Chapter Thirty-Six.

In the glow of the fire, Sheridan warmed her hands and tried to distance herself – body and mind.

Behind where she sat on the rug in front of the crackling flames, Sinta was busy talking, leaning back on the couch settled in the small cottage they'd stumbled across, absent-mindedly rifling through her backpack to check what they both had. On the table in front, Sinta's knife was stained with red, sat there almost staring at her.

She couldn't stop glancing back over, even as she kept trying to distract herself by chatting with Sheridan and perusing through what she had left to get her through the rest of the Games. Not only was she now a killer of someone who had made it their life's mission to murder other innocent children, but she herself had now killed someone who had no reason being in the Games in the first place.

For everything Sheridan, Bryce and Celestin had tried telling her, she couldn't get rid of that thought from her head. She did not like who she had become – but it was also a part of her. Ever since she'd stabbed Chancellor in the chest and felt the life leave his blackened soul, something had snapped in her mind. As if something about the first casualty of these Games – the sicko from One – had forced its way into her.

She was used to it, now.

Sheridan wasn't. Minute by minute, she was losing her grasp over whatever fractious alliance she still had.

"—I do wonder what my friends are doing. I can't tell if it's morning anymore. Everything is dark here, it's been so confusing—"

Sheridan heard the lighter tone of the girl from Seven that she'd seen flounce around the Training Hall, linked arm in arm with Bryce, filling the atmosphere with her radiance. But underneath those words there was a coldness. In her eyes, an emptiness that Sheridan could so easily recognise. Sheridan had killed too and Iva's death would be on her conscience for the rest of her life – whether that was about to be cut short soon, or for the many, many years she still had left. But it wasn't killing that had been the worst part of this for Sheridan.

It had been her goal of trying to become a better person, by seeing something in Sinta that she could latch onto, and watching the glimpse of who she could have become fall into ash. It wasn't just Saraya that was Sheridan's driving force to make it home, or the will she had to survive, or the fear of the unknown shrouded around death; it was Sheridan's desire to make something of her life if she made it out of this Arena.

With that thought in her mind, the alternative was impossibly terrifying.

Sheridan turned from the fire and rubbed her hands together, embracing the warmth. She looked at Sinta whose eyes were buried deep in her backpack still, not registering Sheridan as she stood up and made her way over to an armchair on the opposite side of the room from Sinta.

She couldn't be around her any longer. If anything, Sinta now unnerved Sheridan. She hated this turn of events.

"I don't know much about you, Sheridan. Not really," Sinta said, though still not looking over at Sheridan. "Have you got many people waiting for you if you were to win?"

Sheridan thought of Saraya and shook her head. Though Saraya was a good source of motivation, she was also a face that she could easily get lost in. Sheridan did not cry. It just wasn't her. But thinking about not making it home – it was that sort of thinking that shook her resolve.

"I just want to make it home for me," Sheridan said. "That has to be my priority."

"It's a good priority," Sinta said.

Finally, her eyes settled on Sheridan and she smiled. It was a twisted sort of smile. Not light like the smiles from the Capitol, but forced, because Sinta knew deep down she was trying her best to feel nothing over Sheridan. It had ripped her to shreds knowing Teak, Altia and especially Bryce were gone. Maybe she wasn't showing it in the way that people would have expected her to, but deep down she knew her heart had shrivelled up, her determination was quaking, and everything about the old Sinta was ripping apart.

She could still hear the terrified, gruesome and blood-curdling screams of Bryce being torn apart in that cave. Though Sinta still smiled at Sheridan, it was the sound of those screams that made her eyes seem empty. Because feeling empty was better than feeling everything else.

It was those eyes that made Sheridan's mind start to settle on one ultimate thing. A final decision she had to make. A decision she knew, ever since Chancellor's death and she'd seen what had become of Sinta, had slowly been working its way into her mind and cementing itself there.

When she thought about what she was considering and saw Sinta just smile at her, she couldn't help but think of the girl that had now been lost to the Games. A girl that Sheridan had been committed to fixing again – to bring back some of the light that had been stolen.

But it was now too late for that. Sinta was gone.

And Sheridan had to live.

With a new day now beginning, Sinta was glad that they had found this quaint little cottage. Though the door seemed to be ripped apart in certain places and the glass of the window was in shards by the entranceway, it was a humble sort of place that she could see herself resting up in. She was bruised up. Sheridan's shoulder had been hit quite badly by Henley and no matter how hard she tried to act like it wasn't bothering her, every time Sheridan moved Sinta could see her face crumple up with pain.

They were battered and bruised. Sinta couldn't help but feel her eyes slowly start to flutter shut, even though they'd just slept. Her entire body ached and throbbed with pain and exhaustion.

Though she drifted on the edge of sleep, her mind was still focused on the Games.

She had to stay cautious. Aware. But then where they had been emptiness, pictures of Bryce's gentle smile floated into the corners of her conscious mind and Sinta couldn't help but be swept away by them.

Sheridan watched Sinta relax and just stared at her, lying on the sofa, a blissful sort of smile on her face. The sort of smile that Sheridan had missed seeing.

Sheridan's eyes hovered over their new shelter and seeing the remnants of what must have been a pretty horrible attack, the blood on the carpet right by where Sinta now slept, Sheridan did not want to stay here. She couldn't let herself become idle and fall back into the shadows. This close to the end, as much as her body screamed against any sort of exertion, she was growing impatient and needed to get to the end.

But to get to the end, there was something near to her that was in the way.

And so, the thought came back into her mind, but this time with blazing ferocity, and Sheridan couldn't help but feel as if it were time. When Sheridan stood up, Saraya's gentle and contagious laugh shook through her head and Sheridan froze where she was, feeling her blood run cold, but she had to ignore it even as she walked closer to Sinta.

She had spent the entire time in the Capitol trying to not be pulled in by the sheer magnetism that this girl had radiated. The positivity of a person that Sheridan had always wanted to be, yet had found it so difficult to become. In the blink of an eye, that had been snatched by forces that Sheridan knew were not Sinta's fault.

She had become a victim of these Games even without her cannon in the sky. And now, for Sheridan to get home, this close to the end, she knew she had no choice.

She took another tentative step, and then another, finding some sort of determination in her gut that forced her forwards. It felt almost like an out-of-body experience as her hand found Sinta's blood-tipped knife. I'm so sorry, Sheridan thought, tears in the corners of her eyes.

When she looked at Sinta, it was a picture of the girl that had once been. A memory. But as Sheridan committed herself to what she had to do, those eyes snapped open, and the memory was wiped clean, replaced by this new, shattered version of the girl with the smiles.

A girl that may not have known boundaries, but had a golden heart nonetheless.

Sheridan was startled but did not let her grip on the knife slacken.

"Oh—" Sinta said, quietly, as if still caught up in the whimsy of Bryce's tender face, hovering on the peripheral. "—Sheridan?"

Sheridan just shook her head, tears falling, but the knife still pointed above Sinta.

When Sinta looked at the knife, she saw Teak, Altia and Bryce. She saw her friends from home sat on the wall, the smiles of her parents, the love she felt in District Seven warm and toasty in the air. And that in itself was peaceful, because she hadn't felt that since she'd killed Chancellor.

It was odd, Sinta realised. She had committed herself to winning because she was tired of all the horrible emotions she was feeling, but seeing Sheridan's knife above her had brought back the sunlight of a life she had once lived.

Sinta smiled and nodded at Sheridan. "Say hello to Bryce's family for me, will you?" And she closed her eyes, lips still perked up in a grin. "And the rest. Teak, Altia and Celestin. When you win Sheridan, remember who I was. Not who I am."

Do it. With wavering resolve, Sheridan stabbed Sinta clean through the chest, unbeknownst to her, but in the exact same place where Henley had killed Damon, here on the couch. Sinta went still as her cannon shook the cottage's foundations and she fell backwards, onto the carpet, pulling the knife closer to her as if for rocky comfort.

It hadn't been a new thought, killing Sinta. It had been there since the beginning of the Games – since she'd realised Sinta was initially holding them back, but then had become something she couldn't even recognise. And underneath it all, Sheridan had become scared of her.

She took one final look at the peaceful deathly glow radiating from Sinta's face, gathered up the supplies, and left the cottage.

In death, Sinta had found peace.

In life, Sheridan would find hers.

Destan followed Albie from a distance, doing his best not to alert her.

Whether or not she was aware of his presence, he wasn't sure, but he was doing his absolute best to control his temper and observe her from afar. So far, a lot of what he'd accomplished, or failed to accomplish, had happened because he'd jumped into things without thinking. Mostly driven by an innate sense of fear and lack of self-worth, Destan had grown impatient.

And he still was. But he didn't want to die, and Albie was up to something. So, he walked, watched and continued to think. He'd always prided himself on actually being intelligent – and he knew, from an outsider perspective, perhaps that hadn't been seen so far. Time to put what he valued into good use.

Albie, from not too far ahead, continued to weave through the trees, the jar rattling around in her backpack. Destan was doing his best to be as quiet as he could but in the still and silent air of the moonlit forest, it was impossible for him to remain totally inconspicuous. It came with the territory – Albie's entire being was lingering on the edge of waiting for an attack. Being so close to the end – another cannon in the sky not too long ago – she was now part of the final quarter of these tributes.

So close… come on Albie, almost there! Part of Albie actually smiled and allowed herself momentary joy at the fact she had made it so far. Armina and Shual would be proud of her, she was sure. No doubt they'd rather be in her position, but she could feel them as reassuring presences, and knew especially Armina would not take being one of the finishing tributes for granted. She wouldn't enjoy it, per se, but she wouldn't dwell too much on all the horrific emotions.

Albie had come to embrace them all. They were a part of her. The smile on her face was a welcomed addition to what she felt and carried with her on her journey through the trees.

Both tributes were completely exhausted – next to no sleep on their side, each painfully aware that the other could be up to anything. Albie didn't allow herself to forget that Destan was a Career and trained for this, but she felt almost cocky in her way through the trees because two of the Career faces in the sky had been because of her.

Destan knew that too. As much as he wanted to be able to say he had this in the bag, he had never really believed in himself enough to ever think so. Now that he didn't have the distraction of louder personalities and the masks to wear around them, he was stripped back to the bare bones of who Destan was. It was an ugly look, but a look he was ready to take if it meant being able to take down a girl that had killed both Linnea and Roarke.

The two had somehow become intertwined now – Albie with her plan to take him down and whoever else got caught in the crossfire, and Destan on his way to ensure Albie died and another tribute fell. He didn't relish what he'd done to Castor, but it was a necessary evil. He needed to win. He needed to survive.

Albie finally saw it, peeking through the trees, and she couldn't fight back the pride she felt in herself for making it back. The red fireflies seemed to buzz around even more in the jar, tucked away in her backpack, rattling it around at the treetop village high above as Albie cleared the way through the forest.

She stepped over a final root and took a deep breath, hands balled into fists by her side. This was a bit different to what she'd done so far. Linnea had been a sneaky kill. Roarke's an emotionally driven one in the face of Nikos' corpse, the final person she had any remote connection with.

Facing Destan was the pinnacle of everything she and Shual had tried to piece together. It was here he had died, the last of Albie's allies, and where she would kill another tribute in these Games. Though she had already taken down Roarke, it did not mean she was finished. She wouldn't be until she had made it out alive and could hug Armina's parents – telling them how much she had come to adore their daughter. Shual had a sister, too. She had to know how proud she should feel towards her elder brother.

But first – Destan.

Oh god, she's stopped.

He cleared the final tree, gulped down the fearful lump in his throat, and stood opposite where Albie was. At his arrival, the corners of her lips twitched upwards into a smirk, and before Destan could say anything or allow himself to feel the anger that was always so paramount on the edge of his nerves, she turned around and bolted up the nearest ladder.

Destan didn't think about it. He'd done his waiting, bided his time and not made his attempt to kill her in the trees. But he couldn't let her disappear in the canopy of the forest. This was his chance to overcome another obstacle.

He ran straight for the ladder and waited a moment. Albie had already made it to the nearest rope bridge so he wasn't about to stumble into her patiently waiting for him at the edge of the hut. Spear in hand, he clumsily made his way into a standing position and ran through the hut and stood the opposite end of the bridge, staring at Albie.

The girl from Three just stared at him back. A moment ago, she'd felt invulnerable. Now, she felt nervous. Everything had really been building up to this. Even with Roarke dead, it felt like her story hadn't finished. Not yet. Not until she made it out of this Arena alive in a tidal wave of fire.

"You seem like you know this place well?" Destan called, breaking the silence.

Albie nodded and pointed to somewhere halfway between them on the bridge. "That's where Roarke killed Shual. Dunno why – I was the one threatening to kill him. But he shot down Shual. It goes to show what people like him – like you – are built to accomplish."

Destan rolled his eyes. "Spare me your anti-Career rhetoric. We're monsters, whatever." He could feel himself bristling at her hatred. It felt misguided. Silly for a girl that seemed to always hold herself with such poise and intellect. At least from what he'd observed from afar in the early days of the Capitol. "Tell me again – what did you do to Linnea and Roarke?"

Albie felt her veins fill with ice and shook her head. "That's different."

"Maybe so," Destan said, gritting his teeth together. The humour of this interaction might have made him laugh a few days ago – now he just felt impatient to get this over with. He was done playing these games. "But you're still a killer. Just like me."

When he took a step forwards, Albie pulled out from her backpack a glass jar, filled with little fireflies that had become pinpricks of red light. Destan arched an eyebrow, confused. He wanted to make some remark but he bit his tongue and looked again at Albie's face, rageful but also focused, confident in the jar she held.

Which told Destan all he needed to know. Whatever it was – it was not good.

The second she went to unscrew the lid, Destan ran towards her. He almost threw his spear but if he let that go and missed, he'd be out of a weapon, so he stopped himself and continued running towards Albie.

Panic flared in her system at his quick approach and looking once at the fireflies, she took a deep breath, said a silent prayer to Armina and Shual hopefully watching over her from above, and threw the jar against the nearest tree.

Destan stopped where he was on the bridge and in slow motion, saw the jar splinter against the trunk, glass shards spiralling everywhere, and the cloud of red fireflies engulf everything in pure, rageful fire.

He yelped with surprise and watched as the blaze spread wisps of burning red, yellow and orange up the first tree. As the fireflies continued to whizz around, everything they brushed against became swallowed up in the vengeful wrath of Albie's blaze as she ran across the bridge and disappeared into the next hut.

Destan found his feet and quickly gave chase. If he lost her, then he knew he'd regret it. This was not a time to be scared, stupid Destan, but a Career that would take down his opponents. He would make it to the finish line no matter what.

As Albie ran, she couldn't help but feel the fire bright in her heart, willing her on as it seemed to overwhelm the entire area they were in. Trees became skyscrapers of fire. Smoke billowed up into the sky as the treetop village soon became caught up in the blazing hot spires. She could hear Destan behind her but knew exactly where she was headed.

There was a ladder not too far over the other side of a bridge. She could make it there, run away, and leave Destan to burn. Another Career, gone. Another tribute, gone. And Albie, one step closer to—

Where the fuck is the bridge?

Albie coughed, choking on thick billows of smoke that started to fill the area, the edge of the hut she was stood in now beginning to burn red-hot. There had been a bridge where she was now stood. She knew it. She was one-hundred percent adamant on that fact.

When she peered over the edge, she could see debris down below on the forest-floor, splintered and as a firefly landed on one broken beam from where the bridge had been, a pit of fire erupted below where Albie stood.

Fuck. Where Albie had felt joy and concrete resolution in what she was achieving, she suddenly felt the fear of a normal girl, a girl that just wanted to go home and not die, fill her from her toes to her dizzying head. She had nowhere to go. Nowhere.

Her eyes caught a tree not too far from the hut she was in but before she could make any sort of attempt towards it, Destan entered the small building they were stood in, gazing around at the area with wide eyes, fear trembling through his body, but the spear still in his hand.

"You!" His eyes landed on Albie and he couldn't stop himself but shake with anger. "What the fuck have you done?!" He choked on his words and could barely see through the fire that was spreading. The way behind him soon became blocked with the inferno and all he could do was stare at Albie as she took out her knife, the knife that had killed two Careers, and shook it in front of Destan.

Without plans or schemes or allies or anything, it was just Albie facing off Destan.

One of them, a scared girl from Three who had found her emotions but found them in a frightening way.

The other, a Career. And the one thing Destan knew, even though he had always doubted himself, was that with everything stripped back, it was an easy fight.

Albie swiped over his spear but it was over in seconds. The point of Destan's weapon skewered her through the stomach and she went still, agony coursing through her veins, fire stabbing into ever shred of her being, and then bizarrely, she felt ice creep into every pore.

Destan pulled the spear out, watched Albie stumble, and as her tear-filled eyes looked over at him, she fell backwards, into the wall of fire that she herself had created, swallowing Albie whole.

BOOM!

He didn't wait to allow himself a reaction.

The tree that Albie had been looking at moments before her death, now lingering on being completely engulfed in fire, was the closest thing Destan could see to an escape. He jumped for it, crying out with pain as he connected with the trunk and his skin tore apart as he slowed his fall to the forest floor, shimmying down the tree.

He landed on his back on the ground and cried out again, his head slumping back as his eyes seemed to spiral. Above him, something crashed down, barely missing his body. The entire world was vibrant hues of red, yellow and orange.

He found it almost peaceful.

I could … I could … drift … drift …

A branch fell from the tree he'd just gracelessly used to help him down, crackling with fire as it landed on his leg. He yelped up, kicked it away and stumbled around the area, watching the entire treetop village erupt into fire and smoke. It began to fall apart as the red fireflies continued to dance through the sky, landing on trees and spreading the flames.

It was so thick with heat, so blurry to see through, that Destan could barely make out the face looking at him through the wall of fire blocking the two tributes.

His heart froze as he made out the ginger hair and the spear and sword she had in her hands.

Destan turned, feeling the heat on his back, and ran for it.

Though she could not get to him, the fire spreading too much, Neviya had found Destan.

She knew what she had to do.

Celestin sat underneath the tree and stared out into the wilderness beyond.

If there were any cameras watching him now, all they would see was a hollowed-out version of Celestin. Dirty, greasy blonde hair that had once been kept well with lavish shampoo and luxurious showers. Pale face with splatters of blood, whipped with tree branches that had left delicate cuts across his skin. His body was shaking as he hugged the jacket round his shoulders, forcing himself as close to the thick tree trunk as possible for protection.

This was not the Celestin Elan of Six, professor of the art of napping, man of little care for anything but his own ideas and perceptions of the world. This was the tribute version of Celestin, who had somehow now made it to the final five, so close to the end, yet could still not see the finish line.

Where he had felt an amazing sense of determination in his gut, with Maisley's face in the sky and fleeing like the coward he felt, unable to do anything but watch her plummet to the forest floor, he now felt total and uncontrollable anger. Not just at Carys, but at everything.

He had once been someone that had seen the world for what it was but simply not cared enough for any sort of emotion. He was now someone who still saw the world for what it was, but could only feel anger, red-hot like fire pokers in his skin. He did not want to regress into some shell-like version of who he was, not so close to the end, a besmirch on little Maisley Corvac's memory when she had fought so hard in her own way to survive, but he had little control over what he was feeling.

He did not want to die. The shadow of death was so unknown, so unseen, that it left him absolutely terrified. Maybe all along he'd cared more about existence than he'd ever cared to admit, but actually being put in an Arena where that could be snatched away at any second, it had left him feeling things he'd never even known he could feel.

I do not want to die. Yet Celestin could not will himself to move further than dragging himself towards the pond, its placid waters still tranquil underneath the starlit sky. It was here that they'd first found safety after the chaos of the bloodbath, after Celestin had left Altia to die. It couldn't have been more than four days ago but it felt a lifetime. So much had already gone on. He'd seen not just himself but others he'd cared more to admit splinter apart into fragmented versions of themselves.

It did nothing to reinvigorate himself with a newfound respect for life. He did not care about the outside world. But he still innately cared about himself. Again, he repeated it in his mind – I do not want to die – and stared into the depths of the pond.

He saw what the rest of the country must have seen and felt a small slither of embarrassment at what he looked like. And then he felt embarrassed for feeling embarrassed at something so trivial. Maybe little snippets of the rich life he'd lived had actually bled into his own image of himself without him knowing. He couldn't help it – no matter how he might have tried he was still a product of an upbringing that he'd truly believed would protect him from anything like this.

Celestin continued to look at the cuts in his face, the horrible bruising around his eyes, the slight ashen twinge to his hair from the fire, and realised with horror that his reflection was smiling.

And Celestin was not.

"The girl you all thought was crazy is now dead," the reflection spoke, whereas Celestin just watched, dismayed with his lip unmoving. "It's what you become – here, in this Arena. You fall apart. How far have you fallen, Celestin?"

He splashed the water, channelling his anger at the world into a slap across the pond and as the ripples settled, his reflection's smile remained unrivalled.

"Maisley is dead because of us," it spoke, harshly, cruelly. "We always thought the world was so useless, so uninteresting, but did we ever stop to think that maybe it was us that was so useless, so uninteresting?"

Celestin shivered at the words that poured from this spiteful, horrific version of himself. He vaguely recalled Sinta shouting at the pond way back at the beginning but had dismissed it so casually. As much as he willed himself to not listen and to walk away, he could not move, he was fixed to the spot.

"Give up, Celestin. It's all we have ever been good for."

At those words, a bloodied hand rose from the water, fingernails cracked, skin peeling back as Celestin shouted and crawled backwards on his elbows. When he looked over his shoulder and then glanced back, it was gone, leaving nothing but the gentle, peaceful waters that he stared back in and watched his face reflect the horror in his own eyes.

I can't fall apart, Celestin thought, closing his eyes, feeling his body shaking, but standing up nonetheless and opening his eyes to glance around the enclosed settlement of trees. For Maisley, but also for me.

In the distance, as he steeled himself for the final five, the fight ahead, he saw a cloud of fireflies drift into view and hover over the pond. He'd seen them as nothing but annoying right from the beginning, and if Carys was to be believed, they were not what they seemed.

But in this moment, their light provided some comfort to Celestin, some sense of an anchor that grounded his thoughts and made him think about what could be if he just fought a little longer and did not give up.

The thoughts wrapped around him, warm and encouraging.

Then the fireflies went out, hovering bodies of darkness, and Celestin's heart leapt into his throat.

Run.

7th: Sinta Montero, District Seven Female.
6th: Albie Mathison, District Three Female.

Now that we have somehow made it through this horrific review scandal, I can post this chapter. It was stressing me out, ngl.

Two more tributes down! Final five y'all! Can't believe they've all nearly gone. This is weird. I've connected with these tributes so much ugh.

Let me know what you thought now that I can actually see it! Thanks for all the support!