X.
A rainforest.
It was one of the many Arenas he had prepared for, trained for, lived for. His wand, nearly in his grasps, floated in front of him. He glanced around, wondering who he should curse first. That insipid boy from District 1 had to wait, of course. He stood four pods down, his wand twitching on the ground.
Not everyone had the gift of wandless magic. Especially when there were wards baring down their throats, trying to suppress their magic—at least, for the first 60 seconds of being in the Arena. The Capitol hated a death too quick. It was why the wands of the tributes had always been blocked from casting the Killing Curse. He could hardly care.
There were other spells, darker curses he had yet to try on a witch or wizard.
He nearly could not hold his excitement. He really wanted to see their power. Their effects. Their potency.
And to feel the magic coursing through his blood.
The timer counted down to 40 seconds. Then to 35. His fingers twitched.
Almost.
30.
Almost time.
25.
The sound of that annoying crying got louder. It started off from soft whimpers, but it was definitely grating to his ears.
He swore the male tribute of District 12 would die. Slowly. A thousand times the amount of time Tom had to listen to that pitiful sound. He turned to the tribute, five circular platforms down. His eyes boring death.
20.
The tribute hiccuped. Then he moved.