your chair with a quiet sigh.

"And someone," you murmured under your breath, glancing toward Lucky across the studio, "really ought to put that poor bird out of its misery."

Jubilee looked positively despondent.

Its feathers stuck out at odd angles despite Lucky's endless attempts at smoothing them, and its eyes carried the thousand-yard stare of a creature that had simply accepted its fate.

You almost pitied it.

Almost.

Your thoughts drifted back to the interview. Of all the things Lucky could have asked...

Felix.

Really?

What did that have to do with the Hunger Games? Nothing. It was Capitol gossip dressed up as entertainment. You supposed that was enough for Lucky Flickerman.

Still...

Felix wasn't going to appreciate your answer. Not that you'd said anything wrong. Quite the opposite. You'd been perfectly gracious. Perfectly charming. Perfectly vague.

Exactly as you'd intended.

But you also knew Felix well enough by now to know that if the roles had been reversed—

If someone had shoved a microphone beneath his face and asked about you— 

He wouldn't have hesitated.

"She's my girl."

Or perhaps something even more possessive. The thought made you wrinkle your nose. You weren't entirely sure how you felt about that. You'd spent the better part of your life believing you understood people.

Felix had complicated that.

You hadn't seen him in nearly twenty-four hours. That alone felt unusual. Lately, he had become something of a permanent fixture in your days.

Lunch.

Walks through the Capitol.

Dropping by the laboratory under increasingly flimsy excuses.

Waiting outside meetings.

Appearing precisely when you were about to leave somewhere.

Like a particularly well-dressed shadow.

Last night, you'd been meant to have dinner together. It had been the last time you'd seen him. He'd smiled—that easy, handsome smile that won over practically everyone—and said only  two words.

"Call me."

Not if you have time. Not I'd love to hear from you.

Just...

"Call me."

You hadn't.

Partly because by the time you'd finished with work, you were exhausted.

Mostly because of the way he'd said it.

As though it weren't a request. As though it were expected. You had gone home instead. If only because—

Who exactly did Felix Ravinstill think he was? The President's son, your mind answered immediately.

You suppressed a smile.

Your relationship with Felix was...

Odd.

The entire Capitol saw the polished version of him. The charming heir. Effortlessly handsome. Well-spoken. The sort of young man mothers adored and fathers approved of before he'd even opened his mouth.

He knew exactly what to say. Exactly how to smile. Exactly how to make people feel as though they were the only person in the room.

And, to be fair...

Most of the time, he was exactly that man. Kind. Generous. Attentive.

If you asked for something, he found a way to make it happen. Flowers arrived before you'd realized you wanted them. Reservations appeared without asking. Books you'd merely mentioned in passing somehow found their way to your doorstep. He was endlessly accommodating. Sometimes to a fault. 

It was only once you'd grown closer that you began noticing the cracks beneath all that polish.

They were small.

Easy to miss.

The way his smile tightened whenever another man held your attention for too long. The questions disguised as casual conversation.

"Who was that?"

"You've known him long?"

"He seems rather interested in you."

Always delivered pleasantly.

Always with a smile. Yet somehow...

Not questions at all.

You'd begun to realize that Felix was a jealous man. Quietly. Possessively. Not enough to cause a scene. Enough to make his presence known. You should've found that alarming.

Perhaps any sensible girl would have.

Instead...

It stirred something warm and low in your stomach. Not because you enjoyed jealousy itself. But because it reminded you of something else.

Someone else.

Your jaw tightened.

Coriolanus.

The very thought of him was irritating. You refused to examine why. The two of them couldn't have been more different.

Felix bent.

Coriolanus pushed back.

Felix agreed.

Coriolanus challenged.

Every conversation with Coriolanus felt like striking flint against stone. You argued. Competed. Tested one another. Neither of you willing to surrender the final word. He irritated you more than anyone alive.

And somehow...

He made you feel more alive than almost anyone else. It was infuriating. Felix didn't do that. He steadied you. Coriolanus unsettled you. Perhaps that was why Felix's little command from yesterday lingered in your mind.

"Call me."

It wasn't like him. 

Or perhaps...

You were only now beginning to meet the real Felix.

The thought was strangely...

Interesting.

You couldn't decide whether you admired the audacity...

Or intended to punish him for it.

Either way...

You waited on the curb, arms crossed tightly over your chest—not for warmth, but to hold yourself together. The night had stretched long and strange, You didn’t want to think about any of it, but your brain kept looping the whole thing like this Game that never really ended.

Your driver arrived in a sleek black vehicle that glided to a stop with mechanical ease. He stepped out just long enough to open the rear door for you. You slid in, the door shutting behind you with a soft click, a sound that somehow managed to feel final.

He glanced at you through the rearview mirror. “Where to?”

You opened your mouth, then paused.

Where to.

You hadn’t thought about that.

Home was the obvious answer. You hadn’t been back since the day before. But the idea of walking through that door and facing your Quincy—or worse, the long echoing silence of a house full of absence—made your skin itch.

Then there was Felix.

That morning, when you’d stirred awake in the low amber light of his room, clothed in his sleep wear and vaguely sore from falling asleep curled too tightly into him, he’d tucked your hair behind your ear and said quietly, “Call me when you’re done. I want to see you.”

He hadn’t said it like a request.

He hadn’t said please.

And now that moment hung around your shoulders, sticky with expectation.

But the truth was—you didn’t want to go back to him. Not tonight.

Not because he’d done something wrong. Not really. But because the weight of him was beginning to exhaust you. 

So, after too long a silence, you cleared your throat.

“Take me home.”

The driver nodded once, shifted the car into gear, and pulled away from the Hall.

You watched the city roll by in fractured light. The Capitol after dark looked like a fever dream: soft shadows cast by bright neon, buildings gleaming like wet teeth, corners of alleys lit by the blue flash of a Peacekeeper patrol. Somewhere behind it all, the Games kept ticking forward, even as bodies fell.

After a few blocks, you reached for your phone and stared at the screen. No messages. No missed calls. Felix was waiting on you to do the reaching. You sighed, unlocked the screen, and tapped his contact.

He picked up after one ring.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and already familiar in your ear. “You’re done?”

“I am,” you said, staring at your own reflection in the dark window.

A beat.

“So?” he prompted, with an edge of warmth that was also an edge of pressure. “Are you coming back?”

You exhaled slowly, heart kicking up despite yourself. “I think I’m going to head home tonight.”

Silence. Not loud, just long.

“Seriously?”

“I haven’t been home in over a day,” you said. “I need to check in. My parents…”

“Your parents haven’t cared what time you came home since you were fifteen.”

You closed your eyes, counted to two, then said, “It’s not about them. It’s about me. I need—space.”

“You had space. You left this morning.”

“I didn’t leave,” you said. “I went to school.”

“And now you’re actively choosing not to come back.”

There it was.

You weren’t going to fight him. Not really. But you also weren’t going to pretend this was fine.

“I’m not obligated to,” you said quietly.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“No,” you murmured, “but you wanted me to feel like I was.”

Another pause. You could hear the way he shifted in his chair—could practically see it: him rising, hand running through his hair, lips tight as if biting back a hundred things.

“You make it really hard to care about you,” he said finally.

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t let it show in your voice. “Then maybe don’t.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is this.”

He scoffed quietly. “You act like I’m this—this emotional burden or something, just because I want to see you.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Finally: “I didn’t say you were a burden. But you don’t make it easy to be close to you, either. Everything with you feels like a transaction I’m failing at.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” he snapped. “You want people to care, but only on your terms. And when they don’t read your mind, it’s their fault for trying too hard.”

The words hit harder than you expected. And maybe because they weren’t entirely wrong, they stuck.

You pulled the phone away from your ear just long enough to look at it, like it might give you an answer. It didn’t.

“I’m going home,” you said, returning the phone to your ear. “Good night.”

He didn’t reply.

You ended the call.

The silence in the car was full of the echoes of that conversation. You leaned back against the seat, hands clasped tightly in your lap, and finally allowed yourself to feel it: the exhaustion, the confusion, the weight of being wanted too much and not knowing how to give enough back.

If someone asked you if Felix was your boyfriend, what would you even say?

You’d probably say no just to keep things simple.

He’d say yes. Loudly. Without hesitation.

You kissed sometimes. You spent the night. You shared silences that were soft and others that were sharp. You fought like people who’d already made promises they didn’t want to admit.

And yet—none of it had a name. You didn’t want to name it. Not because you didn’t care, but because naming it might make it real. Permanent. Something you had to tend to.

And he—he required tending. Constantly. Like a wound that never fully closed.

You stared out the window as the skyline shifted, shrinking behind you.

Eventually, your family’s manor appeared in the distance, its pale stone glowing under carefully placed lighting, as immaculate as always. Home.

The car pulled into the long front drive, gliding to a stop beneath the arching awning.

You stepped out slowly, heels tapping on the stone. The air smelled like rain and cut roses.

“Thank you,” you said to the driver, offering a nod before turning away.

You didn’t look back as you walked toward the front doors.

Inside, the house waited. Quiet. Unquestioning.

And for the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe. Sort of.

You’d barely crossed the threshold before you heard them.

Voices—low, heated, too many of them for this late. Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t even had time to breathe in the sharp scent of polished wood and imported flowers before the realization hit you: they were still awake.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, pausing in the entryway. The weight of the day came crashing down at once—your raw nerves, the hours you hadn’t slept, the dull ache blooming across your shoulders. This? This was the last thing you had in you.

You took your shoes off—anything to soften your steps. Maybe if you were fast enough, maybe if you didn’t make eye contact, you could sneak past the dining room without—

“Look who finally decided to come home,” came the voice.

You froze mid-step. His voice, sharp as a blade against glass. You felt your shoulders stiffen like they’d been wired into place. The air in the hallway grew cold.

You turned slowly.

Quincy sat at the head of the dining table, his silhouette thrown into sharp relief by the chandelier’s amber glow. He looked at you the way some people look at roadkill—eyes narrowed, expression twisted with something too close to delight.

Before he said another word, he motioned lazily toward the two children seated on either side of him.

“Take Benjamin and charlotte to bed,” he said to the maid, though he didn’t look at her when he spoke.

Your younger half-siblings immediately began to protest. “But—”

“Now.”

Something in his tone cut the room in half.

That’s when you knew.

He was going to make a scene. No, not a scene—a statement.

When the children were gone, Quincy stood slowly. He didn’t need to yell to be dangerous. His voice had weight. It carried the kind of quiet cruelty that didn’t need to shout to leave bruises.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said, folding his arms. “Thought we were done with the disappearing act.”

You didn’t answer.

“I was told you didn’t come home last night. Actually—” He stepped around the table, closing the distance one slow step at a time. “You haven’t been home in over twenty-four hours.”

Still, you didn’t speak.

“You want to tell me where you’ve been?” His tone was light, conversational, but his eyes were burning. “Because after your last little incident, I thought we were past this.”

You glanced to your mother.

She was seated beside him, her face pale and blank, eyes cast downward. She wouldn’t look at you. She wouldn’t even lift her head.

So you tried to explain—something half true, something simple.

“I was out with Felix,” you said, voice low. “Then I had to handle something... for school. I was going to come home, but—”

“—but you didn’t,” he cut in. “You stayed at that boy’s house. Again.”

You blinked. How did he know?

Quincy’s lip curled. “You think people don’t talk? That no one sees the way you sneak around this city like you’ve got nothing to lose? Like your behavior doesn’t reflect on this entire family?”

“That’s not what it was,” you said. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, save it,” he snapped. “Don’t lie to me. You think because you crawl into someone’s bed and cry about how hard your life is, you’re grown now? You think that makes you a woman?”

He was coming toward you now, too close, the sickly smell of whatever he’d been drinking coating his words.

Your breath caught in your throat. You could feel it building—the rage, the disgust, the deep, old fear that hadn’t gone away since the first time he raised his voice at you as a child.

“I’ve been patient,” Quincy said, voice rising. “God knows I’ve tried. But I won’t have my wife’s daughter embarrassing me. Not in my house.”

You heard your mother again—quiet, desperate: “Please, Quincy... don’t—”

“Shut up!” he roared, not even turning toward her. “Just shut the fuck up!”

Then it happened. He moved so quickly you didn’t register it at first—just the sharp yank of pain as he grabbed you by the hair, dragged you down to the marble floor.

You cried out, hands flying to your scalp, trying to claw his fingers away, but his grip was iron. He pulled you hard enough that your knees scraped the ground, hard enough that you saw stars.

Your mother screamed. Begged.

He didn’t care.

“You ungrateful little shit,” he growled, hauling you toward the living room, toward the fireplace like he was going to throw you into it. “I’ve fed you, clothed you, and this is how you repay me? Like some gutter trash whore—”

You felt something primal break open inside you.

Your nails dug into his skin so deep he cursed, and then—you felt it. He flinched. Loosened.

You broke free, stumbled into a sprint up the stairs, his footsteps thunderous behind you. Your mother’s voice trailed behind you like smoke—sobbing, pleading.

You slammed your bedroom door, fingers scrambling.

The drawer.

One of the things they’d sent back from your father’s military kit after he died. You hadn’t even looked at it in years.

But now your fingers found it without thinking—your father’s knife. Cold, heavy, real.

And then he was on you again.

“You think you’re better than me?” Quincy screamed, pinning you down by the throat. “You think you can act like you’re some untouchable little princess?”

Your hands fumbled—but then they found it. The handle of the knife.

You didn’t stab him.

You drove the hilt into the side of his head, hard.

He grunted, reared back.

You stood.

Knife in hand.

And suddenly, everything changed.

He saw it in your eyes—something new, something unfamiliar. The tears were gone. The fear had hollowed out and left something colder behind.

Quincy stepped back.

“What now?” you said, voice trembling but hard. “What are you gonna do now?”

He didn’t answer.

You stepped forward, raising the knife. Not to stab, but close enough to make your point.

“Don’t ever put your hands on me again.”

Your voice cracked—but the fury didn’t.

For a moment, you wanted to do it. Really do it. Just end it. Just shut him up forever.

But then you heard it. Your mother sobbing on the stairs, face crumpled in horror.

And then—you saw yourself.

Reflected in the mirror across the room.

Your face. Wild, bloodied, barely recognizable.

You looked like Coriolanus that night he came back from the Arena, hands shaking, blood under his nails. Not just survivor. Not just fighter.

Predator.

And you hated it.

You hated him, but you hated this even more.

You lowered the knife.

“Don’t you ever fucking touch me again,” you said.

And then you turned and ran.

You didn’t even wait to see if Quincy followed.

You just ran. Out the front door. Into the dark.

And you didn’t stop.

You weren’t running from him anymore.

You were running toward the girl who didn’t want to be prey.

You didn’t know how long you were running.

You didn’t care.

The sting in your heels had gone numb, your breath torn out of your chest hours ago. The cold slapped your arms, your legs. The dress—once a pristine white gift from Felix—was ruined, smeared with blood, dirt, and the memory of everything you’d just survived.

You were a walking bruise, inside and out.

Your limbs were trembling when you finally slowed, only to realize you had nowhere to go. No phone. No plan. No safety net. You thought of friends—acquaintances, really. None who knew, none who could know. All except one.

The park was almost empty, the Capitol skyline glowing behind the black trees. It had never felt like this. Tonight, it felt like a graveyard.

And there, like fate playing a cruel joke, he sat.

Coriolanus Snow. A single pool of light shone above him, flickering off the metal of a lighter in his hand. A cigarette rested between his lips, and for a moment you just stood still—your shadow stretching out long and ruined behind you.

He glanced up. His eyes went wide.

He didn’t stand. He didn’t speak. He just watched you approach.

You stopped in front of him, breath shallow, face stinging from the wind and everything else. He blinked slowly, taking you in: the mess of hair, the blood at your lip, the grime streaking your arms and knees. The bruises you couldn’t hide.

“Rough night?” he asked, voice low, with a dark twist of humor in it.

You almost laughed. But the only thing that came out was a sob you managed to swallow.

“Can I get a cig?”

That made him actually smile—small, crooked, real. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Since now.”

He flicked his lighter, held out the flame as you placed the cigarette between your lips. His other hand came up, shielding the wind, the way he always did. And in that flicker of fire, your eyes locked.

For a second, it was like nothing had changed.

The cigarette caught, and you leaned back. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling up past his lashes.

“I won’t ask,” he said.

“Good.”

You sat beside him. The silence between you was… not comfortable, but familiar. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, eyes watching the horizon like it owed him something.

“You look like shit,” he added after a beat.

You smiled, wincing. “I feel worse.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just took another drag.

Eventually, he broke the quiet again. “You need somewhere to go?”

You hesitated. You shouldn’t. You knew you shouldn’t.

“I really shouldn’t,” you murmured.

He turned his head, stared at you. “Where else are you gonna go?”

And that was it. That was the question. You weren’t going home. You weren’t showing up at Felix’s door looking like this. And as dangerous as being near Corio always felt, right now it was the only place you didn’t feel like dying.

You nodded once.

He noticed your feet as you stood. Bleeding. Raw.

He didn’t say a word. Just bent down, hooked his arm behind your knees and the other under your back, and lifted you.

You let yourself be carried.

The apartment was quiet. Tigress and the grandmother slept behind closed doors. Coryo moved quietly, only the soft creak of floorboards betraying your presence.

In his room, everything felt frozen in time. It looked the same as it had the last time you were here—before Clemencia’s fall, before the arena, before all of it.

Déjà vu clawed at you.

He handed you a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. You dressed in the bathroom. When you came out, your reflection in the mirror had nearly undone you. You didn’t recognize her.

You both ended up on his bed, sitting far enough apart that it almost hurt.

“What are we doing?” you asked quietly, staring at your knees.

“I don’t know.”

“You ever feel like… we’re strangers?”

He chuckled, bitterly. “We are. But we know each other’s darkest secrets. So that’s something.”

There was a pause.

“I used to think we could fix each other,” you whispered. “That maybe that’s what we were for.”

“And now?”

“I think we’re both too broken to be anything but dangerous.”

He glanced at you. “You make danger sound sexy.”

You smiled again, this one more tired than anything else. “That’s your problem.”

His hand brushed yours. You didn’t move it away.

“You scared me tonight,” he said quietly. “Seeing you like that.”

“You’ve seen worse.”

“Not from you.”

And then the distance closed. You kissed him.

It was desperate. Wild. Wrong in all the right ways.

You didn’t stop yourself. His hands were on your back, your thighs, tangled in your hair. Your body moved before your brain could scream stop. The room was hot, air thick with longing, smoke, and something else—something old and familiar and tragic.

You climbed into his lap, your mouth pressed to his like you’d forgotten how to breathe without him.

It felt too good. Too real.

You were crying before you even noticed.

He pulled back, lips wet, brows drawn.

“What’s wrong?”

You shook your head. Couldn’t speak.

“What is it?”

You stared at him, heart cracking open. “What does this mean, Coryo?”

He didn’t answer.

You swallowed. “Because we both know you’re gonna go back to her.”

His eyes flickered. “It’s not like that—”

“Tell me it doesn’t mean anything,” you interrupted. “Tell me it meant nothing. Lucy Gray.”

He froze.

You waited.

Nothing.

Tears welled harder. You pulled away. “That’s what I thought.”

“Wait—please. It’s not—” He reached for you. You stepped back.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Get off me. Just… don’t.”

“Why do you always do this?” he snapped. “Why do you always run?”

“Because I have to. Because I know what this is, and I’m not going to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending either—”

“Yes, you are.” You looked at him, eyes bloodshot, voice cracked. “You want us to be something we never were. You want me when it’s convenient, when it hurts, but you don’t choose me. Not really.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s honest.”

You grabbed your dress, slipped it back over your borrowed clothes. Every movement was mechanical, lifeless. He didn’t stop you this time.

What the fuck?

Panic shoots through you for a second before last night’s memories come flooding back. The exhaustion. Felix insisting you come home with him. Falling into bed before you could even think twice about it.

Oh no. No, no, no.

You groan internally. You were tired, sure, but how could you have let this happen? Felix’s house. Felix’s bed. Felix’s arms wrapped so tightly around you that escape feels impossible. And when you get home—if you get home—Quincy is going to have a field day. He always does. Though lately, he’s been too busy. You don’t see him as often. You don’t sit down for dinner together. You try to come home after everyone’s asleep and leave before they wake. But he’ll know. He always knows. And you have no explanation to give him.

You shift again, trying to pry yourself from Felix’s grasp, but he groans in annoyance and only pulls you closer.

“Felix,” you mutter, voice still rough with sleep. “I have to go.”

He buries his face against your shoulder. “No, no we don’t have to go anywhere,” he mumbles sleepily. “Stay. Let’s get breakfast. Let’s take the day off.”

You shake your head. “I can’t. I really can’t.”

Felix sighs, rubbing at his face before propping himself up on one elbow. “Why?”

You sit up, already scanning the room for your clothes. “I have to talk to Dr. Gaul. She’s going to be expecting me.”

His expression shifts, his easygoing sleepiness fading into something more tense. “Why do you always have to leave?” His voice is sharper than before, tinged with frustration. “Why can’t you just stay with me?”

You glance at him, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “What are you talking about? You know I’m busy. So are you. I can’t just take a day off.”

Felix scoffs, running a hand through his messy hair. “Is it Coriolanus?”

You freeze for a second before rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. You’re being dramatic. This has nothing to do with Coriolanus.”

“It always has something to do with him,” Felix presses, his voice darkening. “I saw it. The way you looked at him.”

You push against his chest, trying to create space between you, but he doesn’t let you. “Felix, you’re blind.”

“Then prove it,” he says. “Stay.” His grip tightens on your wrist. “Stay with me. Stay in bed.” His voice softens. “Please.”

You inhale sharply, heart hammering. “No. I can’t.”

Felix exhales slowly, finally loosening his hold. But even as he releases you, his fingers remain tangled with yours. He always does this—always finds a way to touch you. Whether it’s a hand on your knee, fingers brushing against your wrist, his presence always lingering.

He sits up, watching you as you move around the room, aimlessly searching. “Where are my clothes?” you ask.

“I had them thrown away.”

You turn sharply. “What?”

“They were filthy,” Felix says simply. “They were torn. You weren’t going to wear them again, so I had the maids bring you something new.” He gestures lazily. “They’ll bring it to you in a minute.”

You let out a slow breath, trying not to get more frustrated than you already are. “Fine.”

Minutes later, the maids arrive, carrying a neatly folded dress. You take it, holding it up in front of you. The fabric is luxurious, softer than anything you’d normally wear. The cut is modest—but just barely. If it were any shorter, it would cross the line from refined to provocative.

And it’s white.

You frown. White. You never wear white. It makes you feel like a child bride. And you know, without a doubt, that Felix picked this. He didn’t choose something you’d like—he chose something he would like to see you in.

You slip into the dress, brushing out your hair, trying to ignore the way it fits too perfectly, like it was tailored for you overnight. You stare at yourself in the mirror, lost in thought, when Felix moves behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. His lips brush against your neck. “Stay,” he murmurs against your skin. “We could be comfortable. Come back to bed.”

You stiffen. His kisses become sloppier, more insistent. You know exactly what he’s trying to do.

“No,” you say firmly, stepping out of his grip.

Felix’s hands drop to his sides, his face darkening. For a second, it looks like he might argue, but instead, he lets out a heavy sigh. “Fine.” His voice is flat. “Call me later.”

You nod, barely listening.

“Call me tonight,” he repeats, watching you carefully. “We’ll go to dinner.”

You exhale. “Okay.”

Felix calls your driver, and soon enough, you’re slipping out of the house, walking through the eerily silent halls of the President’s mansion. It’s strange—so many people live here, so many servants, so many visitors from powerful families, and yet it always feels... empty. Hollow. Like the walls themselves are absorbing all the life inside them.

Finally, you step outside, into the fresh air, and climb into the car waiting for you. As soon as the door shuts, you let your head fall back against the seat and sigh.

You moved quickly through the corridors of the Capitol, your footsteps echoing off the pristine marble floor. The peacekeepers at the entrance barely gave you a glance before granting you access to the underground levels, where Dr. Gaul’s true domain lay.

The air grew colder the deeper you went, the artificial lights casting long, eerie shadows. As you descended, the scent of raw fish curled into your nose, unmistakable and putrid. A sharp chorus of squeals rang out—feeding time. Then, silence.

You swallowed thickly, keeping your eyes forward, pretending you didn’t hear, pretending you didn’t know what happened in these halls. You had always done that, because fear made it easier. Fear kept you from wondering too hard about what went on behind the reinforced glass or what kind of creatures lurked in the shadows of Gaul’s twisted creations. Fear reminded you that if it ever came down to you or them, you would always choose yourself.

When you reached the lab, Dr. Gaul was standing over a steel enclosure, dropping chunks of flesh into it. A wet, slithering sound accompanied each drop, followed by quick, greedy gulps. Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to remain composed.

Dr. Gaul turned to you, her smile wide and unnatural. “Oh, my little dove,” she cooed. “How was your little excursion last night?”

Your spine stiffened. “Eventful.”

“Eventful, she says,” Gaul chuckled, tilting her head. “Come, let’s check you up.”

She stepped forward, her gloved hands reaching out to examine you. Cold fingertips brushed against your wrist, then your jaw, tilting your head side to side as Gaul’s grin stretched wider, inspecting you like you were just another one of her projects. You forced yourself not to recoil.

“I started out as a medical doctor, you know,” Gaul said conversationally, stepping back. “Sterile. How awful, you must imagine, to be the first thing a baby sees in this world.” She sighed dramatically. “Parents always expect reassurances, but what can I possibly tell them? How could I know what their children would face?”

You said nothing, but you knew where this was going.

“Like you, last night,” Gaul continued, voice filled with an eerie amusement. “Who would have imagined the darling daughter of Lason Royce, fighting for her life in the Capitol arena? Not him, for one.”

Your lips parted slightly, but you had no response. You barely remembered your father anymore. His face was always a blur, shifting in your memory like a phantom you could never quite catch.

“What was it like?” Gaul asked. “The arena?”

You met her gaze, unwavering. “Terrifying. Just like it was designed to be.”

Gaul let out a laugh. “Yes, indeed.”

You exhaled sharply.

“What about the tributes?” Gaul smirked. “What about them?”

You hesitated.

“What did you think of them, now that their chains were removed? Now that they tried to kill you, not because they had to, but because they wanted to?”

Gaul’s eyes gleamed. “Ah. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

You thought back to the escape, to the sheer bloodlust in the tributes’ eyes even after they were free. “I felt like an animal. Like prey being hunted.”

“But you weren’t.”

“No,” you admitted. “But I always am. No matter where I go, I’m always prey.”

Gaul let out a delighted hum, as if you had just said exactly what she wanted to hear. “Mission accomplished, then.”

She walked over to a counter, idly flipping through a file. “That little one from Eight—Snow beat him to a pulp. Now we’ll have to fabricate some lovely tale for Flickerman to spin. What a wonderful opportunity for you.” She glanced up, her grin sharp. “Transformative, wasn’t it?”

You felt the phantom sensation of blood on your skin, the memory of Coryo bashing into that boy’s face over and over again. The sickening crunch, the shiver down your spine. It brought back too many memories—war, home, the never-ending cycle of violence.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

It was all you ever saw.

Gaul tapped her fingers against the counter. “Wasn’t it more than you could’ve hoped for?”

You inhaled slowly. “You needed me to get Sejanus out of the arena, obviously. But you also wanted me to… what? Experience it?”

Gaul’s grin widened.

“Even if it killed me?” Your voice tightened.

“That was a risk.”

“Without the threat of death, what’s the point of a lesson?” Gaul mused. She gestured vaguely. “What happens in the arena, my dear, that is humanity undressed. The tributes. And you. How quickly civilization disappears. All your fine manners, your education, your family background—it all falls away in an instant, revealing what you really are.”

Your stomach twisted, but you weren’t surprised. “And? What was the point? I already knew all this.” Your voice sharpened. “I’ve always known. I’ve seen it before.”

Gaul let out a pleased hum. “I thought you might need a reminder, little dove.” She stepped closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t want you going soft.”

Your jaw clenched.

Gaul tilted her head, watching you carefully. “I need you to realize where you are in this world… and where you will stay if you don’t change it.”

Your breath hitched.

Gaul’s voice turned saccharine, condescending. “You can’t stay my little dove forever.”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. You had nothing to say to that. Because deep down, you weren’t sure if you wanted to argue.

Gaul simply smiled and turned away.

The conversation was over. But the lesson lingered.

The main student body had been told to report at 7:45, so the early arrivals consisted of active mentors and a few aides tidying up the hall. You couldn’t help but throw a guilty glance at Juno Phipps, who sat discussing her strategy, knowing she could’ve just slept in. Your thoughts wandered to how they would announce Bobbin’s death and how Coriolanus would react—but you doubted he would care.

Everything from yesterday had already been set up, and since the crowds hadn’t arrived yet, you decided to join Festus. The only thing being served in Heavensbee Hall was tea, which brought grumblings from Festus. “If we have to be here early, you’d think they could at least feed us,” he muttered.

“You’d think,” you replied.

Coriolanus sauntered up beside Festus, casually joining the small group. “What happened to your face?”

“Bike accident,” Coriolanus said loud enough for everyone to hear, his eyes briefly glancing at you. He tossed a bag containing a roll to Festus.

“Thanks, this looks great,” Festus said, digging in immediately.

Conversations continued around you, but you barely paid attention. Your mind drifted, replaying the events of the past few weeks. Your life had suddenly become a living nightmare with the start of the Hunger Games, and it didn’t help that Coriolanus kept making eye contact with you. As the rest of the school arrived and took their seats, you chose to separate from the group, heading toward the game makers’ station to observe behind the screens.

The monitors showed little change—except for the disappearance of Marcus’s body. No one seemed to question it. You assumed it was still by the barricade, where Coriolanus and Sejanus had abandoned it last night, just out of range of the cameras.

At the stroke of eight, the anthem played, and everyone stood. You weren’t much of a singer, so you remained quiet as Lucky Flickerman appeared on the screens, welcoming everyone to Day Two of the Hunger Games.

“While you were sleeping, something pretty important happened,” Lucky announced. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

The feed cut to a wide shot of the arena before slowly panning in on the barricade. As you expected, Marcus’s body lay nearby, but your stomach twisted when Bobbin’s battered form came into view. He looked much worse than you had imagined—his limbs twisted unnaturally, his swollen face barely recognizable. Coriolanus had really done that to another boy—a young boy. You stole a glance at him, but all you saw was the back of his head. Even from there, you knew he was nervous. He might have seemed like a good liar to everyone else, but you always knew better.

After a long look at the bodies, the show cut back to Lucky, who pondered aloud who might have committed the act. His mood abruptly shifted. “One thing we do know is that we’ve got something to celebrate!”

Confetti rained from the ceiling as Lucky blew wildly on a plastic horn. “We’ve just hit the halfway mark! That’s right—twelve tributes down, only twelve to go!” A string of brightly colored handkerchiefs shot from his sleeve as he swung them around his head, laughing and cheering. When he finally calmed, he adopted a somber expression. “But that also means we have to say farewell to Miss Juno Phipps.”

A man approached Juno’s side to escort her out, but she suddenly spoke up. “Something seems off to me,” she said. “I mean, what’s he doing over there with Marcus’s body? Who moved it? And how did Bobbin end up dead? I can’t even imagine a likely scenario.”

The reporter, intrigued, pressed further. “What exactly would qualify as foul play?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Juno admitted. “But I, for one, would really like to see a replay of last night’s events.”

Good luck with that, you thought. But then the idea lingered. Maybe a recording did exist. Maybe there were two versions—one for the public and another kept private. You’d have to look into it later, though you doubted you could access it or that Dr. Gaul would even keep such a thing.

Juno was dismissed with a patronizing pat on the back, still sparkling with confetti. Lucky, oblivious to her frustration, leaned toward the camera with barely contained glee.

“And now, I suppose you’re all wondering about our extra big surprise! Especially if you’re one of the twelve remaining mentors.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. What the hell was he talking about?

Before you could dwell on it, Lucky bounded across the stage to reveal two men sitting side by side—his father, Strabo Plinth, whose stern expression was as immovable as the granite of his home district, and Sejanus, looking hollow-eyed and stiff.

Lucky took the host chair and patted Sejanus’s leg. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a moment with you yesterday to comment on your tribute’s… unfortunate demise.”

Sejanus merely stared, uncomprehending. Lucky seemed to notice his injuries for the first time. “You look like you’ve been mixing it up yourself.”

“I fell off my bike,” Sejanus rasped.

Two biking accidents in twelve hours? That seemed highly unlikely.

“Ouch! Well, I guess you’ve had some pretty big news to share with us,” Lucky continued, nodding encouragingly.

Sejanus hesitated, while neither he nor his father acknowledged each other. A silent battle raged between them. Finally, Sejanus exhaled. “The Plinth family would like to announce that we will be awarding a full-ride university scholarship to the mentor whose tribute wins the Hunger Games.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Several mentors gasped in delight. You rolled your eyes, knowing that most of them didn’t need the money nearly as much as others did.

As the interview dragged on, your thoughts churned. Sejanus had been right—his father was trying to cover up his son’s disgraceful behavior with a generous bribe. Not that it didn’t merit damage control. You hadn’t heard much gossip about the outburst with the chair yet, but you suspected stories were already spreading.

As the interview ended and the Games were broadcast once again, nothing particularly interesting happened throughout the morning. The tributes seemed hesitant to make any bold moves. Coral and Mizzen roamed together for a while, collecting food and water from their mentors, Festus and Persephone. The two mentors had been strategizing together, and it was clear that Festus had a crush on Persephone. It wasn’t exactly breaking news—he’d harbored feelings for her for a long time. Still, every time you looked at Persephone, you couldn’t help but think of Coriolanus and the story he had told you about her war time stew.

Would you tell one of your close friends that their crush was a cannibal? It seemed unorthodox, even cruel. For all you knew, Persephone herself might not even be aware. But the thought lingered, unsettling you as you moved through the uneventful lunch period. At least, this time, when people sent food or water, the drones didn’t crash. You had one of the other Gamemakers bring you whatever was being served—a small sandwich, nothing remarkable.

Later in the afternoon, You had the Gamemakers reduce the mentor seats to twelve, leaving only space for those whose tributes were still in the Games. “It makes it easier for the audience to keep track of who’s still a contender,” you told them, instructing them to keep removing seats as more tributes fell. A grim game of musical chairs, but with real consequences. The decision seemed to make livia even more bitter, if that was possible. You felt a twinge of sympathy—but only a small one. What caught your attention more was how this change forced Coriolanus closer to Clemencia, who remained scaley, snake-like, and entirely focused on him, her glare never wavering.

As the afternoon stretched on, your exhaustion caught up with you. Your head grew heavier, and at one point, a fellow Gamemaker had to nudge you awake—twice. Perhaps it was fortunate that so little was required of you today, given how last night had nearly killed you.

Tributes remained mostly hidden until late in the day when the Hunger Games finally delivered the kind of action audiences expected. The girl from District 5—a wiry, forgettable thing whose name escaped you—was caught wandering the arena. Lucky Flickerman managed to connect her to her equally forgettable mentor, Iphigenia Moss, the daughter of the man who oversaw agriculture and the distribution of food across Panem.

Contrary to expectations, Iphigenia always seemed on the verge of malnutrition. She had a reputation for giving her school lunches to classmates, sometimes blacking out from hunger. Festus had once mentioned that it was her only form of revenge against her father, though he refused to elaborate. True to form, Iphigenia funneled every bit of food she could to her tribute. But even as the drones made their long trek across the arena, the trio of Coral, Tanner, and Mizzen emerged from the tunnels, hunting.

After a brief chase along the bleachers, they surrounded the District 5 girl. Coral ended it with a trident to the throat, making you cringe.

“Well, that’s that,” Lucky said, unable to recall the girl’s name.

When prompted, Iphigenia had already left the dais. “Her name was Sol. Or maybe Sal,” the reporter said with a shrug.

“Not much more to tell.”

“Nice job getting her to the second day, alibina,” Lucky added.

“It’s Iphigenia,” she corrected over her shoulder as she exited, not bothering to glance back.

“Right,” Lucky continued smoothly. “And that means we’re down to just eleven tributes left!”

Thank God, you thought. I’m one step closer to finally going home.

The rest of the day passed without much excitement, and as you were finally being dismissed—something you were immensely grateful for—Lucy Gray made an entrance.

You groaned aloud as she sprinted out of a tunnel, her braid unraveling, her hair flying wild behind her. In your head, you were already hoping that one of the trio—maybe Coral—would kill her just to get this over with. Then you could finally go home.

But before you could even guess what was chasing her, Jessup staggered out of the same tunnel. At first, you thought he was wounded—maybe he’d been protecting Lucy Gray. They were from the same district, so it made sense that they would have formed a pact. But if they were allies, why had she run?

As the cameras zoomed in, it became clear that Jessup wasn’t injured—he was sick. Stiff, feverish, twitching with erratic movements. He swiped at the sun, crouched, then sprang to his feet again in an unsettling cycle. His behavior made your skin crawl.

Your first thought was poison. Had Coriolanus’s little songbird found a way to get rid of her own ally? But that seemed unlikely. Jessup was a valuable protector, especially with those other tributes prowling around. Any number of things in that arena could have sickened him—contaminated water, spoiled food.

But then, you saw the telltale foam bubbling over his lips.

Oh, God, you thought.

Jessup had rabies.

Rabies had made a comeback in the Capitol during the war, with doctors needed in the field and medical faculties and supply lines compromised by the bombings. Medical treatment had been sketchy for humans, and for a lot of people, it had become essentially nonexistent. Pampered pets were no longer a priority when people couldn’t even afford bread.

How it began remained a matter of debate—an infected coyote from the mountains, a nocturnal encounter with a bat—but the dogs spread it. Most of them were starving, abandoned casualties of the war themselves. From dog to dog, then to people, the violent strain developed with unprecedented speed, killing over a dozen Capitol citizens before a vaccination program brought it under control. You remembered the posters alerting people to the warning signs in both animals and humans, adding just one more potential threat to your world.

And poor Jessup had been bitten—by what, you weren’t sure. But it was on the neck. The quicker the virus reached the brain, the quicker you died. And of course, he was half-starved and weak. Poor Jessup, you thought. Even his death had to be horrible.

The recognition of Jessup’s illness put the audience on edge, setting off a wave of comments thick with fear and revulsion.

“Rabies? How did he get that? Must’ve come from the district.”

“I bet he’s gonna infect the whole city.”

“A little unprecedented, but not after seeing it spread through the city once.”

“The Capitol should just put him down. They knew he had it before he tried to spread it around like some apocalypse.”

The students seemed to draw back into their seats, not wanting to miss anything, but the murmurs of unease were unmistakable. The disease dredged up childhood memories of public warnings, and no one wanted to see its horrors play out again. You stayed silent, watching Jessup zigzag across the arena in Lucy Gray’s direction. There was no telling what was going on in his mind. Under normal circumstances, maybe he’d protect her, maybe not. But he had clearly lost his reason. If she had any sense, she’d run for her life.

The cameras tracked Lucy Gray as she sprinted across the arena, scrambling up the broken wall into the stands. The press box occupied a midway position, somehow spared in the bombings. She stopped a moment, panting, considering Jessup’s erratic pursuit. Then she made for the debris of the nearby concession stand. The skeleton of its frame remained, but the center had been blasted to bits and the roof flung thirty feet away, strewn with bricks and boards. It was an obstacle course as she traveled until she planted herself at the top of the mess. The Gamemakers took advantage of her stillness, zooming in for a close-up.

Much to your delight, she looked like hell. You didn’t know why you disliked her so much—you just did. And you weren’t sure you were ready to tackle the whole of that dislike just yet.

An order for a bottle of water came through from Coriolanus, which you approved with little interest, sending a drone out. Jessup, meanwhile, had made his way across the arena, climbing into the stands after Lucy Gray. His balance wavered as he entered the debris field. He fell twice, with such force that he opened gashes on his knee and temple. The second wound produced a fair amount of blood. He sat, somewhat stunned, reaching a trembling hand toward Lucy Gray, his mouth moving, but only foam dripped from his chin.

Lucy Gray remained motionless, watching Jessup with a pained expression. The scene created a strange tableau—rabid boy, trapped girl, bombed-out building—a tale that could only end in tragedy. Star-crossed lovers meeting their fate? A revenge story turned inward? A war saga that took no prisoners?

Just die already, you thought. Enough with the dramatics.

A drone carrying the water flew into the arena. Lucy Gray lifted her face, tracking its wobbly progress. Her tongue flicked across her lips in anticipation. However, as it passed over Jessup, something in him registered the sight. A shudder raked through his body. He swung at the drone with a broken board, and it crashed into the stands, the water pouring out of the cracked bottle. That was when he truly lost it.

Suddenly, five more water orders came through from Coriolanus. Then ten. You approved them absentmindedly, wondering what he was trying to do. And then it clicked. Hydrophobia. Rabies victims couldn’t swallow and went wild at the sight of water.

Clever, you thought, glancing down at the screen where Coriolanus seemed to be arguing with Sejanus. You couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Lucy Gray had worked herself into a tight spot. To her left was the high back wall of the arena; to her right, the thick glass side of the press box. As Jessup continued his pursuit, she made several attempts to escape him, but he kept cutting her off. When he came within twenty feet, she spoke to him, holding out her hand in a soothing manner. It stopped him, but only momentarily before he lunged again.

Across the arena, the first bottle of water began its flight toward her. The machine was steady and true in its course—a rare feat that disappointed you, given the drones’ tendency to crash. The small fleet that followed was more unpredictable. As soon as Lucy Gray spotted them, she stopped retreating, patting the ruffles of her skirt over a pocket, checking for something. Then she pointed at the drones, shouting, and succeeded in turning Jessup’s attention toward them.

Jessup froze, his eyes bulging with fear. The drones closed in. He batted at them but failed to connect. Then they started releasing the bottles of water. The impact of the first smacking into the seats sent him into a frenzy. When the contents of one splashed onto his hand, he recoiled as if burned by acid.

He turned to flee, bounding down toward the field, but another dozen drones arrived and bombarded him. Since they were programmed to deliver directly to the tribute, there was no escaping them. He flew toward the front row seats, his foot caught, and he tripped forward—hurtling over the arena wall and onto the field.

The sickening crack of snapping bones filled the speakers. The audience gasped. Even you felt queasy. Jessup had landed in a rare pocket of the arena with good audio. He lay on his back, motionless except for the heaving of his chest. The remaining bottles rained down on him, his lips curled back, his eyes locked unblinkingly on the bright sun glinting off the water.

Lucy Gray darted down the steps and hung over the railing. “Jessup!” she shouted.

"You idiot," you muttered under your breath. "You absolute fool."

Of course, Sejanus would rope you into something like this. And of course—of course—you would drag Coryo into it too. You were surprised he had agreed. Well, you hadn’t exactly given him much of a chance to refuse. If anyone else had asked him, he would have fought against it, refused to put his life on the line. He barely even considered Sejanus a friend. But deep down, in that black heart of his, you hoped he still cared—at least enough not to let you die.

Maybe another student, or even yourself a few years ago, would have protested, insisted on calling your mother or your stepfather, pleaded for help. But after the snake attack on Clemensia, the aftermath of the bombing, and Marcus’s torture, you knew it was pointless. If Dr. Gaul decided you were going into the Capitol arena, then that’s where you were going. Even if Sejanus’s life wasn’t at stake, you were just another one of Gaul’s experiments. Students and tributes alike were of no more consequence than the Avoxes in the cages—powerless to object. But you had known what you were getting into on your first day at the Academy. You had known the moment Dr. Gaul first shook your hand and made you an apprentice. You had signed your soul away.

You didn’t know if it had been hours or minutes by the time you reached the arena. You had run the entire way—it wasn’t far, only about a mile—but you were panting, your breath coming in sharp gasps. Your mind was a chaotic mess, thoughts scattered and incoherent. But one thing remained clear: Sejanus. You needed to get him out.

You scanned the area. Peacekeepers were stationed by the entrance, but they didn’t acknowledge you, didn’t stop you. You assumed they had already been informed of the situation. Still, Coryo wasn’t here yet.

Your pulse pounded. Should you go in alone? You only had an hour, and the countdown had already begun the moment you left the lab. Every second wasted was a second closer to disaster.

"Fuck it," you murmured, steeling yourself to move forward.

Before you could take a step, a voice cut through the night. "What the fuck is going on?"

You turned sharply. Coryo had finally arrived, his expression twisted in anger and concern. His breath was ragged, and there was a wildness in his eyes that you weren’t sure you’d ever seen before. "Why the hell did you call me here?"

"I don’t have time to explain," you said quickly. "Sejanus is in the arena."

Coryo blinked. Then scoffed. "Are you kidding me?"

"I wish I was. He bribed a Peacekeeper and got in somehow. Dr. Gaul is giving us an hour to get him out before she turns the feed back on."

His face twisted in frustration. "No. I’m not putting my life on the line for him. And I’m sure as hell not letting you do it either."

"Coryo, we don’t have time for this," you snapped. "If you’re not going in, I am. I don’t give a damn if you follow me or not, but through hell or high water, I’m getting Sejanus out of that fucking arena."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Goddamn it. Fine. Let’s go."

As you approached the entrance, the damage from the bombing was stark. The main doors had taken a direct hit—one was entirely gone, leaving a jagged, gaping hole framed by twisted metal. The only security in place was a set of concrete barriers, haphazardly arranged. If Sejanus had planned this, he wouldn’t have had much trouble getting in.

An old Peacekeeper standing behind the barriers caught your movement and approached. "You have a token?"

Coryo scowled. "A token?"

The Peacekeeper dug into his pocket and produced two small discs. "These are for you."

Coryo hesitated, turning the disc over in his fingers. "How did he think he was getting out?"

"I don’t think he did," you muttered.

"And how the hell am I supposed to get out?"

You almost laughed. Of course, that was his concern. Selfish bastard. But you weren’t surprised.

The Peacekeeper gestured toward the barricade. "We’ll pull back the barbed wire and tilt the bars forward when you return. You’ll have to crawl under, but it’ll be quick."

"And if we can’t convince him to come out?" Coryo asked.

The Peacekeeper shrugged. "Then you stay until the mission is accomplished."

A cold sweat broke over your skin. No way out without Sejanus.

You clenched your jaw and looked past the barricade toward the field. The tributes were supposed to be asleep, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting for you.

"We’ve got you covered up to the barricade," the Peacekeeper assured you.

"So you’ll kill any tributes who try to attack us?" Coryo asked sharply.

"Scare them off, anyway."

"Excellent," you muttered, not at all reassured.

Coryo exhaled, then shoved the token into the slot. The turnstile groaned loudly, the sound far too sharp in the stillness of the night. One of the Peacekeepers chuckled as you stepped through.

You moved in silence, your only light the dim red glow of the emergency bulbs. The air was thick with dust, the ground littered with debris. Your footsteps crunched softly against the gravel.

Without thinking, your hands found each other. His grip was tight, firm—but not painful. Just enough.

"Don’t let go," he whispered. There was an edge of desperation in his voice.

You pressed your lips together, breathing steadily through your nose. Right foot, left foot. Forward. Keep moving. No one stirred. Maybe you were lucky. Maybe Lucky Flickerman had been right—the tributes had all gone to sleep.

You reached the barricade. Just as the Peacekeeper had said, it was flimsy—clumsy layers of barbed wire and wooden frames meant more for obscuring the view than keeping anything in or out. A stage prop. Not a real barrier.

You took a slow breath, gripping the edge of the wire. Beyond the barricade, the field stretched out before you, bathed in silver light.

And at its center, a single figure knelt in the dirt.

You hear Coriolanus take a deep breath, and he lets go of your hand as he steps onto the field.

Please don’t.

You aren’t going to admit it, but you think it’s reasonable to be afraid. And you are very afraid.

Please don’t let me go.

You want to say it, but you keep your mouth shut and follow him slowly. You tread carefully across the dirt, knowing not to spook Sejanus but needing to get close enough to talk. When you and Coriolanus are about ten feet behind him, you stop. In a hushed voice, you call out:

"Sejanus, It’s me."

Sejanus’ shoulders begin to shake. At first, you mistake it for sobbing, but it’s quite the opposite.

"You two really can’t stop rescuing me, can you?" he says, laughter slipping through his voice.

Coriolanus exhales a quiet chuckle. "Can’t do it"

"so they sent you two to fish me out. What madness."

Sejanus’ laughter trails off, and he rises to his feet. "Did you ever see a dead body?"

"A lot. During the war," Coriolanus replies.

You stay silent. "A lot" is an understatement. You’ve seen bodies being dragged, seen people put down in the streets, seen them waste away. You’ve seen what people become when you take away their food, their luxuries. Animals. much like the one who are in this cage with you

You both move in closer. It doesn’t matter now, you tell yourself. No more dead bodies. No more.

"I haven’t. Not this close," Sejanus says. "At funerals, I guess. And at the zoo the other night. Only those girls hadn’t been dead long enough to stiffen up."

A hollow feeling creeps into your chest as he continues.

"I don’t know if I’d rather be burned or buried. Not that it matters, really."

"Well, you don’t have to decide now," you say.

Your eyes sweep the field. In the shadows beyond the wall—was that movement?

"Oh, it won’t be up to me." Sejanus’ voice is distant. "I don’t know what’s taking the tributes so long to find me. I must have been in here a while."

He finally looks at you, brows furrowing in concern.

"You two should go."

"I’d like to," Coriolanus says carefully. "I really would. Only there’s a matter of your ma. She’s waiting out front, pretty upset. I promised I’d bring you to her."

Your eyebrows knit together. What is he talking about? When did he speak to his mother? Maybe it’s a lie to coax Sejanus out, but you doubt it will be enough.

Sejanus’ expression turns indescribably sad. "Poor Ma. She never wanted any of this, you know. Not the money, not the move, not the fancy clothes or the driver. She just wanted to stay in Two. With my father."

He pauses.

"But he isn’t here, is he? No, he’ll keep his distance until this is settled. Then let the buying begin."

"Buying what?" you ask.

A breeze ruffles your hair, the sound of it hollow in the vast arena.

"He bought our way here. Bought my schooling. Bought my mentorship. And he goes nuts because he can’t buy me," Sejanus murmurs. "He’ll buy you, if you let him. Or at least compensate you for trying to help me."

You understand both sides. Sejanus doesn’t want to be here. His mother doesn’t want to be here. But you also understand his father’s perspective: you do what you must. Buy as many people as needed. Sacrifices have to be made.

Leaving Two behind was one of them.

"You’re our friend. He doesn’t need to pay us to help you," you say.

Sejanus places a hand on your shoulder, the other on Coriolanus. "You’re the only reason I’ve lasted this long. I need to stop causing you two trouble. I didn’t realize how bad this was for yall."

"I should’ve traded tributes when you asked," Coriolanus mutters.

Sejanus sighs. "It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does, really."

"Of course it matters," you snap.

They’re coming. You can feel it—a pack closing in.

"Come out with me."

"No. There’s no point," Sejanus says. "There’s nothing left to do but die."

Coriolanus presses him. "That’s it? That’s your only choice?"

"It’s the only way I might possibly make a statement. Let the world see me die in protest."

You roll your eyes. "Do you really think they’ll show this? They’ll quietly remove your body and say you died from the flu."

Sejanus falters.

"If you really want to make a difference, you have to be alive. With us."

His face clouds over. "They won’t show it, will they?"

"No," you say, your voice sharp. "You’ll be dead for nothing. And you’ll have wasted your chance to make things better."

You almost scoff at the question. Why would they show it? Only an idiot would think that. You know as well as anyone that the Capitol won’t give anyone a public fuck you by showing a capitol citizen mourn a tribute's death like that. Not in a million years. They'd bury it, pretend it never happened, and move on like it was just another day in the arena. It was always about control, never about making a statement.

Coriolanus squeezes your arm. A cough—soft and muffled but unmistakable—echoes from the stands.

"What chance?" Sejanus asks.

"You have money. Maybe not now, but one day. Money has a lot of uses. Look how it changed your world. Maybe you can change the world too. The right way," you urge. "If you don’t, more kids will die. Every year."

"What makes you think I could do that?" he asks.

"You’re the only one who had the guts to stand up to Dr. Gaul," Coriolanus says.

Sejanus hesitates. He looks tired, but something shifts in him.

"Thank you for that, Coriolanus."

Coriolanus places a hand on Sejanus’ arm—half comfort, half restraint. "Come with us."

Sejanus stares at Marcus’ body for a long moment, then finally nods. "You’re right. If I believe what I say, it’s my responsibility to take her down. To end this whole atrocity."

Then, realization dawns in his eyes. He looks toward the stands.

"But I won’t leave Marcus."

You want to strangle him. You open your mouth to protest, but Coriolanus acts first.

"I’ll get his feet."

He grips Marcus’ stiff, heavy legs. You circle his chest, heaving him up. The stench of blood and filth clings to the body as you start moving.

Ten yards. Five yards. Almost there.

Coriolanus stumbles on a rock, knee slamming into something sharp. He hisses but pushes forward. Almost—

Footsteps. Quick and light, rushing toward you from behind.

Coriolanus drops Marcus and whirls around just as Bobbin lunges, knife flashing in the moonlight.

The blade slices into Coriolanus’s left upper arm. He leaps backward. He swings at Bobbin, but only encounters air. He lands on a pile of debris, old boards, and plaster as his hand searches for some kind of defense. Bobbin springs at him again, knife aimed at his face, seemingly focused only on Coriolanus and not you or Sejanus.

Coriolanus’s fingers close around a 2x4, and he brings it up, catching Bobbin in the temple hard, sending him to his knees. Then, he’s on his feet again, using the board like a club, bringing it down again and again. Blood splatters on you and Coriolanus.

“We have to go!” Sejanus shouts, and you can hear the catcalls now, the pounding of feet down the bleachers.

Confused, Coriolanus moves away from Marcus’s body, but you grab him and yank him away.

“No, leave him! Run!” you shout.

He doesn’t seem to need any persuasion and starts running. The three of you sprint toward the barricade. When you reach it, barbed wire bites into your shirt, and you yank it free. You see them—two tributes from District 4: Coral and Mission, and Tanner, the slaughterhouse kid—making a beeline for you, armed to the teeth. Reamed draws his arm back to throw a trident. The fabric on your sleeve rips wide as you yank yourself from the barbed wire and dive out of the line of fire with Sejanus right behind you.

Only a few weak rays of moonlight penetrate the layers of the barricade. You crash into wood and fencing, like a wild animal in a cage, surely alerting any tribute who somehow missed your presence. You run, face-first, and watch as Coriolanus runs into a concrete slab, then Sejanus plows into him from behind, smacking his forehead into the unrelenting surface a second time.

Thankfully, you stop just before the tributes start making a whooping sound, rattling their weapons against the barricade as they track the three of you through the labyrinth.

“Which direction?” Sejanus gasps, but the tributes seem to be all around you.

Coriolanus starts lagging, and you grab his arm, urging him to keep moving. He stumbles blindly behind, wounded and terrified. Something must have surged through him because he crashes into Sejanus, knocking him onto his hands and knees in front of a cloud of soft red light.

The passageway up ahead starts to take shape, and you can make out the turn, still with the peacekeepers clustered at the temporary bars. You run for your life, but the passageway isn’t long—it seems interminable. Your legs rise and fall as if you're wading through waist-high glue. Black specs dot your vision, and Sejanus stays steady at Coriolanus’s elbow, but you can hear the tributes gaining. Something heavy and unyielding—maybe a brick—clips the side of your neck. Another object punctures what’s left of your shirt, and you duck behind Sejanus until it falls with a clank.

Where is the cover? Where’s the protective gunfire from the peacekeepers? There’s nothing—nothing at all, and the bars still stand flush with the floor. You want to scream at them to kill the tributes, to shoot them dead in their tracks, but your breath is too short.

Someone heavy-footed shrinks the distance to a few yards. You don’t dare look back, too terrified to waste a second.

The peacekeepers finally manage to open the unit of bars inward, achieving a gap of about 12 inches at the ground. Coriolanus dives, skinning several layers of his chin on the rough floor, but getting his hands beneath the bars where the peacekeepers latch onto him and yank him through.

You’re next, scraping your face against the filthy surface, but you reach safety. You crumble into Coriolanus as the guards go to retrieve Sejanus, who gives a sharp cry as Tanner’s knife cuts open the back of his calf before he slides out of range. The bars are slammed into place, locked down tight, but the tributes are undeterred. Tanner and Coral jab their weapons through the bars at you, Coriolanus, and Sejanus, who are peeling back, desperate to get away.

The peacekeepers are doing nothing, banging their batons against the bars. Not a shot. Not even pepper spray. You realize they must have been under orders to leave the tributes untouched.

The peacekeepers help you and Coriolanus to your feet. You’re angry, but you can’t even muster words as Coriolanus grits his teeth, shaking with fury.

“Thanks for having our backs,” he spits bitterly. The peacekeeper shrugs, indifferent.

“Just following orders. Don’t blame us if Goal thinks you’re expandable,” says one of them.

Before you can respond, Coriolanus starts muttering a long string of profanities, his anger making no impression. He hangs like dead weight, barely able to stand until they drop him unceremoniously outside of the arena. You, with only a few scratches and a mild concussion, walk the entire way.

A minute later, Sejanus is dropped behind the two of you. Both Coriolanus and Sejanus lay panting on the tiles, glancing toward the front of the arena. You’re barely standing, your hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. You sit beside them, exhausted.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I did this to you,” Sejanus keeps saying. “I’m sorry, Coryo. I’m sorry, Y/n.”

Coriolanus glances at him, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to strangle him. But instead, they just sit in silence. The peacekeepers watch, silent, unmoving. Sejanus just keeps crying, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You want to scream at him to please just shut up, but you keep your mouth shut, feeling the weight of the situation.

Then you hear the screech of tires, and you look up to see Sejanus’s mother getting out of the car, crying, frantic. She rushes over to him, tears in her eyes.

You see Sejanus’s father sitting still in the car, not bothering to get out. It makes you wonder if they called your parents. But you doubt it, and even if they did, you doubt they’d show up.

An ambulance pulls up not long after, checking on Coriolanus, you, and Sejanus. You’re not in bad shape—just a few scratches and a mild concussion. Nothing you haven’t been through before. Sejanus is sitting with his mom, and then it’s just you and Coriolanus. You both sit in silence outside the arena, neither knowing what to say, not even looking at each other.

Dean Highbottom and Dr. Gaul eventually show up. Dr. Gual looks as excited as ever, while Dean Highbottom doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for anything. He stands off to the side, randomly taking a shot of something.

Dr. Gaul is talking to Sejanus’s parents. You and Coriolanus exchange a look, and it’s like you both haven’t looked at each other in a while. Almost like when you were kids again, scared during the war. Maybe even before that. It’s been a while since you’ve looked at each other—not in a way of hate, or anger, or even less—but in a quiet moment of recognition.

Just as Coriolanus opens his mouth to speak, you hear car doors slam. You turn your head a little too fast, and your vision goes blurry again, but not so much that you can’t tell who it is. It’s Felix Ravensdale, in all his glory.

He walks toward you first, examining you like a mother would examine a child after they’ve gotten hurt. “What happened?” he demands, his tone pissed but also deeply concerned.

“I don’t know,” you reply quickly, trying to keep the situation under control.

Felix isn’t having it. “What happened? Are you okay? You’re not okay, are you?” His voice shakes with worry, but underneath it, there’s a simmering anger. “What the hell is going on here?”

Before you can explain, Felix turns to Dr. Gaul, his anger rising. “What the hell are you doing here, Felix?” Dean Highbottom says, cutting through the tension.

Felix snaps. “You don’t think I know what’s going on? How dare you? How dare you put her out there like that? You should be ashamed of yourself!”

Dr. Gaul is standing back, watching the interaction with almost sadistic amusement.

“I’m going to tell my father about this,” Felix says, his voice cold with fury. “He’ll take care of this. He won’t let this go.”

Dean Highbottom stumbles over his words. “Felix, calm down.”

You try to calm him down too, but it’s not working. “Felix, please—it’s fine,” you say, but Felix shakes his head, his anger still boiling.

“No, it’s not fine! What if something happened to you?” he yells. His face softens for a second, but it’s fleeting.

Felix drags you back toward the car. You glance back at Coriolanus, who’s looking at you with tired eyes. For a moment, there was something—some bond—but it’s gone now. You’re not sure it’ll come back.

The ride back is painfully quiet, except for Felix’s persistent questions.

“Y/n , are you sure you're okay? You don’t look okay. You sure you're alright?”

You can barely summon the energy to answer, your body aching from head to toe. The exhaustion weighs on you like a heavy blanket, and your bones are screaming for rest. You don’t even want to talk, but Felix keeps pressing.

“I mean, I can’t believe Dr. Gaul sent you in there like that. It was ridiculous! You could’ve gotten hurt. You could’ve died, Y/n.” His voice rises with every word, but all you can do is let him talk, feeling more and more like you’re fading into the seat.

You close your eyes, wishing the world would just stop spinning.

“I’m just so tired,” you mutter, barely a whisper.

Felix doesn’t hear you, or maybe he does, but he doesn’t know how to stop. He goes on, venting about how dangerous it was, how you shouldn’t have been put in that situation, how it was a huge mistake. You nod every now and then, not even sure what you're agreeing to.

"I just don’t understand why they do this to you..." he continues, his frustration palpable. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been through enough already. And they put you through more for what? To save Sejanus?”

The name makes your stomach turn. You're so done with everything right now. You're done with the arena, done with being a pawn in all this. You're just so tired.

“You know,” you murmur, more to yourself than him, “I'm just so tired. My bones hurt. I just want to sleep.”

Felix quiets down, noticing the strain in your voice. You lean against the window, closing your eyes, and for the first time in what feels like hours, you let the quiet settle over you. But then, as you start to drift, something feels off.

You sit up, blinking, confused.

“Felix...” you say, your voice slurring with exhaustion. “Where are we going?”

Felix glances at you, his expression unreadable for a second before it shifts to something more serious. “To my house.”

You blink again, more awake now, a sense of urgency creeping into your tone. “Felix, you can just bring me home, it's late. My parents are going to freak. They’ll be worried.”

Felix doesn’t waver. “No, it’s fine. My parents won’t care. What matters is that you’re safe. You’re going to stay with me tonight. I can’t trust anyone else to look after you. You need to get proper medical attention.”

His words send a cold shiver through you, but you're so tired, so utterly drained, that you don’t protest. If you weren’t so exhausted, you might’ve said something. The way he says it, like you’re his responsibility, like he owns you—like you’re something to be taken care of, a possession—hits a little too close to home.

But you don’t have the energy to argue. “Fine,” you mutter, sinking back into your seat. “I won’t fight you.”

You let out a sigh, your mind too foggy to process it all. Whatever. It’s been a hell of a day.

When you finally pull up to the Presidents mansion, you can’t help but feel a bit of apprehension. You’ve been here a handful of times, but it’s always been for brief visits, never for a stay. The house is grand, sprawling, the kind of place where everything gleams with wealth, but right now, it all feels so distant, so unimportant compared to how heavy your limbs feel.

Felix doesn’t ask; he just opens your door and helps you out, his hands gentle but insistent. You don’t even argue when he lifts you into his arms, carrying you up the stairs and into his room.

His room is grand, but not in the way you expected. It's a bit more personal—soft, warm lighting, and a massive bed that looks almost too big for just one person. The walls are lined with books, and there’s a touch of his personality in every corner. You can tell it’s his space, and even though it's beautiful, you feel out of place here.

He sets you down on the bed, his touch lingering just a bit too long before he speaks again. “I’ll have the maids run you a bath,” he says quietly, his usual flirty charm replaced by something softer. “You need it.”

You don’t protest. You just nod, your eyes barely open. The bath is exactly what you need. As soon as you slip into the warm water, you feel your body relax in a way it hasn’t all day. It’s like you could fall asleep right there.

You’re tempted to.

When you step out, the clothes they bring you make you stifle a laugh. A pair of Felix’s pajama pants and a loose shirt. It’s so typical, you can’t help but find it funny in the only way you can right now. You know they have spare clothes, but you end up with his clothes, the ones you know he picked out for you.

You slip into them, feeling the soft fabric settle over your tired body, and when you emerge, you see Felix waiting for you, his expression unreadable.

“You’re sleeping here tonight,” he says, a slight edge to his voice that you can’t quite place.

You blink. “Felix, what are you talking about? There’s like a million rooms here. Why would I sleep in here?”

His gaze softens, but his stance is firm. “I want you here with me. It’s safer. And I don’t want you alone.” He’s standing so close now, and something shifts in the air between you two, but you’re too tired to fight it.

“Fine,” you murmur. “Whatever.”

You lie down, and Felix pulls the covers up around you both. He holds you close, his arms around you like you're the only thing that matters. Normally, you’d push him away, but tonight? Tonight, you don’t have the strength to.

You settle into his warmth, resting your head on his chest, letting the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat lull you into a strange kind of comfort.

Felix strokes your hair lightly, his voice breaking the silence. “You okay?”

You want to say no—you want to say everything’s falling apart—but all you can muster is a tired, “Yeah.”

Then, you speak again, your tone softer than before. “How did you get in there? To the arena I mean... no one was supposed to know.”

You can feel him tense, but you stay quiet, not wanting to talk. The question lingers in the air for a long moment before Felix laughs softly. It’s not a happy laugh, not a joyful one. More like one of disbelief.

“I’m the President’s son,” he says, his voice quiet. “I make sure I know everything that’s happening around here. Besides, you told me you’d be home safely. You didn’t call, so I assumed something went wrong.”

You don’t answer. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling. The weight of the day hits you all over again, and the exhaustion sets in deeper.

Felix’s voice interrupts your thoughts again, his words playful despite the situation. “You know, you look kind of cute in my pajamas. But I think I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”

You barely hear him, too lost in your own tiredness. You think about how you ended up here, in his bed, at the mansion. How Felix is always looking out for you, even when you didn’t ask for it.

Your mind drifts, though, and for a moment, you think back to a time not too long ago—another bed, another room. You remember the feel of the sheets, the quiet tension in the air, and that blonde figure who made everything so... complicated. You try to push the thought away. It was a different time, a different situation, and you don’t want to deal with it now.

But as you close your eyes, you can’t help it. In the dark of your mind, Coriolanus’s eyes flash before you, his gaze cold, intense, and knowing. The memory lingers like an unwanted ghost, and you squeeze your eyes shut tighter, trying to push it out of your head.

You don’t want to think about him. Not now.

You rolled your eyes. You didn’t understand why people were so obsessed with them—especially Lucy Gray. The girl wasn’t anything special. She was a glorified carnival clown who just happened to be good at singing.

Bored and having nothing else to do but monitor the Games—which weren’t progressing at all—you barely noticed the approach of one of the Gamemakers until they cleared their throat beside you. You turned to see a frazzled-looking assistant clutching a clipboard.

“Dr. Gaul is busy,” they said hastily. “She needs you to do a quick interview with Lucky Flickerman.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why me?”

The assistant gave a helpless shrug. “Because you’re available.”

You exhaled sharply. Of course. You had nothing better to do. Might as well entertain the masses. “Fine.”

A few minutes later, you were seated across from Lucky Flickerman, who looked a little too relieved to see you. He’d become visibly frazzled under the strain of keeping the coverage going despite the stagnant Games, and you figured he was desperate for any content to fill the gaps. The countdown began—three, two, one—and the camera’s red light blinked on. Lucky threw up his hands in bewilderment.

“So, what gives?” he exclaimed, forcing a smile. “What’s up with these slow Games?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Instead, you turned directly to the camera, ignoring his performative frustration.

“Some of you may be wondering about the slow start to the Games,” you said smoothly. “But let me remind you what a wild ride it’s been just getting here. Over a third of the tributes never even made it into the arena, and those who did weren’t exactly powerhouses. In terms of fatalities, we’re running neck and neck with last year.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Lucky admitted, still smiling, “but I think I speak for a lot of people when I say—where are the tributes this year? Usually, they’re easier to spot.”

You could almost feel a vein popping in your forehead. You inhaled through your nose, schooling your expression. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten about the recent bombings,” you said icily. “In previous years, the areas open to the tributes were largely restricted to the field and the stands. But last week’s attack opened up any number of cracks and crevices, providing easy access to the labyrinth of tunnels inside the arena walls. It’s a whole new game now—first finding another tribute, then luring them out of some very dark corners.”

Lucky’s smile faltered. “Oh.” He blinked, visibly processing the explanation before quickly rebounding. “So we might have seen the last of some tributes?”

“Don’t worry.” You smirked slightly. “When they get hungry, they’ll start poking their heads out.”

Lucky didn’t seem thrilled by the answer, but he pressed on. “That’s another game changer, isn’t it? With the audience providing food, these Games could last indefinitely.”

You arched a brow. “Indefinitely?” You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Maybe you can pull another magic trick to keep people interested.”

Lucky stiffened. He clearly didn’t appreciate the jab at his little gimmicks, but instead of acknowledging it, he forced out a chuckle. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said, recovering. “We all want a good show, after all!”

The interview wrapped up shortly after, and as soon as the camera light clicked off, Lucky shot you a quick, dirty look before standing up.

You merely smirked back at him, entirely unbothered.

At 5 o’clock, Dean Highbottom dismissed the student body, but the remaining 13 mentors with tributes stayed behind, largely because the Communicuffs only worked through transmitters at the Academy or the Capitol News station itself. This also meant the Gamemakers including yourself had to stay as well, much to your annoyance. By 7 o’clock, a real dinner appeared for the so-called "talent." Your excitement and hunger quickly vanished as you looked at the pork chops and potatoes. The meat looked tasty and fresh, but all you could think about was Marcus’s corpse. The image of his lifeless body, left for the maggots, flashed through your mind, and your appetite disappeared entirely. Felix, however, had no problem digging into the food.

He shot you a curious glance between bites. “You okay? You’ve barely touched your food.”

You shrugged, stirring your potatoes with your fork. “Not that hungry.”

Felix leaned back in his chair, dramatically sighing. “You know, we had dinner plans tonight. Somewhere nice, just the two of us. No blood, no bombs, no corpse-inspired loss of appetite.” He gestured around the room. “And now look at us. Stuck here.”

You gave him a small smirk. “Yeah, well, I didn’t expect the games to go on this long either. But surely, they’ll only last another day.”

Felix quirked an eyebrow. “You never know. Might stretch overnight.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Doubt it.”

“Optimistic as always.” He flashed you a teasing grin before going back to his meal.

As Felix finished up, some activity in the arena pulled the mentors back to their seats, and you decided to stay with them, trusting that the other Gamemakers could handle things for a little while. The Gamemakers’ screens showed Circ, the District 3 boy, crawling out of a barricade near the entrance. He looked around before waving someone forward—a small, scruffy girl with dark, frizzy hair scrambled after him. Above them, Lamina, still napping on the beam, cracked one eye open to assess their threat level.

“No worries, my sweet Lamina,” Pup cooed at the screen. “Those two couldn’t climb a stepladder.”

Apparently, Lamina agreed, because all she did was shift into a more comfortable position.

Lucky Flickerman appeared in the corner of the screen, dabbing a napkin at his collar where a smudge of blueberry clung to his chin. “For those just tuning in, our District 3 tributes are finally on the move! That’s Circ—the boy who claims he can ignite things with his glasses—and, uh…” Lucky glanced off-screen for a cue card. “Test… Teslee from Three?”

“She’s being mentored by our own—” Lucky looked off-screen again, searching.

“That would be our own Urban Canville,” grumbled Urban from the first row. his parents were some sort of scientists—physicists, maybe. Urban was ill-tempered and universally resented for his perfect calculus scores. You, in particular, had a small rivalry with him, since last time you checked, he was just one point behind you in class rank.

“Honestly, could they get a professional?” you muttered under your breath.

“Unfortunately, we didn’t see Turban—uh Urban and, Teslee—at the interviews,” Lucky said quickly, clearly flustered. “Because she refused to speak to me.”

“Somehow immune to his charms,” quipped Festus from the back row, earning a round of laughter. Even you let out a small snicker.

“I’m sending Circ something now—no telling when I’ll see him again,” Io announced, working her Communicuff. You noticed Urban doing the same. You shot the Gamemakers a look that silently screamed, Don’t mess up the drones this time.

Circ and Teslee skirted around Marcus’s body, crouching down to examine the wrecked drones from earlier. Their hands moved delicately over the equipment, assessing the damage, probing over compartments most people wouldn’t have noticed. Circ pulled a rectangular object—you thought it was a battery—from one of them and gave Teslee a thumbs up. She reattached some wires, and the drone’s lights blinked to life. They grinned at each other.

“Oh my!” Lucky exclaimed. “Something exciting happening here?”

“It would be more exciting if they had the controllers,” Urban muttered, though he looked a little less irritated.

The two tributes were still examining the drones when two more flew in, dropping bread and water nearby—thankfully, without crashing this time. As Circ and Teslee gathered their gifts, a figure appeared deep in the arena. They consulted briefly before each grabbing a drone and scurrying back to the barricade.

The figure turned out to be Reaper, who ducked into a tunnel and emerged carrying someone in his arms. As the cameras focused in, you recognized Dill. She looked smaller, curled into the fetal position, her sun-dappled skin drenched in sweat. A wet cough brought a strand of bloody spittle from her mouth.

Felix leaned over. “I’m surprised she lasted the day.”

You hummed in response, feeling a pang of pity. She was already dying—a slow death by disease. Putting her in the Games was just adding salt to the wound.

Reaper stepped carefully around the debris from the bombing, carrying Dill to a sunny patch of ground and laying her on a charred piece of wood. She shivered despite the heat. He pointed up at the sun and murmured something, but she didn’t react.

“Isn’t he the one who promised to kill all the others?” Pup asked.

“Doesn’t look so tough to me,” Urban scoffed.

“She’s his district partner,” Listeria reminded them.

“She’s almost dead now. Tuberculosis, probably,” Urban added.

That quieted everyone down. A bad strain of TB still cropped up in the Capitol, barely managed as a chronic condition. In the districts, it was a death sentence.

Reaper paced restlessly for a moment, either eager to get back to hunting or unable to bear watching Dill suffer. Then, he gave her one last pat and turned toward the barricade.

“Shouldn’t you send him something, dummy?” Vipina asked Clemencia.

“What for? He didn’t kill her, he just carried her. I’m not going to reward him for that,” Clemencia shot back.

You, who had been avoiding Clemencia all day, decided you’d made the right choice. Something was off with her—maybe the snake venom had altered her brain.

“Well, I might as well use what little I have left—it’s hers,” Felix said, tapping at his cuff. Two bottles of water flew in by drone. Dill didn’t even seem to notice them.

A few minutes later, the boy from District 7—the juggler, Treech—sprinted out of a tunnel, his black hair flying behind him. Without breaking stride, he grabbed the water and disappeared into a crack in the wall.

“A last drink for her,” Felix mused.

“That’s good thinking,” Vipina said approvingly. “Saves me money. I don’t have much to work with.”

The sun sank toward the horizon, casting long, crimson shadows over the arena. High above, the carrion birds wheeled in slow, lazy circles, their dark silhouettes stark against the fading light. Below them, Dill’s frail body convulsed in the throes of a final, violent coughing fit. A gush of blood soaked through the front of her dress, staining the fabric in a macabre bloom. You swallowed hard, horror and revulsion twisting in your stomach as the life drained from her small, fragile frame.

Lucky Flickerman’s voice cut through the tension, his usual airy tone laced with the false solemnity of a showman. “And with that, our dear Dill, the girl from District 11, has succumbed to natural causes. A tragedy, no doubt—but that, my dear viewers, does mean the end of Felix Ravenstill’s tenure in these Games.” He brightened, clearly pleased by the segue. “Perhaps we can hear a few final words from our departing mentor?”

Someone pulled Felix out from Heavensbee Hall, and a camera zoomed in on him. He didn’t look particularly upset. If anything, he looked resigned. “Well, it isn’t a shock, really,” he said with a careless shrug. “The girl was on her last legs when she got here.”

“I think it’s enormously to your credit that you got her through the interview,” Lucky said sympathetically. “Many mentors didn’t even manage that.”

His words made you feel sick. A girl—a child, no older than twelve or thirteen—had just died. And not from the Games, not from a weapon or a trap or another tribute’s hand. She had died from an illness, something that had been festering long before she ever set foot in the arena. And Felix—Felix didn’t seem to care.

He’s his father’s son, you thought. The man who keeps the Hunger Games going. The man Felix idolizes and wishes to become.

You wondered if Lucky’s high praise had more to do with Felix’s bloodline than his mentorship. But you shook the thought away as the cameras cut back to the arena. The sky had darkened completely now, leaving only the faint silhouette of Laminia, still perched on her beam. Dean Highbottom dismissed everyone, advising mentors to bring a toothbrush and a change of clothes for the future.

One by one, the mentors approached Felix, shaking his hand and congratulating him on a job well done. Most of them meant it—today had bonded them in a way few outsiders would ever understand. When it was your turn, you hesitated, then finally stepped forward. “Congrats,” you said, though the word felt hollow in your mouth.

Felix grinned. “For what? Getting my tribute killed by tuberculosis?”

You rolled your eyes. “For making it through the day. Though, I guess that’s a pretty low bar.”

He chuckled, but his gaze softened. “You heading home?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna walk.”

Felix’s expression turned incredulous. “What? No. It’s late—it’s damn near nine o’clock. I’m not letting you walk home by yourself.”

You sighed. “Felix, I’ll be fine.”

“Just let me call you a driver,” he insisted. “Come on.”

You gave him a flat look. “Really, Felix?”

His jaw tightened, and for once, there was no humor in his voice. “Please.”

You exhaled. “No. Seriously. I’m walking home.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Alright. But call me as soon as you get home.”

“Fine.”

He hesitated, then leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before pulling away. “Be safe.”

You gave him a small, almost reluctant smile before turning and heading out. He watched until you disappeared into the night, then climbed into his waiting car.

You had barely taken three steps when a voice rang out behind you. “Miss Royce! Miss Royce!”

You turned, frowning as a Gamemaker came running out of Heaven’s Hall, his face pale. “What’s going on?”

The arena was quiet. The tributes had all bedded down for the night. Nothing should be happening right now.

“It’s urgent,” the Gamemaker panted. “Dr. Gaul needs to speak with you immediately.”

Your stomach twisted, dread curling through you. “Why?”

“She didn’t say. Just that you need to come. Now.”

Something was wrong.

Without another word, you followed them to a waiting car. The drive to the lab was silent, save for the hum of the engine. No one explained anything. They didn’t seem to know, but their nervous glances and stiff postures told you everything you needed to—Dr. Gaul was angry. And that was never good.

When you arrived, you were ushered through the sterile halls, the scent of antiseptic burning your nose. The moment you stepped into the lab, you knew something was very, very wrong.

Dr. Gaul stood by a monitor, her expression thunderous. The moment her eyes landed on you, she barked, “You need to put a leash on your deluded, demented friend.”

You blinked. “What?”

Dr. Gaul’s hands slammed against the monitor, and the screen flickered. Your breath caught as the image became clear.

The arena. But—no.

A figure was inside. A figure who wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Sejanus,” you whispered. Your stomach plummeted.

“How did he even get in there?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why is he in there?”

Dr. Gaul’s face twisted in fury. “I’m working on finding the Peacekeeper he bribed to let him in. Once I do, I’ll remove their tongue myself.” Her voice dripped venom. “In the meantime, someone needs to get him out.”

You stared at her. “Send Peacekeepers. What do you expect me to do?”

Dr. Gaul leaned in, her eyes gleaming. “Oh, I expect you to go in there.”

A chill crawled up your spine. “You can’t be serious.”

“I will not have these rebels making a mockery of my Games,” she snapped. “If the districts see us lose control of the arena, it might as well be an invitation for revolution.”

You barely heard her. Your mind was racing. Sejanus—what was he thinking? And more than that… who else was in there with him?

Dr. Gaul’s voice yanked you back to the present. “I’ll freeze the feed for an hour. That’s all the time you’ll have.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The shock had rooted you to the floor.

Dr. Gaul’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t have time for this. Move.”

Your heart pounded. You couldn’t do this alone.

Your hands trembled violently as you reached for the nearest phone and dialed a number you had known all your life. You pressed it to your ear, but your grip was unsteady, slick with sweat.

“Hello?”

“Coryo,” you gasped, barely able to force the words out. “I need you. I need your help. Now.”

There was silence on the other end. Then, cautious, “What? Y/n, what’s wrong?”

“Look at your screen,” you choked out, pacing in frantic, uneven strides. Your breath came in short, panicked bursts. “Please. Just—just look.”

You heard a shuffle, a pause, then a sharp inhale. “What the hell—”

“Meet me at the arena,” you rushed out. “Right now.”

“Y/n, slow down, tell me—”

“No, Coryo, we don’t have time for this!” you snapped, your voice shrill with fear. “Just get to the arena! Please!”

“Y/n—”

You slammed the phone down before he could say another word.

You didn’t understand why he had to go. You had asked once already, but the answer hadn’t been good enough. Not for you.

“Daddy,” you said, your voice breaking the heavy silence. “Why do you have to leave?”

Your father—General Lason Royce—paused, his hands hovering over the last button of his coat. He turned to look at you, his sharp features softening in a way they never seemed to with anyone else. Slowly, he crossed the room and knelt before you, resting one knee on the plush carpet. His dark eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot the explosions outside.

“You,” he said, his voice deep and steady, “I know this is hard for you to understand right now. But some sacrifices have to be made.”

Your brows furrowed. “Why does it have to be you? Can’t someone else fight the rebels?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he was quiet, as if choosing his words carefully. When he finally spoke, his tone was calm but firm, like he was explaining something very important.

“No, sweetheart,” he said, reaching out to gently brush a curl from your face. “It can’t be someone else. The rebels aren’t just fighting soldiers. They’re fighting everything that makes our world strong. They want to tear down everything we’ve built—our peace, our unity, our future. If I don’t stand against them, who will? Who will protect you? Protect your mother? Protect this city from falling apart?”

“But they don’t look bad,” you said softly, remembering the grainy footage you’d seen on the news. Dirty faces. Tired eyes. “They just look like... people, Like us”

Your father’s jaw tightened, and a flicker of something dark passed through his eyes. “That’s what makes them so dangerous,” he said. “They pretend to be victims, but they’re the ones who started this war. They want power, sweetheart, and they’ll destroy anyone who stands in their way. The Capitol is the last line of defense against chaos. Against savagery.”

You didn’t know what “savagery” meant, but the way he said it made you shiver.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “One day, you’ll understand. When you’re older. When you’re in charge.”

Your eyes widened. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he said with a faint smile. “You are my legacy. Everything I do is for you. For the world you’ll inherit one day. And when that day comes, you’ll see why these sacrifices are necessary. You’ll understand that sometimes, we have to make hard choices to protect what we love.”

Your chest ached, but you didn’t know why. “But I don’t want you to leave. I don’t care about all that stuff. I just want you to stay here.”

His expression softened, and he placed his hands on your shoulders. “I know, sweetheart. I know this doesn’t make sense right now. But trust me, it will. You’re stronger than you think. You’re going to grow up to be someone incredible. Someone who understands the weight of responsibility.”

Your small hands curled into fists. “I don’t want to be responsible,” you muttered. “I just want you.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, gleaming gold ring. It looked old, its edges smooth and worn, like it had been through a lot.

“This was my father’s,” he said, holding it up for you to see. “And one day, it’ll be yours. It doesn’t fit now, but it will when you’re ready.”

He slipped it onto your thumb, where it wobbled loosely. You stared at it, the weight of the metal strange against your skin.

“Keep this safe for me,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s a promise. A promise that I’ll come back.”

You looked up at him, your vision blurred with tears. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he said firmly, cupping your cheek. “No matter what happens, I’ll find my way back to you. This ring is my vow.”

Your mother’s voice cut through the moment, trembling but composed. “Lason, it’s time.”

He stood, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. You scrambled out of the chair and threw your arms around his legs, clutching him as tightly as you could. “Don’t go,” you whispered, your face pressed against the rough fabric of his coat.

He knelt again, prying your arms loose with a gentleness that broke your heart. “Be brave for me. For your mother. For yourself. Can you do that?”

You nodded reluctantly, your tears falling freely now. He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering as though trying to memorize the feel of you. Then, without another word, he turned and strode to the door.

You stood frozen as the door clicked shut behind him. The ring on your thumb felt heavy, far heavier than it should have. You didn’t understand why he had to go, why he had to fight a war against people who looked so tired and sad.

All you understood was that the war had taken your father away, and you weren’t sure if the promise he had left you with—the weight of the ring—would be enough to bring him back.

The moment the gong sounded, the tributes scattered. Most flooded toward the gaping tunnels, several blown open from the last bombing. You watched Lucy Gray's bright dress flitting toward the far side of the arena, your brows pulling together. What is she doing? you thought. Why not go for weapons? Why run straight to the perimeter?

A handful of the stronger tributes sprinted for the weapons. After grabbing a few, Tanner, Coral, and Draven dispersed quickly. Only Reaper, armed with a pitchfork and a long knife, seemed ready to engage. But by the time he raised his weapons, there was no one left to fight. He turned, watching the retreating backs of his opponents, before throwing his head back in frustration. Without hesitation, he climbed into the nearby stands, beginning his hunt.

The other Game Makers took this lull as an opportunity to cut back to Lucky Flickerman. His voice rang out with cheer. “Wish you’d placed a bet but couldn’t make it to the post office? Finally decided on a tribute to back? Well, you’re in luck!”

A phone number flashed at the bottom of the screen. “You can do it all by phone now! Just call the number below, give your citizen digits, the name of the tribute, and the dollar amount you’d like to bet or gift. Be a part of the action! Or, if you prefer face-to-face transactions, the post office is open daily from eight to eight. Come on, don’t miss out on this historic moment. Support the Capitol and make a tidy profit too. Be a part of the Hunger Games and be a winner!”

The camera shifted back to the arena. Within minutes, the space had emptied. Every tribute had disappeared into the shadows except for Reaper. After roaming the stands for a while, he finally ducked out of sight. Once again, the focus shifted back to Marcus—bound, battered, and barely alive. His suffering returned to center stage.

Your stomach twisted. It was some how worse than you rembered, seeing him like that—so undeniably human. Worse still was the creeping guilt. You had been spending too much time around Sejanus. These people are rebels, you reminded yourself. They started a war. This is the punishment. Don’t feel bad for them.

But it was impossible. Marcus wasn’t a symbol of defiance—not right now. He was a boy. A scared, broken boy.

Your thoughts drifted to Sejanus—how distraught he had been, how furious he was when he stormed out. You made a mental note to check on him later, after your shift or during a break. You loved him dearly—a close friend. He had visited you nearly every day in the hospital. You had shared meals with his family. But passing out sandwiches was one thing. Throwing a chair in the Capitol’s grand hall was another. There would be consequences for that. You had your own struggles; you couldn’t afford to get tangled in his.

A tense half hour passed. Then something shifted. A ripple of excitement ran through the hall. The bombs near the entrance had blown open the main cave, but another barricade near the scoreboard caught the camera's attention. It was an eyesore—layers of concrete slabs, wooden planks, and barbed wire—a reminder of the rebel attack. The Game Makers had largely ignored it until now.

You leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the monitor. A skinny, long-limbed girl crept from the barricade’s corner. You tapped a colleague’s arm. “There. Pan the camera to her.”

You didn’t recall her name. Pup’s tribute, maybe? You remembered Pup fumbling during the mentor-tribute meeting. His girl had wept uncontrollably. He hadn’t prepared her for the interview, forfeiting his chance to elevate her.

Lucky Flickerman's voice filled in the gaps. “Now we see fifteen-year-old Lamantia from District Seven, mentored by our own Lainy Harrington. District Seven, of course, provides the Capitol with the lumber used to repair our beloved arena.”

The camera zoomed in. Lamania squinted against the sun, her blonde hair a tangled halo around her head. Her dress, fashioned from a flour sack and belted with rope, fluttered in the breeze. Insect bites dotted her legs. Her eyes were puffy but dry. Oddly calm.

Without haste, she moved to the weapons pile. She selected a knife, testing the blade’s sharpness with her thumb. Satisfied, she tucked it into her belt. Next, she chose a small ax, swinging it loosely to feel its weight. Then she approached one of the steel poles.

Your first thought was that she might try to chop it down—lumber district instincts, perhaps. But she didn’t. Instead, she clamped the ax between her teeth and began to climb. Knees and calloused feet gripped the rusty metal. Her ascent was fluid, natural, like a caterpillar scaling a stem.

You marveled at her strength. You had struggled to climb the rope in gym class. This was effortless.

She reached the top, slid the ax into her belt, and balanced on the narrow crossbeam. With the ease of a tightrope walker, she moved above Marcus. She straddled the beam, locking her ankles for support.

She leaned over, speaking to him. The microphones couldn’t pick up her words, much to your frustration. But Marcus heard. His lips moved, though his voice was barely a whisper.

Lamania straightened, took a breath, and braced herself. The ax came down. Once. Twice. A third time. Blood sprayed. Marcus stilled.

She wiped her hands on her skirt and climbed down, vanishing into the arena.

“That’s my girl!” Pup’s voice rang out. The camera cut to him, grinning wide, bits of egg caught in his braces. He pumped his fist into the air. “First kill of the day! That’s my tribute—Lamania from District Seven!” He raised his wrist, showing his cuff. “Open for business! Never too late to send a gift!”

The phone number reappeared. The faint pings of sponsor gifts chimed from Pup’s cuff.

You glanced around. A few Game Makers nodded, pleased. Coriolanus sat straighter a few rows back, his eyes locked on the screen. The Games felt more fluid than you had prepared for—shifting like sand beneath your feet.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to stay composed. The Hunger Games had always been brutal, but this year, they felt... different.

"Thank you". Pup waved at the camera, making you roll your eyes.

"Well, I think she deserves a little something. Don’t you?" He fiddled with his communication cuff and looked up at the screen expectantly as the camera jumped back to LaMantia. The audience watched with anticipation, as this would be the first attempt to deliver a gift to a tribute. A minute passed, then five. You began to wonder if the technology had failed. Then, a small drone, clutching a pint-sized bottle of water in its claws, appeared over the top of the arena by the entrance and made its way shakily toward Lamania. It looped and dipped, and even reversed course before crashing into a crossbeam a good ten feet from her and falling to the ground like a swatted insect. The bottle cracked, so the water soaked into the dirt and vanished.

You turned around quickly and shot a dirty look to the Gamemakers who were in charge of the drones and controlling them. You made a note that they needed to be fixed and that Dr. Gaul wasn’t going to be happy about it. You weren’t the only one frustrated. Lamania stared down at her gift, expressionless, as if she’d expected nothing more. But Pup burst out angrily.

"Wait a minute—that’s not fair. Someone paid good money for that."

The crowd murmured in agreement. No immediate remedy followed, but a replacement bottle flew in ten minutes later. This time, LaMantia managed to snatch it from the drone, which followed its predecessor to a dusty death—once again frustrating you even more. Lamania took an occasional sip of her water, but other than that, little movement occurred, except for the gathering of flies around Marcus’s body. You could hear the occasional ping from Pup’s communication cuff, signifying additional gifts to Lamania, who seemed content to remain on the crossbeam. It wasn’t a bad strategy, really—safer than the ground for sure. She had a plan. She could kill. In less than an hour, LaMantia had redefined herself as a contender in the games. She seemed a lot tougher than Lucy Gray anyway—wherever she was. Not like you cared.

Time passed. With the exception of Reaper, who could occasionally be seen prowling the stands, none of the tributes presented themselves as hunters, not even the armed ones. Had it not been for Marcus’s presentation and LaMantia finishing him off, it would have been an exceptionally slow opening. Usually, some sort of bloodbath could be counted on to kick off the games, but with so many of the competitive tributes dead, the field consisted largely of prey. The arena shrank to a small window at the corner of the screen as Lucky appeared, giving more District background and dropping in a weather report for good measure. Having a full-time host for the games was new territory, and he struggled to create the role. When Tanner climbed up and strolled along the top row of the arena, Lucky quickly threw the broadcast back, but the tribute only sat a while in the sun before vanishing into the passages beneath the stands.

Rustling in the back of Heavensbee Hall turned heads, and you spotted Lepidus Malmsey making his way up the aisle with his camera crew. He invited Pop to join him, and their interview went live. Pup, a previously untapped source, rattled off every detail he could think of about Lamania and then added several more that you felt were fabricated. But even that only took a few minutes. This set the pattern of the morning—brief informational interviews with mentors, long expanses of inactivity in the arena.

The lunch break bell chimed softly overhead, but you were already halfway to the cluster of Gamemakers responsible for the drones. Your heels clicked against the polished marble floor of Heavensbee Hall, each step sharper than the last. The trio of technicians noticed your approach and stiffened.

“What was that?” you snapped, not bothering to mask your frustration. “Two drones. Two. Crashed like defective toys. You think that’s acceptable? We’re on day one, and you’re making us look incompetent. If you don’t fix it, I’ll personally see to it that you take a one-way trip into the arena to see how sturdy those beams are up close. Understand?”

The eldest, a wiry man with graying hair, nodded hastily. “Y-yes, Ma’am. We’ll recalibrate the controls immediately.”

“Good.” You spun on your heel and stalked away, the knot in your chest loosening slightly from the exertion. But the image of Marcus—the blood, the slackened face—clawed its way back into your mind.

You nearly collided with Felix in the hallway.

“Whoa, slow down there,” he said, flashing his easy grin. “Someone looks ready to throw a few people in the arena themselves.”

You sighed, your anger ebbing into exhaustion. “Don’t tempt me. The drone techs are testing my patience.”

Felix fell into step beside you as you made your way to the lunchroom. “So, you lied to me,” he said lightly, but there was a faint edge beneath his voice.

You raised an eyebrow. “About?”

“You said it would be quick. That we’d be out of here in time for dinner. It’s not looking that way.”

You shrugged, though your heart felt heavier than you let on. “I thought things would pick up faster. They will. They have to.”

He gave a noncommittal hum, his eyes scanning your face. “Sure. They will.”

Lunch was a quiet affair. You found a table near the back, away from the loud boasting of Pup and the overly chipper chatter of a few other students. Felix kept the conversation light, making jokes about one Gamemaker’s ridiculous hairpiece and teasing you about your last date when he’d accidentally called his mother ‘Madam President.’

At the front of the room, Otto Hightower sits on the Iron Throne, his presence suffocating. The King is absent, and the absence of his authority weighs heavily on the room. Otto speaks, his voice steady, though you can almost hear the hidden ambition in every word.

“Although we all hope Lord Corlys Velaryon survives his wounds,” Otto says, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. And as Hand, I speak with the King’s voice. All that matters now is the crown’s will. Now, we will hear the petitions regarding House Velaryon.”

You try to ignore the knot in your stomach. Despite Otto’s words, you know they can't deny Luke. There's no way they could.

Vaemond Velaryon steps forward, his voice rising with pride as he speaks. “The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell, we were the last of our kind. Our forebears came to this new land knowing that failure would mean the end of their bloodlines. I have spent my life defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’s true blood—the unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

Before he can continue, Rhaenyra cuts him off, her voice sharp as steel. “As it does in my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you care so much about your house’s bloodline, you would not be so bold as to plant the rights of your nephews.”

Otto gives Rhaenyra a pointed look but says nothing, letting her speak. “You’ll have your chance, Princess Rhaenyra,” he says, almost too calmly.

Vaemond turns back to Rhaenyra, his eyes flashing. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show you, and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my house—not yours.”

You watch Luke, feeling your heart ache at the fear in his eyes. You squeeze Jace's hand, silently reassuring him, and he squeezes back, his grip tight. His anger is palpable, but he remains silent, his focus entirely on the confrontation.

Otto cuts through the tension. “Enough,” he says, his voice unyielding. “This is a matter of blood, not ambition. Lord Vaemond, you may continue.”

Vaemond presses on, his voice dripping with pride. “I humbly put myself before you as the rightful successor to my brother’s seat.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his use of ‘humbly.’ You lean toward Jace, whispering, “He’s anything but humble.”

Jace nods in agreement, though his jaw is tight. He’s pissed, but doesn’t say a word.

Otto nods curtly. “Thank you, Lord Vaemond.”

“And now, Princess Rhaenyra, you may speak on behalf of your son, Lucerys Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra rises, poised, but before she can even speak, the doors to the throne room suddenly crash open. A collective gasp fills the room as the King himself, who was bedridden just days ago, stumbles into the court.

You’re stunned. The last time you saw him, he looked frail, sickly, a shadow of the man he once was. But now, he’s standing before everyone, barely holding onto the staff he’s leaning on. His face is pale, his eyes sunken, and the mask he wears only adds to his fragile appearance. He’s barely able to make it to the throne, and when he does, he stumbles, his crown slipping off.

Before anyone can react, Daemon rushes to his brother’s side, placing the crown back on his head with careful hands.

The room is still in shock. You feel your heart race as your father returns to his seat, taking his place beside you.

“I do not know why petitions are being heard over a settled succession,” the King says, his voice rough but commanding. “As to Lord Corlys’s wishes, those closest to me know my desires. Princess Rhaenys, you may speak for him on this matter.”

Rhaenys steps forward, her voice steady, unwavering. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through to his true-born son, To Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him.”

A smile forms on your lips as the court falls silent, waiting for the next move. Your heart swells with a strange sense of relief. Rhaenys’s words are a confirmation of everything you’ve known to be true, and you can’t help but feel a surge of pride for Luke.

Then Rhaenys drops a bombshell. “As a matter of fact, Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons, Jace and Luke, to my granddaughters, Y/n and Rhaena.”

Your heart skips a beat. You can’t help but grin, your face lighting up. You turn to look at Jace, whose smile mirrors your own.

But as you smile, something catches your eye—Aemond’s stare. It’s icy, piercing, like he’s trying to burn a hole through you. Your stomach drops as memories of the other night come rushing back. You force yourself to look away, not wanting to think about it any more than you have to.

Rhaenyra’s proposal is met with murmurs of agreement, and the King stands, his voice ringing out. “I hereby reaffirm Lucerys Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, and he shall take the Driftwood Throne as the next Lord of Tides.”

But then Vaemond steps forward again, his voice filled with fury. “You break centuries of tradition to install your daughters as heirs,” he says, shaking with rage. “You dare tell me who deserves to inherit the Velaryon name?”

“I will not allow this!” he shouts. “Those are no true Velaryons! Those children—” He points at Luke and Jace. “—are no nephews of mine!”

You feel your heart stop for a moment, the words like a slap. You look at Luke, his face stricken with disbelief. But Jace’s anger is palpable.

Then, Vaemond’s fury explodes. “They are bastards!” he screams. “And she,” he points at Rhaenyra, “is a whore!”

The room goes silent. The King, who had been standing, suddenly moves forward. His voice is cold as he barks, “Bring me his tongue.”

In a heartbeat, your father is no longer beside you. You watch, almost detached, as Daemon swings his sword, and Vaemond’s head is severed from his body.

For a moment, the entire throne room is silent. Vaemond’s headless body sways before crumpling to the floor, blood pooling beneath him. His head lands just feet away, his mouth still open, as if the words he never got to finish are frozen on his lips.

Daemon wipes his blade clean with an eerie calm, then steps over the corpse, glancing down at the severed head before smirking.

“He can keep his tongue.”

You watch it all unfold, completely detached from the scene before you. The reactions around you are sharp, visceral—gasps, shouts, the rustling of movement as the courtiers shrink back in horror.

Jace stiffens beside you, his hand still gripped tightly in yours. You feel the way his entire body tenses, his anger rolling off him in waves. But you feel nothing.

You don’t even process that Vaemond is dead. Not really. He was talking, and now he’s not. He was standing, and now he’s not. That’s all.

You didn’t like him anyway.

Your gaze drifts downward, lingering on the severed head for a moment. It doesn’t seem real. It’s just… there. Detached from the body that once carried it.

Then something makes you look up.

Across the throne room, beyond the sea of stunned nobles and shaken courtiers, Aemond is staring at you.

His gaze is intense, locked onto you with an expression you can’t quite place. There’s no shock on his face, no horror. Just something dark. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way that feels unnatural.

You swallow thickly, a wave of nausea rising in your throat. The weight of his stare, the way it feels like it’s reaching inside you, makes you dizzy. You grip the fabric of your dress, willing yourself to breathe.

Court is dismissed.

The King begins to cough, a wet, sickly sound that fills the throne room. He’s pale, weaker than before, and even Otto looks concerned as he moves to his side. People are murmuring, shifting, trying to recover from what they’ve just witnessed.

You press a hand to your stomach. “I feel sick.”

Jace turns to you, concerned. “Y/n, do you need—”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off quickly. “I just— I just need a moment.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” you say, a little too fast. You force a small smile, stepping back. “Stay with Luke. Stay with your mother. I just need to be alone for a bit.”

Jace hesitates, but eventually nods.

You turn and leave before anyone else can stop you, slipping out of the throne room, trying to push down the nausea clawing its way up your throat.

You don’t even hear him coming.

One moment, you’re walking toward your chambers, pulse still racing from the chaos in the throne room. The next, you’re slammed against the cold stone wall, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs.

Your head spins.

Before you can even process what’s happening, fingers curl around your arms, tight, unyielding.

Your vision clears just enough to see who it is.

Aemond.

Your stomach drops.

He’s close, his grip like iron, his breathing uneven. And his eye—gods, his eye—burns into you with a fury so raw, so blistering, it sends a cold shiver down your spine.

You’ve never seen him like this.

“What the fuck—” you choke out, trying to push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

“How long?” he hisses, voice razor-sharp.

You blink. “What?”

His fingers dig into your skin. “How long have you been lying to me?”

Your mind reels, scrambling for some understanding, some explanation for why he’s doing this. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about—”

“You said you weren’t getting married.” His voice is lethal, low and vibrating with barely contained rage. “You sat there, at dinner, and told me you had no prospects.” His grip tightens. “And yet, today, in court, you stood there and smiled as it was announced you’re to wed Jacaerys Velaryon.”

Your stomach twists violently.

Oh.

That’s what this is about.

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it. “You’re angry because I’m betrothed to Jace?”

His jaw clenches. “I’m angry because you fucking lied to me.”

A cold, sharp silence stretches between you.

And then it clicks.

“You—” You exhale sharply, trying to steady your breath. “You figured it out… after the announcement.”

His eye darkens.

That’s all the confirmation you need.

It clicks into place—the way his gaze burned into you in the throne room, the tension radiating off him the moment your betrothal was spoken aloud. That was when he pieced it together. When he realized that night, you had been sneaking away from Jace’s chambers.

“That’s why you’re so mad,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it.

Aemond exhales harshly, his grip twitching. “I saw you,” he says, voice sharp, brittle. “You were coming from his chambers. And yet you stood there, looked me in the fucking eye, and told me there was nothing.”

“There was nothing,” you snap, though you’re not even sure why you feel the need to defend yourself.

His lips curl into something bitter. “Really? And I’m supposed to believe that, when you went from sneaking around in the night to standing at his side today like you fucking belong there?”

You glare at him, heat rising to your cheeks. “It’s not your concern who I marry.”

His fingers twitch again.

And then, suddenly, he shifts.

Before you can react, his hand moves from your arm to your face, fingers pressing into your jaw, tilting your head up—forcing you to meet his eye.

Your breath catches.

For a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

Your body tenses, heart hammering against your ribs as his grip tightens just enough to make it clear that he’s in control—that you aren’t moving unless he allows it. His gaze flickers down to your lips, then back to your eyes, and your stomach twists with something you don’t understand, something that makes you want to shove him away and pull him closer all at once.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, his expression hardens, and with a sharp exhale, he shoves you back against the wall, his fingers finally releasing you.

You stumble slightly, breath uneven, head spinning.

Aemond steps back, his face unreadable.

“Bisa isnt toliot byka zaldrīzes” (this isnt over little dragon) he murmurs, voice rough with something you can’t quite place.

And then he turns on his heel and stalks away, leaving you breathless, shaken, and burning with something you can’t begin to name.

The door to your chambers slams behind you, the heavy wood muffling the noise of the castle, but doing nothing to quiet the storm within your chest. Your breaths come fast, shallow—your heart racing as if trying to break free of your ribcage. You press your back to the door, trembling fingers clutching at your sides as you squeeze your eyes shut. Aemond’s voice still echoes in your ears, his grip still sears your skin. And beneath the fear, the anger, the guilt—there’s something else. Something you don’t want to name. Something that makes your stomach twist and burn.

You clutch at your chest as though you can physically tear the feeling out of you. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. The walls are closing in.

Get out. You need to get out.

Your hands shake as you hastily pull on your riding leathers, the familiarity of the worn fabric grounding you, if only for a moment. You shove open the door and make your way toward the dragonpit, each step stiff and hurried, as if trying to outrun your own thoughts. By the time you reach the entrance, you’re still trembling, your heart still racing.

"Silverwing," you say, voice tight as you speak to the dragonkeepers. "Ready her for flight. Now."

They nod quickly and move to obey, but before you can retreat further into your thoughts, a familiar voice cuts through the air.

"Where are you running off to in such a hurry?" Daemon’s tone is light, but his eyes are sharp—too sharp.

Your father steps out from the shadows, his gaze sweeping over you with the scrutiny of a man who misses nothing. You freeze, trying to summon calm, but you know it’s already too late. He knows you too well.

"Just needed some air," you mutter, keeping your gaze averted.

"Air?" He arches a brow. "You fled the throne room like you were being chased by the Stranger himself. That wasn’t about Vaemond, was it? You’ve seen worse than that."

You swallow hard, but your throat is tight. You shake your head, unable to meet his gaze. "I just... I hate this place. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to go home."

There’s a long pause before he steps closer, his voice dropping to something softer. "Look at me."

You do—reluctantly—and you see the concern in his eyes, the warmth beneath his cool exterior. Your vision blurs with unshed tears, and before you can stop yourself, you lean into him, arms wrapping around his middle. His hand rests gently on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

"I know," he murmurs. "I hate it here too. This place is full of vipers and fools. But we only have to endure one more night. Then we’ll go home."

You nod against his chest, but the tears won’t stop. One slips free, trailing down your cheek. You try to wipe it away, but his thumb is faster, catching it before it falls.

He tilts your chin up, his touch gentle, though his eyes glimmer with that familiar steel. "You are a dragon, my little dragon. And dragons do not cry. Not over matters such as these. Tears are for those who are weak of spirit. You are not weak. You are of my blood."

You blink up at him, his words settling deep in your chest—both a comfort and a command. You nod again, this time with more resolve, though your eyes are still glassy.

"Come," he says, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder before letting go. "I was going to fly with Caraxes anyway. Let’s go together. Clear your head."

The offer surprises you, but you don’t hesitate to accept it. He knows you need this. He always knows.

Together, you mount your dragons, the familiar rush of wind and cold air hitting your face as you ascend into the sky. The world below becomes distant, the tension in your chest loosening with every beat of Silverwing’s wings. You glance over at your father, flying beside you on Caraxes, his expression relaxed for the first time in days.

Up here, you are free. Up here, you can breathe.

And for the first time since you arrived at King’s Landing, you feel like yourself again.

The Kingswood welcomes you with open arms, its ancient trees standing sentinel over a clearing that seems untouched by time. A gentle river winds its way through the heart of it, the water glinting like liquid silver beneath the sun's soft gaze. The air smells of pine and damp earth, and a breeze carries the rustling whispers of the forest.

Silverwing and Caraxes land with grace, their talons sinking into the soft soil. The dragons linger only briefly, exchanging a glance before taking to the skies again. Their sinuous forms twist and coil in the air, playing or perhaps dancing—a rare display of something so close to joy. You watch them for a moment, finding a strange comfort in their freedom.

You dismount, your boots meeting the ground with a soft thud. Daemon joins you, his eyes scanning the surroundings with the ease of a man who has spent his life both embracing and defying the wild. Together, you move toward the riverbank, settling beside the gentle stream.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The only sounds are the water’s hushed song and the distant calls of your dragons above. You lean your head on your father’s shoulder, his warmth grounding you as the weight in your chest begins to ease.

He is the first to break the silence.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Your eyes stay on the water. “Everything,” you whisper. “Everything is wrong. My whole world is wrong.”

Daemon tilts his head slightly, his silver hair catching the light. His voice is softer than most would expect from him. “You’ve never been one to speak in riddles, my little dragon. Tell me plainly.”

Tears well up, but you blink them away. He notices, of course—he always notices. He lifts a hand and brushes his thumb gently beneath your eye. “Dragons do not shed tears over little matters, my little dragon. We are made of fire. Fire does not weep.”

Your lips twitch, but it is not quite a smile. “I know.”

He gives you a moment before pressing further. “Did someone hurt you?”

You hesitate. It is such a father’s question—protective, direct. For a brief second, you consider saying yes. You can see it so clearly: your father storming back to the Keep, his sword in hand, ready to spill blood without hesitation. But the thought passes as quickly as it had come.

“No,” you say quietly. “Not… physically.”

Daemon’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “Good.” He pauses, then, with a knowing look: “Would this have anything to do with a certain one-eyed prince who could not keep his eye off you today?”

You freeze. Your entire body stiffens, and that is all the answer he needs.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “That.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Daemon leans back against a tree, his gaze steady and calculating. “I won’t ask what happened,” he says. “But whatever it is—it needs to stop. He is dangerous. And he is a Green.” His voice lowers, rough with disdain. “You know what I think of their lot.”

You nod, but your mind is tangled. You want to say it isn’t like that—not exactly. But you can’t find the words.

Daemon sighs. “I cannot help you if you don’t speak to me.”

Your voice cracks. “It’s not that simple.”

He gives you a long look. “It never is.”

You exhale, your eyes on the water. “There’s… something there. And it frightens me. He frightens me. But it’s more than that. He makes me feel something and I hate it. I don’t understand it.”

Daemon’s expression darkens briefly before softening into something that resembles understanding. He had been young once. He had known desire, confusion, and the dangerous blend of both.

“You love Jace,” he states.

“I do. I’ve loved him my whole life.”

“But something has shifted between you.”

You flinch but nod.

Daemon is quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “You are not the first Targaryen to find their desires pulling them in opposite directions. Marriage is duty. But desire… desire is something else. What matters is how you wield it.”

You look up at him, unsure. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying this: If you do not love Jace in that way, there is no shame in that. You will marry him because it is expected. That does not mean your entire life must be bound to him. Targaryens have always kept their secrets, and you are entitled to yours. But Aemond Targaryen cannot be one of them.”

You swallow. “Why?”

His eyes narrow. “Because he will destroy you. Men like him—men like me—we do not let go of what we want. And we do not handle rejection well. You are playing with wildfire, my little dragon. And you are too precious to burn.”

Tears threaten again. “I just want to go home. I hate this place.”

Daemon wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in. “One more night. Then we go home.”

You close your eyes, breathing him in—the scent of smoke, leather, and something uniquely him. It steadies you.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “You are my little dragon. You always will be. And no matter what happens—whatever choices you make—you will always have me.”

You nod into his shoulder.

After a while, he stands. "Come. We should head back to the Red Keep. We'll fly over the Kingswood on our way."

You manage a smile—small, but real. “Race you?”

Daemon smirks. “You’ll lose.”

You both take to the skies, the cold air biting at your face, but it doesn’t matter. Up there, above the world, you can breathe again. You love flying—you always have. And with your father beside you, you feel safe.

That evening, dread coils in your stomach as you prepare for dinner. You spend the day in your chambers, reading a book on High Valyria that you found on your bedside table. You are certain you left it in the library, and someone has clearly been reading it—pages marked, passages underlined. The thought unsettles you, but you push it aside.

Dressed in Targaryen red with gold and black accents, your gown is off the shoulder, pushing your chest up slightly—modest by your standards but likely scandalous to the Queen. You wear your hair down, braided back in places, with a delicate gold chain across your forehead. As a knight escorts you to dinner, you remind yourself: one more night, then home.

The dining hall is heavy with tension as you enter. You offer a polite hello to everyone, your eyes briefly meeting Daemon’s. He gives you a small, knowing look—it comforts you more than you’d like to admit.

You sit beside Jace. He leans in. “Are you feeling better?”

You smile. “Yeah, I think I was just a little sick earlier. I’m fine now.”

“Good,” he says softly.

But you feel eyes on you—Aemond’s gaze, sharp and unrelenting. You refuse to look at him, keeping your focus on Jace.

The King is carried in. Everyone stands until he is seated. The King’s voice is weak but hopeful. “How good it is to see you all together.”

Alicent offers a prayer; you and your family endure it, exchanging glances. Daemon smirks, and you stifle a laugh.

The King toasts your betrothal to Jace. You squeeze his hand, finding comfort there, despite everything.

The dining hall is heavy with tension the moment you step inside. The long table is set with gold-trimmed plates and goblets of rich red wine. Candles flicker along the length of the table, their soft glow doing little to warm the atmosphere. You offer a polite, measured greeting to the room. “Good evening,” you say, your voice steady despite the knot in your stomach.

Your father, Daemon, sits at the head of the table, his gaze meeting yours briefly. There is an unspoken understanding in his eyes—a silent exchange that eases you, even if only slightly. You glance over and see Jace. He stands as you approach, concern written on his face.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, his voice soft, careful.

You nod. “Yes, I think I was just a little sick earlier, but I feel fine now.”

He exhales in relief. “Good. I was worried.”

Before you can respond, you feel it—the weight of a gaze. Aemond. His eye is on you, burning, but you refuse to acknowledge him. You keep your attention on Jace, your fingers brushing his briefly as you both take your seats.

Soon, the King is brought in, carried upon his chair, his body frail and sunken into the cushions. Everyone rises. You stand with the rest, watching as Viserys is lowered into place at the center of the table. Alicent sits to his left, Rhaenyra to his right. At Daemon’s side is Rhaena, then Lucerys, Baela, you, and Jace. Opposite, Aemond presides over the other end, with Aegon and Helaena beside him. Otto Hightower sits close to Alicent, his calculating eyes ever watchful.

Once the King is settled, the room lowers back into their chairs. Silence blankets the hall, so thick it nearly chokes you. Viserys begins to wheeze, his labored breathing cutting through the quiet. You can barely stand to look at him—he appears as though the very act of sitting upright is agony.

“It is good to see you all tonight, together,” the King finally manages, his voice weak but determined.

Alicent glances at him with concern before speaking. “A prayer before we begin,” she suggests softly.

Viserys nods, and the Queen lowers her head. “May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Ser Vaemond Velaryon—may the Gods give him rest.”

You struggle to keep your expression neutral. The words feel hollow, almost ridiculous. You chance a glance across the table at your father. His lips twitch with barely concealed amusement, and you mirror his smirk, the brief moment of shared irreverence lightening your heart.

When the prayer concludes, Viserys raises his goblet with a trembling hand. “This is an occasion for celebration. It seems my grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Y/n and Rhaena… strengthening the bond between our houses.”

You look to Jace, and he to you. He squeezes your hand under the table, a gentle affirmation. You smile at each other, the brief warmth between you a rare comfort.

Daemon raises his cup. “Here, here.”

Others follow, lifting their glasses. You sip your wine, though the sensation of Aemond’s gaze continues to burn into you. You do not look his way.

As the cups lower, Aegon leans toward Jace, his voice low but not so low that you cannot hear. “Well done, Jace. You finally get to lie with a woman.”

Jace stiffens, his jaw clenching as he sets his goblet down with an audible clink. Your eyes narrow, shooting Aegon a glare sharp enough to pierce armor. He meets your gaze with a lazy smirk, clearly amused by his own crudeness.

Viserys speaks again, his voice strained but resolute. “Let us toast as well to Prince Lucerys… the future Lord of the Tides.”

“Here, here,” you echo, raising your glass once more.

Rhaena smiles at Luke, offering gentle encouragement. “You will be great.”

The tension simmers beneath the surface, but for this fleeting moment, there is unity—however fragile.

You sit beside Jace, your hand resting lightly on his leg, trying to soothe the anger still simmering from Aegon's earlier taunts.

Aegon leans in once more, voice low and slurred. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? Or is my dear nephew still in need of a tutor?” He smirks, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Jace stiffens beside you, his grip tightening on his goblet. You sense the fury bubbling beneath his composed exterior. Before he can react, you give his leg a firm squeeze, a silent plea for restraint.

You turn your gaze to Aegon with a forced smile, voice laced with subtle sarcasm. “Oh, is that your way of asking if Jace knows what to do? How thoughtful, my prince. We all appreciate your concern for our marital success.”

Aegon blinks, caught off guard by your tone. He huffs a laugh but looks away, momentarily subdued.

Jace seizes the opportunity. “You may play the jester if you wish, Aegon, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Aegon eyes him with a lazy smirk, unimpressed. “Oh, very serious,” he mutters, rolling his eyes before returning his attention to his wine.

The King shifts in his seat, struggling to stand with his cane. Conversation halts as all eyes turn toward him. With effort, he begins to speak. “It gladdens me… to see you all together.” His voice is frail, wheezing, and his face, half-masked in gold, appears more ghastly than ever. When he removes the mask, revealing the decayed side of his face, you suppress a shudder.

“You are all dear to me,” the King continues. “I wish you to see yourselves as I see you—as one family. United.”

Rhaenyra rises, goblet in hand. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father, but I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. For that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

You exchange a glance with your father across the table, both suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. The tension between your families cannot be so easily soothed with pretty words. Still, you sip your wine dutifully.

Alicent stands, visibly moved. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We have more in common than we sometimes allow. I raise my cup to you and your house. You will make a fine queen.”

Polite applause follows. You join in but feel detached from the moment. You are merely playing your part.

Wine flows freely, and music swells in the background. For a brief while, the atmosphere lightens. But then Aegon stands again, his third cup drained. He moves toward the wine pitcher but pauses by your side, lowering his voice so only you can hear.

“I regret to disappoint, but you are to soon suffer. However… if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you need do is ask.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, not from embarrassment, but anger. Jace catches the murmur and is on his feet before you can stop him, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The room falls into an uneasy silence as eyes snap toward you.

Aegon smirks, sauntering back to his seat as though nothing had happened. Jace exhales sharply, swallowing his anger, and raises his goblet. “To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. I hope we may be friends and allies. Good health, dear uncles.”

You grasp his hand beneath the table, squeezing it gently. He looks at you and exhales, his smile small but genuine. The moment is not perfect, but you are proud of him.

Unexpectedly, Helaena stands, her voice soft but clear. “To Y/n and Rhaena. They will be married soon… It isn’t so bad. Mostly, he just ignores you. Except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

Laughter ripples across the table, though Aegon turns crimson with humiliation. You raise your cup. “Thank you, dear cousin. Here, here.”

Otto Hightower claps along with you, though his eyes narrow at his grandson’s shame.

As the music resumes, Aemond breaks his silence, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “It is rare to see you smile, cousin. I was beginning to think you found none of our company agreeable.”

You meet his gaze, steeling yourself. “I smile when I have reason to.”

Baela chimes in, her tone sharp. “And it seems tonight offers plenty of reasons, unlike some of our past gatherings.”

Aemond’s eye narrows, but you sense his amusement. “Perhaps the future holds more agreeable company then.”

Jace interjects, unable to hold his tongue. “If you are referring to yourself, cousin, I would not count on it.”

Aemond smirks. “Careful, Jace. We would not want you to lose your composure. You would not wish to follow in your father’s footsteps in that regard.”

You sense Jace bristle beside you. "And you would not wish to stumble and lose more than just an eye, cousin," he snaps back.

The tension is thick, but you speak up before it can escalate further. “Enough. Let us not ruin the King’s table with petty quarrels.”

Aemond tilts his head, considering you. “As you wish, cousin.”

The conversation shifts, drifting to less dangerous topics, but the undercurrent remains. You exchange brief, knowing looks with Jace, Baela, and Rhaena throughout the evening—silent assurances that you stand together. Whatever the future holds, you will face it united.

For now, you endure.

With the music starting to play, everyone’s mood begins to lighten. Jace looks to you, giving your hand a quick kiss, and says, “Excuse me,” which confuses you. He gets out of his seat and goes over to ask Helaena if she would like to dance, to which she agrees. They start dancing, and Aegon looks put off, his expression clearly reading, “What the fuck?” Aemond doesn’t look any happier.

You don’t care much, though—you’re just happy to see Helaena having a good time. You hold her dear to your heart, and seeing her smile warms you. You’re watching them dance when you suddenly see Aemond get up. “What the hell is he doing?” you think. He walks straight up to you, extending his hand. Your heart drops. “Fuck my life,” you think, but you know that refusing him would cause a scene. So, you take his hand.

As you rise, you shoot a pleading look to your father across the table. Daemon meets your gaze, his eyes full of knowing amusement. He can tell you want out of this, but he only gives you a small smirk. Jace notices as well, his expression shifting to one of concern as he catches your eyes while you move toward the dance floor.

Aemond’s grip is iron-like as he leads you into the dance. He holds you tight—too tight—pulling you close. It’s almost improper, the way his hand lingers on your waist and the way your bodies brush together.

“You seemed quite comfortable in his company,” Aemond says, his tone low and sharp.

“I wasn’t aware you were keeping such close tabs on me,” you shoot back.

He smirks. “I keep my eyes on what’s mine.”

“You’re mistaken. I’m not yours,” you say firmly.

Aemond leans in slightly, his breath warm against your ear. “Not yet.”

You roll your eyes. “Delusion suits you.”

He laughs under his breath, clearly enjoying your resistance. “You’ll come around, Byka zaldrīzes. You’ll see.”

“You wish,” you snap.

The song ends, and you pull away quickly, but not before Aemond leans in one final time, whispering into your ear, “When you tire of boys who barely know what to do with you, you’ll know where to find me.”

Your cheeks flush red with anger and embarrassment as you return to your seat. Jace notices immediately.

“What did he say?” Jace asks, his voice low with concern.

“Nothing,” you mutter, though your face betrays you.

Dinner continues with laughter, wine, and conversation—until Viserys begins to groan in pain. The mood shifts. The king is taken away, his condition clearly worsening. Everyone stands, unsure of what to do.

As the servants bring out a roasted pig, it is placed in front of Aemond. Luke can’t help but stifle a giggle, recalling the childhood prank involving the Pink Dread. Aemond slams his fist onto the table, causing the room to fall silent.

“A final tribute,” he says, raising his cup. “To the health of my nephews—Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… strong.”

Your heart stops. The word hangs in the air like a curse. You know what he’s implying.

Jace rises in anger. “I dare you to say that again.”

Aemond feigns innocence. “Why? It was only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”

Luke stands, as does Aegon, ready to escalate the fight. Jace throws a punch, landing squarely on Aemond’s jaw. Chaos erupts.

You start to rise to defend Jace and Luke, but before you can intervene, Daemon is there. He grips your arm gently but firmly, pulling you back.

“Stay out of it,” he mutters.

“They can’t just—” you begin to protest, but he leans in close to your ear.

“I think you’ve had enough for tonight. Go to bed, little dragon.”

You freeze. The nickname and his tone are laced with both affection and authority. You glance over his shoulder and see Aemond staring at you with that same intense gaze. Daemon notices this too, and his smirk returns. The tension between them is palpable—a silent challenge—but while Aemond seems to take it seriously, your father remains cool, amused even.

Jace, now at your side, grabs your hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

A sharp knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts.

"Princess," a servant said upon entering, dipping into a quick bow. "Your family has arrived."

Your heart leapt at the words. Without hesitation, you gathered your skirts and made your way through the winding halls, your pulse quickening with anticipation. By the time you reached the courtyard, you found that you were not the first to arrive. Rhaenys and Baela already stood at the front steps, waiting as the carriage rolled to a stop.

The doors opened, and one by one, the familiar faces of your family emerged.

You moved first to Rhaena, pulling her into a warm embrace. It was not overly long, nor too tight, but the weight of your shared bond made it meaningful.

"Sister," Rhaena murmured, squeezing you once before stepping back with a small smile.

Baela stepped forward next, and the moment she and Rhaena locked eyes, grins broke across both their faces. Without hesitation, they pulled each other into a fierce hug, arms locked tightly as if to make up for all the lost time between them.

You turned your attention to your younger siblings, gathering them into warm embraces. Luke leaned into you with an easy smile, his boyish energy still ever-present. Joffrey, who had grown considerably since you had last seen him, beamed up at you.

"Less than five days apart, and I swear you’ve grown," you teased, brushing his curls back. "Soon you’ll be taller than me."

"I already am," Luke interjected playfully.

You gave him a light swat on the arm, chuckling. "In your dreams, Luke."

Then, your gaze found your father.

Daemon Targaryen stood a few paces away, watching you with that familiar knowing smirk. Without hesitation, you strode to him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace. He chuckled, his grip strong and steady as he held you close.

"I’ve missed you," you murmured into his shoulder.

"And I, you, little dragon," he said, pressing a kiss to your temple before leaning back to study you. "Have you been getting up to any mischief?"

You huffed a quiet laugh. "None that I’ll admit to."

Daemon chuckled. "That’s my girl."

The last to step down from the carriage was Jace. The moment you saw him, you didn’t hesitate. You crossed the distance between you quickly, throwing your arms around him. He lifted you slightly off the ground in his embrace, laughing softly before setting you back down.

"You act as though it’s been years," he teased.

"Feels like it," you admitted, smiling up at him.

He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. "I trust you haven’t been driving everyone mad in my absence?"

You smirked. "Oh, only Baela."

Jace laughed, shaking his head before lowering his voice slightly. "And you've been behaving yourself?"

"Of course not," you quipped, a teasing glint in your eyes. "What fun would that be?"

Jace studied you for a moment before nodding, and you took a step closer, lowering your voice. "I missed you, truly."

His lips quirked in a knowing smirk. "Did you?"

Instead of answering, you brushed your fingers along the fabric of his sleeve, a fleeting touch before you leaned in just slightly. It was not the first time your lips had met, but here, in the open courtyard with so many eyes upon you, propriety kept you restrained. Instead, you let your fingers linger at his wrist before finally stepping back, your heart hammering. The look he gave you in return—dark, amused, and entirely too fond—told you he understood.

You stepped back just as Rhaenyra and Daemon approached, their presence commanding even in the familiar embrace of family. As the greetings settled, you felt a shift in the air, a murmuring beneath the surface.

Rhaena leaned toward you, lowering her voice. "Have you noticed?"

You followed her gaze, noting how Rhaenys had embraced Jace, Luke, Joffrey, and Rhaena warmly—but her demeanor toward the others remained reserved. Baela, while greeting everyone, had given Rhaenyra and Daemon only a brief side hug, her posture stiff.

The tension was not lost on you.

"The crowned princess returns to her family, yet not a single soul beyond blood stands to welcome her," Daemon murmured, the voice laced with amusement.

You turned your head slightly, taking in the sight before you. Only your family stood in attendance, their faces a mix of expectation and wariness. The absence of courtiers and retainers was glaring, the silence in the hall heavy with unspoken tension.

Rhaenyra’s gaze swept over the empty space beyond them, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Not even a pretense of courtesy," she remarked, her tone sharp with displeasure.

Daemon gave a quiet chuckle, though his eyes burned with something far less amused. "Let them sulk in their shadows," he muttered. "They forget who truly holds power here."

You said nothing, but you felt the weight of it all—the isolation, the statement made by absence alone. This was no mere oversight. It was a message.

As the family reunion settled, the courtyard slowly dispersed. Baela and Rhaena walked off together, their heads close as they whispered to each other. The younger children—Joffrey, Aegon the Younger, and Viserys—were ushered away by their wet nurses, while Rhaenyra and Daemon made their way toward the Great Hall to attend to matters of state.

That left you, Jace, and Luke standing idly in the courtyard. Jace stretched his arms over his head, a thoughtful expression crossing his face before he turned to you both. “I think I want to go to the training yard.”

Luke rolled his eyes but smirked. “Of course, you do.”

You chuckled as Jace grinned at you. “Come on, it’s been too long. Let’s go.”

The three of you made your way down the stone steps leading to the training yard. As you descended, Luke looked around, frowning slightly. “It’s smaller than I remember.”

Jace scoffed. “It’s exactly the same,” he said, already hurrying ahead, clearly eager to be back in the familiar space.

When you reached the yard, you found knights of the Kingsguard sparring, their white cloaks flashing as they moved. Various lords and ladies stood around the perimeter, watching the matches with interest. However, as soon as you, Jace, and Luke stepped onto the scene, a ripple of hushed murmurs passed through the crowd. The weight of their stares settled on you, subtle yet undeniable.

You knew why. You could see it in the way the lords and ladies glanced at Luke—assessing him, judging him. They all saw what he feared: his features bore no resemblance to the Valyrian blood he was supposed to claim. Jace, oblivious, strode forward, too caught up in his own excitement. But Luke’s shoulders stiffened under the scrutiny, his discomfort palpable.

Jace ran up to a familiar alcove in the stone wall, grinning as he gestured toward it. “Luke, remember this? You nearly took your head off trying to fit through here when you were younger.”

Luke managed a weak chuckle. “Yeah, I remember.”

You stepped closer, brushing your hand lightly against Luke’s arm in reassurance. “You were small enough to get halfway through before you got stuck,” you teased.

Jace laughed. “Father had to pull you out by your legs.”

The tension in Luke’s shoulders eased, if only slightly. You wandered further into the yard, pausing by the weapons rack. Jace absentmindedly picked up a training sword, testing its weight in his grip. He gave it a few swings before twirling it in a playful flourish, making you giggle.

Luke, however, remained distracted. His gaze flickered over the watching nobles before he finally muttered, “No one would question my claim to Driftmark if I looked more like Laenor Velaryon and less like Harwin Strong.”

Jace froze mid-motion, his playful demeanor vanishing instantly. With a sharp sigh, he set the sword down and turned to his younger brother. “It doesn’t matter what they think,” he said firmly, his jaw tight.

Before Luke could respond, a sudden commotion from the other end of the yard drew your attention. A group of knights and nobles gathered in a tight circle, murmuring excitedly as they watched a duel in progress. The sound of steel clashing against steel echoed through the space.

Curious, Jace grabbed your hand, pulling you along as you moved toward the crowd. Luke followed close behind. When you managed to squeeze through to the front, your breath caught in your throat.

Aemond Targaryen was in the middle of the yard, engaged in a fierce sparring match with Ser Criston Cole.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, a strange, unsteady rhythm. You had seen Aemond only days before, in the library, in a setting that had felt oddly intimate. Now, here he was, sword in hand, moving with precise, brutal efficiency. It felt… unnatural to see him and Jace in the same space, mere feet apart, as though something in the world had shifted and left everything misaligned.

Jace and Luke watched the fight unfold with wary expressions. At first, they had been mildly entertained, but when recognition settled in, their interest soured. Jace frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line, while Luke’s discomfort deepened.

Aemond was undeniably skilled, and it was clear to everyone that he held the upper hand. With a final calculated strike, he disarmed Ser Criston, sending the knight’s blade clattering to the ground. A wave of applause rose from the gathered spectators—except for Jace, Luke, and you. None of you clapped. Jace, in particular, looked livid.

Criston Cole, ever the loyal knight, stepped back and inclined his head. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time, my prince.”

Aemond barely spared him a glance. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys.”

Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, his gaze landed directly on you. His smirk was subtle, but it was there—a flicker of amusement, of something more than mere acknowledgment.

“Cousin,” he greeted smoothly.

The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. Before you could find a response, his eye flicked to Jace and Luke. Whatever humor had been in his expression vanished. “Nephews,” he said, his voice turning cold. “Have you come to train?”

Jace tensed at your side, his grip on your arm tightening possessively as he pulled you slightly closer. You could feel the anger rolling off him in waves, but before he could respond, the heavy doors to the yard creaked open.

Every head turned toward the entrance.

Vaemond Velaryon strode into the yard, his sharp gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd. The air seemed to shift, the atmosphere thick with something unspoken yet undeniable.

You turned to Luke instinctively. His face had gone pale, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He knew, just as you did, that Vaemond had come with only one purpose in mind—to see his succession challenge through.

Still holding onto Jace, you squeezed his arm lightly, grounding yourself in the moment. Vaemond’s gaze found you, and for a brief second, his lip curled in open disdain before he continued his path forward.

The unease in the yard was palpable. Whatever had just happened between Aemond and Jace was momentarily forgotten. The real battle had yet to begin.

The dim light of the chamber flickered as you rested against Jace, your head nestled on his shoulder, the quiet hum of the evening around you. His arm draped lazily around your waist, fingers threading through your hair in a slow, absent rhythm. You lay in silence for a while, the weight of the impending trial looming over you both, but it wasn’t until Jace spoke that the quiet was broken.

“Tomorrow,” he muttered, his voice low and edged with concern. “The trial. It will be a bloodbath.”

You shifted slightly, your eyes meeting his. “It will be no such thing,” you replied, your tone steady, though there was a trace of something sharp in your words. “Luke is the king’s blood. Denying him is to defy the crown itself. Even Vaemond could not be so reckless.”

Jace’s gaze darkened slightly, the worry still evident in the crease of his brow. “The politics are fickle. You know that better than anyone. Even those who have sworn loyalty to the king are not above ambition.”

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining with his as you gave him a firm but tender squeeze. “I would not worry, Jace. They will not risk this. The king has made his stance clear.” You tilted your head back slightly, your lips curling into a small but confident smile. “Besides, they would have to be mad to choose Vaemond over Luke.”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze softening as you continued to speak, but there was still a hint of unease in his eyes. “And yet... madness thrives in the halls of power.”

You snorted softly, the humor returning to your eyes. “Ah, and you, ever the cynic.” You tilted your head to the side, studying him with a bemused look. “You must relax, Jace. Your worry does not become you.”

Jace gave you a small, half-smile, though it lacked the warmth it usually carried. “I worry because I care. You must know that.”

The shift in the air was subtle, but it was there. Your smile softened into something more intimate, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you leaned closer. “You care too much sometimes,” you murmured, the playful edge to your voice still present, but now laced with something deeper. “But it is part of what I like about you.”

He watched you for a moment, the distance between you closing imperceptibly. “And what is it you like most?” His voice had dropped to a low murmur, and his fingers brushed lightly against the back of your neck, his touch sending a shiver down your spine.

You met his gaze, your breath shallow. “The way you look at me,” you said softly. “The way you make me feel... safe, even when the world feels like it’s about to fall apart.”

His lips curled into a smile that was equal parts affection and something more dangerous. “I would never let anything happen to you.”

Your faces inched closer, the space between you all but gone. The kiss was slow, deliberate, a promise in its tenderness. But when your lips finally met, it was a spark, a flash of fire that quickly grew, the kiss deepening, the quiet passion that had been simmering beneath the surface now igniting.

When you finally pulled apart, it was with effort, both of you breathing heavily, though neither one pulled away completely.

Jace’s hand found your jaw, his thumb grazing your lips as he spoke, his voice rough. “Will you dine with me tonight?”

You hesitated, your fingers idly tracing the line of his collarbone. “I cannot,” you said softly. “The Queen has invited rhaenys, I and Baela to dinner this evening. I must attend.”

The shift in Jace’s demeanor was immediate—his features tightened, his jaw setting in irritation. “The Queen? Why would she want your company?” His voice was tinged with a sharpness that surprised you.

You raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze with an unwavering calm. “It is nothing, Jace. The Queen extended the invitation yesterday. There is no harm in attending.”

He leaned forward, his gaze narrowing. “There is always harm when it comes to the Queen and her brood. Aemond will be there. And I do not like the way he looks at you.”

You felt your stomach tighten at the mention of Aemond, but you pressed on, your voice steady. “It is nothing, Jace. He is nothing to me.”

His hand tightened on your waist, his expression darkening. “I do not trust him. I’ve seen the way he watches you—his stare is more than simple curiosity.”

You moved to place your hand over his, your touch gentle but firm. “You worry too much, my prince. I can handle Aemond.” You smiled, your eyes softening as you tried to ease his tension. “Besides, the dinner will be dull, I’m sure. The Queen will drone on about the Faith of the Seven, and my attention will be elsewhere.”

Jace’s features softened slightly, but there was still a flicker of something dark in his gaze. “Still... I would rather you not go.”

You leaned in, pressing your lips against his in a brief but calming kiss. “I promise, I will be fine. But I must go. The Queen expects us.”

His fingers curled around yours as he kissed you once more, this time with more urgency. You could feel the weight of his emotions, his desire to keep you close. “Then go, but... come to me afterward. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whispered, pressing a final kiss to his lips before you began to rise, reluctant but resolute.

Jace’s hand reached for you again, pulling you back toward him, his lips claiming yours in a kiss that was fierce, desperate. “Stay with me tonight,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. “Don’t leave.”

You smiled against his lips, pulling away just slightly. “I can’t, Jace. I must keep my word.”

His hands slid down your waist, holding you there, unwilling to let go. “Promise me you’ll return.”

“I will,” you whispered, your voice steady. “I’ll come to you after dinner.”

With one last lingering kiss, you slowly began to pull away, slipping from his grasp with reluctance, but your promise still hanging in the air between you.

Jace watched you leave, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and something else—something he wouldn’t admit to, not even to himself.

The dining hall was illuminated by the warm glow of candlelight, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. You, Baela, and Rhaenys followed the knight through the corridors, your footsteps echoing against the stone floor. You adjusted the sleeves of your deep wine-colored gown, the intricate embroidery shimmering under the flickering torchlight. A delicate gold circlet rested atop your loose waves, your braided bangs pushed back to frame your face.

Rhaenys halted just before the doors to the Queen’s chambers and turned to the younger women with a stern expression. "I need you both to be on your best behavior. Whatever little feud you have going on ends now."

"Yes, ma'am," you both said in unison, though Baela shot you a pointed look, which you returned with equal intensity.

The doors opened, revealing Queen Alicent seated at the head of the long dining table, her children—Aegon and Helaena—positioned beside her. Otto Hightower sat at the opposite end, an empty chair next to Helaena. The three empty seats on the other side were clearly meant for Rhaenys, Baela, and you.

"Princess Rhaenys," the Queen greeted smoothly, her expression unreadable as she gestured toward the seats. "Princesses. Please, sit."

You inclined your head in greeting before taking your place. You found yourself at the very end, directly across from the empty seat. You noted the missing presence of Aemond but said nothing as polite conversation ensued. It didn't take long, however, for the discussion to shift toward politics.

Otto, ever the tactician, leaned forward. "The realm prospers when its stewards make choices that ensure stability, Princess Rhaenys. There is much to be considered in the coming trial—decisions that will shape the future of Driftmark and beyond."

Queen Alicent took a measured sip of her wine before speaking, her voice gentle yet firm. "We must think of what is best for the realm as a whole. The matter of succession is not just about one house or one claim—it is about order, about ensuring peace."

Rhaenys met her gaze with practiced neutrality. "Peace often depends on whose hand holds the scales."

You stiffened at your grandmother’s response. What was she playing at? The plan had always been to support Luke’s claim. Why was she being so noncommittal?

The doors opened again, and Aemond strode into the room. He carried himself with his usual composed elegance, but you caught the flicker of something in his gaze when he saw you. It wasn’t just recognition—it was something else, something that made your stomach tighten. He held your stare as he moved toward his seat, taking the empty chair across from you.

Jace’s voice echoed in your mind: I’ve seen the way he watches you—his stare is more than simple curiosity.

You were the first to look away, but not before you noticed Baela smirking at you. A moment later, Baela’s boot nudged you under the table. You shot her a glare, but Baela simply arched a brow as if to say, Don't even think about it.

Aegon, already on his second cup of wine, leaned back in his chair with a smirk. "Gods, I haven't seen you two since you were little girls. You've… grown."

Baela didn’t hesitate, tilting her head as she gave him a slow once-over. "And you’ve widened."

You nearly choked on your drink. Aegon’s smirk faltered for a moment before he let out a loud laugh. "Ah, still sharp-tongued, I see. I do love a woman with some bite."

"Then you must be quite lonely," Baela quipped, taking a sip of her wine.

Aegon barked out another laugh, clearly enjoying the verbal sparring, though his gaze flickered toward you. "And you, cousin? No sharp words for me?"

You smiled sweetly. "Oh, I have some. I'm just trying to be polite."

"Pity," he mused. "I do so love a challenge."

Aemond, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. "You speak as though our cousin isn’t already quite adept at holding her own."

You met his gaze, sensing the challenge in his tone. "It must be exhausting, having to constantly keep up with me."

Aemond's lips twitched in the barest hint of a smirk. "And yet, I manage."

Baela watched their exchange with raised brows but said nothing. Aegon, on the other hand, seemed amused by it all. "You know, cousin, you ought to be married by now."

You froze for only a fraction of a second before recovering. "And yet, here I am, blissfully unwed."

Aemond’s eye gleamed with something unreadable. "Curious. One would think a princess of your standing would have suitors lining up."

You tilted your head. "Perhaps I have standards."

Aegon snorted. "Or secrets."

Aemond leaned slightly forward, his gaze steady. "Or perhaps… you've been waiting for something."

You felt a prickle at the back of your neck. Only Baela knew the truth—that you and Jace were betrothed, a secret kept close to your hearts.

Queen Alicent spoke again, her gaze resting on you. "Marriage is a duty, one that ensures the strength of your house. Have you considered your prospects?"

You offered a polite smile. "Many have considered for me, Your Grace."

Aemond hummed in quiet amusement, though he said nothing further.

Helaena, oblivious to the tension, smiled sweetly. "Cousins, I’ve missed you. We should go to the gardens tomorrow. The children would love to see you again."

You softened. "I’d love that."

Helaena beamed, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics, but beneath it all, you couldn’t shake the feeling of Aemond’s gaze still lingering on you, nor the way his words seemed to weigh heavier than they should.

Dinner continued, the conversation flowing between politics and pleasantries until the candles burned low. As the evening stretched on, Rhaenys finally rose, signaling their departure. The princesses bid their farewells, stepping back into the dimly lit corridors.

Baela exhaled, stretching her arms. "Well, that wasn’t as bad as I thought."

You smirked. "It helps that you got to insult Aegon."

Baela laughed. "True. You should've seen his face. Gods, I think he actually took it as a compliment."

You chuckled before glancing down the hall. You took a step past your chambers.

Baela frowned. "Where are you going?"

You hesitated for only a moment before answering. "I promised Jace I’d see him after dinner."

Baela rolled her eyes but smiled. "Of course you did. Don’t be too long."

You slipped quietly into Jace’s chambers, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow over the room. A soft smile tugged at your lips as you spotted him hunched over a heavy tome, his brows furrowed in concentration. He was studying High Valyrian, tracing the delicate script with his fingertips, muttering the foreign words under his breath.

At first, he didn’t notice you, too lost in his attempts to master the language, but when the door clicked shut behind you, he looked up. The moment his eyes met yours, his expression softened, and a slow smile spread across his face.

"How is your studying going?" you asked, moving toward him, peeking over his shoulder at the book.

Jace sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. "I think I’m getting better," he admitted before attempting a phrase in High Valyrian.

You immediately giggled, shaking your head. "That was… not right at all."

Jace groaned, dropping his forehead onto the book dramatically. "I should have it by now. You and your sisters all speak it fluently, and I—" He exhaled heavily. "How am I supposed to be king one day if I can’t even master my own language?"

You placed a gentle hand on his arm, squeezing reassuringly. "Calm down, Jace. You’re stressing yourself out over nothing."

He turned his gaze toward you, frustration still evident in his expression.

"You have time," you assured him. "The king isn’t even dead yet. Your mother will reign before you, and by the time it’s your turn, we’ll be married, we’ll have children—" you paused, smiling softly. "It’s going to be a long time from now. You don’t have to rush."

Jace let out a breath, his features easing at your words. He reached for you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his lap. You let out a soft laugh, resting your hands on his shoulders as he buried his face into your neck, inhaling the familiar scent of you.

"You always know what to say," he murmured.

You smiled against his temple, pressing a light kiss there. "Of course I do."

Jace lifted his head slightly, his lips brushing against your jaw as he spoke. "How was dinner?"

You sighed, leaning into him. "Not as bad as I thought it would be."

Jace pulled back slightly, eyeing you warily. "That’s not exactly comforting."

You smirked. "Baela called Aegon wide."

Jace choked on a laugh, pulling back to look at you fully. "She what?"

"She told him he’d widened," you repeated, giggling at the memory.

Jace let out a loud laugh, shaking his head. "Gods, I wish I had seen that."

You continued talking, your conversation flowing effortlessly, filled with teasing, shared laughter, and quiet murmurs of affection. Time slipped by unnoticed as you enjoyed each other’s presence, the tension of the evening melting away.

Eventually, as the candles burned lower, you found yourselves tangled together on his bed, bodies pressed close in the dim candlelight.

You traced lazy patterns on Jace’s chest, your voice soft as you murmured, "It’s late. I should go."

Jace tightened his hold on you, shaking his head. "Stay."

You huffed a quiet laugh. "Jace, we can’t. We’re not on Dragonstone."

He lifted his head, arching a brow. "And?"

You grinned, propping yourself up on your elbow. "And if the maids walked in on us, you’d give them a heart attack."

Jace groaned dramatically, rolling onto his back and covering his face with his hands. "I don’t care. Let them faint."

You laughed, rolling on top of him, resting your chin on his chest. "Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, are you asking me to stay in your bed like I am some common maiden?"

Jace smirked, hands sliding up your back. "You’re anything but common, love."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart fluttered at his words. He cupped your face, thumb tracing over your cheek as he guided you down into a kiss.

It was slow, unhurried—sleepy and soft, yet laced with longing. His lips moved against yours with practiced ease, his hands tangling in your hair, keeping you close. You melted into him, fingers gripping at the fabric of his tunic as you deepened the kiss, tasting the remnants of spiced wine on his lips.

Jace sighed into your mouth, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you impossibly closer. The kiss grew messier, more desperate, your breaths mingling as your lips parted and met again and again, like neither of you ever wanted to stop.

You finally pulled away, your forehead resting against his, both of you breathing heavily. "Jace… I really should go."

He groaned in protest, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips. "Just stay. Just tonight."

You smiled against his mouth, placing one last kiss there before whispering, "I’ll see you tomorrow."

Jace sighed but let you go, watching as you slipped out of his arms, his gaze lingering as you disappeared into the dimly lit corridor.

You slip out of Jace’s chambers, your lips tingling, your heart still fluttering from the lingering kisses. A warmth spreads through you, a secret sort of happiness bubbling in your chest. The castle is quiet at this hour, the torches casting flickering shadows along the stone walls as you make your way back to your chambers. You move carefully, quietly—but undeniably content.

As you turn a corner, a voice cuts through the silence.

“What are you doing out so late?”

You freeze, your stomach twisting as you turn around slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. Standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, is Aemond.

He watches you with that unreadable expression of his, one eye sharp and piercing beneath the dim light.

“I—I was just getting some air,” you say quickly, forcing your voice to remain steady.

Aemond raises a brow. “Getting some air? This late?” He takes a slow step toward you. “Funny, I didn’t take you for a liar.”

You stiffen. “I’m not lying.”

Another step. “A shame, then. Because I know you are.”

Instinctively, you take a step back, but he continues advancing, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So, where were you really?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Aemond hums, tilting his head. “I’d say it is. After all, if someone were to find out that the princess was sneaking around at night, they might assume the worst.”

Your stomach tightens, anger flaring in your chest. “Are you accusing me of something?”

He’s close now, too close, and you find yourself backed against the cold stone wall. His presence is overwhelming, his smirk infuriating. “Not accusing,” he says, voice smooth, teasing. “Merely suggesting.”

Your hands clench at your sides. “This isn’t funny, Aemond. Move.”

He ignores you, his gaze flickering over your flushed face. “You don’t want people to start talking, do you?” His voice lowers. “What would your dear parents say?”

You swallow hard. “Are you threatening me?”

Aemond chuckles. “Threatening? No, of course not.” He leans in slightly. “I’m simply asking for something in return for my silence.”

Your body tenses. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “A kiss.”

You let out a breath of disbelief. “You’re joking.”

His smirk deepens. “I’m not.”

You laugh dryly. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

“Why not?” He challenges, his voice low and infuriatingly amused.

“Because it’s wrong. Because you can’t force me.”

Aemond clicks his tongue. “Of course not. But if you refuse, then I suppose we’ll have to go have a little chat with the queen, won’t we?”

Your stomach sinks. You can’t risk getting caught—not when the truth is something you can never reveal. You have to think of Jace.

He watches you intently, growing impatient. “You’re taking too long.”

You exhale sharply. “Fine.”

His eye darkens with something unreadable. “Fine?”

“A short kiss,” you clarify, glaring at him. “That’s it.”

Aemond merely nods. “As you wish.”

You expect it to be quick, nothing more than a fleeting peck. But the moment your lips meet, he takes control. One hand slides to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist as he presses against you, deepening the kiss. It isn’t gentle—it’s possessive, firm, consuming. It isn’t like Jace. Jace kisses you with love, with warmth. Aemond kisses you like he wants to own you, like he’s trying to pull you under his spell.

Your breath hitches, your mind warring with itself. You want to shove him away, but part of you—the part that loves the thrill of defiance, the rush of danger—hesitates. It’s wrong, but the heat of it makes your chest tighten.

Then suddenly, you come to your senses, pushing him off with a gasp. “That wasn’t the deal.”

Aemond licks his lips, a lazy smirk spreading across his face. “Didn’t seem like you minded.”

Your eyes blaze. “You’re insufferable.”

He chuckles, stepping back. “Run along now, princess. Wouldn’t want anyone catching you out here.”

You storm past him, your pulse pounding in your ears as you make your way back to your room. You shut the door behind you, pressing your back against the wood, your breath shaky.

“What the fuck just happened?” you whisper to yourself.

Your fingers brush against your lips, the ghost of his kiss still there, unwanted yet lingering.

You felt a genuine bounce in your step as you approached, your good mood from the bright morning still intact. The studio felt alive with purpose, and the anticipation in the air seemed to fuel your excitement for what lay ahead.

“Good morning, Dr. Gaul!” You greeted cheerfully, offering the older woman a bright smile as she walked up.

Dr. Gaul’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “Ah, my little dove. Radiant as the morning sun, I see. Excited for the big day, are we?”

“Of course,” You replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “It’s the Hunger Games. How could I not be? Besides, it’s too nice a morning to feel anything but good.”

Dr. Gaul raised an eyebrow, her gaze steady as always. “Quite the positive outlook. I wonder if that will persist after you see this.”

With a deliberate motion, Dr. Gaul turned to a nearby console and tapped a few commands. The monitor flickered to life, displaying footage from the previous night. The moment on the screen showed Coriolanus Snow and Lucy Gray Baird locked in a tender kiss, the camera capturing every tear, every brush of their lips, every stolen glance.

You blinked, your good mood faltering slightly, though you didn’t let it show on your face. Instead, You tilted your head curiously. “Romantic,” you said lightly, though your tone carried a tinge of sarcasm. “Classic Capitol entertainment. I’m sure the audience will be glued to their screens.”

Dr. Gaul studied you carefully, her expression unreadable. “Fascinating, isn’t it? A kiss in the midst of chaos. Makes one wonder about motives. Does he care for her, or is it merely strategy?”

You shrugged, your bright demeanor giving way to a touch of indifference. “Coriolanus doesn’t care about anyone but himself,” you said with a smirk. “Whatever he’s doing, it’s calculated. Maybe he thinks it’ll win her more sponsors. Not that it matters—she’s not going to survive long enough to make use of them.”

Dr. Gaul chuckled softly, the sound low and thoughtful. “Pragmatic, as always. You’ve mastered the art of detachment, haven’t you, dove?”

You smiled, but there was an edge to it now. “It’s not detachment. It’s reality. Emotions are distractions. Calculations keep you alive.” you glanced back at the monitor, your smirk widening slightly. “And if I wanted to watch something sappy, I’d turn on a Capitol soap opera.”

Before Dr. Gaul could respond, hurried footsteps interrupted them. Doolittle, one of the lab assistants, appeared in the doorway, looking flustered.

“Dr. Gaul,” he said, catching his breath. “There’s been an incident. The boy from District 5—he passed away during the night. Complications from asthma, I think. The vet couldn’t save him.”

You frowned slightly, but only because the name of the boy escaped your. You couldn’t even recall which of your classmates had been assigned to mentor him. Another casualty, another name crossed off the list.

Dr. Gaul nodded curtly, her expression calm and collected. “Noted. Inform the team to prepare the necessary adjustments to the roster.”

Doolittle hesitated before nodding and disappearing down the hall.

You reached into your bag and pulled out the mentor list, flipping through the pages as you made the update. District 5’s boy was crossed out with a firm stroke, and your pen moved quickly to account for other losses: Districts 1 and 2 had lost both contestants, District 6 was wiped out, and Districts 9 and 10 had suffered significant losses as well. Your pen hovered over the name Arachne Crane, the sight of it sending a chill down your spine.

Shaking off the feeling, you snapped the notebook shut and looked up at Dr. Gaul, who was watching you with quiet intensity.

“Efficient as always,” Dr. Gaul said with a faint smile. “You’re quick to adapt. Admirable, if not a touch ruthless.”

You met her gaze evenly, your bright mood dimmed but your determination steady. “You’ve always said there’s no room for sentimentality in survival. I’m just following the lesson.”

Dr. Gaul’s smile widened, but there was something unreadable in her expression. “Indeed. You learn well, Lil’ Dub. Let’s hope it serves you as well as you believe it does.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving you to wonder how much of the morning had been orchestrated just to test you—and whether or not you’d passed.

You stood behind the monitors, arms crossed as you watched the pre-show unfold. The set—a mishmash of Capitol opulence and quick fixes—boasted a few ornate living room chairs, a coffee table with a gaudy golden trim, and a chandelier that hung slightly askew. It was all a little too much, even for the Capitol.

The mentors in attendance, the seven who had been interviewed on the first night, were now the designated faces of the Games. It didn’t matter that some of their tributes were clear long shots—this was the Capitol, and appearances mattered more than outcomes.

One by one, the mentors played their roles, rehashing their tributes’ backstories and exaggerating whatever dangerous or intriguing qualities they could muster. You leaned against the edge of the console, half-listening as the spectacle unfolded.

Then came Coriolanus Snow.

He didn’t talk about strategy, or really much about the Games at all. Instead, he droned on about the Covey—who they were, their musical traditions, their nomadic history. He emphasized that Lucy Gray wasn’t really a "district person." The Covey were travelers, artists, outliers who just happened to be caught in District 12’s web.

You raised an eyebrow, your lips twitching into a faint, incredulous smile. “Not really District, huh?” you muttered under your breath.

Beside you, Livia Cardew gave a sharp scoff, tossing her perfectly styled hair over her shoulder. “Can you believe that?” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “He’s comparing her to us. Like, are we just pretending the districts are remotely on our level now?”

You smirked, turning slightly toward Livia. “Seriously. It’s laughable. Just because she can carry a tune doesn’t make her Capitol material. She’s still from the Seam, no matter how much he tries to spin it.”

Livia nodded vehemently. “Exactly! I don’t care how ‘artsy’ the Covey are. They’re still eating rats and living in shacks. And now we’re supposed to buy that Lucy Gray is some kind of... what, Capitol-caliber performer?” She wrinkled her nose. “Please. Even the worst singer here could outshine her in their sleep.”

You chuckled softly, but your gaze remained fixed on the screen. “It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it? He’s clinging to this idea that she’s ‘different,’ like it’ll make people forget where she’s really from.”

Livia rolled her eyes. “It’s desperate. Honestly, the districts will never compare to us. They’re farmers, miners, and factory workers. We’re innovators, creators, the elite. They exist to serve us, not to stand next to us.”

Your smirk faltered slightly as your mind wandered. You couldn’t deny that there had been a shift among your classmates in the weeks since the reaping. Some of them had started seeing the tributes—especially the stronger or more clever ones—in a new light. An appreciative light, even.

It baffled you. Respect for people who would stab you in the back the first chance they got? You couldn’t wrap your mind around it.

“It’s essential to know your enemy,” you murmured absently, more to yourself than to Livia.

“What was that?” Livia asked, arching a perfectly sculpted brow.

You shook your head, your tone sharpening. “I said, it’s essential to know your enemy. The mentors who’ve been cozying up to their tributes are fooling themselves. They think working together will make them stronger.”

Livia snorted. “Sure, until they realize they’re training someone who’s going to kill them in the arena.”

“Exactly,” you replied. Your eyes flicked back to the screen, where Dean Highbottom and Lucky Flickerman continued their commentary. The Capitol had won the war against the districts, but it had been a long and bloody fight. To underestimate the districts now would be foolish.

Still, you couldn’t help but feel annoyed by Coriolanus’s performance. Lucy Gray wasn’t some mysterious, artistic anomaly. She was a girl from District 12, and no amount of Capitol spin could change that.

The ride back to the Academy was uncomfortably silent. You sat across from Felix and Dean Highbottom, the tension in the air thick enough to cut. Felix, ever the diplomat, tried to bridge the gap between you and the dean with casual conversation, but it was like throwing pebbles at a brick wall. Highbottom ignored you completely, his attention fixed somewhere over your shoulder, like you didn’t exist.

Not that you cared. You had long since stopped bothering with people who couldn’t stand you—Dean Highbottom included. You weren’t sure what his problem was. Maybe it was because you were Dr. Gaul’s protégé, and he hated Gaul on principle. Or maybe it was something else, something older, something you couldn’t put your finger on. Either way, it didn’t matter. You didn’t need his approval.

Still, you couldn’t help but notice the way his lips twisted into a frown when he glanced at Felix’s hand resting on yours.

Your thoughts wandered as the car rolled through the streets. Coriolanus’s voice lingered in your head, his words from earlier about the districts gnawing at you. On the surface, they might have sounded sympathetic, even admiring, but you knew better. He wasn’t trying to uplift them. He was trying to justify his own feelings for Lucy Gray—feelings he clearly didn’t know how to handle. The idea of being in love with a district girl had to be eating him alive.

If you could even call it love, you thought bitterly. Coriolanus didn’t care about anyone but himself.

Your mind flickered to Sejanus. Sweet, earnest Sejanus, who, despite everything, still managed to believe in equality between the Capitol and the districts. You admired him for it, even if you thought he was a little naïve. Sometimes, it seemed like he didn’t fully grasp the opportunities he’d been given, the privileges that set him apart.

The car came to a stop outside the Academy. You climbed out, relieved to stretch your legs. Felix stuck close, his hand brushing yours, but Dean Highbottom lingered a few steps behind, his slouch exaggerated by exhaustion or whatever drug he’d taken last.

As you walked through the marble halls, Felix was momentarily pulled aside by a camera crew, leaving you alone with the dean. You were about to keep walking when you felt his bony hand grip your arm.

“You know that friend of yours? The emotional one,” Highbottom slurred, his voice low. “Sejanus, is it?”

You tensed but kept your expression neutral. “What about him?”

The dean gave you a hollow smile. “You might want to find him a seat near the door.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” you asked, but your question was met with silence. Highbottom had already ducked behind a nearby pillar, pulling a small bottle from his coat. You watched in muted disbelief as he tilted it back and dosed himself with morphling drops.

Your brow furrowed. “Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath. Whatever nonsense he was spewing wasn’t worth the effort. The man was always drugged up; it wasn’t like anything he said could be trusted.

You turned to leave but stopped short at the sound of a commotion down the hall.

Listeria, as always, was mid-tirade. “Honestly, Coriolanus, you could work with me a little! Jessup keeps calling Lucy Gray his ally—I have no idea what that was! Your pitch really threw me off!”

“I didn’t mean to trip you up,” Coriolanus said, his voice clipped and tired. “If we get another chance, I’ll work in the team angle.”

“That’s a big if,” Listeria snapped, throwing up her hands.

You pressed your lips into a tight line, doing your best to sidestep the brewing chaos in the hall. Listeria was in one of her infamous moods, barking at Coriolanus, who, to his credit, seemed to be doing a decent job of pacifying her. You, however, wanted no part of it.

You were just about to slip past unnoticed when Cetera swooped in, her silvery gown swishing dramatically. “What a clever interview, my dear!” she trilled, addressing Coriolanus. “I half believe your girl was Capitol-born myself.”

You froze, your attempt to escape thwarted when Cetera’s sharp eyes landed on you.

“Oh, dear,” Cetera said with exaggerated sweetness, turning her attention to you. “Don’t you think it was such a cute idea, what Coriolanus was saying about his tribute? So charming, don’t you think?”

You blinked, then sighed through your nose. “Charming,” you repeated flatly, your tone dripping with disinterest. “Sure. If you’re into that sort of thing.”

Cetera didn’t seem fazed by your lack of enthusiasm. Instead, she clapped her hands together. “Well, I must get Listeria to finish her preparations. These Games won’t host themselves!” She grabbed Listeria’s arm and began to usher her down the hall.

You turned on your heel, ready to make your escape, but Cetera glanced back with a pointed smile. “Do stay and chat, dear. I’m sure you and Coriolanus have so much to discuss.”

The moment Cetera and Listeria were out of earshot, you sighed and turned to leave.

“Running off already?” Coriolanus drawled.

You stopped mid-step and glanced over your shoulder, arching a brow. “What? Did you need me to pat you on the back for your little performance, Snow?”

His lips twitched into a humorless smile. “I wasn’t aware you were paying attention. You seemed too busy clinging to Felix all night.”

You bristled but didn’t let it show. Instead, you turned fully to face him, your arms crossed. “It’s called having a life, Coriolanus. You should try it sometime. Though I suppose you’ve been too busy playing up this tragic romance angle with your little district girl to notice.”

His expression hardened. “Careful. Not everyone’s lucky enough to flaunt a Capitol boy like a trophy.”

Your eyes narrowed, but your voice remained cool. “You’re one to talk. I saw that kiss, by the way. Very moving. Almost made me believe you actually cared.” You tilted your head, your smile sharp and cutting. “Almost.”

Coriolanus’s jaw tightened. “And you would know all about pretending, wouldn’t you? Walking around here like you’re untouchable. Hanging off Felix’s arm like—”

“Careful,” you cut in, your voice dropping a notch. Your gaze was steady, daring him to continue. “Say what you’re really thinking, Snow. I’d love to hear it.”

He hesitated, the tension between you palpable. Finally, he took a step closer, his voice low and biting. “At least I’m doing what I need to survive. What’s your excuse?”

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you smiled, cold and detached. “My excuse? I don’t need one. Unlike you, I’m not desperate for approval—or validation.” You glanced toward the hall where Lucy Gray had disappeared earlier. “But hey, good luck convincing everyone you’re the noble hero. I’m sure that kiss will go down in Capitol history.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked away, leaving Coriolanus standing there, his fists clenched and his expression stormy.

You stood at the Game Maker’s table, directing the last-minute preparations with a sharp eye. Bright yellow mentor badges gleamed in the afternoon light, neatly arranged on the table alongside the sleek communication cuffs meant for those whose tributes still had a fighting chance. The cuffs blinked softly, their small screens displaying red sponsor tallies. It was odd, handling such rare pieces of tech. These days, even simple devices were scarce, a harsh reminder of how much the war had taken.

“Hey, beautiful,” Felix’s voice broke your concentration, and you glanced up to see him leaning on the edge of the table, that ever-present flirty smile lighting up his face.

“You’re late,” you said, though the corner of your mouth quirked in amusement.

“Fashionably so,” he replied, grabbing one of the badges and looping it around his neck. “Yellow’s not really my color, though. Think it clashes with my eyes?”

“Not much I can do about that,” you said dryly, handing him a cuff. “You’re stuck with it.”

Felix took the cuff, buckling it onto his wrist as he glanced at the blinking screen. “So, let me guess. My girl’s gift queue is... empty?”

You smiled wryly, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“Doubt it,” he muttered. “Let’s be honest, everyone knows my tribute’s not making it through the night. I’m just hoping it’s quick so I can get back to you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you like me anyway,” he teased, leaning in and planting a quick kiss on your cheek.

“Good luck, Felix,” you said softly, your tone more sincere now.

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” he replied, straightening up. “See you later, gorgeous.”

With a wink, Felix walked off, leaving you to finish distributing the supplies.

By the time you were done, the entire school had assembled. You made your way to your station near the Game Maker seats, settling into the delightfully plush chair as the mentors filed into their designated section. The massive screen at the front of the hall flickered to life, and Lucky Flickerman appeared, his bright smile gleaming as he launched into a whirlwind tour of the districts.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as he peppered his narration with cheap magic tricks. When his hair stood on end during a spiel about District 5, you nearly groaned aloud.

“Electrifying!” Lucky exclaimed, wiggling his fingers dramatically.

You groaned and shook your head.

The sound of footsteps approaching pulled your attention. You turned and froze as Clemencia came into view.

The girl looked terrible. The vibrant yellow of her eyes had dulled to a pale, sickly hue, and her once-flawless skin was marred by dry, scaly patches. A high-collared white blouse did little to hide the strange, rough texture creeping up her neck. Clemencia’s tongue flicked at her cheek as though it had a mind of its own, and she absentmindedly picked at bits of flaking skin, flicking them onto the floor.

“Clemencia,” you said cautiously. “Are you... feeling okay?”

Clemencia didn’t answer right away, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for something—or someone. When your gazes finally met, you felt a shiver run down your spine.

“You’ve been busy,” Clemencia said flatly, her voice dry and distant.

“Yeah, it’s a lot to manage,” you replied carefully, trying to mask the unease creeping into your chest. “Everything ready for the Games?”

Clemencia’s lips twisted into something that might’ve been a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Ready as it’ll ever be. I suppose you’d know all about being prepared, wouldn’t you?”

You frowned, unsure if it was a dig or just Clemencia’s strange mood. “I guess. Is there something you need? Your communication cuff is still at the table.”

Clemencia waved a hand dismissively. “No. I’m fine. Just fine.”

Her tongue flicked at her cheek again, and your stomach turned. Clemencia was acting... off. Really off.

“You sure you’re okay?” you asked, keeping your tone neutral even as your concern grew.

Clemencia’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you thought she might snap at you. But then she stepped back, flicking another bit of skin to the floor. “Never better,” she said, her tone flat and almost robotic. “Enjoy the show.”

Without another word, Clemencia turned and walked off, her movements slightly unsteady.

You watched her go, unease gnawing at your gut. Something was wrong—very wrong. Clemencia wasn’t just sick; she was changing.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, tearing your eyes away from Clemencia’s retreating figure. You couldn’t afford distractions, not with the Games about to start. Still, the image of Clemencia’s sickly, snake-like demeanor lingered in your mind, refusing to be ignored.

The hall buzzed with anticipation as everyone scrambled to their seats. You adjusted your mentor badge, settling into the plush chair that felt absurdly comfortable given the gravity of what was about to happen. You glanced over at Felix, who gave you a quick wink before turning his attention to the screen.

The Capitol seal flashed across the massive screens, silencing the crowd as the national anthem began to play. Everyone rose to their feet.

Coriolanus, standing a few rows ahead of you, sang loudly, his voice cutting through the half-hearted murmurs of the other mentors. You didn’t even bother. You rolled your eyes at his obvious attempt to stand out—he could never resist an opportunity to make himself the center of attention.

When the anthem finally ended, Lucky Flickerman reappeared on the screen, his arms outstretched in his signature dramatic fashion. His palms still bore faint streaks of candy residue from his earlier magic tricks, a detail that would’ve made you laugh if the situation weren’t so grim.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lucky declared, his voice booming through the hall, “let the Tenth Hunger Games begin!”

The screen shifted to a wide shot of the arena, its interior stark and brutal. The fourteen remaining tributes stood in a circle, their faces pale as they awaited the opening gong. The arena itself was a grim sight, still littered with the wreckage from the recent rebel bombing. Shattered structures and scorched earth dominated the landscape. The flag of Panem flapped proudly in the stands, a symbol of defiance.

You allowed yourself a small, prideful smile. The flag had been your suggestion, a subtle message that the Capitol would not be shaken by rebellion. Dr. Golan had praised you for it, and the thought brought you a flicker of satisfaction.

But that satisfaction evaporated as the camera zoomed in on something you hadn’t been briefed about. Two steel poles, twenty feet high and joined by a crossbeam, came into view.

You squinted, trying to make sense of the scene. Then you saw him.

Marcus, the boy from District 2, hung limply from manacles, his body battered and broken. At first, you thought he was dead—his face was so swollen and bloody it was unrecognizable. But then his cracked, swollen lips moved slightly, revealing broken teeth. He was alive.

Your stomach churned, and you fought the urge to look away. It would’ve been horrifying to see any living thing displayed like this—a dog, a cat, a rat—but this was a boy. A child. His only crime had been running for his life.

The hall grew eerily silent, the party-like atmosphere of Heavensbee Hall evaporating in an instant.

You remembered the funeral parades. The grotesque display of Arachne’s murderer, Brandy, dangling from a hook. Even the tributes being dragged through the streets seemed merciful compared to this. The Hunger Games had always been twisted, but at least they pretended the Capitol’s hands were clean. This... this was something else.

Your gaze flicked to Janus, sitting a few seats away. He was shaking with rage, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrest of his chair. You wanted to reach out to him, to offer some small comfort, but you hesitated. What could you even say?

Across the room, sweet Sejanus suddenly sprang to his feet. Without warning, he grabbed one of the empty mentor chairs at the front of the section—one reserved for the classmates who were no longer with them—and hurled it toward the screen.

The chair crashed into the image of Marcus’s mangled face, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the hall.

“Monsters!” Sejanus screamed, his voice raw with emotion. “You’re all monsters!”

He bolted down the aisle and out of the main entrance, leaving the hall in stunned silence. No one moved to stop him.

Your heart pounded as you looked around, half expecting someone—anyone—to do something. But the mentors, the Game Makers, and the Capitol elites all sat frozen, too shocked or too apathetic to act.

You moved through the room with purpose, weaving past clusters of mentors who barely spared you a glance. Some were animated, gesturing wildly as they argued over their tributes' chances. Others were hunched over screens, their faces illuminated by the glow of betting odds and performance recaps.

Dr. Gaul was exactly where you expected her to be—stationed at her corner of the lab, her sharp eyes fixed on the array of screens in front of her. She wasn’t typing, just observing, her hands clasped behind her back as if she were waiting for something—or someone.

“Dr. Gaul,” you greeted as you approached, keeping your tone polite but confident.

She turned her head slightly, her piercing gaze landing on you with a faint, calculating smile. “Ah, there you are,” she said, her voice smooth yet laced with something that always felt like a challenge. “I wondered how long it would take you to come over. Come, stand here.”

You stepped beside her, glancing at the screens. Lucy Gray’s name flashed prominently on one, her performance stats and betting odds outpacing everyone else’s. Another screen showed Tanner and Drusus, the supposed frontrunners for victory, though their numbers paled in comparison to Lucy’s gift tally.

“What do you make of this?” Dr. Gaul asked, gesturing to the data. Her tone was casual, but there was a sharpness beneath it, like she was testing you. “I assume you’ve had time to reflect on last night’s performances. Let’s hear it.”

You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Lucy Gray and her mentor,” you began, deliberately avoiding their names, “played the audience like a finely tuned instrument. They gave them exactly what they wanted—a spectacle. A story.”

Dr. Gaul arched an eyebrow, her smile growing faintly. “A spectacle, you say. And is that what you believe wins Games? Stories?”

You tilted your head, keeping your expression neutral. “Stories might win hearts, but strategy wins wars. Spectacles fade when the real challenges begin. Lucy Gray may have charmed the Capitol, but charm only takes you so far when you’re out of food and the arena turns deadly.”

Dr. Gaul chuckled softly, her amusement clear. “Hmm. An interesting perspective. Careful phrasing, too.” She glanced at you out of the corner of her eye, her smirk almost conspiratorial. “Though I can’t help but notice your words carry a certain... edge.”

You met her gaze evenly. “Just an observation, Doctor.”

“Of course,” she said, clearly enjoying your restraint. She turned back to the screen, her fingers tapping lightly against the desk. “Still, you’re not wrong. Spectacle can be fleeting. But don’t underestimate its power—especially when it’s wielded by someone who knows how to use it.”

“Noted,” you replied simply, though the weight of her words lingered.

The lab’s buzzing conversations softened slightly but didn’t stop as Dr. Gaul stepped forward and raised a hand for attention. She was the kind of person who didn’t need silence to command a room. Her voice cut through the chatter like a knife—smooth and deliberate.

“Look at all these people,” she began, gesturing to the monitors showing the betting data. The gift tallies for Lucy Gray were still climbing. “Sending bread to a slip of a girl with a broken heart, even though they don’t truly believe she can win. What’s the lesson here? At the dog fights, I’ve seen people back mutts they can barely stand. And yet…” She smiled faintly. “Here we are.”

Festus grinned and piped up, “People love a long shot.”

“People love a good love song, more like,” added Persephone, flashing her dimples as she leaned back in her chair.

“People are fools,” Livia sneered, not even looking up from her tablet. “She doesn’t stand a chance.”

Festus, never one to let an opportunity pass, batted his eyelashes dramatically at Livia and made exaggerated kissing sounds. “Ah, but fools love romance, don’t they?”

Dr. Gaul let their comments hang for a moment, her gaze sweeping the room. “Yes,” she said finally, her tone pointed. “Romantic notions, idealistic notions, can be very attractive. But they can also be dangerous.” Her eyes gleamed as she added, “Which brings us neatly to your essays. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Rather than collect the essays, Dr. Gaul instructed the students to read excerpts aloud, making her way around the room as they presented their thoughts. You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, listening with a detached expression as your classmates eagerly shared their ideas.

One girl spoke about the courage of soldiers, her voice trembling with admiration. A boy waxed poetic about the nobility of defending the Capitol, his words dripping with sentimentality. Another student described the unbreakable bonds forged in battle, comparing them to familial love. You couldn’t hide your disdain.

Romanticized nonsense, you thought. Courage and camaraderie weren’t virtues—they were often necessities, born out of desperation. Courage was the result of someone else’s failure to plan. And as for nobility? That was just a polished veneer to justify the ugliness underneath.

When it was Coriolanus’s turn, you rolled your eyes before he even began. He told a story about a turkey the government had sent his family after his father died—a pathetic consolation prize wrapped up as generosity.

“It was touching,” Livia said, her voice soft with feigned emotion.

Your eyes rolled harder this time, your lips twitching in annoyance. Everyone lost something during the war. Everyone got the same lifeless basket of condolences. Your family had received one after your father died—a gift basket that couldn’t come close to replacing what you had lost.

Finally, it was Sejanus’s turn. He had been quiet the entire class, scribbling on his paper and keeping to himself. When he stood to read, his voice was steady, though his words immediately sparked tension.

“The only thing I loved about the war,” Sejanus began, “was the fact that I still lived at home. If you’re asking me if it had any value beyond that, I would say it was an opportunity to right some wrongs.”

“And did it?” Dr. Gaul asked, her voice curious, almost playful.

Sejanus flipped his paper over and looked her straight in the eye. “Not at all. Things in the districts are worse than ever.”

The room erupted.

“How dare you?” Livia snapped.

"Go back to Two then!" another voice shouted from across the room.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms as you observed the chaos. Your thoughts, however, lingered on Sejanus. That mouth of yours is going to get you killed one day, you mused, though part of you couldn’t help but admire his nerve.

You didn’t entirely disagree with him, but the sting of his words burned nonetheless. A war, no matter how destructive, took two sides to start. And as much as you hated to admit it, it was a war that the rebels had initiated—a war that had left you fatherless. Your jaw tightened at the thought.

But Sejanus wasn’t done. He ignored the uproar, his expression steady and unreadable as he turned his attention back to Dr. Gaul.

“May I ask,” he said, his voice clear and deliberate, “what you loved about the war, Dr. Gaul?”

The room fell into an uneasy silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Every pair of eyes darted to Dr. Gaul, waiting to see how she’d respond.

Dr. Gaul didn’t rush. She studied Sejanus for a long moment, her head tilting slightly as if trying to decide whether his question was bold or foolish—or perhaps both. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face, sharp and unsettling.

“I loved how it proved me right,” she said, her voice calm but carrying an edge that sent a chill through the room.

As soon as Dr. Gaul’s unsettling words echoed into silence, Dean Highbottom announced the lunch break, his tone as apathetic as ever. You exhaled sharply, glad for the chance to escape the suffocating tension of the lab. You spotted Felix waiting near the door, his easy grin softening your nerves. He raised an eyebrow in silent question, and you nodded, walking over to join him.

As the group settled at the table, Felix draped his arm casually around your shoulders, his touch warm and familiar. You leaned into him slightly, enjoying the easy closeness despite the noise of the courtyard.

Festus was mid-rant about his tribute. “I’m telling you, my Coral could outlast half the boys if she can just avoid the bloodbath. She’s got grit.”

“The trouble with girls,” Hilarius started, his tone obnoxious, “is that they’re not wired for this like boys are. They just don’t have the fight in them.”

Livia, who had been scrolling through updates on her notebook, snapped her attention to Hilarius. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say. My tribute’s a boy, and by the looks of it, he won’t even make it to the first night. Gender has nothing to do with it.”

“Fine,” Hilarius said with a dismissive wave. “But let’s not pretend this isn’t harder for the girls.”

Felix snorted. “Maybe Lucy Gray didn’t get that memo, because she’s got more sponsors than anyone. And she didn’t even do anything impressive.”

That made your teeth clench. “She’s a performer,” you said coolly. “She plays the crowd with her songs and her sad, doe-eyed act. It’s not strength. It’s theatrics.”

Festus raised an eyebrow. “She’s playing the game. Isn’t that the whole point?”

“She’s got Coriolanus pulling all the strings for her,” you said, your voice sharp. “I wouldn’t call that playing the game. I’d call that luck.”

Felix smirked. “Can’t argue with that. He did land the strongest tribute. I wonder why my father didn’t give me a better pick. You’d think being the President’s son would have some perks.”

You glanced up at him, your brow furrowing. You had been wondering the same thing. “Maybe he didn’t want it to seem like you were getting special treatment. Or maybe he wanted you to prove yourself without his help.”

“Great,” Felix said, rolling his eyes. “And here I am, stuck with someone who can’t even cough without looking like she’s dying. Not exactly set up for success, am I?”

Hilarius grinned, clearly enjoying Felix’s predicament. “At least you don’t have to do this, huh? You’re lucky. Oh wait—how could I forget? You’re a year younger than us. Didn’t even get a chance to mentor.”

You tilted your head and smirked. “Yeah, I’m really missing out on all the fun.” You paused, then added with mock seriousness, “Though Doctor Gaul has been keeping me busy. I’m helping with the Game Making process this year.”

Felix turned to you, his expression softening. “That’s because you’re brilliant. They’d be fools not to have you.” He leaned down and kissed your cheek, making your cheeks warm despite yourself.

Hilarius groaned, grabbing a piece of his bread roll and chucking it at Felix. “Get a room, you two.”

“Jealous, Hilarius?” Felix laughed.

“Not even remotely,” Hilarius shot back, though he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

The group dissolved into laughter, the brief moment of lightheartedness cutting through the heaviness of the Games. But even as you laughed, your mind lingered on Coriolanus and Lucy Gray—and the nagging feeling that they were playing a game you hadn’t quite figured out yet.

After lunch, you joined the other mentors as they made their way to the Capitol News Station, where they would be introduced to the behind-the-scenes machinery of the Hunger Games. The building, while modern and clean, lacked the grandeur you had expected. The game makers operated out of a series of cramped offices, and though the control room assigned to them was adequate, it felt underwhelming for an event of such significance. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. You had envisioned something far more impressive.

Still, the buzz of activity and the promise of new elements for this year’s Games lifted your spirits. Walking alongside Felix, you chatted animatedly about the mentor commentary and the introduction of sponsor participation. After all, how could you not be excited? This was the first Games you were officially involved in—your first chance to prove yourself as one of the youngest game makers to ever contribute.

“This is it,” you said, leading Felix toward your designated workstation. “My little corner of history in the making.”

The booth you’d been assigned was alive with motion, your fellow game makers fine-tuning the equipment. Remote-operated cameras, relics from the days of sports arenas, were being tested for their ability to track and capture the tributes in action. Nearby, half a dozen others experimented with toy-like drones, their sleek designs tailored to deliver sponsor gifts. The drones were programmed with facial recognition technology and could carry only one item at a time.

Felix raised an eyebrow as one zipped by. “They’re cute, but I wouldn’t trust them to deliver my coffee,” he quipped.

You grinned. “They’re smarter than they look. Give them a chance—they’re better at their job than some of the people here.”

You moved toward a row of monitors, where Lucky Flickerman, the flamboyant host of this year’s Games, was reviewing the schedule with a group of Capitol news reporters. You caught sight of Coriolanus Snow, standing off to the side with a smug grin as his interview time, slotted for 8:15 the next morning, flashed across the screen.

“Well, well,” Lucky said, glancing at Snow with a grin that was anything but kind. “We wanted to make sure to get you in bright and early, you know—before your girl bites it.”

You let out a soft giggle at the jab, but it was short-lived as Snow’s eyes snapped toward you with a piercing glare. You met his look head-on, your grin unwavering, which only seemed to deepen his scowl.

“Didn’t know you were on such friendly terms with Lucky,” Felix murmured, smirking as he leaned closer to you.

“He’s got a point,” you replied, your tone light but edged with amusement.

The rest of the afternoon flew by as you guided Felix through your workstation, explaining the intricacies of the equipment. You pointed out which ideas were yours and which were someone else’s, always with the playful caveat: “Mine are the best, obviously.”

Felix chuckled at your confidence, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you. “You’re really in your element here, aren’t you?”

“I am,” you admitted, your voice softening for a moment. “It’s just… I’ve worked so hard on this, you know? And tomorrow, it’s all going to start—and then it’ll be over, just like that. All this effort, and it’ll be nothing more than entertainment for these people.”

Felix tilted his head, studying you. “It’s not nothing. You’re making your mark. No one can take that from you.”

You smiled at him, grateful for his words even if they didn’t completely soothe your apprehension. As the day wound down and the game makers began wrapping up, you and Felix stepped outside together.

“It’s not far from here,” you said, nodding toward your house.

“Then I’ll walk you home,” Felix replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

As you and Felix approached your house, the golden hues of the sunset painted the street in soft light. His hand rested securely on the small of your back, fingers brushing your waist every so often, as if he couldn’t bear to lose contact.

“You’re going to be brilliant tomorrow,” Felix said with a warm smile, his voice a low, steady reassurance.

You let out a soft laugh, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “It’s just my first time working on the Games. They don’t exactly trust me with anything life-changing.”

“Are you kidding?” he said, stopping just a few steps away from your front door. “You’re already leagues ahead of everyone else. You’ve got more brains and ideas than the rest of us combined. If anything, I think they’re lucky to have you.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, though his words warmed you more than you cared to admit. “Flattery gets you everywhere, Felix.”

He smirked, leaning in slightly. “Good. Because I mean every word of it.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, good luck tomorrow with your tribute. Hopefully, she can keep herself alive long enough for you to get a few sponsors.”

Felix sighed dramatically, his hand dropping to yours and squeezing it. “You’re so supportive. Truly heartwarming.”

“Just stating facts,” you teased, tilting your head at him.

Felix laughed softly, then looked at you with a sudden seriousness that made your stomach flip. “But really, it’s all going to be fine. You’ve got this. Don’t overthink it, okay?”

Your lips quirked into a small smile, and you leaned in to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Felix.”

As you pulled away, he caught your wrist and tugged you back in with a grin. “Oh, no. That’s not enough.”

Felix squeezed your hand lightly, the warmth between you two a welcome relief from the chaos of your respective worlds. As you watched the tributes, the tension in the air was palpable—everyone on edge, trying to get a glimpse of the next big star.

“Did you see the guy from District 2? He’s definitely overdoing it,” Felix whispered, shaking his head with a small laugh. “It’s like he’s auditioning for a role in a gladiator movie.”

You snorted quietly, leaning your shoulder against his. “Yeah, I was expecting him to pull out a sword or something. Not really my style.”

You both shared a brief, soft chuckle, and the moment between you two was comfortable—easy.

But the energy in the room shifted as Lucy Gray Baird walked onto the stage, her bright gown sparkling under the lights. Coriolanus Snow stood beside her, his cold eyes scanning the crowd, calculating. As Lucy began to sing, her voice floated through the room, delicate and haunting, drawing the crowd’s rapt attention. The Capitol’s citizens reacted immediately, their applause loud and thunderous as she finished her performance.

Your jaw tightened, a flash of irritation crossing your face. You glanced at Felix, then back at Lucy Gray, who was basking in the spotlight. You couldn’t shake the feeling of resentment building up inside you, your frustration with the entire spectacle bubbling to the surface.

“I would almost call that beautiful,” you muttered, your tone bitter. “But I’m not about to give her that kind of credit. She’s just... too much, don't you think?”

Felix, sensing the change in your mood, gave a slight, knowing smile and gently wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “She’s not a patch on you,” he said softly, his voice warm but serious. “You’re way better than her—way prettier, smarter...” His thumb gently brushed your jaw, and he tilted your face toward him, his gaze locking with yours. He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on your cheek, lingering for a moment before pulling back slightly to look at you with a tender smile.

The touch was small, but it held more meaning than words could convey. You felt a warmth spread through you at the gesture, and for a moment, all the bitterness, all the tension, melted away.

As Lucy Gray smiled from the stage, basking in the adoration of the Capitol, Coriolanus caught sight of Felix and you in the crowd. His gaze flicked to you both, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly before a spiteful smirk curled at the corner of his lips. The look was sharp, filled with something you couldn’t quite place, but it set you on edge.

Felix, feeling the subtle shift in the atmosphere, tightened his grip around you, his expression hardening just a little as he followed Coriolanus’ gaze. But he didn’t let it linger, instead focusing entirely on you.

“Forget him,” Felix whispered, his words a soft promise. “You don’t need to let anyone steal your spotlight, especially not him.”

Your lips twitched into a faint, appreciative smile as you leaned into Felix’s embrace, your head resting against his shoulder. “I’m done worrying about him,” you murmured, your voice low. “But it’s nice to know you’ve got my back.”

Felix pressed a kiss to your temple, pulling you closer, blocking out the rest of the room

The afterparty was everything you had expected it to be—exclusive, dazzling, and filled with Capitol elites who were all too eager to congratulate themselves. The air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and the clinking of champagne glasses, and you felt an undeniable rush of excitement as you walked into the venue with Felix. The moment you stepped in, your black lace dress caught every eye in the room. It was elegant, alluring—just enough to spark intrigue but not too much to be considered immodest. You made sure every step was purposeful, feeling the eyes of the crowd follow you, and Felix's arm was firmly planted on your lower back, a quiet declaration of ownership and confidence.

As you entered, Festus, Livia, and Agrippina were already mingling by the bar, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them. You could already feel the tension of the day slipping away, the excitement of the night taking over. Felix kept his arm around you as you approached the group, and everyone greeted you warmly.

“You two look exquisite,” Livia remarked, taking in your dress with an approving smile. “You always seem to know exactly how to make an entrance.”

You smirked. “I try,” you said, glancing up at Felix, who shot you a playful grin in return. “Thanks. You all look great as well”

You leaned in to join the conversation, your mind briefly drifting away from the nagging feeling in your chest. It was a good night. You looked good, and Felix was by your side. This was the life you deserved.

But then, just as you were about to lose yourself in the moment, the doors swung open, and in walked Coriolanus Snow. His presence filled the room immediately—calm, collected, and unbothered, like he owned the place. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, though you quickly masked your irritation. You weren’t about to let him ruin your night. Not now.

“Ugh, look who it is,” Livia whispered under her breath, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Did you see his little performance today? He and Lucy Gray are practically unbeatable.”

“Of course they are,” you muttered under your breath, but you couldn’t help the simmering frustration bubbling inside. “He thrives on attention. It’s all he’s ever cared about.”

Agrippina nodded, looking over at the blue eyed man. “I’m kind of sick of hearing about Lucy Gray. It’s like she’s already won.”

You fought the urge to snap, forcing yourself to stay calm. “Yeah, well, if they want to crown her victor, they can. I’m not wasting my time on it.”

“Coriolanus and Lucy Gray are all anyone can talk about,” Festus chimed in. “They’re just... the perfect duo. It’s kind of sickening, actually. They’re all anyone talks about these days.”

You shot him a tight smile, but inside you were boiling. You wanted to shout, to scream that they were all just fawning over the wrong people—people who didn’t deserve the recognition. But you held yourself back. You were better than that now. Felix was beside you, and that was more than enough.

“Don’t worry about them,” Felix said softly, his voice low enough only for you to hear. “You’re way more than they’ll ever be.”

You smiled, looking up at him. “Thanks, Felix.”

You took a deep breath and excused yourself, needing to step away from the crowd for a moment. “I’m going to grab a glass of champagne. I’ll be right back.”

Felix hesitated, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Are you sure? I can go get it for you.”

“No,” you replied with a small shake of your head. “I’ve got it. I just need a moment to... breathe.”

Felix nodded, not pushing it, but you could see the concern in his eyes. He kissed your cheek softly. “Alright, I’ll be here.”

You were standing at the bar, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass, when you felt it—the familiar presence behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Coriolanus Snow.

"You look good tonight," he said, his voice low and smooth, like he was savoring every word.

You didn’t flinch, but you couldn’t ignore the wave of irritation washing over you. “Thanks,” you muttered, not turning to face him. “You’re looking sharp as always.”

He chuckled, that all-too-familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “You really think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” He took a step closer, his presence almost suffocating.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond. The way he looked at you—like you were something he could control, something that belonged to him—made your blood boil.

“I see you’re still hanging on to Felix,” he said, his voice tinged with an edge of something darker. “Does he make you feel... safe?”

You felt your stomach tighten. "Felix is nothing like you, Coriolanus," you shot back, not bothering to hide the bitterness in your voice. “And you really should stop pretending to care about me.”

Coriolanus moved in even closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You know, you’ve always been so easy to read,” he whispered, his words dripping with arrogance. “You want me. You always have.”

You spun around to face him, fury flashing in your eyes. “You’re insane,” you hissed, pushing him back. “You don’t own me. I’m with Felix, and you need to get that through your head.”

Coriolanus smirked, but there was something dangerous in his eyes now. “You think he can give you what I can? Felix can’t even come close. You’re wasting your time with him.”

You gritted your teeth, fists clenching. You could feel your anger rising, but you didn’t want to show him the weakness he was trying to provoke. “You’re pathetic. You don’t even know what you want, Coriolanus.”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I want.” His voice dropped to a low growl, and before you could react, he grabbed your arm, pulling you toward a quieter corner of the event hall. The music and chatter became muffled as you moved into the shadows.

“You can pretend all you want, but you belong with me,” he said, his grip tightening on your arm. “Not with him. He’s nothing.”

You jerked your arm free, your heart pounding in your chest. “No. I don’t belong to you. Don’t ever touch me like that again.”

He didn’t listen. In one swift motion, he pinned you to the wall, his body so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. His face was inches from yours, and you could see the hunger in his eyes. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You’ve always been mine.”

You could feel your pulse racing, your breath coming faster, but you fought to keep your composure. “I’m not yours, Coriolanus. I’m nobody’s.”

His lips were on yours before you could say another word. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was urgent and hungry, like he couldn’t wait another second to have you.

Your hands clenched at his jacket, but the kiss was overpowering, consuming your thoughts, your anger, everything. You wanted to pull away. You should pull away. But his hands were everywhere, his lips demanding more.

When he finally pulled back, you gasped for breath, your chest heaving. Your eyes burned with rage as you tried to push him away, but his grip on you stayed firm.

He stepped back slightly, still smirking. “You can pretend like you’re not into it, but I know you are.” He gave you one last look, something like possession flashing in his eyes. “Never tell anyone about this.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest, your mind reeling. “What the hell is wrong with you?” you spat, your voice shaking with fury. “You think you can just kiss me and walk away like nothing happened? You don’t get to do that!”

But Coriolanus didn’t answer. He simply turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you standing there, breathless, furious, and completely and utterly confused.

You stood there for a long moment, your fingers trembling at your sides. You couldn’t believe what had just happened. How could he just kiss you like that? How could he leave you there, like it meant nothing?

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You needed to pull it together. You weren’t going to let him control you. You were done with him.

But as you made your way back to Felix, your heart was still racing. You weren’t sure what to feel. You couldn’t tell him what happened—how could you? You didn’t even know what to think about it yourself.

When Felix saw you, he immediately took note of your disheveled appearance, the way your lips were slightly swollen and the fire still burning in your eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft but filled with concern.

You quickly composed yourself, pushing the anger and confusion aside. You smiled tightly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Felix didn’t look entirely convinced, but he didn’t press you. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you close as you rejoined the others.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were caught in

The rest of the night carried on smoothly, or at least that’s how you made it seem. No one could tell anything was wrong—you’d mastered the art of pretending to be fine. You laughed, you mingled, and not once did you falter. You didn’t see Coriolanus again, but a shiver crawled down your spine every time you caught sight of someone with similar blonde hair. It was a shadow you couldn’t shake, no matter how much you smiled or how much champagne you sipped.

At the end of the evening, the goodbyes were warm and polite, filled with well-wishes for the Games in two days. You and Felix left together, sliding into the sleek black car waiting outside. The low hum of the engine filled the space as the city lights blurred past the windows.

Felix sat close to you in the backseat, his hand resting loosely on his knee, but his eyes kept darting toward you. The silence stretched just long enough to feel heavy before he broke it.

“Are you really okay?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of concern he couldn’t quite hide. “You seemed... distracted tonight.”

You glanced at him, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine. Just tired, I guess. It’s been a long day.”

He frowned slightly, studying your face like he didn’t quite believe you. “You sure? You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. If something’s on your mind, I want to know.”

You sighed, leaning back against the seat. “I appreciate that, Felix, but there’s nothing to worry about. Really. I’m okay.”

He tilted his head, his expression softening. “You don’t have to carry everything on your own, you know. I’m here for you.”

His words made your chest tighten, but you pushed the feeling aside, flashing him a teasing smile instead. “You’re sweet, you know that? But I promise, I’m fine. Just needed a moment to breathe tonight, that’s all.”

He smiled back, though his concern lingered in the way his gaze lingered on yours. “Alright. I’ll take your word for it. But if you need me, I’m not going anywhere.”

The sincerity in his voice made your cheeks warm, and you looked away briefly, trying to focus on the passing lights outside.

“You’re too good to me, you know,” you said quietly, your voice carrying a note of something you didn’t entirely mean to let slip.

He chuckled, leaning just slightly closer. “Well, someone’s got to keep up with you. Can’t have you outshining everyone all on your own.”

You turned back to him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, I see. So this is all just self-preservation? Keeping up appearances?”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “But you do make it easy. You’re kind of impossible not to be drawn to.”

His tone was light, but there was something else in his eyes—something deeper, more serious. The teasing smile on your lips faltered just slightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked softly, your voice quieter now.

He hesitated for half a second before leaning in a little closer, his voice dropping just enough to send your heart racing. “It means you’re incredible. And I don’t think you even realize it half the time.”

Your breath caught, the words hanging heavy between you. The space in the car suddenly felt smaller, the air warmer.

And then he said it, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. “I love you.”

Your heart stuttered, your chest tightening as the words settled over you. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say, your mind racing. His face was so close to yours now, his eyes searching yours for any sign of how you felt.

You didn’t think—you just moved, closing the gap between you and pressing your lips softly to his.

The kiss was gentle at first, tender and cautious, but then something shifted. Coriolanus’s voice echoed in your mind, the memory of his smirk, his accusations. You wanted to prove him wrong, to prove to yourself that he didn’t matter. You kissed Felix harder, your hands moving to his shoulders as you pressed closer, needing to feel something real.

Felix responded immediately, his hands finding your waist and pulling you into his lap. The kiss deepened, your fingers tangling in his hair as the world outside the car disappeared. There was only the warmth of his hands on your back, the way he held you like you were the only thing that mattered.

The sound of the driver clearing his throat broke the moment, and you both froze, breathless and flushed. “We’ve arrived at your house, miss,” the driver said politely, his voice cutting through the haze.

You and Felix pulled apart, your foreheads resting together for a moment as you caught your breath. His hands lingered on your waist, and his eyes were dark, still searching yours.

You smiled softly, reaching up to gently cup his chin. Leaning in, you pressed a quick, sweet kiss to his lips, your thumb brushing over his jawline. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said, your voice soft but steady.

Felix nodded, still looking a little dazed. “Yeah... tomorrow.”