voracixusâ cornered the tribute.
ââ   THE metal feels foreign in her hand, the knife carved       from a single piece of metal --far more graceful and       smooth than any farmtool sheâs encountered. but itâs       not as if theyâll let her keep it. so when the clock hands       reach five before the hour, she creeps from her shadowed       corner to the edge of the training center, wide brown eyes       taking in the clatter of weapons and those only a few years       older than her yet so much more cruel.Â
      SHE doesnât feel right down here --everything too big, close,       and loud. so itâs on quick feet that she scurries the last few       feet, deft fingers setting the knife down.   ââ
