.

—-—-—

venom

—-—-—

Claudia Lennox looks up the instant I step into the training room.

Amidst five or so other cadets, all of them in some degree of physical pain— a swollen ankle on the first table by the entryway, a crooked, rosy nose at the far end— I might have missed her, were she not so quick to jerk her head up. She only looks for a second, enough to decide she doesn't recognize me, then returns her attention back to the jagged, red-caked skin along the surface of her forearm.

Aspra's busy next to Claudia, bent over her wound, but without the intensity or sense of urgency I remember from when Dom was brought in, his own arm grievously wounded. I wait on the bench across from the first three tables, watching as Aspra draws her suture through the bottom of the gash, the first of several meticulously-placed stitches. Claudia's lip tugs to the side, Aspra's gloved fingers eliciting as much of a wince as Claudia will allow.

"Leaving soon," Aspra is saying. "Two weeks."

Claudia nods.

"What do they have you doing until then?"

"Basic training," Claudia says. "Keeping up basic skills and strength without overdoing it. Some running. Some weights. They want us at full strength by the time we hit the Capitol."

She winces again as Aspra pokes the point of her needle through Claudia's skin.

"Good," says Aspra. "No use burning you out before then."

She ducks her head, focused on her sutures. I roll my shoulder back, then stretch my right arm across my body, trying to loosen up some of the tension. It's not so bad, but ice has become part of my post-session practice to prevent some of the soreness that particularly heavy days will induce. For what it's worth, it feels like a waste of time and resources. I only do it because it's what I've been told.

"And your weapon work. You're working with trainers still, primarily? And that's how you were injured?"

"Yes. Valerius is… unforgiving."

Aspra frowns, glancing quickly towards the door as footsteps sound in the hallway. But it's just a pair of Seventeens passing from the foyer down towards the other end of the Atheneum, towards the rooms we're not privy to use yet. "Unforgiving," she repeats.

"Doesn't accept mistakes," Claudia clarifies. "I didn't counter him properly. This is what I get."

Aspra tuts, tugging the suture through again. "You would think they'd want their tributes entering the Games uninjured, too."

"This isn't bad," Claudia maintains. "Bet you've seen worse."

"It's not about that," Aspra says. "But forget about it. How are you feeling? About the Games?"

Claudia watches Aspra stitch her up, tugging the flaps of her wound together. "Good. Nervous, but nerves are good. Keep you grounded and whatnot."

"It would be worse if you weren't nervous, yes."

"It's—" Claudia hesitates. "It is hard, in some ways, being chosen now. I look at someone like Easton, as strong as she is, and she wasn't selected until her Eighteens year, right?"

"Take it as a compliment, then, that she helped select you. Hold still."

Claudia frowns. "Yeah. I don't know. It's… it's just changed things around here, I think."

Aspra doesn't say anything, focused on her work, but waiting for Claudia to elaborate.

"Like, you're supposed to be selected, and then— that's it. You've made it. There's still work to do, but that's— I guess it just always seemed easier, to be here." Claudia bites her lip again as Aspra finishes up her final stitches. "There's just a lot of expecta…"

I hadn't even heard Cavara come in. But Claudia sees her and there's a hitching in her shoulders as she trails off.

I tense, too. Aspra looks up, and only then does she see me. "What do you need, Scout?"

I hesitate, almost feeling like I should be leaving, letting Cavara have her space. "Just ice," I say. "For my shoulder."

"Do you mind waiting for a table to open up?"

"Oh, I'll just take it to go if you can wrap it."

Aspra pulls another line of thread through Claudia's skin. "It's going to have to be a few, then. I've got this, then Orin needs his ankle wrapped. If you—"

"I've got it," Cavara says.

Aspra looks up. "You sure?"

"Yeah. No sweat."

My heart catches in my chest, rattling like a stone in a jar. Cavara steps around me. She knows just where in the cabinet to find the wrapping tape.

"You going to get your ice?"

"Oh. Yeah." My fingers burn against the first plastic bag in the ice chest, finger pads sticking and then unlocking as I balance the ice against the outside of my shoulder.

"Right there?"

I check again, just in case. "Yep."

She tugs the plastic from its roll and presses the end of the material against my ice pack. "Hold that there."

I take it. Cavara steps around me, stretching her arms across my shoulders to pull the plastic across and around my body.

"Hair."

I loop my ponytail around my hand and lift it away from the plastic. She wraps the material around me in two, three, four layers. Her breath is faint on the back of my neck, the closest she's been to me in months, and my unasked question burns as dying embers on my tongue.

"That's enough," Aspra says.

"I was stopping there," Cavara says, her tone laced with irritation. She tears the edge of the plastic away so it adheres to the rest of my wrap, but relaxes her tone. "That work okay?"

I nod. Cavara steps back around me to replace the plastic wrap in its place on the shelf and I want to know, I have to, except the moment she turns around and I catch her eyes, truly, not from afar but at a proximity where I can finally talk to her— those embers die out.

"You good?" she asks, crinkling her nose.

A shiver runs up my neck, instantaneously, inexplicably. I frown. "Are you?"

There's a trio of marks on her throat— half-moons, faded red, like fingernails. Akello, two weeks ago, but do scratches last that long? And there's something else, something in the way her eyes fall and now just don't seem to meet mine, her jaw locks, her neck flushes just a shade, not enough to obscure those half-moons. Residual grief at being beaten out for volunteer. I know without her having to say it.

Of course, she doesn't. Not exactly. "No," she says, as easily as I would have waved off the question with a yes, of course. And, like I would offer no explanation, neither does she.

From the table nearest us, Claudia stands, her arm now clean and neatly wrapped in a bandage. Aspra's giving her a small bag of painkillers and reminding her to keep her stitches dry but as soon as she passes Cavara, Claudia seems to withdraw, her red-eyed gaze locked on her fingers as they coil around one another and scratch underneath her nails.

Cavara takes Claudia's place on the table without even a second glance.

Something swells in my throat— an apology, maybe, in a fragment that I'm not quite sure how to dislodge without it slitting my tongue. But for what? For her not making it? For Akello? Or for me, for saying whatever it was that hurt her in the first place?

As it turns out, it doesn't matter. Because as soon as Aspra passes Cavara a heat pack, Cavara's lying on her side with her arm out, letting the heat burn into her wrist, and I know I've missed my opportunity.

"Thanks," I say, looking towards Aspra but watching, still, to see if Cavara accepts it, even acknowledges it.

"See you later, Scout," Aspra says.

Cavara just closes her eyes.

I see Claudia almost every day before the Reaping: in the gym, in Aspra's office, in the locker rooms, where conversation precedes her and muffled whispers succeed her, the middle inhabited by reverent near-silence. In the gym, she and Elias have free rein of the facilities. If either of them needs ranged work, I'm forced to find another station to train at, whether Rhodes is there or not. If they want the whole gym, hell, Valerius will find a way to clear it for them.

In the training room, Claudia is mostly quiet— focused, no doubt, on the weeks ahead.

The looming pressure of the Reaping weighs heavy as the day eases forward. After sessions I stand in the doorway to the main gym with ice wrapped around my shoulder, watching Claudia or Elias work with Easton, Valerius, or any of the other Victors who come in to challenge them. I try to find patterns, look for what the two of them do that I don't.

Elias has a hunger about him, more aggression than I've ever exhibited. He likes to be dominant, thrives on intimidation. When Valerius yells, Elias doesn't wither; he awakens.

Claudia is controlled, disciplined in ways I've tried to emulate but with the physical and mental strength to afford a more defensive style. She's broad enough to establish control whenever she wants to, smart enough to know how to balance her offense with defense. When Valerius yells, her grip tightens on her swords, igniting white in grit, focus, relentlessness.

Their styles complement each other, and watching the two in tandem, I understand why Claudia was chosen over any of the others. Two is a team. Our tributes, ideally, will be unified to the very end.

If they're isolated in the gym, they're swarmed in the foyer at the end of their sessions by other cadets, curious and awed, until Easton snaps at them to clear out. Claudia seems almost uncomfortable with the Eighteens who surround her, still unfamiliar with her renown, but Elias doesn't mind the attention, whether it be from admiring Twelves or other Eighteens who've stuck around for treatment or access to the weight rooms down in the Vaults.

Because, of course, the best tributes are likable, too. That's how you get sponsors. That's how you tip the scales.

The train is packed for Reaping day.

Nico stands by the door, his shoulders back, secure. The train rattles around him and his body jerks, but he doesn't lose his purchase on the grated floor, his grip on the railing above him.

"Glad you didn't bring that coat?" I ask.

"Definitely too warm," he says. Especially in the pens, especially during the hottest part of the day, during the hottest part of the year.

He dons a thin, neatly-pressed button-up, the sleeves too big, folded up by his elbows, the front tucked somewhat awkwardly into his corduroys. It's the same thing, essentially, he wore last year. Only this time, it only takes two turns for his sleeves to fit. His cheeks are flushed, the stuffiness of the train and its capacity already making him sweat.

"Just follow me when we get out," I say.

He nods. Aris stands behind him, watching the stone buildings scorch by, simultaneously fascinated and not really watching. He never did like crowds. Which makes me wonder why he wanted to police them for the rest of his life.

Mom and Dad are somewhere at the other end. I pushed to the end of the train when we boarded, Nico following, knowing there wouldn't be seats but looking anyway, knowing regardless, space was best for all of us.

When the train slows, we let most of the others out first. I shrink to the side to let a couple of the older cadets, the few others from Flavia Solva, stride by. Then after the older couples, limbs atrophied with age, step delicately down to the platform, we finally move into the city center.

I try to keep my head down as we weave through the masses. Without Cas, without Avari and Khione— I'd stayed home to help Nico through his first Reaping— the streets don't seem as inviting, as bright and brilliant as they were last year. There's a sense of urgency that guides me towards the main square. Dread, too. Like I want this Reaping over with, and yet I'd be happy if it never started.

But, of course, the Reaping starts right on schedule, after I've nodded Nico towards his pen near the back and stepped into my own. Avari must have gotten here much earlier, because as other girls fill in around me, she's not among them. I catch a short glimpse of Iona and one of those chatty girls who set up next to Avari and me last year— like hell if I could remember her name— but otherwise, I'm surrounded by strangers.

Until Emory Arella arrives, red-faced, the loose hairs of her ponytail curled back against her scalp. It takes just a few seconds for her to notice me, at which point her lips curl up, more like a wince than a smile, but friendly all the same. There's no bad blood, at least on my end. I can't hate her for what I did to myself.

"Thought I was going to be late," she says, with a nervous laugh.

"And miss the event of the year?"

"I know, I know." She scratches her neck. "We had to wait for Flavia— she's one of the alternates, right, and she was having a fit over her dress not fitting properly in case she goes up. Not that it matters, she says Claudia and Elias were both there for their haircuts this morning. But, yeah. Good thing I made it. I keep telling her if she keeps making us late we'll all end up in prison and she keeps saying I'm a dumbass for believing it."

I get the sense Emory is trying to overcompensate in case I do harbor any grudge towards her. Or maybe she just likes to talk. "I forgot about Flavia," I say. "Glad you made it."

Our mayor steps out then, and as every year, begins on a long, systematic tangent about the history of Panem, our District, and our Victors. I want to appreciate it. I want to give it the same respect they deserve, but I can't. My mind is everywhere but here, on the days and weeks ahead. How long will it take after they both die before Valerius or Akello come marching over, rip me out of my session, throw me outside and lock the doors behind me? Why, this year, can I not feel like I can wholeheartedly trust our chances?

And now there's Valencia, as molded and vicious as ever, and her savage glee is enough to make my fingers curl, my stomach twist. Heat presses into my cheeks, my forehead, not from the July warmth but from within. Fever, or frustration, or maybe just fear.

"Firstly, our ladies," Valencia calls.

Her nails pinch together and draw apart in the bowl, like she's playing with her food before she eats it. I know it doesn't matter whose name comes out, but I can't stop the resentment from seizing me, shaking me in its fist until my eyes blur.

She plucks out a name, like a feather from a bird. "Zara Ganbold!"

Zara emerges from the 17s pen. As she mounts the stage, I realize I vaguely remember her— a girl who used to train, but never made it past 15s, or maybe 16s. Either way, she hasn't been around, and you can see in her arms how she's fallen out of shape, become slimmer and less toned.

She stands beside Valencia, watching the pens below her. Even in the knowledge that one will replace her, I can sense a flickor of worry in the way her eyes fall: Save me.

"Do we have any volunteers?" Valencia calls.

There's a pause as the District holds its breath, where I can feel my fate be tugged away from me, pulled first in the direction of half our volunteer pair. It's this moment, this span of seconds, that has the capacity to shape so many lives at once. One takes the place of another, setting an entire string of consequences into effect, reshaping not only her own life but everyone who associates with her. Any combination of volunteers produces any number of potential outcomes. But each year, only one takes root.

And when that pause has extended for just a moment too long, chatter picking up nervously, static prickling inside my head as I hold my breath, unable, it seems, to release it until I'm freed— one voice rises up above the others.

More desperate than normal. Like if she waits one second longer, her opportunity, so unexpected, so substantial, so fleeting, will pass her.

"I volunteer," cries Cavara Perrigon.

From the back of the stage, Valerius abruptly stands. But he's too late. Cavara has reached the steps and as soon as Zara is gone, the spot is officially Cavara's.

She stands before the district, hair tied up but still flowing behind her, curls long and fiery.

"Why didn't Claudia…" Emory starts.

"I don't know." My heart is drumming in my throat and it's suffocating, almost, because I don't understand how this happened. "Claudia will be punished. Cavara will be punished…"

You don't volunteer if you're not the intended volunteer. Ever. Things get convoluted if someone is Reaped who would prefer to keep their spot, but that's happened maybe once across every District that encourages volunteers. Not only does it disrespect the choices made by the Atheneum, it jeopardizes the very process that has given Two the most Victors of any of the twelve districts.

There are protections put in place for the reserved volunteers to ensure their safety leading up to the Games, factors that allow them to efficiently raise their hand and volunteer when the moment comes. At the same time, there are regulations, obligations, ensuring that, if you're selected and accept, you must volunteer.

Why, then, did Claudia not call out?

"You said she got her hair cut this morning," I say.

"She did," says Emory. "That's what Flavia said."

"Is there any way…" I stop myself before I can ask it. That Flavia lied. That she, somehow, ardent for glory, caught Emory in a moment of weakness and somehow, in some form, prevented her from volunteering.

Emory frowns. "She was the next volunteer. She would have called out first. Not Cavara."

So then Flavia didn't know. Then the question remains: did Cavara?

But if she did, why did it take her so long to announce that she was volunteering?

"What's your name, love?" asks Valencia, and holds the microphone out to Cavara.

"Cavara Perrigon," Cavara says, without taking the microphone. There's no savage glee in her announcement, no gotcha directed towards any of the Victors or any of the other girls below her. If anything, she's discontented, even hostile.

And again, my thoughts go to Akello. Where he is. What he's thinking. No doubt, he's livid, and by the looks of Valerius, he is too.

But what's done is done.

"And now, the boys." Valencia, none the wiser to the upheaval that's just occurred, steps aside and reaches for the male bowl. As she digs through the folded papers, I can't help but imagine how Elias feels. If there's already been one rogue volunteer, what's stopping another from rising up in his place?

"Neander Melnic," Valencia calls.

A massive boy— more of a man, really— comes staggering out of the Eighteens pen, his arms at his sides. Next to Valencia, who's so prim and polished, his brutishness is even more stark.

If Valencia is intimidated, she does a good job of hiding it, although she shifts towards Cavara just an inch as she says, "Do we have any volunteers?"

"I volunteer."

There's Elias. Okay. My shoulders loosen, and onstage, there's a sense of relief that ripples through the Victors as Elias, strong and tall and selected, makes his way forward to stand beside Valencia and Cavara.

"Elias Moloch," he announces as Valencia offers him the microphone. "I'll see you all soon."

The applause for Elias is more confident and comfortable than that for Cavara. But when the Treaty of Treason is done, and Cavara and Elias step together to shake the other's hand, the pair looks as though they belong as much as any other pair we've had. No matter the circumstances, both are trained. Both are prepared.

But is it enough?

As the last notes of the anthem ring through the square, Cavara and Elias head straight back into the Justice Building, several of the Victors— Valerius and Easton, namely— following. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall for the argument I know is coming, not just for Valerius' response, but to know how. Because as I follow the crowds out towards the train station, every cadet I see wears that same look of disbelief I feel.

Cavara did the unthinkable. All we can do is await the consequences.

"I swear, those rooms they get to go into— actually gorgeous. I think the floors were made out of diamonds. And then the couch that Elias was crashing on— softer than Cas's hair, I swear."

I'm not exaggerating when I say Khione has been bouncing around for the past forty minutes, a stupidly gleeful grin splitting his face. "And the trains. Dude. I'd go just for that. If I knew the place was so plush I would have actually pulled a Cavara and gone, too."

My stomach drops. The general response to Cavara volunteering hasn't been admiration, but disrespect, for breaking one of the most severe rules of the Atheneum.

"We're already setting up the sponsorship," Khione continues. "Pooling in a few dollars. You guys should give me some so my boy doesn't actually starve in whatever hellhole they have for them this year."

"Like you won't spend it on grass."

"Grass for Elias," Khione maintains. "Please. Poor kid's going to need it."

Avari has her eyes on the screen. Curiosity to the point of violence. Eagerness to the point of savagery.

"It's almost us," she says, low and through her teeth, like a serpent. "I want to see what happens in the front row."

Cas sits on the far end, his elbow curled around one knee. I'm wrapped up in myself in his beat-up recliner, while Elissa takes her seat next to Avari, Torin moves over for Pike, Khione sprawls out next to Cas.

I vouched for Mallen, but Cas said he didn't want it getting too crowded. Besides, Avari's never liked her. No use bringing in added tension.

There's us, now. District Two, the square, the throngs of cadets and other kids pressed in like paved tile. Crowds press along the edges and spill back to the side streets up to four blocks from the city's center. The announcer comments on our order, the form and near-rigidity with which we arrange ourselves. He's not wrong, but I'm hungry for the overheads to cease, for the cameras to focus back on the stage.

And there she is, Valencia Lavode, calling out Zara's name.

The camera crews hardly give Zara a second of screen time, scanning the girls' pen at the front of the crowd. I look for Claudia, but only see Cavara.

For the flash of time we see her, she looks stoid. Not like someone planning to volunteer on a whim.

The crew pans back to Valencia. "Do we have any volunteers?" she asks, unaware that the next five seconds are about to change our District as we know it.

There's silence which seems longer now, somehow. A nervous shifting in the girls' pen even as the cameras hold steady.

I still don't see Claudia.

And then there's movement. Because Flavia, right next to Cavara, has turned to the side. Cavara locks eyes with her and in a split second, two things happen.

Flavia's lips split apart in instant preparation to call out.

And Cavara sends her elbow into Flavia's windpipe, cutting off her cry before it comes.

"I volunteer," Cavara says, her voice offering only a hint of the desperation that her face has just realized.

Now we get to see, in live time, the reactions of those around her as she moves forward. The fury in Flavia's features, the confusion in others. The majority, of course, don't have a clue what's going on. Those are the majority who've never trained, who dropped out so long ago they couldn't even tell you Valerius' name. But if you've spent any time at a Two Reaping, you'd know that pause— for three or four seconds at most, if that— is uncustomary. Reflective of something dubious.

The announcers are commenting on it now, having a chuckle over the awkwardness of those few seconds, the sheer fear as it crept into Zara's jaw before it vanished entirely with Cavara's announcement. What they don't comment on, that we see plain as day, are the faces behind the stage as Cavara introduces herself to the district, to Panem. Valerius, his eyes cold with white rage. Nell, just as unforgiving.

Only Lyra, oddly enough, lets her face relax into the faintest semblance of a smile.

"Who were the alts?" Torin asks. "Flavia and…"

"Marlowe," I say.

"Not Cavara. So why—"

"Claudia," I cut in. "Can we please talk about Claudia? Because obviously Cavara shouldn't have volunteered, but she gave Claudia plenty of time to say something. If she'd waited any longer they would have let Zara go, and can't you agree that that would have been so much worse?"

"Surprised they didn't go that route, honestly," Avari says. "Considering the shit Akello's been spilling about the girls all year."

I stretch my shoulders, trying to keep them from tensing towards my ears. "Claudia had every opportunity to say something. She didn't."

"I bet Cavara cut her tongue out," Pike smirks. "So she could then take her place knowing she was the only one who knew Claudia wouldn't talk."

"Shut up," I grumble, too loud. Pike looks up, his brows pinching together.

"What?"

"Cavara wouldn't," I maintain. "And even if she knew Claudia wasn't going to volunteer, why would Cavara take so long to say something?"

"Got nervous. Scared of backlash."

"No—" I take a breath, trying to will away my frustration. "No. Pike. Listen to me. There's no way either of them knew. You saw how surprised she and Flavia both were."

"Yeah, because Cavara put her elbow in her throat and her eyes popped out of her face," Pike laughs. "Cavara wasn't the alternate. If something happens, you let the other girl take Claudia's spot."

"But it wasn't planned—"

"How do you know?"

"I don't," I say, heat rising into my face. "You guys saw the same thing I did. And I told you, Emory said Flavia said Claudia showed up to get her hair cut. Which means she was confirmed to be volunteering this morning. If she hadn't, they would have let Flavia know and she would have volunteered. If Flavia had done something, she would have called out immediately. If Cavara had done something, she would have. And both of them waited for Claudia."

"Cavara—"

"Stop," Cas says. My heart drops. When I look up, though, Cas is watching Pike, not me. "It's all speculation. Don't have a fight over it. We're going to figure out what happened in the next few days. Don't think for a second Akello won't address it."

I nod. "Just saying what I saw."

Avari stares at me. I can feel myself wanting to shrivel from the opacity of my anger, unmistakable in my voice.

"But— tell me, honestly," I say. "Did anyone actually see Claudia at the Reaping?"

Torin shakes his head. Elissa shrugs. No one else seems to know, either.

"Huh," Avari says.

Onscreen, Cavara and Elias grip hands. Elias is smiling. Cavara is not.

"Anyways," Khione says, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Go Elias."

My fingernails cut into my knees, piercing from my flickering frustration. I should have gone to Mallen's. Should have gone where I knew I'd be comfortable rather than try to force myself back towards this group for the sake of tradition or nostalgia or fleeting hope that this year might be like the innocence of last year. Back before Jasira was slaughtered and Akello made me beg for my place in the Atheneum and everyone fell away from me until I was suspended for the better part of the year between purposes, between people, and between my desperation to make it here and my inevitable acceptance that if there's any chance I come back to training next year, it's slimmer than the odds were that Claudia would not only get the opportunity to volunteer a year early, but to stay silent as well.

And for what it's worth, I know Cavara didn't have a thing to do with this. I refuse to believe it.

The screen shifts to show District Three. The focus in the room, previously so solidly on the screen, splinters like spiderwebs. Cas pushes himself to his feet. "Anyone need another drink?"

There are yeses from Elissa, Pike, and Torin. Cas disappears into his kitchen.

Even if I weren't the only one vouching for Cavara's innocence, I'm better than most at recognizing where I'm out of place. I press myself out of the chair, stepping around Avari and avoiding Pike's eyes as I follow Cas into the other room.

He's pulling glasses off of the shelves when I pull up a seat. "You know this isn't Cavara's fault."

He sets them out on the counter in a neat row. "You're right. Claudia didn't speak up. That's her fault."

"Why not?"

He frowns, filling the first glass with something dark and sweet-smelling. "What do you mean?"

"I just… I mean, what do you think happened? Why wouldn't she?"

"She can't have backed out," he says.

"I know."

"There's no way they would have let her."

"But she got her hair cut this morning. So something happened in between."

He looks at me, then. Stops pouring, puts the bottle down, actually comes over to me. He rests his elbows on the counter, curling his fingers together under his chin.

A smirk flickers in the side of his lips.

"What?" I say, suddenly aggravated.

"You're so mad at Pike."

"Because he's being an ass."

"I know," he says. "It's funny."

"No, it's not."

"It's a little funny."

"It's annoying."

"I just think he needs to be put in his place sometimes," Cas says, backing away to finish pouring drinks. "And I don't mind seeing you do it."

I watch as he finishes pouring the last drink. "It's not about putting him in his place. It's about sticking up for Cavara. I hate— hate— all this speculation. I know I'm guilty of it too, but I know her. That has to carry more weight than Pike just saying something to get a reaction."

"We'll figure out what happened soon enough," he says. He turns to me again, then. "You sure you don't want a drink?"

I consider. There's a glint of sweat on his forehead, warm even as we've pushed all the windows open to give the house some air to breathe. His Reaping shirt is untucked, the collar haphazardly buttoned now that the cameras are gone. "Are you drinking?"

"Maybe," he says. "Are you?"

"Are you?"

"Are you?"

"Stop it. I'm just asking."

"I will if you will."

"Is that peer pressure?"

"It is if you want it to be," he says.

In the living room, onscreen, a trembling boy takes his place on District Three's stage. "22," Khione says.

"That's generous," says Elissa. "23."

"You haven't even seen any of the other districts," Avari says. "You're saying at least one of the Twelves outlives him? No chance."

"No chance? None at all?" I can practically hear Khione grinning. "So you'd be willing to bet five dollars toward Elias' Victor fund—"

"Your weed fund."

"It is not mine—"

"You know what?" I say, leaning forward so my forearms rest on the counter. "Sure."

"Good choice," Cas says, and takes another two cups out. He pours them both half-full and offers me one. "Cheers."

"Cheers," I say.

We both drink. It burns the whole way down, but in a second I can almost feel my shoulders loosening, as if accepting that no one else is going to take my side.

Well, our side.

"Not terrible," I say.

"Kind of you to say."

"You know what I mean."

In the living room, the Four Reaping is just getting started. I settle back in my armchair, fingers clawed around the top of my cup. When Avari stares at it, I just nod. "Thirsty," I explain.

She shrugs and turns away.

Four's Reaping is routine by their standards. An athletic, olive-skinned girl raises her hand to volunteer, then a boy with arms wider than my head and eyebrows about as thick.

"2 for the boy," Khione says. "Behind Elias."

As Elissa pipes up to argue, I try to distract myself from the fact that if Khione gets his wish, Cavara dies. Hell, she probably dies regardless. Even if she got the spot this year based on some strange fluke, Claudia was chosen over her for a reason. Cavara wasn't even our third choice.

I wanted her to be chosen. I thought she deserved it. But now that she has been, it seems disappointing.

Not because I don't want her to get what she's been working towards for however many years, but because this entire day has been overshadowed by gossip about Cavara's role in Claudia's silence or disappearance or whatever the truth is. Not that it's really going to matter in the end. Because even if I get closure with the Reaping, it's doubtful I'll ever get real closure with Cavara.

Not if she's as doomed as Akello's always said she is.

agreatleap. weebly .com

Hello again! I'm posting from the passenger seat of our other coach's car coming back from a tournament because how better to spend a two-hour car ride than witnessing Linds live-blog this mayhem?

Not a ton to say here tbh. Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading and supporting this story, whether in reviews, Discord messages, or from afar. I'm very grateful!

See you soon with the next chapter.

With love,
Ali