Morning 5

The darkness at Chiara's back burns somehow brighter than the lights of the Cornucopia. She knows that someone could come up behind them, unnoticed, at any moment but Chiara refuses to entertain the thought. If the fear creeps up any further, she doesn't think she will be able to push it back down again. She needs to focus on what's ahead, even if that feels next to impossible right now.

She watches Doran as he stares with squinted eyes at the receding moon. The fact that for several days it has sat unmoving above them has always been off-putting to Chiara, but nothing compares to the feeling of watching it disappear. Beyond the Cornucopia lights, there has been nothing but the moon to brighten the forest. Chiara doesn't want to think of the possibility that it may not rise again and that the darkness will simply swallow her whole.

Chiara nods at Doran as he turns back to her, but neither of them moves even an inch. Their plan is to use the darkness to their advantage, split up so that they are even less detectable, and try to get in and out uninjured. Chiara can't be sure who else might be coming, but she has her suspicions. If her counting has been correct, there are at least three big threats left and they come from the volunteer districts. Chiara isn't naïve enough to think they won't already be waiting nearby.

One more glance at the sliver of moon still visible tells Chiara that it's time to go. She doesn't know what to say to Doran; doesn't want to acknowledge what they're about to attempt or the danger that they're both walking into. When he grabs her wrist to stop her from leaving, it's almost a relief. Chiara doesn't have to be the one to admit that she's terrified of being alone again.

Be safe, Doran mouths.

Chiara nods. You too.

Every breath feels too shallow as Doran takes the first step away from her and away from the safety of having someone around that's even partially on his side. He wants to run back to Chiara and admit that he can't do it, but this is the only plan that they have. If there was anything better, Doran would have fought tooth and nail for it but there isn't. They're out of food and Doran knows they're running out of chances too. Still, that doesn't make walking away any easier.

One choice- run in or starve? When Doran thinks of it like this, there's no contest between the options. They haven't gotten a single sponsor between the two of them. If they don't get food here, he's fairly certain that there isn't going to be any heading their way.

Doran stops when his legs are trembling too forcefully to keep walking and he hopes that this is far enough. Even the shroud of darkness at his back isn't enough to make Doran feel hidden, but he tries to train his focus on the lit space ahead. The lights shining over the Cornucopia are bright enough that he can see inside, but there's nothing amiss from the last time they were here.

He drums his fingertips on the handle of his knife, cringing when he realizes how normal that seems right now. There is only a crack of moonlight still hovering over the horizon, and Doran finds no comfort in staring into the growing shadows. The light ahead is all that he allows himself to look at, even as the wind rustles the branches nearby.

Doran takes a deep breath and slides the weapon into his hand. After spending his every waking hour avoiding danger, it feels wrong to point his toes towards it but he doesn't stop himself. A brief thought flashes through his mind, reminding Doran that he could easily turn around right now and save himself.

He ignores it. Arena life is not the same as at home. Doran doesn't have time to overthink or wonder what if at every step. Here, he doesn't have the privilege of taking forever to decide something that should be such an easy choice. There is only time for yes or no. Run or starve. Live or die.

He can only hope that he'll make it back home where he can take all the time in the world to decide. For now, however, Doran's choice isn't going to change and it plants his feet firmly in the dampened soil.

Jordan doesn't have to think about what he's doing anymore, it's like his muscles already know better. When he sees the tribute standing at the edge of the clearing, no doubt waiting for the feast to begin, Jordan doesn't hesitate. He clamps his hand over the boy's mouth, prepared to stifle a scream as the spear cuts easily through his abdomen.

Doran fights against his hand, eyes widening when he sees the face appear in front of him. Nausea washes over Doran in sync with the agony radiating up from his stomach, but any chance at a scream dies on his lips. Doran can't be sure when exactly his feet fold under him, but the next time he opens his eyes all he sees is shadowed dirt speckled with red.

Home feels like a faraway thought compared to the stretched shadows looming over Doran. The thought of choosing seems like an impossibility when he realizes that someone else has already decided for him.

Jordan doesn't bother to stare at the dying boy, in fact he doesn't even cast another glance in that direction. He knows that it won't change anything. It won't put the blood back in his body or make Jordan wish away the tingling excitement that has already crawled into his fingertips. He isn't going to stand here and regret killing someone who was going to die anyways. There's no point.

Does it make him a horrible person to use every single advantage to fight for himself in this place? That's exactly what everyone has always done; they use their money and their status to get further, leaving people like Jordan in the dust where they begin to believe they belong. He's using his strength and skill to better his own chances. It's stupid to hold himself to a higher moral standard than anyone else. It would be a death sentence to even try.

He shouldn't have to feel sorry for any of this.

Jordan watches the last inch of moonlight dissolve beyond the horizon, knowing that he's not anywhere close to finished yet. There is a second of stillness before a sheet of darkness descends over him, raising every hair to attention. Jordan blinks to regain his bearings, but there is nothing to see when his eyelids lift. The darkness doesn't end at the Cornucopia, where the stadium lights illuminated the clearing just seconds ago. No, it's everywhere.

He stands perfectly still, something deep down unable to trust the shadows that feel so suddenly heavy against his skin. The sound of cannon fire sends Jordan to his knees and he grits his teeth against the frightened tears that well up. He hates the trembling that echoes up his limbs and the fear that crawls alongside it. It feels so foreign even though he knows that, just a few days ago, it would have been all too familiar.

Orange light grows in front of him, followed by the sound of platforms clicking into place that Jordan will never forget. The scene that has taken over the clearing should unnerve him, maybe even frighten him, but that's impossible with the echo of darkness still stuck behind his eyes. Anything is better than being trapped in the shadows.

A long table stands where the crates had just been, its surface dotted with equal parts food and flickering candles. Seven places have been meticulously set, complete with silverware and a small white bag each. Chairs have even been laid with white cloth and tucked neatly between the table legs. Surrounding the feast are the familiar silver platforms each holding their own set of candles. He doesn't take the time to count them, but if he were to bet he would confidently say that there were twenty-four.

Adrenaline tells Jordan to run to them, but he knows that patience will pay off. The first tribute in will be bait, and Jordan will go for the second one. How many people will die here? Jordan can only wonder as he waits for movement. He's certain, however, that soon there will only be one left and he's almost as sure that the one will be him.

Ashara isn't sure if the warmth that flushes her face is from the dozens of tiny flames or from her own racing nerves. Either way, she doesn't have time to think about it. Ashara's eyes remain trained on the sprinting shadow, but she doesn't dare ignore her periphery. She's fully aware that she's taking a risk running in now when there could be four others waiting on the outskirts. If she sits any longer, though, Ashara might not be able to convince herself to go in at all.

Ashara should have seen their movement coming, should have understood the fact that they would go right for the feast. Instead, she finds herself trailing several steps behind as the ponytail swishes ahead of her. Of course, food would have been the thing to draw this tribute here; no doubt they haven't been showered with half the sponsors Ashara has already received.

She sprints after the tribute, but it doesn't feel like Ashara is gaining enough ground to catch them. That is, until they pause briefly at the side of the table. If there had been any doubt in Ashara's mind that they were here for food, it's long gone now.

She catches view of the girl's face as she rushes a glance back at Ashara. Even in the warped shadows, she knows exactly who it is. It's the District 4 girl that followed them in training yet seemed to want nothing to do with them. The one who Ashara hoped might be a little bit like her.

The recognition doesn't matter, however, because Ashara is more than prepared for that slight pause. She pushes herself to close the distance between them. It bothers Ashara more than she would like to admit that, even as she's being chased, Noemma is still trying to pull food into her pockets. Thankfully, she stops as Ashara gets closer and she no longer has to think about it.

Noemma moves just in time, but Ashara doesn't allow her the precious seconds to think through an escape. She lunges for the tribute, catching her arm and using momentum to push Noemma to the ground. There is no distinct difference in size between the two girls, but even a single year of training gives Ashara the advantage. Noemma gasps as she hits soil, clutching her spear tightly but clearly having little idea how to counter Ashara's advances.

Ashara almost doesn't register the shadow as it forces itself against her body. Before she can adjust her stance, she hears a sharp thud as the back of her head collides with the side of the table. Specks dot her vision as her chin lulls forward, but thankfully the table isn't quite as solid as it looks. Pain radiates from her skull and tries to force her eyes shut. It's only a few seconds before Ashara has no choice but to give in.

Noemma screams as the two tributes collide, sending the girl straight back into the table. Candles tumble to the ground and tiny flames flicker out as they hit the damp ground. For a moment, all she can do is stare but as soon as Jordan's eyes meet hers, Noemma's legs remember that they can move. She forgets about the food behind her, the entire reason she ran out into the clearing in the first place. Nothing else matters besides the thumping of her boots against the soil.

The darkness is suffocating as Noemma runs further away from the clearing. The candlelight doesn't travel nearly far enough, and she soon finds herself staring into a curtain of black. Fear boils up from her stomach, but as long as the sound of heavy footsteps still follows, Noemma has no choice but to run. The hand not gripping her spear darts out in front, hoping to stop a collision before it can incapacitate her.

Her boots stumble across roots and her hand scrapes against too many surfaces to count. Her mind is overrun with thoughts of Jordan; of how easily he tossed that girl to the ground and the way that he looked at her afterwards. Noemma remembers him on the first day, his weapon drawn and ready to take out Evi without a second thought.

The emptiness in Jordan's eyes just now that told Noemma she meant just as little to him. He would kill her the second he got the chance, even wanted to seek her out.

His footsteps are louder, and Noemma can hear the cracking branches catching up to her. He's faster than she is, but he's running just as blindly. That thought brings a moment of relief, but it's stripped away as soon as the arena lights up beside her.

Noemma's steps fall to the right, but the brightness finds her there too. It's barely a stripe of light, but in the darkness it might as well have been the sun itself coming down to greet her. She turns her eyes away automatically, feeling no comfort in being able to see the path ahead. Noemma knows that this only means Jordan will find her more easily.

The steady night landscape, a nightmare pulled straight from her childhood dreams, is the only thing she can hide behind. Now, the dusty streams of light that stumble ahead of her are a dozen times more frightening than the darkness.

The air stings as Noemma gasps in a fast breath, dreading the thing that she knows is her only chance. She presses the spear out in front of her, grasping it between both white-knuckled hands, and spins to face him. The rays of fake sunshine burn her eyes, but she forces her trembling limbs to quiet. She won't be able to outrun him, especially with the spotlight trained on her back. He'll just kill her from behind as soon as he's close enough. Her only chance is to fight but facing Jordan now feels almost more hopeless.

Noemma's teeth chatter in her skull and her eyes are blurry with unshed tears, but she refuses to look away. She doesn't know what to do, whether to advance or let him come to her. Even standing feels impossible, but somehow Noemma's knees manage not to buckle underneath her.

Jordan stops several feet away and Noemma tilts the blade of her spear in his direction. He has to know that she doesn't have a clue what she's doing. She can feel the pressure of his steady gaze as it moves across her body, seemingly stopping everywhere but her eyes. That's just as well, because Noemma is certain she would burst into tears if they locked eyes again.

"I'm going to shower. Maybe you can talk about her strategy while I'm gone."

Noemma can still see the flat expression as Jordan turned his back on Venice. Every word since she had boarded the train had been about Jordan- his immense skill, his great first impression, and his excellent chance at going home at the end. In that one statement, he tossed her a lifeline and he probably didn't even know how much it had meant to her.

And now he's going to kill her, or maybe she's going to kill him.

Thinking about the first day, the blankness of his stare or the threat Jordan had apparently told Evi, doesn't change a thing. Even reminding herself that he wanted to be here and that he's likely responsible for at least one of the fallen tributes doesn't make her take that step forward. He's still the first person that gave her a chance when everyone else assumed she'd be long dead by now.

Besides, is Noemma truly any better? She also lays claim to one of those dead bodies.

"Don't come any closer."

A tear escapes down her cheek, but her voice is far steadier than it has any right to be. They stare at each other for a moment, but Jordan doesn't so much as open his mouth to respond. His eyes drop to her weapon, an exact match for the one he holds in his own hand. The seconds tick by, but Noemma can't make herself move.

They're both coated in grease, dirt, and crusted blood, but he doesn't look nearly different enough.

Jordan's eyes finally lock with hers, and more tears fall before she can stop them. Before right now, Noemma hadn't thought much about home. Sure, she'd had the odd nightmare about returning to District 4 to find it all drowned by the ocean or burned to the ground. When she passes the dripping stream, she thought about the boats and the waves she might never see again.

Noemma isn't sure why he reminds her so much of home. His empty eyes aren't like anyone she left there.

Tension boils in his every joint, but Jordan's muscles feel like they've been frozen by the cool night air. He knows that Noemma doesn't have anything close to the training that he does. Maybe she picked up enough in the Capitol to earn a decent score, but he's not afraid of that. The way that she holds the weapon, even, is clumsy at best. He could rip his spear through her chest before she had the time to block him properly.

Just the thought makes his stomach turn.

The spear twitches in his hand, but that's all the movement he can bring himself to make. Panic rises to the back of his throat, anger joining it soon after and both leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. Jordan untethers his eyes from hers, but that does nothing to calm the bubbling sickness in his stomach. He doesn't know why he isn't moving towards her. He doesn't know why he can't make his weapon point in the right direction like it's done so many times already.

Jordan hurriedly snatches the sealed bag from his vest pocket and throws it roughly in her direction. The flashlight hanging around his wrist feels even heavier as he grasps it again. Noemma flinches as the bag slams against the toe of her boot, but she doesn't take her eyes off of him. Jordan can feel the shaky gaze even as he turns away.

It's so much easier to head back towards the Cornucopia, his slow strides quickly dissolving into a sprint. They didn't make it very far, so it's not long before Jordan can see the faint orange glow appear again in front of him. He doesn't immediately see anyone there, but that doesn't mean it's over. Jordan doesn't want to consider the fact that he might have wasted one of the best chances he had to get further ahead.

It's impossible not to let his mind wander back to Noemma, no matter how hard Jordan tries to distract himself. She's no threat to me, Jordan reminds himself. I'll be able to get rid of her at the end if that's what I need to do. Maybe leaving her alive was strategic, the same with giving her the flashlight she failed to grab from the feast. He'll let her live until the end, then she'll be an easy kill when the time is right. Thinking about it like this lets Jordan hold his head a little higher, even if deep down he knows it's nothing more than a hopeful lie.

It's strategy. Jordan insists over the doubt. I don't care about any of them.

Delias had been glad when he saw the flickering lights surrounding the Cornucopia. When the moon finally disappeared, it was as if a dark curtain had been dropped over his head. It felt so complete, so suffocating, that even the dim candlelight felt like a beacon calling his name. Now, however, stepping into the clearing feels anything but comforting.

He'd considering not coming at all, but that felt like a cop-out in the worst sense. Delias knows that he could probably hide, blame it on the pain still shooting up his leg with every footfall, and wait for this to be over. The arena would send something for him, maybe one of the snarling dog-mutts or whatever's created the glowing white nets that cascade between the trees. Delias thinks that might be preferable to what's happening here.

Delias wants no part in the Capitol's feast, but his steps still managed to lead him here. He doesn't need the food, or anything else that they might try and tempt him with. Sponsors have been plenty, one even sending him an ointment to numb the hole in his shin that still houses the silver bullet.

There's only one reason that he's walked this far, and that reason is fear. He's not the most forward-thinking person, but he knows what happens to the tributes that refuse to play along. Delias might like to think that he's unafraid of what the Capitol could do to him, but no one he knows is that brave. No one except his father, and a lot of good that heroism did for him. He's been rotting in prison longer than Delias has been rotting in the Academy.

The trembling of the candlelight mocks movement but, looking around, the clearing looks void of anything living. Delias can hear the vague crashing of footsteps but they feel too far away to be of concern. He begins to think that he's been lucky, that either no one came or that everyone's already left. However, as Delias moves closer to the dressed table, a silhouette catches his attention.

As soon as he recognizes Ashara's face, he takes off towards her. She's cradling the back of her head, eyes open but squinted as she looks down at the matted grass. Delias kneels beside her, noting the toppled candles and dishes at his feet, but doesn't see anything immediately concerning. She looks dazed at worst, though the fact that she's lying here at all makes him worry. Ashara seems smarter than that.

He can't bring himself to speak, his throat tightening around his vocal cords like a vice. He wonders for a moment if he should be so fast to check on her. If she's injured, isn't that just another point in his favour? Another step towards victory that Delias can selfishly allow someone else to take when he's lost the nerve to.

Then, he remembers that it's Ashara. The one who stayed behind when he was shot, even though his injury could have meant another tally on her board. Ashara let him use her as a crutch when even his district partner wanted to leave him behind.

Delias owes her the same respect at the very least.

Ashara's head throbs alongside the pulsating blurs in her vision. The last thing she can recall is a loud cracking sound, which she can only assume explains the pain radiating from the back of her head. It's dark, more so than she can remember, but it only takes a few seconds for Ashara to remember where she is and recognize the person kneeling in front of her.

"Delias?" She asks, even though she knows the answer. The word echoes in her head, forcing her eyes closed again as she fights the sickness bubbling up from her stomach.

His lips part slightly, but Ashara knows him well enough not to expect a response. Delias reaches up and gently touches the back of his head exactly where her own hand is trying to press away the headache. Ashara begins to shake her head, but the immediate rush of dizziness almost sends her back down to the ground.

"It's fine," she says instead, gritting her teeth and hoping that her words are even somewhat true.

He nods slowly, eyes clearly searching her face for the lie that she hopes he can't see. Ashara appreciates the concern, but more than that she simply wants to push it away. She hasn't seen any of their alliance since the mutt attack, which must have been at least a day ago. Ashara already doesn't like the way her shoulders shrug inwards at his presence, like part of her still doesn't feel good enough to be near him.

The past hours away from the alliance have been some of the worst of her life, but Ashara has no desire to go back. She's not going to survive being a second-hand to anyone. The only way out is alone; Ashara has never understood something more clearly.

It's nearly impossible not to stumble as Ashara rises to her feet. Even just the flickering of the flames behind her causes her vision to sway, but she refuses to let it show. She wipes the expression off her face, reflecting Delias' normal stoic frown back at him. They might have been allies a couple of days ago, but things have changed. Ashara doesn't think she's imagining the hesitancy in his stance either and that brings her some comfort. He doesn't want to stay any more than she wants him to.

"Thank you," she says stiffly. She means it too; there was no reason for him to check on her. If Delias had been smart, he would have killed her before she stood up again. They're nothing more than competitors right now, in a game with one winner.

He nods and turns to leave, fingertips gently tapping against the remaining bags as he steps away. Delias' eyes stare down at the feast, and his back is turned showing more trust than Ashara knows she deserves. If Delias was smart, she would have already been dead. Unfortunately for him, Ashara is smart. In a fair fight, he'll beat her every time. If it's the two of them at the end, she will have survived through this hellscape for nothing.

What kind of person has she become that she could even think about hurting someone who just showed her such empathy?

The kind who has decided they will do anything to win.

Ashara doesn't remember when she grabbed the knife from her belt but, as she rushes forward, she finds it readily tucked between her fingers. One hand thrusts up to force Delias' head forward, the gasp escaping his lips not quite enough to stop her. His arm flies up to block, but her blade has already found its mark deep in the side of his neck.

The second of eye contact is almost enough to make her stop, but it's far too late for that. Delias shoves her away from him, and Ashara is too stunned to do anything but listen to the squelch of her knife as it's released from his flesh. She can barely catch herself before she hits the ground and another swirl of agony envelops her skull. However, even through the blurred candlelight Ashara is still able to watch the world turn red around her.

Delias' hand clutches the wound, but he can still feel the blood pulsing against his palm. Warmth runs down his chest as he tries to cough against the fluid filling his throat. He drops to his knees, not from pain because he registers almost none, but from no longer being able to hold himself up. Delias doesn't understand why he can't feel the agony that he's sure should be there.

His panicked eyes find Ashara, but her gaze refuses to leave the blood-spattered grass. Delias' hand falls from the wound. He knows that its futile to use his remaining energy to try and stop something so far out of his control. If people want a monster, they will see one. If people want to fear him, he can't change that. If she wants his blood to coat the soil, well he won't be able stop that either.

The thick darkness surrounding Levi feels like thick soup as he walks through it. Even his boots don't seem to hit the ground as hard as before, when the moon still lit the trees ahead of him. If it weren't for the dim glow of the spiderwebs, Levi would have been certain he'd been walking in place since the moon set.

He isn't heading towards the Cornucopia. In fact, if Levi had any idea where he was, he would make a point to walk in the exact opposite direction. The promise of food has grown more tempting with every passing hour, but Levi knows that death is the more likely outcome. The waterlogged energy bars are long gone and his vest pockets are still damp. His entire body still seems to fade into shivers every time a breeze touches his skin. Levi's in no state to fight even if he wanted to.

Sleep has been the only solstice he's found, even though his dreams are filled with spiders and gunshots. Levi isn't sure exactly how long he slept, but when he woke up to the opaque darkness his mind ironically felt clearer than ever. For the first time, he can think about Verdana, the girl he killed, and the boy he wasn't even close to saving without collapsing into a sobbing heap. Their memories might feel more like the lines of a storybook than real life, but it's almost easier that way.

One unanticipated benefit of rejecting the feast is the feeling of undeserved safety surrounding him. There've been two cannons since he woke up, and Levi has no doubt where the bodies will be. Anyone that's out here with him, wading aimlessly through the thick darkness, can't want to hurt him. If they wanted to win, they would be at the Cornucopia with the rest of them.

I want to win.

A shaky sigh parts Levi's lips as the thought fights to be heard. Nothing about his current movement screams victory, but that protesting voice simply won't go away. As much as it feels good even to have this single moment of telling the Capitol that he won't play along, it's also terrifying. If he's lucky, they might just think he's wandering lost, unsure where the feast is and hopeless to get there on time. Levi doesn't think they'll be that stupid.

He looks up to the sky, now almost completely indiscernible from the woods around him. He has no doubt that they're watching, maybe not the citizens whose eyes will be fixed on the feast but the Gamemakers certainly will be. He's ignoring their instructions and Levi can't imagine they're taking it well. They could be thinking of a hundred new muttations to set loose on him, of a dozen disasters to send his way, and Levi can do nothing to stop them. They hold all the power over him and the arena; if they want Levi to die, then he will.

No one wins by giving the Capitol the middle finger, but it would feel so good right about now.

They'd probably cut the feeds, ensure that no one would see even that tiny act of defiance. Maybe the creatures Levi's heard howling in the distance would finally come for him in retaliation. Nothing in the Capitol's perfect arena would change and that's infuriating enough for Levi to temper himself.

He reaches up to wipe his nose and is quickly reminded of the bruise still forming there. It's been a painful souvenir from the top of the rock wall that Levi just can't seem to stop aggravating. He shivers, remembering the moment when he looked down to see the spiders and tries to shake the image out of his mind.

What did I hit?

The thought comes from just before the muttations forced him back down the rock wall. Levi tries to think back, to remember what the answer to his question was, but his mind comes up blank. He can remember the solid barrier that his hand pressed against, but the arena had looked unchanged in front of him. It looked perfect, the trees and moss-coated rocks just like the ones he'd passed to get up there. Nothing was amiss and yet his hand would go no further.

Levi immediately decides that he needs to go back. It feels like there's something there, something that he missed the first time. Maybe it's a longshot and the only thing waiting above the rock wall are stones and spiders. Maybe it's still better than waiting here to die. Levi scans the darkness for only a moment before pointing his toes towards where the cobwebs begin to thicken. It has to be the right way.

Chiara passes the darkened flashlight between her palms, feeling some comfort in its presence even if she is far too afraid to turn it on. She crouches down for what must be the dozenth time, tracing the dirt circle with her gaze and following it up to the dimmed light post. This is definitely the right place. She drew the circle herself before the moon went down so that her and Doran would be able to find each other again.

Where is he?

Chiara isn't sure if it's truly been a long time or if the stillness has made the time drag by more slowly. Doran wasn't at the Cornucopia when she had run in, and there were still four bags waiting on the table. He probably went in after her, or maybe he didn't see the pouches at all. Doran probably just ended up on the opposite end of the clearing and that's why it's taking him so long to find her.

He's not dead. There have been two cannons, but they couldn't have been for him. The first cannon came right before the lights went out, but Doran couldn't have been that far away already. Chiara would have heard him if something had happened to him, she's certain of that. The other death, well Chiara was close enough to hear it and the falling silhouette was too tall to be him.

Then why is he taking so long? She can't help but wonder as the minutes tick by. Patience has never been a strong suit of hers, and every passing second only causes her anxiety to grow. Doran has to be alive; Chiara absolutely refuses to believe anything else. That means he should be here any moment with that stupid smile on his face, probably explaining how he got lost on the way over.

Chiara barely manages to stop herself from tapping her boot against the light post again. Is it possible that he isn't coming back? That maybe he decided he would be better off without her? It's not like Chiara hasn't been wondering the same thing. There are so few of them left and she knows the rules. It might not be the worst thing in the world if he left.

Except that Chiara doesn't want to be alone. Even the thought of wandering blindly into the darkness by herself brings to surface the same suffocating fear from the first night. She clenches her hand more tightly around the flashlight, the only thing in the stupid bag she grabbed at the feast. It's useless when turning it on will only bring the others straight to her. It's only meant to help the volunteers, the ones that don't care if they're found.

She kicks the light post as hard as she can. The vibrating pain that radiates up her boot is oddly calming, but it doesn't stop the tears from welling up behind her eyes. Doran left her; that's the only explanation that makes sense right now. He practically forced her to trust him and then left her behind like so many others. She should have expected it.

Chiara slams the end of the flashlight against the post as she turns to leave, flinching at the metallic sound the reverberates from it. A sob catches in her throat as tears continue to drip steadily from her chin. It shouldn't hurt anymore, this is nothing new to Chiara, but every thought of Doran just scalds her further. He's not coming back and the only thing she can do is pick up the pieces and keep running. Fortunately, Chiara's gotten pretty good at that.

7th: Doran Ibarro, District 5

6th: Delias Vayne, District 2

A/N: Hello again. Hope you all enjoyed the creepy forest feast and the slight change to our arena (spooky vibes intensify). I'm a little bit in love with my arena if you couldn't tell.

Well, there are only five kiddos left, and two games chapters to get rid of four of them. We're getting to the end of things and I'm pretty heartbroken that I won't be able to save them all to be perfectly honest. I'm not certain how long the next update will take but hopefully it won't be too long.

Thanks again to those still keeping up with the story in any way that they can. I appreciate all the support as this story quickly heads towards its close.

~ Olive