Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Yep, another quick update. Partly because this one's a bit shorter (due to the decreasing number of tributes) and came really easily to me. Partly because we're reached the point in the Games where I have a lot of this stuff plotted out, and it's just a matter of getting it into the right words. And partly because I have nothing better to do with a long Valentine's Day/Presidents' Day weekend than sit around and kill tributes. My lack of a social life is good for my stories.

Results of the poll are up on the blog. New poll on my profile, this time asking who you want to see in the final four. As usual, read the chapter first, because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll.

Day Four
The Death of Flesh

Tobiah Clement
District Nine Mentor

He'd never expected to care this much.

Tobiah shook his head as Alistern poured him another drink. "How do you stand it, Crispy? Is this what it feels like every year – really mentoring? Do you always end up caring this much about the little bastards?"

He hadn't meant to care. Hadn't meant to get attached. But Dennar had asked him to mentor. He'd been the first person to think Tobiah was really up to the task.

And he'd failed. Miserably. Not only had Dennar died, but he'd died needlessly. All he'd had to do was let Asteria kill Alasdair, instead. He hadn't even had to kill anyone himself; he'd simply needed to let Alasdair die.

But he hadn't even been able to do that.

Not that he blamed Asteria, either. He'd killed his own district partner, after all; blaming her for doing the same would be hypocritical. And she'd been the one to figure it out – to work out that the Gamemakers weren't going to call off the mutts until one of them killed another.

And if she hadn't figured out, there may very well have been seven of them dead in that garden instead of just three.

Because none of the others had been ready to kill each other. None of them would have had the heart to start the fight that had to happen. Asteria was different. She'd seen what needed to be done, and she'd done it. But she'd stopped there. Killing one was enough for her; that was all that needed to happen. She could have finished Alasdair, too; no one would have been able to stop her.

But she hadn't needed to kill Alasdair. Killing Dennar had been enough to get rid of the mutts, so she had stopped. And she had run.

Which was probably a smart move, as well. Kinley was dead, Barclay was injured, and Mercury would never understand what she'd done. She was better off on her own. She would last longer that way.

Longer. But probably not long enough. No matter what she did – no matter what any of them did – it never seemed to be enough. That was why he'd decided to stop trying, years ago. He'd been stupid enough to think that this year would be different.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

"Yes."

Tobiah glanced up at Crispin. "Yes what?"

"Yes, you always end up caring. No matter how often you tell yourself not to, no matter how many times you tell yourself that your chances of bringing someone home this year – any year – are slim, you still care. You have to. That's what makes us human. Our ability to feel their fear, their pain. Their hopes, their dreams, their futures – all torn away in an instant. If we don't care, it all means nothing."

"It means nothing, anyway," Tobiah mumbled into his drink. "What difference does it make, in the end – any of it? What difference do we make? What difference do they make? We're nothing – nothing. We're … we're candles, flickering in the breeze. Just a little wisp of wind, and – poof! – we're gone." He shook his head.

Maybe Dennar was the lucky one.

Asteria Cordey, 16
District Nine

She hadn't expected them to let her go.

Asteria kept running, turning down one hallway, then another. The hallways quickly lost their green glow for a plain, dull grey. Good. She wanted to get as far away as possible before someone decided to come after her. Before the mutts returned. Before the Gamemakers changed their minds, before they decided that killing one tribute and then running away simply wasn't enough.

Because it wasn't enough, in the end. It wouldn't be enough to get her home. But it was a start. It was a first step.

And now there was no turning back.

She was a killer now. But she had also saved them. Whoever was left, they were only alive because she'd figured out what needed to be done. And then she'd done it. They were alive because she was willing to kill.

But, eventually, they would have to die, too.

But not yet. By now, they'd had some time to regroup, and she was in no condition to fight all of them – however many of them were left. There had been seven of them – including her. Three cannons. One was Dennar's. One belonged to the boy who had tried to run.

And the third? Barclay? Kinley? Mercury? She wasn't sure who to hope for. Barclay was certainly the strongest, physically, but she doubted he had it in him to kill her, if it came to that. Kinley had taken up a position as the leader of the group, so they might be weaker with her gone. And Mercury … She wasn't really a threat.

Which, with her luck, probably meant the cannon had been hers.

Asteria stopped to catch her breath, surprised by how easily those thoughts had come to her. How quickly she'd begun to think of her former allies as competition. But wasn't that what they'd always been? They couldn't all win. They couldn't all make it out of the Games alive.

Maybe it was better to part ways now.

Maybe this way, she wouldn't have to be the one to kill them.

A few hours ago, she wouldn't have been able to even imagine herself being the one to kill any of them. But now – now that there was blood on her hands – now it was easier to swallow the idea that, sooner or later, that blood might be theirs. She might need to fight them. She might need to kill them.

She still didn't want to, but maybe that didn't matter. None of them wanted to fight, after all – not really. Especially not this year. None of the tributes had volunteered for this. None of them had chosen this. None of them wanted to be here.

But they were here. And only one would leave.

And, for the first time, Asteria truly believed that it might be her.

Barclay Mattison, 18
District Four

He'd never really expected Kinley to die.

Barclay rolled over a little, careful not to move too quickly. His chest still throbbed where the mutt's barbs had dug deep into his skin. He was still a bit lightheaded, still very, very tired.

But he was alive.

And Kinley was dead.

Part of him had always known, of course – at least, on some level – that she was going to die. That she would have to, if he wanted to go home. But another part of him had never quite accepted it. She had seemed so confident. So certain. If – no, when – someone in their alliance had to die first, he wouldn't have guessed it would be her.

He wouldn't have picked her.

Not that there was anyone he would have wanted to pick. Anyone he wanted to die. But why did it have to be her? Why did she have to be first?

And why was he still here?

When he'd thrown himself on top of Mercury, he'd half-expected that to be the end. Half-expected the next cannon to be his. And there was a part of him that would have been okay with that. Saving Mercury. Giving his life for a friend. Maybe that wouldn't have been so bad. At least there would have been some meaning to it.

There hadn't been any meaning to Kinley's death. She hadn't saved anyone. Hadn't stopped the mutts from getting to anyone else. She'd just been in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

She'd just been unlucky.

And what about him? Had he been lucky or unlucky? He was still alive, but that was about all he had going for him right now. He was injured, and Mercury seemed to think it was pretty bad. From the pain in his chest and the dizziness, he could hardly argue with her. Maybe it would be better if he'd simply died then, and saved himself the pain now.

Maybe Kinley was the lucky one.

She wasn't in any pain now, after all. Sure, she had been – for a while. Being torn apart by spider mutts certainly wouldn't feel good. But it was over. It was done. She was gone, and he was still here. Still in pain. Still just waiting. Waiting to die? Waiting to live? He wasn't even sure anymore.

Mercury squeezed his hand, almost as if she'd heard his thoughts. Had he said some of it aloud by mistake? He couldn't remember.

"Don't you dare," Mercury insisted. "Don't you dare give up. Don't you dare leave us."

Us. That was right. There were two of them. Mercury and … Alasdair? Was that it? He could barely remember the little boy's name. None of it seemed to matter right now.

Maybe it had never mattered.

Barclay closed his eyes. No. No, he wouldn't leave them. Not as long as he could help it.

But how long would that be?

Ryzer Hijore, 16
District Six

She'd never expected to have a full stomach during the Hunger Games.

Ryzer smiled contentedly as she and Cassandra wolfed down some more of the food they'd taken from the cornucopia. Neither of them had made any attempt to ration it. Not much point in that, when they could simply go back and get some more whenever they wanted. And what they'd taken would last them quite a while.

They had everything they could ask for.

Strange, really, that their time in the arena could be more pleasant than their lives before the Games. Cassandra had never had an easy time of it in District Six, either – that much was obvious. Neither of them had left much behind. Neither of them had much to go back to. Which meant that neither of them had much to lose.

Nothing they would regret being rid of.

What did she have to go back to, in the end? If she won, what was waiting for her in District Six? A big house? What was she going to do with that, after spending so much time on the streets? She wouldn't know what to do with a proper home if someone gave it to her. Pantries full of food, closets full of clothes – they were all meaningless, without someone there to share them with.

And she had no one. No one back in District Six who would care whether she returned or not. No one she would be able to share her good fortune with.

The only friend she had in all of Panem was sitting next to her.

Ryzer giggled a little. At least she had found that much. After all, how many people in the Games could say that they'd found someone they considered a friend? Someone they could really trust with their lives? How many alliances could say that?

She wondered if Cassandra felt the same. Did she trust Ryzer the same way? Did she see her only as a temporary companion, or would she trust Ryzer with her life, if it came to that?

As if in answer, Cassandra spoke up. "We should probably get some rest. Do you want to take the first watch, or should I?"

Ryzer grinned. "I'll keep watch; you get some rest – I'll wake you when I think it's best."

Cassandra nodded and curled up in a corner. Almost like a cat. Exactly like a cat. How many cats had she snuck up on while they were in that position? Unaware, defenseless?

No. No, Cassandra wasn't her prey. There was no reason to turn on each other. No reason for her to turn on her only friend. Not yet.

Not yet.

Lynher Palmieri, 16
District Eleven

He'd never expected to sleep well in the arena.

Lynher sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. In the light, he finally got a better look at the room he was in – and the two bodies that shared it with him. A boy and a girl – District Seven, he was pretty sure. Their clothes were torn, as if parts of them had been sliced off with a knife. Blood stained the floor around the girl's body. A deep gash across her stomach left little doubt about how she had died; a few of her intestines lay on the floor beside her. Lynher looked away.

The boy's body had fared a little better, but he was just as dead. There were marks on his neck. Had someone choked him to death? Lynher tried to imagine that – strangling someone with his bare hands.

He tried to imagine it happening to him.

No. No, he needed to stop thinking like that. They were already dead. There was nothing he could do to help them. Nothing he could do to change what had happened to them. The best thing he could do now would be to make sure it didn't happen to him.

Lynher opened the bag of supplies he'd packed before leaving the cornucopia. He had plenty of food and water for a while, but it was probably best not to eat too much at once. There was no telling how long his supplies would have to last. He had no desire to go back to the cornucopia. Daedem had let him simply walk away once, but he didn't want to take that chance again.

If Daedem was still there. If Daedem was still alive.

There had been five cannons since Lynher had abandoned the cornucopia and his ally. Five cannons since he'd struck out on his own. Had one of them been Daedem's?

He almost hoped one of them had.

Lynher clenched his fists. He hated thinking it, but Daedem was an opponent now. He was competition. And he was a proven killer. An injured killer, yes, but a killer, nonetheless.

Then again, so was he.

Lynher's glance strayed once more to the two dead bodies on the floor. What made what he had done any better than what had happened to them? The boy from Eight was just as dead as they were. There was no difference – none. There was no moral high ground – not any more. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, no wondering what might have happened if he'd made a different choice.

He'd made a choice. He had chosen to kill. And now he would have to live with that.

But that was still a better option than dying.

Because, as horrible as it was, he knew that, if he had to choose again between killing and dying, he would do the same thing. He would make the same choice. At the end of the day, he valued his own life more than he valued the life of anyone else in the arena.

And why not? Why not choose his own life over theirs? What made their lives any better than his? Maybe his life wasn't anything particularly special, in the grand scheme of things, but neither were theirs. If it had to be one of them or him … Why shouldn't it be him?

Why shouldn't he be the one to live?

Dewan Rutledge, 15
District Two

He'd never thought to explore this part of the station.

Dewan watched the hallways zoom by outside the window. Away from the purple section. Away from both the cornucopia and the gardens. Where were the Gamemakers taking him?

And what would he find when he got there?

At last, the door opened into a dark hallway. Dewan stepped out. There was nothing. No supplies. No food. Nothing here.

But this was where the track stopped. So he was probably supposed to go on alone.

Except he wasn't alone.

He didn't see them at first – the three shapes in the shadows. Large, dark, with long, crooked legs and glowing eyes. By the time he saw them, the doors had slid shut behind him. They had him surrounded.

But they didn't attack.

For a moment, Dewan simply stood there. Waiting. Waiting for an attack that, after a moment, he realized wasn't coming. Why? Why weren't they trying to kill him? That was what mutts did.

Wasn't it?

But these ones weren't. If they'd wanted to kill him, they could have done it already. If the Gamemakers had wanted to send mutts after him, they could have done so anywhere. Why had they brought him here? What were they waiting for?

What did they want?

Maybe it didn't matter.

Dewan took a step forward. The mutts didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Another step. Then another. Past the mutts. Down the hall.

And they followed.

Dewan stared, baffled, as he turned to see the mutts following him down the hall, their claws clacking rhythmically on the floor. They were following him closely. Almost obediently. Were they his backup? Did the Gamemakers mean for them to fight with him rather than attack him?

If so, who were they going up against? Who did the Gamemakers want dead badly enough to offer a tribute a few mutts to help get the job done?

The boy from Five, maybe – the one they'd turned into an avox. Was he still alive? Or maybe the one from Eight who had claimed to be the Robber Prince. That would certainly be worth the Gamemakers' attention. Dewan gripped his saw. Either of them would be a capable opponent. Maybe it was a good thing the mutts were here.

Maybe that was what the Gamemakers were counting on.

Suddenly, the hallway stopped, ending in a large doorway, the door closed in front of him. Dewan pushed. The door didn't budge. Someone was inside. Someone who didn't want him coming in.

But the Gamemakers wanted him inside.

Dewan turned to the mutts. Was that why they were there? To break down the door and get him inside? It was certainly worth a try. He eyed the mutts cautiously, as if the wrong word might turn them against him.

"A little help?"

Elaine Willis, 14
District One

Brennan had kept his promise.

Elaine crouched beside the door, their alliance's single knife in her hand, waiting. Waiting for whatever was about to come through. Something was cutting away at the door. Something, not someone. Some sort of mutts were on the other side. And, according to the map, that was all; no lights had been coming their way.

Their best chance was the element of surprise. Whatever was about to come through that door wouldn't be expecting someone to be directly on the other side. They would expect them to be hiding. Trying to get as far away as possible.

And that was exactly where the others were – crouched behind a cluster of panels on the other side of the room. They only had one weapon. Only one of them could be armed.

Brennan had kept his promise. He had picked her.

One person would have an easier time hiding, he'd said. One person would have an easier time slipping away if things went wrong. One person might be able to get out.

But there was also another reason. Something he hadn't said. Something he hadn't wanted to say in front of the others.

Whatever came through that door had to find someone. Someone had barricaded it. Someone was here. But, if things started to go wrong, it was better if their attackers didn't find all of them. If they thought she was alone – if she was the only one they found – then they might leave once…

Once…

Was that the real reason he had picked her? Was she the expendable one? Was she the one the others wouldn't miss?

Or was she simply their best chance of getting the job done?

Elaine turned the knife over again in her hands. This was real. Everything came down to this one moment. She would live or die based on what happened in the few seconds after the door broke. Her hands were sweating. Her whole body was shaking. She was terrified.

But some small part of her was excited.

This was what she had wanted all her life – the chance to be more than a proper little lady. The chance to prove herself – to prove that she had what it took.

But did she?

The door was beginning to shake. A few more seconds, and it would fall. A few more seconds. This was it.

The door came down with a crash.

For a moment, all she saw where shadows. Dark shapes, streaming through the door. A loud, piercing screech filled the room. Then she saw him. A boy.

A tribute. So the map had lied. The Gamemakers had fooled them.

But there seemed to be only one.

One tribute, and a few mutts.

Go for the boy first.

But, in the instant it took her to decide, he had already seen her. He swung his own weapon – some sort of saw – and Elaine barely had time to duck. She'd lost the element of surprise. But now she had no choice. No choice but to fight.

Elaine dove low, aiming for his legs. He hadn't been expecting that. His blow was late and clumsy, while hers found its mark, her knife burying itself in his thigh. But, before she had time to pull it out again, something struck her on the head. The blunt side of the saw. Elaine toppled backwards, her head reeling, her vision blurred.

Then she saw the knife coming towards her throat.

Blythe Ayers, 14
District Twelve

Boom.

Blythe clapped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming as the boy drew his knife out of Elaine's throat, then pulled Elaine's own knife out of his leg. She wanted to scream. Wanted to run out there and save Elaine. But it was too late. There hadn't been time. They'd never had any chance of saving her.

They hadn't even tried.

Blythe glanced at Brennan, eyes wide, hoping for some sort of reaction. Some hint that he was as horrified as she and Grace were. But he was simply staring, eyes fixed firmly on the boy, waiting for him to make his next move. Had he been expecting this?

Had he planned this?

Had he known that Elaine was going to die? Had he chosen her to guard the door just so that whoever came through would find someone – and then, hopefully, believe that she was the only one?

Tears filled Blythe's eyes. Elaine was dead. Dead. And Brennan may have planned the whole thing.

She just hoped Elaine hadn't died for nothing.

Maybe the boy would leave. Maybe the mutts would leave. Maybe that was it – all the Gamemakers wanted. One death.

The boy took a step towards them.

The mutts followed.

Were they obeying him? Was he controlling them? Why? Why would the Gamemakers give a tribute control over the mutts? It didn't make any sense, unless…

Unless one of them had done something. Something to upset the Gamemakers, or the president, or the Capitol. Something that would make them a target.

But what could any of them have done?

Silently, they watched as the boy came closer and closer. He wasn't going to leave. The mutts weren't going to leave. But he was armed. They weren't. He had three mutts to protect him. They had nothing. Nothing at all.

The boy took a step closer. Closer. Soon, it wouldn't matter that they were hiding. Soon, he would be able to see them.

Blythe glanced at Brennan, then Grace. Brennan nodded towards the door. Grace hesitated, but then nodded her agreement. Blythe nodded and placed a hand on the pack of supplies at her feet, hoping they were thinking the same thing she was.

The three of them ran.

Brennan Aldaine, 15
District Twelve

It was as if the Gamemakers wanted them to run.

Brennan didn't even glance behind him as the three of them raced out the door. The mutts waited a moment before following. As if giving them a head start. Lengthening the chase.

The boy didn't wait. He was close behind them, and gaining fast despite the wound in his leg. Brennan clenched his fists. One of the boys from Two. Trained. In shape. He would catch them soon.

They had to think of something.

Suddenly, there was a thump behind them. Blythe had dropped the pack she was carrying. No, not dropped it. Thrown it. She'd thrown it right at the boy – maybe hoping that, if he had the supplies he had come for, he would let them go.

Not a bad idea. The supplies were all they had, yes, but their lives were worth more. They could find more supplies.

But only if they survived this.

At first, it seemed to work. The boy slowed. Picked up the pack. He hesitated, waiting. Deciding. He was injured. He probably didn't want to keep chasing them – not now that he had what he'd come for. Brennan knew he wouldn't want to.

But the mutts didn't hesitate. They quickly passed the boy, still chasing after the three of them.

Why?

"This is my fault."

Brennan turned towards Grace as they ran, surprised to see that her face was white. Terrified. What did she mean? How was this her fault?

He didn't have time to ask. She grabbed his hand as they ran, squeezed it, and then let go. "Take care of her."

"What do you mean?"

Grace shook her head. There wasn't time to explain. "Entil'zha veni," she whispered.

Then she turned and stopped.

And ran the other way.

For a moment, Blythe stopped, too. Hesitated. "Go!" Grace shouted. "Just go!"

Brennan grabbed Blythe's hand and pulled. And the two of them ran.

The mutts didn't follow. Brennan didn't look back. He just kept running, with Blythe by his side. They had to keep going. They couldn't look back.

Suddenly, he saw something up ahead. Some sort of train car, the doors open. "Inside!" Brennan yelled. "Now!"

Blythe didn't think twice. She followed him inside. Only then did they look back. There was no sign of Grace.

"We have to go back!" Blythe insisted. "We have to try to help her! We can't just leave her!"

Yes. Yes, they could. And more than that. They had to. Brenann shook his head. "We can't help her, Blythe. We can't. We have to go."

The doors slid shut.

Grace Sawyer, 14
District Ten

"Go! Just go!"

Grace didn't look back. She couldn't. If she did, she knew, she would want to follow them. Would want to escape with them. But she couldn't. She couldn't escape what was coming. And if she tried, she would just drag them down with her.

All three of them could die. Or it could just be her.

The mutts were closing, with the boy from Two close behind them. Grace didn't think. Didn't have time to think. She charged. The mutts parted for her, as if startled. But she knew better. They were clearing a path for her. Herding her somewhere.

Herding her back to the dome.

Grace kept running. There were worse places they could lead her. If she had to make her last stand somewhere, maybe that was the best place – among the stars.

Grace ran past the boy, who, startled, barely had time to take a swipe at her as she passed. The blade grazed her arm, but she kept running. She had to. That was what they wanted.

And if she gave them what they wanted, then her allies would have time to escape. They wanted her. And they would have her – no matter what she did. But they couldn't have the others. They couldn't have Brennan and Blythe. Not yet, at least. That would be her victory.

The only victory she had left to claim.

It hadn't taken her long to work out – not once she saw the mutts. This sort of thing only happened when the Gamemakers were targeting someone in particular. Elaine was dead. They had no reason to target Brennan or Blythe.

So it had to be her.

The mutts and the boy reached her just as she was clambering over the remains of what was once the door to the domed room. Grace whirled around. She had nowhere left to run. She had to face him.

But she didn't have any weapons.

Grace scooped up a wooden piece of the doorframe just in time to block the boy's blow. Surprised, the boy tucked the knife away and picked up a piece himself, swinging it with all the force he could muster. The blow nearly knocked the wooden shield from Grace's grasp.

Then she saw the mutt's claw, swinging towards her head. Grace ducked, thrusting the piece of the doorframe between them. But, even as she did, her flimsy shield shattered under the mutt's blow, and there was a terrible cracking as pain flooded her arm. Grace tumbled backwards beneath what used to be the doorway. The boy charged.

But something stopped him.

Grace stared as the boy collided with something – some sort of invisible wall that now separated the two of them. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet, only to find that she was surrounded by some sort of invisible barrier, forming a cylinder all around her.

Before any of them could react, a panel slid away in the ceiling above her, and a light filled the cylinder. A pale blue light, some sort of beam. Hot. Burning.

Will you follow me into fire?

Grace clenched her fists as the flames grew hotter. Hotter. Agony ripped through her body as the beam grew more intense. Her skin started to char. Her clothes were on fire. Burning. She was burning.

Will you follow me into fire?

"Entil'zha veni," she whispered again, falling to her knees at last as the pain coursed through her body. Entil'zha veni. In the Name of the One.

Then she looked up.

The pale blue light had turned grey. A dim, grey light – far away, remote, but drifting closer. Closer. She heard something. A faint sound, like the flapping of wings. The pain was duller now – almost as if she was already gone. As if it was all happening to someone else, a long time ago. As if none of it mattered anymore.

Will you follow me into fire?

Grace closed her eyes.

She wondered if…

Glenn Chester
District Ten Mentor

Boom.

Glenn watched, tears in his eyes, as Grace's cannon sounded and the lights flickered off. He watched as the beam of fire consumed what remained of her body, leaving only a pile of ashes. He watched as the mutts disappeared into the shadows, their work finished, leaving Dewan standing in shock over what had just happened.

"Entil'zha veni."

Glenn looked up, startled, as Silas took a seat on the couch beside him. "What?"

"Entil'zha veni. What she said at the end."

Glenn shook his head. "What language is that? I've never heard it before."

"Nor are you likely to again," Silas agreed. "As far as anyone knows, it means, In the Name of the One. No one seems to know quite what language it is, but the phrase is … an epitaph. According to legend, it's what a Child of Valen says when they know death is upon them."

Glenn blinked, still a bit lost. "A Child of Valen?"

Silas smiled a little. "You don't have to deny it; there's nothing more they can do to her now. Chances are, they knew a long time ago, but she did a good job of trying to hide it. They may call themselves something else – or nothing at all – in the districts, and I wasn't certain until I heard those words. But there's no other reason they would go after her like that."

Glenn looked away. They. The Gamemakers. They had targeted Grace. Part of him had known, but it still hurt to hear Silas say it. That her fate had been unavoidable. Inescapable. There had never been anything he could do to help her.

Glenn shook his head. "How do you know about…"

"Before Aron Meldair was a mentor for District Six, he was … a friend. A good friend. A good man, if an odd one." He leaned back. "You have to understand, Glenn, that's all it's considered here in the Capitol. An oddity. A strange eccentricity, but a harmless one. In the districts, though, it's … discouraged."

"Discouraged," Glenn repeated. That beam of fire had been a bit more than a discouragement.

"Officially, yes," Silas nodded. "It's not outlawed in the usual sense. Because that would mean acknowledging it. Legitimizing it. Recognizing that it's a threat."

"A threat?"

"Yes. Not that they're outright rebellious, mind you – not like Niles and his lot. The Children of Valen believe in peace. Kindness. Respect for the sacredness of all life. Which is all well and good and rather harmless, but they also believe in something more. A greater power that we can't understand and can never control. And something more, something beyond this life. And that's dangerous because it gives people hope. Niles and Fletcher – they were hurricanes. Wild and unpredictable and uncontrollable. Grace was the gentle breeze, the soft whisper, the small, still voice that says, 'No. Someone stronger than you is in control.' And that … that's even more dangerous."

Glenn swallowed hard, remembering what had happened to Niles' family after his death. "What will happen to them – her family?"

Silas shook his head. "Probably nothing – at least not right away. No one will want to draw attention to this sort of thing. As far as most people are concerned, she's just another unfortunate tribute in the Games who happened to spout some gibberish just before she died. She didn't help that image by rambling on about a half-remembered dream. She'll be forgotten, and her family along with her. But I wouldn't be surprised if, later, they simply disappear. A few months, a few years, maybe more. Once people have had time to forget them, one day, they'll simply be gone. No evidence. No memory."

Glenn let that sink in for a moment. Grace, who had never uttered a word against the Capitol, who had been so careful to hide her beliefs, careful not to draw attention to herself, had been singled out for death, along with her family. And for what? For believing in something better? Something kinder? Something nobler?

And now they would be forgotten, without another word. Ignored by the Capitol. Shunned by those who had known them. With no one to remember who they were and what they had stood for.

Glenn shook his head. No. They would not be forgotten. Not completely. He would see to that.

He would remember.

"Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams. Against this peril, we can never surrender."