Chapter one

I trudge past the indefinite number of trees that surround the path for what seems like the umpteenth time today. I look down at my feet, noticing the golden tinge of the leaves beneath them. Autumn is here. And so are The Hunger Games. The reaping takes place this afternoon.

I look up to see the sun finally breaking out of the clouds, the fields being soaked in sunshine. Even with the thoughts of the reaping lingering in my mind, I find myself smiling. The sincerity of nature around district ten makes me feel almost safe. The same ritual takes place every year – I walk at least a mile, if not two or three, before going home to prepare. The sixty eighth Hunger Games will be no different.

"Raven!"

I whip around just in time for a scarf to hit me in the face. I spit the fabric away and my eyes close on instinct. Saphra laughs and walks over to me, the grin still remaining on her face. I don't bother hiding my glare.

I narrow my eyes at her, "What was that for?"

She blinks innocently. Only then do I pay attention to the scarf in my hands. Almost instantly, my teeth clench.

"Where the hell did you get this?"

She jumps as I raise my voice, "Relax, will you? I-"

"Stay out of my stuff, Saphra."

I watch her through the corner of my eye as she walks alongside me, sheepishly. We continue through the greenery but it loses its appeal. My morning walk has been interrupted.

Saphra clears her throat, "Mother was asking about you."

I glance at her in acknowledgement.

"She was wondering if you'd like to join us for breakfast."

I fix my gaze ahead, "I can't – I have work to do."

She nods her head nonchalantly and we walk the rest of the way in silence. Saphra jogs towards her home and I head in the opposite direction. Colton bought home enough food the day before, so there's no need for me to head to the market. Nevertheless, I find myself opening the door to father's butcher shop. I automatically grab an apron and large knife from the drawer, my gaze trailing along a juicy piece of meat left on the counter. I thump away, slicing evenly and hardly squinting as blood splatters across my face. Too engrossed in my current position, I fail to notice my father open the door to start another morning.

"Alright, Ray?"

I slam the knife down on the chopping board. It stands firmly on end, no doubt leaving a noticeable mark and startling him.

Noticing his anxious look, I visibly relax and let out a sigh. "Fine, I guess."

He smiles kindly, "Rough morning?"

"You could say that."

We get started immediately and I lose myself, along with track of time, as I handle the meat. I take pleasure in the comfortable silence, but manage to light up as we make small talk from across the room. The morning seems to end too rapidly for my liking, so I take my time in clearing up and closing up shop. Father is outside draining a bowl of bloody water when I step out.

"You should head home now, it's almost time."

His voice almost breaks, but he manages to cover it up convincingly with a chesty cough. Still not as convincing as he thought.

I grimace before taking my leave.

Passing the market once more, I am able to notice further than when I rushed here in anger. Young children and most of the population have been kept inside for obvious reasons. I only manage to see a handful of people as I make my way home, most likely stocking up on necessities. During this time, family gatherings seem to be a crucial time to mourn and prepare in case of a certain tribute being called up unexpectedly. It all seems to happen too fast, flash by in an instant. I can almost smell the Capitol aura hanging in the air, inching closer to us.

I clear my thoughts, count to ten and breathe out. My hand reaches for the door and, before I know it, I have reached home. Colton immediately makes for me and sighs in relief.

He growls, "You're late."

I glance at the clock – there's half an hour left until the reaping – and shrug. I have plenty of time. I bathe in five minutes, as always, and change into my reaping clothes. The blood stained apron and outfit lies on the floor. I tie my hair sloppily into a low bun and don't even bother looking into the mirror.

I hear the door open from downstairs, and walk over to see my father in clean clothes. His hair has been brushed back compactly and his creased forehead makes him look older than he already is.

We stand, just looking at each other. This is no time for words – they cannot change anything. He seems to understand this as he wraps his arms around me. Colton stomps down the stairs and we let go reluctantly. He analyses my appearance and I shift on my feet. His brow furrows and he mutters something incomprehensibly before opening the door. I don't ask him to repeat himself.

The square looks a lot more dull and grey than it usually is. All around me, children are dressed in pastel, decorated for such a horrific occasion. I don't waste any time making small talk or trying to find familiar faces in the crowd and, as usual, people that do know me tend to avoid me. Except for one.

"You ready?"

Saphra's voice catches me a few people away, "You should get back to your place."

"I will," she mumbles back.

I scowl before turning my back on her and making my way nearer to the front with the other seventeen year olds. On my way, I manage to catch a glimpse of my father and nod at him in recognition. He replies with a faint smile and all I can do to stop myself from blubbering like a baby is to face the front.

The stage is set up with three seats to the side. A podium is placed close to the centre and next to it a table – topped with the two reaping balls that are filled with dozens of slips of paper, each carrying a name of a potential tribute. Banners hang from buildings, addressing the event with pride that is evidently not present in the people of ten. They stretch many feet across, trying their best to cover the filth and grime adorning the buildings they have been placed upon. After a few minutes of whispering and last second preparations, the district clock begins to chime and we instantly fall silent. The mayor takes his place centre stage and begins his speech on the history of Panem, including great detail of the Dark Days.

I zone out after a few minutes. The speech stretches on and my attention turns to my aching back and sore feet. I shift uncomfortably. My eyes begin to wander across the stage. I observe our district's escort – Magnus – perched daintily on one of the seats. His eyes flutter as he examines us, surely with pity. I resume listening to the speech as it turns towards past victors that originated from ten. Since the Games started, there have been three. Only one is alive – Jett May. He is seated next to Magnus, who seems to be inching away without making it seem so obvious. But the most noticeable thing about Jett is his horrifyingly thin body and how his clothes seem to sink into him. His face is expressionless as he stares into the distance. I feel as if I am about to throw up.

And then Magnus' presence is established. He leaps up from the chair and flashes a dazzling smile. His red hair and peachy clothes make him look like a clown, out of place, but he is able to appear comfortable despite the uneasy silence and sharp looks he receives in return. He babbles on about what a wonderful time he is having so far and how great it is to be in district ten, although neither of these points seems to be fulfilled. The girl standing next to me starts fidgeting as Magnus walks over to one of the reaping balls. He smirks playfully whilst swirling his hands through the globe, and I feel the sudden urge to slap him. Painfully.

My anger is suddenly replaced with fear as a white slip has been chosen. He takes his time walking back to the stand, evening out the paper with his perfectly manicured nails and clearing his throat. His toying finally comes to an end and he calls out, in a silky deep voice.

"Saphra Holt."

The tension drops for everyone else and I manage to pick up a few accounts of whispering. I slowly turn my head, afraid of what I might see and bracing for impact.

Saphra is a few feet behind, but close enough for me to make out the sudden paleness in her cheeks. She already resembles a corpse. Her eyes begin to glisten, or maybe it's the sun in my eyes except I still manage to recognise a single sob escaping her lips. She is surrounded by Peacekeepers and almost dragged to the stage. I don't know what else to think.

Her name was only in their six times. Even my chances of being picked were greater. Saphra never had to take out tessera – her family were well-off enough to not miss even a single meal. Maybe that's why I suddenly feel so light-headed. Or maybe because I don't actually dislike my neighbour after all, and the idea of never speaking to her again –

"Now, are there any volunteers?"

My eyes snap up. Saphra slowly moves her head across the people in front of her, as if trying to absorb them into her memory. Then her gaze lands on me.

The following few minutes are a blur. I find my feet turning in an instant, the group of people surrounding me beginning to realise what I am about to do. They move out of the way. I stand up straight. Head held high. First impressions are important to the Capitol. The next words leave my mouth before they even register in my head.

"I volunteer as tribute."