Hi all! Thank you so much for the feedback and follows/faves! It really means a lot, having this support and knowing I'm doing okay ;w; As a quick announcement, the deadline to Acta Sanctorum is now JUNE 12, basically me birthday because I like to try get birthday updates out, and this is because a lot of people either haven't had time to submit or just, y'know, too few tributes sent to actually write for any yet, y'know? So I figured I'd give both myself and everyone else more time to prepare.

So with that said, this chapter was getting a bit long so I decided to split it in two. This is the first of the District mentors, next chapter will be the second half, and chapter after that will be the Capitol mentors.

03 – MARTYRS (I)

Finnick Odair, District 4, Victor of the 65th Games

"Now this is incredible."

Those were the first words Finnick heard the morning after he announced he'd be mentoring for the Quell. Like usual he was up early, and he spent some time in the gym built into his home in the Victors' Village from dawn—and like usual, his first interaction with his wife and son was in the dining room where breakfast was being served. It was just, unlike usual, they were transfixed on a box mailed to them that morning rather than Finnick coming in from his workout.

It was a rare day where Annie had an almost bemused smile on her face, hovering over Blake as the young man pulled clothing out from the box and held it up for her to see. Finnick couldn't help staring for a moment. It was nice when things like this could happen, where they were just normal people doing normal things instead of lingering over the chaos that was the Games. With Blake out of the reapings since last year, it was hard to miss the warmth that permeated through the home more than ever.

"You think we can convince him to wear it in the Capitol?" Blake snorted as he passed a shirt to Annie. Annie, to her credit, cleared her throat and shook her head rather than snarking along with her son.

Judging by the logo on the box, it was most certainly sent by someone in the Capitol. Even after his victory years ago, with that expensive trident sent to him, that same anonymous sponsor sent him gifts during the years he mentored for District 4. Sometimes it was simple things, like pins or calligraphy sets, but today was perhaps the biggest delivery yet. And it seemed to be mostly clothing.

Finnick cleared his throat as he walked in. Blake was quick to shove the shirt back into the box, though almost fell in as he did so.

"Mail arrived?" Finnick asked lamely. Annie nodded, quick to stand and skip to his side. She pecked him on the cheek as he gave her a soft pat to her head, and then Annie was off to the kitchen to grab the breakfast she'd already prepared with Blake.

Finnick leaned on the door frame as he crossed his hands over his chest. He smirked at his son, and he barely had any time to ask what was in the box before Blake picked it up and planted it on the dining table.

"Okay, hear me out," Blake started.

Finnick raised a brow, still smirking. "I'm listening."

"That sponsor you really like, they sent something—obviously. They always do. But, like." Blake fumbled with the box's lid, probably regretting shoving everything inside so haphazardly. Even Capitol-grade mail had wear and tear to be mindful of. "You gotta keep an open mind for this. More open than the speedos they sent that one time."

"Blake, am I going to want to burn these as soon as I see them?"

"God, I hope not." Blake nodded at the box with a large smile. "They're genuinely the best thing I've ever seen."

"Then I'm sold. Now show me what they are."

Blake held back a snort of a laugh, going red in the face as he reached in and began pulling out some of the shirts. From this distance, Finnick could see there were words on them—but with pile made it hard to see what those words said, other than "fish" at the beginning. Well, whatever the sponsor sent, it was thematic this year. Blake held up one of the rainbow tie-dye shirts, pursed his lips as he tried not to laugh, and turned the shirt around to face Finnick.

Right in the middle of the shirt was a picture of a fish—some kind he couldn't recognise from this distance, but he assumed it was generic—and over the top and bottom of the image of the fish were two sentences: "Women want me. Fish fear me."

He was quiet for a moment. And then, ever so slowly, he began to wheeze and drop to the floor as Blake's arms shook from laughter. "Oh my God," Finnick whimpered. "It's beautiful."

"I am begging you—"

"I gotta make that the Four uniform. I can't not show this to Panem. I—I gotta, Blake."

Blake practically screamed, "Good because they sent hats and shoes that say the same as well!"

It was, for a change, one of the less depressing mornings leading up to a reaping he'd had with his family. Even Annie, who hated the Games the most and locked herself away with Blake out of fear of losing him was smiling to herself, holding back a giggle as she walked back in with breakfast.

Katniss Everdeen, District 12, Victor of the 74th Games

As the people crowded around her, pulling her and pushing her towards different rooms, all Katniss could do was call for Haymitch. Not even when the Games ended and they set her free from the arena could she find peace; instead of weapons and mutts coming at her from all sides, it was stylists and doctors and other Capitolites who refused to let her breathe.

She wanted to go home. She wanted to see Prim. She wanted to be anywhere but the Capitol.

The jab of morphling entering her system knocked her out on the spot. Katniss was just too hysterical for the Games staff to deal with while conscious, and she didn't figure that out until the white walls of the infirmary entered her sight. Light as a feather, heavy as iron, she laid in the cot and stared blankly ahead. It was over. She survived, just like she was told to, and she could go home. And maybe… Maybe Prim would never be reaped again. Maybe, if she was, someone would volunteer again. Someone had to care enough.

At her side, Haymitch awoke from his sleep with a snort. Katniss could vaguely smell alcohol nearby, the sweet and burning scent making her nose itch, but she just turned her head lazily to look at the man. He was stressed, clearly, and Katniss coming out of the arena calling so desperately for him must not have helped. She had to wonder, just a little, if he was just as shocked as she was that she was his first victor. His first tribute to come back home alive and well.

"Hey, kid," Haymitch slurred. He wiped at his face with calloused hands as he groaned. "Yer—You're up."

Katniss let out a long, slow breath and pushed out a weak, "Yeah."

He didn't know where to put his hands—on her own? On his lap? Haymitch seemed to settle for the flask on the bedside table instead, spinning the cap between his fingers as he blinked away the sleep in his eyes. This was… A lot. Too much.

Katniss sniffed. She turned back to face the ceiling. There were so many things she could've done differently. Maybe go along with Peeta's affections for her, maybe pay more attention to Rue when they destroyed the career supplies. Maybe just make sure Rue won instead of her, or listen to the careers when they tried to get her down from the tree.

If she hadn't cut down those tracker jackers… Would Peeta have been kept alive longer? Would she have found a different way to escape the pack? It wasn't like she would've died up there in just a day, and they would've gotten bored before they'd think to burn down the tree. So why did she cut the nest? Why did she listen to Rue? Why didn't she just… do something?

It wasn't the mutts that killed Peeta, but it was Katniss's actions that led to him dying that day. She should've known that the careers would lash out at him for her actions, especially when he told them to wait for her to come down. They would've accused him of helping her, of being her ally and not theirs, and they would've killed him the moment the nest landed on them and they ran off.

Her lip trembled. She may as well have killed him herself. The blood already on her hands wasn't going to come off any time soon, so what was a little more?

"They killed him," she mumbled.

Haymitch let out a sigh. "They did," he agreed. "You… You did what you could."

She shook her head. Her face scrunched up into something ugly and pathetic and fitting for a victor. "I did the wrong thing. I could've swapped places."

"Then neither of you would be here," Haymitch tried. Katniss, despite the morphling, let out a scream of frustration.

"How do you know!?" So many things could've changed, could've been fixed, so many others could've won, anyone but her. "He was strong! He could've survived! It should be him here! Or Rue! But they're not because I was careless—"

"And you know what?" Haymitch snapped at her. "I'll bet they all would've said the same thing if they were in your shoes!"

Katniss scoffed.

"I know how horrible the guilt is, Katniss. It eats at you and—and it hollows you out from the inside until there's nothing left of who you used to be. Do you know how much I wish it was Maysilee who won instead of me? How much I regret not staying with her until it was too late? How the only thing I could do for her was just exist while she died in my arms?" Haymitch uncapped the flask and took a long swig. His hands shook as he tried to cap it again, but gave up in the end. "We can't change what we do in that place, but we sure as hell can do whatever it takes so someone else gets to go home to their families. You volunteered for—for your sister. Do you think she'd be able to live with the guilt of sending you to your death in there? What if she started to self-destruct, huh?"

At first it was hurt that struck her, the fact that Haymitch would use Prim against her like that. And then it was anger, her fists clenching at her sides as her eyes began to water. Finally, resigned to the reality before her, Katniss relaxed her hands and sank into the bed.

"Just take me home, Haymitch," she muttered. "I just wanna go home."

Elios Privet, District 5, Victor of the 75th Games

When he was back to his senses again, the career pack was dead at his feet.

This was too cruel. This was far, far too cruel. He'd only left for a few hours, he'd made sure Cecily was hidden up in the tree with the perfect camouflage. Why did they have to send the jabberjays to give away her location? Why did they have to make mutts that crowded people that treated them with kindness?

If only Cecily hadn't fed that damn jabberjay on the first night. If only she hadn't been fascinated by it repeating the things she said.

Elios let out a shuddering breath when he heard one of the pack sputter in the tall grass. He'd missed one. Even in his rampage, he wasn't thorough. His mistakes had already cost him this much, and he wasn't going to take another risk even when time would take its toll on the bastard. Elios stumbled, dropped the hammer as his hands shook; it landed with a wet, sloppy squelch in the pool of blood forming around his feet. Was the grass always so glossy, he wondered? Or was that his doing? He couldn't even remember what it had looked like in the bloodbath, now that he thought about it. He'd been too focused on Cecily.

He had to do this for Cecily. She never deserved what they did to her.

"M—" the career tried. Elios waded through the long grass to the career's side. He'd managed to slice them open, intestines half-strung out onto the ground around him, and he was bleeding thickly from his throat. Not quite an instantly lethal blow, more of a nick that just managed to cut deep enough to kill with time. "M—Mo—"

"Calling for Mommy?" Elios asked, flatter than he'd ever heard himself. He could've sworn he'd lost all hope the moment he and Cecily were reaped, but he wasn't sure how he felt about being proven wrong. "After what you've done, you think she'll come?"

"M—" A sputter, a spurt of blood streaking from the wound on his throat. "Mo—s'er—"

Elios stared down at him. Ever so slowly, he lowered into a squat beside the career and continued to give him a blank, unwavering look. "Monster, huh?" he drawled. "I dunno, friend. I didn't kill anyone younger than reaping age during the whole Quell. You're the real monsters here."

The career's face scrunched up, at first an attempt to argue back—but then it devolved into choked sobs. "J—Jus' k—k—ki—"

No. No, Elios wanted him to know who he slaughtered mercilessly was. Elios wanted him to see himself for the monster he was before he died. Elios wanted him to die consumed by regret and guilt.

Elios licked his lips. He reached down and, with a tender hand, brushed some of the blood-soaked hair from the boy's face. "You know," Elios said, voice low, "I practically raised Cecily. That was her name. Cecily Privet."

The career realised what he was doing. He sobbed harder. Even just knowing his victim's name was enough to break him down, Elios thought, and he wondered if he was one of the kids who volunteered—or if, like Cecily, he was dragged into this Quell because his sibling had volunteered. If his sibling had been chosen for the Games.

"She always wanted to be a ballerina. I worked myself to the bone in the power plants to fund her lessons. I don't even have a high school education because I set it all aside for her. I wanted to see her go on stage and dance her heart out."

Slowly, his hand trailed down the career's face. He gave the boy's cheek a tender stroke, like a proud parent sending their child to bed after a big day. "Her favourite food was spaghetti. She never cared if it was homemade or if it was the utter shit we got that no one else wanted. She got to make a moustache out of the pasta and that's what mattered. Spaghetti is the only thing I know how to cook for her."

Lower his hand went, reaching his jaw. Elios gave the boy's head a slight tilt, forcing open the wound on his neck a tad, and the boy sputtered once more. "Her birthday is on Christmas Day. She never complained about that, you know? She was a little angel and always wanted to share her toys. I don't think she even realises she has a birthday. She just suddenly becomes a year older one day and she accepts it."

"Kill—M—Me—"

"No!"

Elios's hand slammed down on the boy's throat. His fingers, nails rough and jagged, dug into the skin and wound like claws. The boy howled and choked on his own blood as he squirmed under the organs that slipped further out of his stomach.

"You don't deserve to die without knowing what you did!" Elios screamed at him. "You don't get mercy! You never showed her mercy, so why should you get it!?"

Snot and tears clouded the boy's face, but that was fine. People only needed ears to learn how much they were the scum of the earth.

"She was six!" Elios screeched. The jabberjays in the distance, close enough to hear him at this level, began screeching the words back as they flew around in fright. Over and over and over.

She was six.

She was six.

She was six.

"And you monsters hunted her for sport the first chance you got."

In a Quell where those of reaping age had to bring a sibling of any age, regardless of eligibility for the Games, Cecily was one of the few under the age of twelve to compete. And this pack of adults slaughtered her without hesitation when Elios left her to hunt for food.

Bequeral Glass, District 3, Victor of the 79th Games

"You must be very proud of yourself, Mr. Glass."

"Oh, you have no idea, Caesar."

Despite the neck brace limiting his movements and one eye swollen entirely shut, Beq was on top of the world. He spent a week in that arena—a week in a hell almost as bad as the camp back home—and he came out with a title and a promise the Capitol had to keep. Even if he risked splitting open his lip again, he still grinned sharply at Caesar as the man sat across from him.

Everyone had told him he was doomed. He was underfed because of the camp's cruel punishments, he had a dud for a mentor, and he had no experience using weapons. But that just made him all the more dangerous. Words could act like venom, and when the venom got into an alliance's system, it was only a matter of time before they began to drop like flies. The dying career who'd tried to secure a win before the actual poison finished him off recognised that much and had warned everyone to target Beq first. Stupid fools were more concerned with the tributes trained by the Girl on Fire herself. Twelve was doing good with its chances for victors, always coming so close, and even the careers were considering them a threat. But it was still just five years after Katniss's win. No way would anyone reach her skill level in this generation and match the careers.

They knew there was a threat. They just never expected the pitiful, abused boy who got Snow's attention for one tiny act of rebellion.

"That was a riveting finale you gave us, Mr. Glass," Caesar went on. Behind them, the projector played the final day of the Games. Beq being beaten and choked by the District One boy, who himself was already turning blue and swelling up comically all over. "You held out just in the nick of time, my boy; and to one of the most promising tributes this year, no less! You truly made this year's Games one to remember."

"I should hope so." Beq grinned at Caesar. "I get President Snow himself to convince me to volunteer, I expose the abuses my District commits, I survive—this year was my year, and no one can argue that."

"Certainly!" The crowd applauded. The footage of the arena was switched out with a news reel from the week leading up to the Games. Beq purposefully kept his gaze away from the projection, instead keeping his focus on Caesar as that fateful day he was finally let out of St. Percival's was broadcast to the Capitol for a second time.

It was the one day Snow actually visited a District in person. And Beq had gotten the chance to shake his hand as the deal was whispered in his ear. Volunteer, and win, and establishments like this all over Panem are gone.

Sweeter words had never been said in his seventeen years.

"I don't think people realise just how much of a threat you were in there, Mr. Glass," Caesar gushed. "Anyone who bothered to do their research would've known. You orchestrate a whole uprising against the boarding school your family sent you to, you get President Snow himself to meet you, and you have quite the following in the Districts among children in your situation. I even noticed a few of the sponsors sweating when you started stealing their gifts for other tributes."

"It's easy enough to do when they're all on edge and trying not to kill each other."

"Truly, someone who knows how to weed out the opponent. Have you ever considered a job in politics?"

Beq laughed along with the crowd. Aiming for a political job wouldn't be a bad idea, though…

"I'll settle for something more theatrical, maybe," Beq joked. "I'm sure the people of Panem would love to see me again on the big screen someday."

After wiping an imaginary tear at the joke, Caesar began to closing segment of the interview. Beq had to prepare for the trip around Panem, for the pathetic bastards he helped take down to wish death upon him, for the adoration of those like him to be thrown his way. "Before we end this interview for tonight and bid you farewell on your tour, Mr. Glass, do you have any parting words for Panem?"

Beq leaned forward in his chair. He looked to the nearest camera, devilish smile on his face, and for a moment he let Panem see the true Bequeral Glass only St. Percival's had been unlucky enough to see. It wasn't luck that kept him alive in the arena, or skill—it was spite, and everyone was about to be made aware of the consequences of trying to smother a flame as bright as his.

"Hide what you do to those kids all you want," Beq announced, voice low and calm, "but Snow already knows. And Snow never backs down from a promise, I hear. You have no one to blame but yourselves, and I hope those kids get the chance to spit on your graves every. Single. Day."

The silence that settled over the crowd was deafening. Caesar had paled, stunned by the declaration, and even some of the Capitolites in the crowd had their hands over their mouths and clutching their non-existent pearls.

His bright smile returned, the charismatic and friendly Beq back in the spotlight, and to a stunned Caesar he chirped, "That's all I had to say! It was lovely to see you again, Caesar. Maybe I'll mentor next year and see you again behind the scenes."

As soon as he said the words, Caesar was snapped from his stupor. The man jumped from his chair, knelt down on one knee, and held out his hands as though showing off Beq to the world.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Caesar shouted at the top of his voice, riled up by the threat Beq had delivered to Panem. "District Three's own judge, jury and executioner, Bequeral Glass!"

The crowd's cheering was music to his ears.

Myrtle Hamilton, District 7, Victor of the 95th Games

As they laid beside each other, hand in hand, Maggie traced the bandages around the stumps that once were fingers. Ham had only lost three fingers, her thumb and index finger able to be saved, but it was still considered a tragedy that a carpenter in training had lost the use of one hand. Ham wasn't too fussed. She was ambidextrous anyway. It wasn't like she couldn't use the other hand.

Maggie looked at her, eyes darting over Ham's face, and she reached out to cup her cheek.

"Still can't believe this is real," Maggie murmured. Ham gave her a half-grin, brow rising at the words.

"What's wrong?" she cooed. "Can't believe I'm too faithful to die?"

"Can't believe you came back you."

The grin faded. Right, she'd worked hard to come back as the Myrtle Hamilton everyone knew. They'd told her how difficult it was to come back whole. She'd seen it. She'd watched her District partner fall apart and become a husk of his former self by the final eight.

Ham sucked in a deep breath. That had been Maggie's brother she'd had to kill. She knew she had some time before the tour started, but it was still hard to believe right now that Maggie could even stand to be in the same room as her. Her family hated Ham. Surely Maggie had to feel some kind of anger, or sadness, or anything. Soren was her brother, the only family Maggie liked, and Ham took that from her because she knew Soren would get himself killed slowly in his state. Ham may have wanted to prevent him from suffering, but he still had just as much of a chance to win as she did.

She let go of Maggie's hand. She turned over and left her back to Maggie.

"Hammy?"

Maggie snuggled closer, her hands splayed against Ham's back. Ham shuddered. Were Maggie's hands always so rough? They used to be so delicate, nothing like Soren's.

Ham cleared her throat. She sat up and slowly set her feet on the floor. Putting all her clothes back on was going to be a pain, but at least she came home wearing something long and thick for the weather. Not to mention, Maggie was probably going to be upset with her—causing her parents to chase Ham out of the house.

"I think…" she tried. Ham licked her lips and looked down at her hand. The first finger she lost was because it was broken and degloved in the bloodbath—right before she killed Soren. The other two… Those two were bitten off by Soren himself when she tried to kill him. Maggie may not have seen it, but her parents certainly did; Soren may not have had enough life in him after the bloodbath, but he had enough to try resist Ham when she put him out of his misery. "I think we should stop spending time together for a while."

Maggie sat up quickly. She pulled the sheets towards her, wrapping them over her shoulders as they were pulled away from Ham.

"Ham, what's wrong?" Maggie demanded. She was apprehensive, surely, but Ham pursed her lips and cleared her throat again.

The footage of Ham's kills would be played on loop during the tour. Maggie would realise eventually that Ham didn't come back as herself—she came back as something… not quite the same. Not quite as lovable, not with the blood of her brother on Ham's hands.

"I just—" Ham quickly stood up. She hobbled over to the clothes on the floor, quickly bundling them up into a ball before picking up her coat. "I don't think it's right to be around each other right now—"

"It's not right?"

Ham flinched. She didn't look back at Maggie when the tone took a sharp, disappointed turn.

"The Capitol is gonna have eyes on me for a while and I just worry—"

"You of all people care the least about what everyone else says about me. You helped me adopt a 'give no shits' policy. Where is this coming from?"

Ham shrugged on the coat and slowly began to button it up. Maggie was clearly getting more and more agitated, the longer Ham took to answer.

Finally, Maggie said, "I knew it. You found a sugar mommy in the Capitol."

Ham froze.

"Excuse me?" she scoffed.

"Oh, don't pretend like you didn't," Maggie snapped. She was standing up too. As Ham turned to face her, horrified, Maggie clung to the sheets like they were a lifeline. "It happens to all the victors eventually. Why else would you be doing this?"

Did she really think so shallow of Ham? Did she really take those jokes about coming back faithful seriously. They'd been dating since they were thirteen, and they were both almost out of the reapings when Ham's name was pulled. Did Maggie really think Ham was the type to—to have some action on the side when she was smitten with Maggie and cared about her more than her own family?

Ham was silent. She stared at Maggie, eyes narrowing to slits as she tried to figure out where this doubt had come from. Were her jokes really planting that seed of doubt? For real? Did Ham really mess this up all on her own with some jokes she was never told hurt?

Maggie sighed and shook her head. "You're a real piece of work, Hamilton," she growled.

"What—"

"You kill my brother, you come here and act like everything's okay—you take my virginity," Maggie seethed, "and as soon as that cherry's been popped, you wanna go running to your scummy, bougie sponsor?"

"I'm not—"

"No wonder you're so patient, playing the long game like that. Bet you feel like you got a big pair for managing to trick a girl like that."

Ham curled her hand into fists. She hadn't meant to lash out—it just happened. But one minute she was standing still, and the next she was in pain and bleeding from her good hand. The lamp on Maggie's bedside table was smashed, shards of glass and splinters wedged into Ham's skin like needles. Maggie paled on the spot, actually afraid of Ham now, and backed away a few steps.

With a deep, steeling breath, Ham kept her cool as Maggie's father kicked down the bedroom door and hollered, "You get the fuck out of my house right now!"

Ham looked to Maggie. Maggie flinched away and begged her father quietly to get Ham out of the house.

"I wanted time away," Ham muttered, "because you look so much like him, that it felt like I was on top of his corpse. But sure. Your fantasy is a lot less morbid."

She didn't even bother to pick up her clothes as she stormed out of the house.

Marjani Belladonna, District 1, Victor of the 96th Games

Julius stared at the design with wide eyes, dazzled by its pattern and delicate features. There was only so much time to prepare for the interviews, but Marjani was right to present the design to him right before going out for the chariot rides.

It wasn't much, her token. It was, as far as she could actually say, truly her most precious belonging. But it wasn't her only precious thing. It was simply the precious thing she knew would get the Capitol's eyes on her.

"Now this is a dress worthy of a whole gallery admission," Julius finally said. He looked at Marjani, doing a quick check over his assistants' work on her chariot costume, and then he folded the design up to slip into his pocket. "How long ago did you design this? It is yours, yes?"

"It's mine," Marjani told him. "And I've been working on it alongside my skills. There's more than one way to get the attention of sponsors."

"Most don't consider upstaging the actual Games stylists as an option," Julius remarked. "But it is a truly magnificent dress. I almost wish the parade was postponed so you could throw out some ideas for a chariot costume. Not that I doubt my own vision," he said quickly, "but my word, dear, it's one hell of a design."

She smiled sweetly at him. What a flatterer.

Marjani had taken a risk bringing the single piece of paper with her interview dress design on it as her token. She could've taken her mother's prized hair pin, her sister's earrings, her brother's cufflinks, so many meaningful things. But there was no where else she could get the validation she wanted than the Capitol. For all the luxury items produced in District 1, luxury clothing seemed to be the responsibility of District 8 more. Marjani never did have the hands of a jeweller. She was always most comfortable with fabric skimming over her fingers and a needle in her hand.

"You were smart to give it to us today, actually," Julius went on. Marjani glanced at him as makeup was applied to her cheeks, accentuating the gloss of her skin. "We may have material that mimics fire and the like, but making a dress that perfectly displays the progression from day to night is time consuming. And the stars would need to be smaller diamonds in particular—oh, but the clouds on the bodice would be easy enough. I hope you don't mind, but may I alter the sleeves to make it look a bit more…"

Julius wriggled his hands awkwardly around, probably trying to display the shape he wanted to make with the cloud design.

Marjani pondered for a moment. She wasn't too fond of having her vision altered… But Capitol stylists were sought after for a reason. Besides, wasn't she presenting it for critique if he refused to make the dress at all? There was no harm in having the sleeves altered.

"Sure," she finally decided. "Just… nothing too long. My elbows always get caught in longer sleeves and it's hard to move."

He nodded quickly, rushing to find paper and a pencil. "What if I merged the sleeves and made them into a sort of shawl? I can sneak in some room inside for your arms to move around while we keep the cloud effect up top."

It was a rush job, but when he showed her the quick idea of the design, Marjani blinked at the accessory in the middle of the neckline, just below where her collar bones would be. "Is that a… sun?"

"I have this gorgeous brooch I haven't found a good use for, all I have to do is get a new base commissioned and you can have a sun on your dress over the clouds. Is… Is that alright?"

"I—" Marjani's head was turned so the last adjustments to her hair could be made. Julius anxiously awaited her answer. "You think it'll look nice?"

"Sweetheart, when the crowd sees you, they're going to be too enamoured by this gown to notice you've left the stage and District Ten has started its interviews."

That good? Marjani felt her face heat up, lips curling into a smile. Well, if Julius was this confident, then what was there to lose?

"I trust you with my dress, Julius. And I'll be on my District's floor if you need to ask me anything else."

Julius wasted no time sprinting to his desk, grabbing a small device and rapidly punching in numbers and letters as he poured over the material he had on hand.

Ham from OG is a mentor now? Her name is Myrtle instead of Phyllis? Bec from Danzon is here?

Nah, Ham was revamped and I changed her name a bit, and she's sort of become a Ham 2.0 rather than being the same kind of Ham we knew. As for the Beq situation, I decided to go with his more draft design from before I sent him to Danzon, which had him as... a lot more troubled tbh. Though by this point the only similarities to the two now are appearance and backstory/motivations, so you can think of him as a new character who has a similar sounding name to the other Bec lol.

You can find the mentors at the Acta Sanctorum blog, which is actasanctorum-100 dot weebly dot com!