Dawn broke quietly over the forest on the sixth day of the Hunger Games.
Alone in a tiny clearing lay the male tribute from District 7. Small blond hairs had begun to regrow on his formerly bare scalp, but Tarras was too far away to notice them. A tarp was stretched between trees above his head; its center sagged from the weight of the rainwater that had collected on it. In his right hand, he clenched the handle of his machete tightly, even in sleep. Nearby lay a black messenger bag carrying his supplies.
From her vantage point in a branch above the clearing, Tarras couldn't see any of his traps, but she knew beyond doubt that they were there. When she first tracked him to his camp, she had almost triggered one inadvertently. Despite all her training and practice, she had come very close to dying that day. Instead, she had caught sight of a tripwire, thinner than spider's silk, and stopped in time to save herself.
By the time she'd finally caught up to him, night had fallen, and he was fast asleep, protected by the multitude of traps that Tarras didn't dare try to locate. It was much safer to withdraw and ambush him outside the camp. She'd spent an hour searching for the right spot to stage the ambush before settling on a tactic her trainers had taught her, one that had been attempted three times in previous Games and had been successful once. She just hoped she had measured out the rope correctly, or the results could be disastrous.
Below her, her spear was planted blade-first in the dark soil, rising diagonally out of the ground. Beside it lay her pack; she'd taken out some of the supplies and hidden them nearby, just in case another tribute happened to stumble upon the pack while she waited. She had positioned the spear and pack so that the spot directly under her branch was between the boy's clearing and her belongings. A rope secured her ankle to the base of the branch; most of its length was coiled around her shoulders and arms so it wouldn't droop down, potentially alerting the boy to her presence. Her left hand impatiently tapped the pommel of her short sword; she had been crouching on the branch for hours, and her legs were sore.
At last, he began to stir. She immediately straightened up and focused all her attention on him. Slowly, he rose and stretched, yawning complacently. He walked a few feet to his right, crouched down, and began moving something with the hand that wasn't holding his machete. He was disarming his traps. A wise move, Tarras reflected. If he were forced to flee to his campsite during the day, he wouldn't risk triggering one of his own traps.
As he moved toward the tree that hid Tarras, disarming traps along the way, the shape of the spear caught his eye. He raised his machete cautiously and began to move toward it to investigate, eyes fixed on the spear. Above, Tarras quietly, slowly stood up straight, drawing her short sword as she did so. She faced the same direction as him. Her right arm held out her sword, pointed directly forward; her left hand gathered and held the section of rope wrapped around her shoulders. She listened carefully, waiting for him to pass under her branch. When she thought he was in position, she dropped the extra rope and held the sword with both hands. Less than a second later, she bent her knees and leapt forward.
Her world became a blur of green and brown as air rushed past her ears and sent her long braid flying behind her. She fell toward the ground, still holding out her sword in front of her with both hands. Just as she planned, the rope stretched taut before she hit the ground, causing her to swing in an arc toward the boy from District 7. He had no time to react; in an instant, she was in front of him, her momentum driving the sword through his chest. His legs gave out, and he collapsed backward. She swung back and forth over his body, holding her braid out of the way as she looked toward the ground to ensure that she'd killed him. His eyes were open and he appeared to still be breathing, but he wasn't moving. He was as good as dead. She reached up toward her ankle and started to pull herself up the rope.
When she had untied the rope and climbed back down, she immediately went to retrieve her spear and pack. Just as she slung the pack over her shoulder, a cannon sounded in the distance. Sure enough, when she reached the boy, all signs of life had ceased. The final look on his face was not the look of shock he'd worn immediately after she stabbed him; it was merely a cold stare, as if to tell her that his death didn't faze him.
Looking down at his corpse was bittersweet for Tarras. One of the few sensations she truly loved was that of a plan working perfectly. Inwardly, she was proud of her flawless planning and execution of a daring maneuver. And the fact that she'd bested another tribute in the process made her victory all the sweeter. But she found herself longing for the training exercises, when outwitting and defeating an opponent usually didn't mean death. At times, training was almost a game. Despite the name, however, the Hunger Games were not so forgiving. Many deaths had occurred in them, and more would occur before she could wash her hands of the entire thing. Some would be by her own hand.
Putting her foot on the corpse's stomach, she pulled out her sword and wiped it clean on her dead adversary's pants. She looked over the area around the boy's campsite, where an undetermined number of traps still lay. Disarming them would be risky, but ultimately manageable, thanks to the daylight shining through the canopy. Since she could repurpose them to catch food, the risk would be worth the reward. She first retrieved her spear and her supplies; with them nearby, she began the time-consuming task of combing the area for traps.