Chapter Twenty-One.

Training Day Two, Part Two.

Chancellor Darrian, 18 years old;
District One Male.

Halfway through training and Chancellor was having the time of his life.

Yes there had been a few incidents. He couldn't wait to wipe the smile off the girl from Seven and make Sheridan whatever-her-face watch knowing she couldn't save her anymore. Yes the Careers were now split down the middle and he knew that maybe they were stronger together and perhaps should have stuck it out for as long as possible.

But he also knew that he was stronger. Roarke's fear, Destan's obsession, Linnea's strategic planning – they all told Chancellor that he was the one to beat and they all knew it. He relished it so much. For all the bumps on the road so far, the highs had been so worth it.

"Pass me that ketchup," Chancellor said, gobbling down another spoonful of whatever meaty mush they'd plated up for him. "This stuff is surprisingly nice."

"Maybe you should slow down," Roarke said over his own plate. When Chancellor glared at him, he stumbled over his own stupid tongue. "J-Just because you know – we should get used to – you know – not eating loads."

"You sound like Linnea," Chancellor said, dismissing the thought.

Roarke mumbled something and Chancellor decided to let it slide. Destan handed him the red bottle and he sloshed it onto his plate, cutting another slice of meat and enjoying the Capitolite's hospitality. He looked around at the room as his plate began to empty and could see alliances coming together, little groups of outer-District trash forming groups believing that allies meant survival. Cute, he thought with a grin. He looked at the knife in his hand and imagined tossing it casually at the nearest table. What could they do to stop me? His knife would hit its target and one tribute would be dead before the Games had started.

He didn't, though. Destan was right about one thing – the Games were for the killing. As much as he wanted to wipe the annoying smirk off the girls' faces, especially Britta's, Chancellor would wait for the bloodbath to do the talking.

But … as he finished his lunch, he saw the girls gathered together in the central table, the same table they'd all eaten at yesterday, and felt his leg begin to bounce. Destan watched him. The one thing he liked about Destan was the fact he wasn't all brainless smiles and idiocy. He knew where they were. Maybe he didn't enjoy it as much as Chancellor, but he was willing to keep him around if only because having someone in the Arena might do him some good for the time being. He'd cut him off eventually, and he was sure Destan knew that, so Chancellor was willing to try and play it smart.

His bow and arrow would do the majority of any strategy he needed, but a little forward-thinking could potentially go a long way.

"I'm bored," Chancellor said. "I'll be right back."

"What do you-?"

Chancellor cut Destan off with a glare. "I said – I'll be right back."

Before his two allies could do anything to stop him, Chancellor found himself walking towards the middle table. So what if he knew he wasn't going to kill them right this very second? It didn't mean he had to just sit back and let them get on with things pretending like they actually had a shot at taking him down. Silly girls.

He smirked as Britta's eyes landed on him and she stood up.

"Hi-"

"Nope," she said.

"I was just-"

"And again – nope."

Britta wouldn't let him speak and Chancellor's fingers clenched into a fist. He banged it on the table. "Would you let me speak?"

Britta smirked. "You got anything interesting to say?"

Linnea and Neviya looked at their ally and grinned. Chancellor could feel the anger coursing through him but he did his best not to submit to it. It didn't matter if they all got along, if they thought the sun shone out of Britta's ass, none of it mattered. They would die – simple as.

"Chancellor," Linnea now spoke, facing him. "We don't need any of this, alright. It's happened – we're moving on. Whatever happens in the Games is going to happen. Why don't you focus on your own alliance?"

Chancellor shrugged his shoulders. "Destan and Roarke are just fine."

At the mention of Roarke's name, Neviya couldn't help herself but glance over at the table he'd just left from. "Is he alright?"

"Who? Roarke? Yeah. He's with me. Why wouldn't he be?"

Neviya's face contorted from one of care to one of frustration. "He should be sat here with us. He knows that. You know that."

"And yet…"

Neviya rolled her eyes and returned to her lunch, spooning little bits of vegetables and forcing them down her mouth if anything to distract herself from Chancellor. Linnea looked at Britta and frowned.

"And how is Destan?"

Chancellor knew the boy from Four was using his strength because Destan lacked it. He didn't really mind the fact he was being used as a weapon. If anything it was a compliment. Not that he needed compliments.

"Absolutely fantastic. I don't know why you care so much about them, they certainly have forgotten you."

"Oh I doubt that," Britta said, moving closer to Chancellor. "I don't know what you're doing here and quite honestly Chancellor we don't want you anywhere near us. I know that this is the Hunger Games and maybe it frustrates you that we're actually capable of normal human conversation, but you don't scare me. You really don't."

Chancellor picked up the butter knife that was lying on the table. "Oh I don't? You sure?"

He waved the knife in front of her and Britta's eyes just narrowed. He imagined stabbing her in the eye, the squelch and pop as eye-gunk mixed with blood would ooze out the socket. He'd push it in slowly. Up to the hilt. Hearing the skull fracture and Britta's screams turning to dull, deadly silence.

Later, he thought. Later.

Before Chancellor could do anything, Britta grabbed the knife, threw it harshly against the nearest empty chair, and used her hands to push herself up from the floor and onto the dining table.

"Everyone!" she shouted.

Oh for fuck's sake.

"Britta," Neviya whispered. "Britta, get down."

"No, let her. I want to see," Chancellor said with a smirk.

"Oi! I said everyone!" Britta's irritating voice, made for attention, pierced above the quiet chit-chat coming from some tables and all eyes fell on Britta. The eyes belonged to tributes that Chancellor did not care enough for to even bother learning names. They were nothing but numbers. Tallies and ticks.

Cannons.

Britta pointed at Chancellor. She looked serious. More serious than he'd ever seen her. He truly believed hot air blew between those ears in place of a brain. She'd done nothing to prove him otherwise.

"Y'know what? We all know that us lot," she gestured to her table and then pointed over at Roarke and Destan, "we've trained for this shit. We volunteered and you hate us and yeah maybe that makes us the monsters you so despise and can't wait to see die. And yes you're probably scared as well. Because we stand a chance and none of you do. But this boy…"

Her finger continued to shake in Chancellor's face and as eyes belonging to tributes that were nothing more than filth in his opinion began to turn and face him, he felt his cheeks going red and anger began to replace the fact he'd been genuinely curious to see what Britta would do.

"…this boy is sick. I've seen him push some of you, shoot arrows into targets as if his talent is compensating for something, and quite honestly, maybe we could have been scared, but he's nothing to be frightened of. The girls said no and he simply can't bend over and take it. Nope – he has to come up here and stir shit. We might be your enemy, but when the Games begin, think about who has personally tried to demonstrate just how fucking strong he is since we got here. Maybe that's the person you should all focus on first."

Every eye continued to burn into Chancellor and he felt the sheer rage shaking through him. His face felt fiery as Britta grinned at him, stepping down and taking a seat next to Linnea. The girls just gawped at her. It was complete silence. Chancellor was the centre of attention.

He saw every arrow he'd shot to demonstrate how strong he was. He saw the two girls he'd pushed. He saw all the faces he couldn't wait to slaughter in the Games. They were all looking at him.

And not because they were scared.

He stormed off, fists by his side, as far away as he could get.

Fuck them all.

He could take on whoever came his way. Maybe Britta wasn't scared of him, but she should be.

They all should.

Celestin Elan, 17 years old;
District Six Male.

Celestin still had no idea what had spurred him into talking to Altia.

Even now, watching the girl sporadically tie knots in places that she seemed to be getting frustrated with, Celestin was surprising himself.

It all boiled down to the simple fact that Celestin did not want to die. It was beginning to be the kick up the ass he needed. Beginning to be, he thought to himself.

Altia threw the rope in front of her. "This stupid thing –" She looked at Celestin who stopped himself from grinning at her. "I don't understand how you managed to do it?"

Celestin looked at the rope basket he'd somehow put together and shrugged his shoulders. "It's just making knots. Don't know what the fuss is about."

"You're annoying."

Celestin laughed. "It's a god-given talent."

Altia was lighter than she came across and Celestin enjoyed that about her. She'd almost come close to hitting a trainer that had insulted Celestin's lack of skill and something about Altia struck him as protective. A little voice in the back of his head told Celestin that he could use that. Altia's sense of justice could perhaps be an advantage in the Arena. But Celestin had quickly quenched that thought. He was doing his best to step out of his box but strategical thinking was still a lot of work.

Too much work.

As Altia looked over at her miserable attempt at something Celestin had somehow mastered, he heard a pitter patter of footsteps against the ground and turned to the delightful eyes of Maisley, tailed by two taller, older boys either side.

The Queen and her subjects.

He'd come to like Maisley. A lot. In a way that scared even him.

"Alright short stuff?" he asked.

Altia seemed to suddenly become quite uncomfortable at their arrival. She did her best to smile politely but it looked like someone had slapped a dead fish in her face. Celestin found it strangely endearing how much of a mess she was with her emotions. The fact he found something endearing was still foreign for Celestin. He hadn't napped at all since being in the Capitol. Some part of his brain told him there were better things to do with his time.

"See you've got a friend," Maisley said with a jovial smile. "I'm Maisley. District Six's better half."

"Cocky," Celestin said.

"Another lesson by my Father. Always tell the truth," Maisley said, extending her hand to Altia who hesitantly shook it.

"Your father is a politician," Celestin said. "No way did he tell the truth."

Maisley laughed and the boy behind her seemed high-spirited enough to join in. Celestin realised that it looked a bit odd him and Altia being on the ground so he stood up, his ally joining him.

"I'm Castor," the boy from Eight said, tilting his head in the direction of the other boy. "This is Ponche. Maisley told us you aren't the type to make friends. She was surprised to see you here, Altia."

"Charming," Altia mumbled.

Castor laughed. "I didn't mean it that way. It's nice – being here is pushing us out of our comfort zones. Isn't that right Ponche?"

The boy from Eleven, stood the other side of Maisley, nodded his head. Celestin noted he didn't say much. Maisley and Castor were definitely the type to steal all the spotlight anyway. Ponche must have been exhausted.

"Honestly, Celestin. It's good to see you've found someone," Maisley said fondly. "Didn't think you had it in you."

Celestin felt himself going red. Stop it. "I don't want to be alone. That's a weird sentence to say but it's true. Seems like you found some friends yourself."

Maisley nodded with a broad smile. "I think we bring the best out of each other. Castor and Ponche have taught me a lot."

Celestin noticed that she didn't say anything about what she was bringing to the table. It couldn't have been much. Celestin liked Maisley a great deal but part of his stomach felt queasy at the prospect of her dying. Of any of them dying. But especially himself. Which only made this entire situation feel completely extraordinary. In a bad way.

Before Celestin could say anything else to Maisley, out the corner of Celestin's eye, he saw another trio near the station to their right. They were talking and laughing like they were the closest of friends. Part of Celestin found it stupid, this was the Hunger Games after all, but part of him looked at Altia and realised he'd never get that out of her.

He doubted he could get it out of himself.

"Did you think any more about what I said?"

Celestin blinked at Maisley's question. "Huh?"

"That's the two from Seven. And Teak from Five," Maisley looked over at the small group with a smile. Castor and Ponche glanced over too. "Ever thought about a large group?"

Celestin looked at Altia and she looked at him. Before Celestin could say anything else, Sinta's laughter echoed over and he saw the way she was helping Bryce and Teak, and the way they helped her.

"Haven't got long left," Maisley said. "I'll see you later."

Castor and Ponche bid them goodbye as Maisley walked away with her allies. Altia looked at Celestin confused. "What does she mean?"

Celestin awkwardly looked over at the group and nodded towards them. "We talked about – I guess – Altia I don't know how to phrase the question, or make sense of what I want to ask, but-"

"You want to join them?"

Celestin didn't know what to think. He had given it some thought. He was genuinely grateful that he'd found Altia even though he was still trying to make sense of all the emotions that came alongside it. But part of Celestin looked at the group of friends near him and realised that in his entire life he'd never known what that was like. The Hunger Games was hardly the place to start exploring facets of his personality he'd never felt encouraged to discover but also … when will I ever get the chance again?

His mouth fell into a line. "Maybe being part of a big group isn't such a bad thing."

"More mouths to feed," Altia said. She sighed, nodding her head. "But, given where we are, maybe it'll be nice to just … pretend for a little while longer. They seem like good people."

"Annoyingly good," Celestin joked. "She doesn't stop smiling."

Celestin led Altia over to the group and the three of them paused. Celestin noticed how close they all stood to each other, how Bryce looked at Sinta, how Teak held the sword clumsily but seemed more proficient than Celestin would have thought coming from Five.

They were all helping each other to become better.

Maybe he needed that.

"Hi, Sinta," Celestin said awkwardly. "This is Altia, from Twelve. I was wondering if…"

"Sure," Sinta said with a smile. "You weren't exactly far away, Celestin. Why should a big group mean something bad?"

She looked at Bryce who smiled meekly. She looked at Teak who nodded his head. And then met Celestin's eyes and extended her hand towards Altia. "It's nice to meet you Altia. Would you like to train with us?"

I have four allies.

If he'd told himself before training began that he'd have even one ally, he wouldn't have believed it. But Celestin, at the end of the day, did not want to die.

He did not want to fight, but he was willing to do it with people on his side, protecting him as he protected them.

Maybe this was all worth it.

Becoming someone better.

Spelt Brassard, 16 years old;
District Nine Male.

From where Spelt stood, slicing at the dummy with his knife, he could see Iva chatting with the boy from Twelve – Damon.

The knife felt lax in his hand as he watched them talk, the blonde boy louder and leaning over Iva to help with building the bonfire. He couldn't see Iva's face but he knew just by the few days he'd spent with her that she was probably wearing that frown on her face. She would never swat away the boy, though. Spelt admired Iva. He hoped she'd do well – even win, if he didn't.

Nine deserved a little bit of happiness from all this chaos.

"It might help if you hold it upright."

His gaze went away from his District partner and her new ally and focused back in on the trainer. She was a curt woman – solemn-faced and a little strict but he liked her all the same. She hadn't beaten around the bush in telling Spelt that he was a bit useless with the knife. It only made him want to keep practicing. To feel like he could do something that would give him a chance in the Arena.

"Do you reckon I'm cutting it deep enough?" he asked, looking at the shallow gashes made into the material.

The trainer paused to observe what he'd been doing and shook her head. "Not nearly enough. Especially if it's a moving target. Skin cuts a little bit easier than this material but you have to make sure you extend your arm enough to catch them. The deeper the cut the less chance you have of them getting back up."

She said it with such indifference that Spelt found it disturbing. He looked at the dummy and pictured Iva, or Damon, or anyone else he'd seen in the room. He pictured skin instead of fabric. Of blood instead of cotton. Of an actual life being taken because of the knife in his hand and not just a ruined target to be replaced by another one.

It felt strangely metaphorical of the fact they were tributes and Spelt found himself hating it. He smiled politely at the woman, though, because after all she was just trying to help. He placed the knife back down on the nearby rack and wiped his sweaty hands on the sides of his trousers.

"I think that's enough for now. Thank you for your help."

She didn't so much as smile as she did twitch a little. "You're welcome."

Spelt was starting to enjoy the fact that he could drift around the room, watch other people and chat to the trainers without feeling bound to them. He'd made the decision already what he was going to do in the Games. Iva had told him on the Chariot that she wasn't the type to make friends but he always knew she had it in her.

Spelt didn't want that. Not because it went against who he was entirely. Not even because he saw allies as a detriment to his own survival. It just sounded easier, if anything. He just had to worry about himself. It made more sense.

He walked around aimlessly for the next five minutes. He eyed the pool and shuddered at the thought of returning. There was a reason he'd never bothered trying to swim before. It felt so tucked away from everything and ignored that he doubted there'd be a swimming element to the Arena. If there was he'd do his best to not act like a drowning fool.

He found himself directed towards the club station. Huge wooden batons, thick-studded metal ones and a range in-between were near the dummies this time. They looked a bit easier to use – heavy, but less skill needed. There was a girl already training, smashing into one of the dummies with brute force, and for a moment Spelt thought about leaving her to get on with it.

He didn't mind, though. It was just another tribute. They were all here to train.

He picked up a medium-sized club and felt the weight in his hand, switching it between both to see how it felt. Though strange, it didn't feel so cruel as it did wielding a knife. Maybe it was just how sharp it looked. How easily it slipped into the material and left a permanent cut.

He moved to the dummy next to the girl and heard her panting through exertion. She barely noticed him until he smacked the dummy and she jumped slightly, bringing the club to her side.

"Hi," Spelt said with a smile.

"No," she replied. "Nuh-uh."

She was shaking her head and Spelt couldn't understand why. He'd only come over here to have a go at training with a different weapon.

He decided to swallow away his confusion and continued to politely smile at the short-haired girl. "I'm only here to practice. That's all."

She seemed to ease a little. "The amount of people I've seen that've just walked up to others, strike a conversation, and immediately that's it, they're tethered in the Games. You aren't one of those people are you?"

Spelt didn't need to hesitate in answering. He shook his head. "I'm not looking for any allies, if that's what you're asking. I'm just here to train."

This time she relaxed and smiled. "Sheridan Sannah, District Eleven."

"Spelt Brassard, District Nine."

She resumed clubbing the dummy but with less force, eyeing Spelt as he did his best to do some semblance of damage to the inanimate feature. He whacked the knee and felt it go and then went for the stomach, bringing the club round with too much force and nearly sending him toppling sideways.

There was a chuckle next to him. Sheridan was laughing.

"I'm sorry," she said, trying to stop herself. "I shouldn't laugh. You're trying and that's worth something." She extended her hand, waggling her fingers and Spelt passed the club over. "I think this one may be too heavy for you. I'm no expert but from what I've gathered with mine it helps if you can lift it properly."

"I feel like that's obvious."

She smirked. "You think?"

Spelt chose a lighter club and returned to clobbering the dummy. Sheridan watched him and nodded which filled Spelt with confidence. He liked this. He liked Sheridan. She seemed strong, content with who she was and her position here. Though part of him found it strange – a strong girl like her not being sought out for an alliance.

"May I ask why you aren't with anyone? You've only got one day left."

Sheridan looked at him and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not against one. I've been offered if I'm honest and I'm still thinking about it. I could ask you the same thing."

Spelt thought about Iva and Damon and again felt happy for his District partner. "I just … don't want one. There's not much thought behind it really. It's just not me."

"Fair enough."

They continued training side by side.

Spelt felt a warmth inside his gut as Sheridan continued to beat the dummy, they chatted away, and after twenty or so minutes she left him to train by himself. He didn't need those connections but it felt good being able to speak to someone else. It felt natural and he'd never really seen himself as that sort of person.

For the time being, Spelt was content.

He knew it couldn't last forever, but he'd appreciate it for what it was.

Peaceful.

Damon Millers, 17 years old;
District Twelve Male.

What a bumpy ride this has been so far, Damon thought to himself.

It was true. And for maybe the first time in a long time, he could now forget about his life back home, the violence his father so perpetuated, and the fact that his District partner had been wrapped up in his family's wrongdoings for however long she'd been a victim of it.

Across the Training Hall, Damon watched Altia amongst her large group of allies and found himself smiling. Maybe she was a closed-off, standoffish figure around him, but they had history despite Damon having never met her before. He was pleased for her. He was pleased with himself. Somehow he'd found this strong-minded girl that stood next to him. Iva Giorgi was the perfect ally – the perfect friend.

He could now move on.

"I'm not sure about this," Iva said.

They were stood near the hand-to-hand combat station. A surly looking man stood gazing at the two of them. Iva had followed Damon; typically Damon being the one to latch himself onto yet another place to learn something new. He wanted to do as much as he possibly could because who knew what would be the most useful in a few days time? The whole thing was a little less overwhelming with Iva around even if she didn't seem so keen on where they now stood.

"It's simple," Damon said, smiling. "Isn't it?" His question was now directed at the man who simply shrugged his shoulders, clearly losing patience. "See! Easy."

Iva didn't need to be so unsure. Damon had always thought the best way to impress someone was to swagger over with confidence and force it down someone's throat until they had to like him. Maybe that was honestly why no one had ever given him the time of day. He was learning more about himself with Iva. And he was trying to help her break out of her shell just a little bit too.

"I promise to go easy on you," Damon said with a wink. "C'mon!"

Iva groaned, rolled her eyes, but as usual, a smile proceeded to follow. "Fine," she said, caving. "Do we just…?"

The trainer nodded his head and gestured for them to move onto the central mat. Iva and Damon stood facing each other and Damon found the entire situation strangely amusing. Iva's face now went dead serious as a bell rang but Damon couldn't manage the façade of a steely warrior. He grinned at Iva, took a step forward, and was totally unprepared for the left hook that smashed into his cheek, the leg that wrapped round his own and sent him toppling to the mat. Something sharp and painful throbbed in his knee and he groaned through the chuckle that he couldn't contain.

"Oh my god," Iva said, extending her hand to help him up.

Damon grabbed onto it and forced himself upwards. "That was … interesting …" His knee was painful as he put pressure on it and the trainer stepped towards them, bending down to examine it. It didn't cross Damon's mind that if he was injured it'd put him at a disadvantage already. He couldn't get over how funny Iva's shocked face looked. He didn't mind at all that she'd taken him to the floor quite smoothly.

"It'll be fine," the trainer gruffly spoke. "Might be hard to walk on it today but with some rest don't worry."

"Phew!" Damon said, laughing.

"I can't believe I-" Iva stammered, blushing bright red.

"It's honestly fine. I thought it was awesome!"

Iva tried to smile but it seemed half-hearted. Damon suddenly felt guilty.

"I-"

"Do you know what to do if it were to be worse than this?" the trainer interrupted. "Say you're in the Games and one of you gets injured – broken leg, for example. Do you know how to make a splint? Or how to administer any type of first aid?"

Damon looked at Iva. Iva looked at Damon. A silent no travelled between them.

The trainer latched onto that immediately. His finger lifted and he sighed, pointing to a station quite close to where they stood.

"Go over there and try to learn something. You got lucky, kid. I won't be around in the Games to help."

Damon looked at Iva who simply shrugged. "He's got a point," he said.

"Might as well."

The two of them moved towards the first-aid station. There was a kind-looking woman stood at a stall with all sorts of bandages and packs displayed around her. On the ground, looming over a dummy that had been ripped open in the abdomen, another tribute sat on her lonesome.

Damon put his arm out to stop Iva. She bumped into it.

"What?"

He nodded in the tribute's direction and grinned. "Wait a sec. Look."

She seemed an expert at stitching up the "wound" the dummy had. She dabbed something that smelled quite strong even from where they stood and wrapped around a bandage with ease. "I think I'm finished," the girl said to the trainer who beamed and joined her side. "I hope it's okay."

"Perfect," the woman said. "You've got a knack for it."

Iva looked at Damon. He waggled his eyebrows and tilted his head in her direction. "You said you wanted someone else. She looks useful."

"Yeah … maybe …"

Damon took a step forward, not really hearing what Iva had to say. "Hey!"

"No – Damon – wait –"

"Hey!" Damon ignored Iva and strutted over to the girl. The trainer left her with a smile at his arrival and she looked at him, confused and then glanced over at Iva who quickly walked over. "That was really cool. You know a bit about first-aid?"

Damon saw the 5 embroidered into her sleeve. Henley Pereira.

"I've learnt some stuff," she said, looking down at the ground, "here and there I suppose."

She reminded him of Iva. Not exactly unfriendly, but cautious. Usually he would have tried to lather on as much self-confidence on his approach as possible. But he was trying to learn. Trying to be a better version of himself without losing too much. There was always room for improvement.

"This is Iva," he said, gesturing to his ally who tentatively waved. "Do you think you could maybe show us some of the tricks you know?"

Henley paused. "I'm not sure. I haven't really –"

"Henley, right?" Iva said. The girl nodded. "He might seem a lot but honestly he's a nice guy and I think that says something about where we are. We're doing our best to pick up as much as we can learn and honestly, you seem like you could bring something to the table that we don't have. Give us a chance? Maybe we'll surprise you."

It was the most he thought he'd ever heard Iva say aloud. He felt strangely proud. A blossom of warmth in his chest.

She looked between Damon and Iva, then down at the work she'd been doing on the dummy, bits of loose fabric spread around and a smile tugged on her lips. "I guess I could try and show you something."

Perfect.

Damon sat down with Iva and together with their new ally Henley, he was committed to doing as much as he could to learning something to protect his friends. The Games were a scary thing but they weren't going away anytime soon.

He was ready to do all it took to give it his best go.

And for once – he finally felt like he had a chance.

It's so nice to be writing a third POV for these tributes. I have never done that before in the pre-Games chapters for my story and I know these guys so much better than I've ever known a batch of tributes. Genuinely can't wait to get to the bloodbath but also … I don't actually wanna kill any of them. Sad times.

Question/s!

Any tribute that has surprised you so far? This could be in terms of how you felt about them pre-Capitol to how you feel about them now. Or a choice they've made. Or anything really.

What's your favourite tribute archetype to read about in a SYOT?

This was three days again! Hallelu!

We've got two more confirmed alliances:
Teak + Celestin + Bryce + Sinta + Altia
Henley + Iva + Damon
Still more to come!

One more day of training and we will move on to the next stage of the Capitol. As I said, every tribute that didn't get a training POV in the first half, will get one this half. Training is honestly my favourite. There's so much to explore and develop that I didn't think I could do over three chapters of it.

Thanks for reading and reviewing guys! Means a lot.