"We have skyscrapers and we have shanties. We have suits and ties, and we have holes in socks."

Without lifting her eyes, Rayla knew that the training administrator was looking at her while she spoke. The administrator (whose name Rayla never intended to learn) sighed and launched her practice-speech again, pushing more emphasis into the opposite words.

People in the upper districts were taught to do, not to think. Rayla learned this early on and speculated on how the unconscious method would shine through in the upper-district tributes. They weren't trying to win for the sake of proving a point or saving a fragment of their life. They wanted to win for the title. That was it. Most of them had been raised for it.

Rayla straightened her stance, cracking her knuckles and tensing the muscles in her legs to get her blood circulating.

It was the morning following Reaping Day. The morning Rayla would come face-to-face with her contenders. A day she never dared dream of: the day she would see her stranger - Callum - again.

Attempting to numb her body and mind became an everyday effort for District 12's volunteer. For better or worse, it was starting to work, too.

In the arena she could not bank on the anxiety tablets her stylists continued to offer her. (After a week of having them modify everything about who she was, Rayla was tired of them. Always telling her that she was too tense and too terse to control as well as they preferred. Privately, Rayla guessed that the anxiety tablets they were extending to her were alternatively tranquilizers.)

In the Games, all she would be able to rely on would be herself. So she studied District 1's people, and soon taught herself how to do, and not think about it.

"Look alive," the administrator snapped suddenly.

Rayla obeyed after two second's hesitation, realizing that the administrator was taking her place in the center of the alcove because the tributes were on their way. Her heart beat deep in her chest and she forced her eyes to go out of focus, tightening the muscles in her limbs and stomach.

He's here, he's here, her mind sang. He doesn't know I'm here.

The tributes filed into the ground floor of the Training Center ranked by district. One's female tribute leading and Twelve's male tribute - Kasef - flanking. Those toward the front of the line, undeniably Careers, didn't bother suppressing their sentiments.

They were all wide-eyed and slacked-jawed, tilting their chins up to the ceiling, admiring every aspect of the conferred weapons and laid-out trials.

"Remarkable," the first male in line said.

District 1, Rayla recalled, trying to shield where she was looking. None of the Careers paid her much mind, though. They were far too enthralled in the layout of the Training Center. While the line continued to proceed, tributes that didn't fall under the Career title took Rayla in.

A young girl with dark hair and dark eyes gaped at Rayla's uncovered emblems, her jaw slacked for a different reason than the Careers'. After a quick count, Rayla registered that the girl was from District 6.

Rozalina. Only twelve years old.

Quite literally, for the life of her, Rayla tried not to fix her stare so it approached the end of the line. She demanded that she look only at who was passing her, quizzing herself on the tributes' districts, ages, names. Anything that could distract her from him.

District 6, a fourteen-year-old boy. Too . . . sook to be a Career-level threat. District 7, a lass, she looks like she's younger than me but older than Rozalina. District 7's male tribute, an eighteen-year-old.

Dangerous.

Farbey, the male tribute hailing from District 7, was a clear peril of a tribute. Every one of his footsteps was heavy and deliberate. His leaden eyes scanned the building in a tentative sort of reverence before resting on his sister tribute in front of him. He had dark brown skin, bulking muscle that mantled his bones, and a rigid, sturdy expression settled on his face.

A lanky girl with red hair and menacing green eyes pursued Farbey. Shadowing her was a very young boy, perhaps the smallest tribute of them all. Rayla couldn't recall his name, but the memory of his reaping rehashed inside her head.

Only because he was Ezran's age. Eleven.

District 12's volunteer tried to smile at him, but the young boy was lost between reading the action as a threat or a taunt, so he ducked his head and walked away faster.

The tribute and volunteer from District 9 trod on the heels of the eleven-year-old boy.

Freya.

Freya looked far different from the last time Rayla had seen her. Irritation radiated throughout her every movement. Her eyes were narrowed into a glare, though not at the tributes, but the Training Center as a whole. The moment she caught sight of the administrator, Rayla swore she saw the girl's lip curl.

She was mad, Rayla recognized.

Before she could take in more, though, Freya plodded past her, revealing the volunteer that trailed behind her.

Callum, Rayla found herself wanting to utter aloud.

Her stranger was jittery and uneasy, snagging one of his hands into the hem of his shirt like he was holding on for dear life.

If her stylists had recommended Rayla medication for her anxiety, they would have given this tribute a real tranquilizer without thinking twice.

Unlike last time, his green eyes did not gleam with tears, his hair was pushed aside so he could see clearly, and his head was aligned upwards, allowing him to take in the balconies of the building that loomed over them. Had he gotten skinnier since she'd last seen him? Swollen skin encircled his bloodshot eyes, making it obvious that he'd been crying. His jaw was clenched, the muscles beneath his skin straining, and Rayla wanted to reach out and touch his arm, like she'd failed to do before.

Too soon, Callum was already wandering past Rayla. So badly, she wanted to hiss, to whisper his name or snap her finger. Anything to get his attention, to get him to look at her.

But fear kept her in place. Halfheartedly, she wondered if she wanted his attention because he was the only sense of familiarity she had here. Another part of her selfishly wanted to help him. Save him from what he was about to face.

Her mind blurred while the rest of the tributes walked past her. She wanted to scream at herself in frustration and fear.

She came to when her brother tribute came into view. He was standing on the right side of her, marking the end of the line. When she glanced at him, she saw that he was glaring at her. She blinked back without drawing attention to herself, then deviated her attention to the training administrator in front of them.

This woman didn't bother to hide her staring, much like Rayla's brother tribute, either. With a shamelessly sour gaze, the administrator examined each tribute before starting her speech.

"You're here to learn how to win, that's it. Not to fight or show off. Here, for now, you are all equal."

Some of the Careers snickered, but went silent under the woman's eyes. She cleared her throat and continued, staring at the Careers.

"In this dwelling we have skyscrapers." Her gaze swept to the lower district tributes before continuing. "And we have shanties." She rounded her stare to the upper district Careers. "We have suits and ties, dresses, resplendent attire," her eyes landed inches below Rayla's, "and we have holes in socks."

The Careers that had enough nerve to laugh earlier, followed the administrator's line of sight. Rayla could make out facial expressions she'd seen far too many times, but now something felt different as she ignored their chortling and sneering. These were her peers, people her age. People who would soon try to kill her.

No part of her doubted that she'd already been made a target, yet Rayla refused any color but the purple emblems to become visible atop her cheeks.

She would not feel shame for who she was. Her uncles had raised her better than that.

Between the voices of laughter and gasps of bemusement, a familiar tone rang in her ears. At once, he was clear in her peripheral vision. Surely he was trying to make himself obvious, right? His eyes were wider than the Careers' when they'd walked into the Training Center. His lips were moving, undoubtedly trying to form words, but Rayla heard no other sound emerge from her stranger.

It took all of her strength and willpower to narrow her gaze ahead to the administrator, to keep her face pale in color.

"In two weeks," the administrator persisted loudly. "Twenty-three of you will be dead, and one of you will be Victor. Until then, don't go after your fellow tributes. There will be plenty of time for that in the arena. You are here to learn how to spar, contemplate, and most importantly, win."

Callum was still watching her. Wasn't he listening? Didn't he know that this was more important?

Rayla let her eyes fall for half a second, cast them in Callum's direction, then retreated back to the administrator.

"Your mentors will be assigned to you this evening, after they've watched you acquaint yourselves with the bestowed weaponry, principles, and simulations. Today is not the day to venture into unfamiliar territory, tributes. Exhibit your strengths, and your mentor will find you."

The administrator scanned the teenagers one last time, then stepped away, departing into a dark hallway. Immediately, the room erupted into zoetic movement. The Careers showed no restraint or delirium while they strolled deeper into the room, towards the training setup.

Rayla remained rooted to the ground, paying Kasef no mind as he shoved past her, scoffing. Callum was still staring at her, making no move to follow the other Careers and tributes. In a matter of seconds, only four tributes prevailed. Surprisingly the female Career from District 3 was one of them, and the eleven-year-old boy from District 8, alongside Rayla and Callum.

The Career from Three eventually followed Callum's gaze and began staring at Rayla, too. District 12's volunteer shifted uncomfortably under their eyes.

"You're from Twelve?" the Career girl asked.

Rayla turned her head in the girl's path. All of the Careers cemented together for her. To put it simply, they were all a threat, so she didn't yet struggle to pick them apart until they revealed their most formidable strengths and weaknesses.

This girl stood out, though. She was taller than Rayla and close to twice her weight in brawn. Rayla didn't think she'd ever seen such a muscular female tribute before. Loose, golden-brown curls dangled at her shoulders. Her eyes were grassy-green and she didn't seem the least bit concerned about the tanlines that layered her shoulders and upper arms. Something about her didn't scream "Career" like the others, but her build suggested otherwise.

Rayla nodded her head.

The Career made a face, pointing to her own cheeks, broadening her eyes in question. "Your . . . tattoos," she mumbled obtusely. "How?"

"My emblems," Rayla corrected her, glancing at Callum quickly. "I'm a member of Dhara's Kin. I'm an Untamed."

Fake realization spread out across the Career's face.

"We live under our own eyes. We take care of ourselves. Our emblems are a sign of loyalty and belonging."

A pause.

Mentors could be surveying her already, Rayla imagined. She had to get used to always being watched, even when she couldn't see who was watching.

"I've never heard of you people before," the Career murmured.

"Well," Rayla tried to smile, but was afraid it was more of a daring smirk. "I'm here now. Ye don't have to be afraid of me just yet."

The Career girl burst into a fit of chuckles, scaring the eleven-year-old boy away and frankly frightening the remaining two tributes.

"Sure thing," the Career said with a nervous-yet-genuine smile. "I'll see you inside." She waved a hand and ambled to the others.

And then it seemed like déjà vu. Rayla's stranger was alone with her again, both in a place they weren't supposed to be. This time when she looked at him, she didn't look away.

Disbelief and horror clashed throughout Callum's face for a fraction of a second, only to be replaced by a confused, aching sort of awe. He stepped closer to her, and she remained.

"You . . ." he uttered, trailing his eyes over the important aspects of her, straining to find everything familiar about her. "I didn't think I'd see you a-" he stammered, "your kind." A shaky breath. "Not here, anyways. You volunteered, didn't you?"

Rayla nodded.

It was an unspoken apology.

It was clever. He too, knew that people were watching them, listening to them.

Again. He meant to say that he didn't think he would see me again.

"I could say the same to ye," she told him softly, hoping he could see through the fake indignation that she'd stressed.

"Your people, then," Callum said slowly. "Why are you here? For them?"

Rayla held his gaze for a long while, portraying an inner battle over whether or not to tell him what she was about to disclose. Ultimately, she nodded her head.

"My uncle," she breathed. "I'm doing this for him. He's sick, and he got help for a while, but he's sick again." She willed him to understand, not daring to expose how indebted she truly was to her stranger. "I'm doing this for him."

Red crept across her face.

Why were her eyes getting blurry?

"I'm going to win for him," she told Callum, her tongue rolling between the last two words. Despite everything, Rayla's emotions were getting the better of her, meaning the accent she'd adopted from her da was getting thicker.

But there was some sense of silent understanding that Callum was affirming. There had to be.

"I watched the reapings. I . . . I'm sorry about your brother."

Rayla wanted to say so much more than that. She wanted to show Callum the way she honestly felt, she wanted him to hear it in her voice. Inwardly, she cursed, knowing that possible mentors could be dismissing her faith with every passing word.

A day into the Games' official training and she was already modeling weakness.

"I'm going to win for him," Callum seemed to recite. It wasn't displayed visually, but Rayla had heard his voice like this before. On the edge of tears.

She nodded her head. "I'm Rayla."

"Rayla," Callum echoed.

Taking the chance that a gamemaker or mentor truly presumed that Rayla and Callum had met before, they would see that Callum was not acting now. He hadn't dreamed up any pho names for the girl he'd helped - he hadn't dared. No matter their conversation beforehand; it hadn't mattered in the sense that they could be looking for.

These volunteers didn't know each other.

Callum's eyes sundered away from Rayla's, trailed over her emblems, lingered on the shortened length of her hair, and rested on her hands. He was lost in his head, thinking, planning, reflecting.

"Callum," Rayla said gently.

Like the mention of his brother's name on the day of his reaping, Callum's head snapped back up to Rayla's level. His lips were parted like he was about to say something, his expression wondrous and addled.

For too many seconds, they stared at each other.

"We ought to be training. Come with, let's no' stay here anymore," Rayla suggested, already beginning to walk towards the rest of the tributes.

"Okay, Rayla."

More weapons than she could fathom were in the training center. Flat touchscreens melded into the walls, where some tributes were showing off their book smarts to hidden mentors. Two groups of the same Careers were sparring with each other. Off to the side, a few more Careers were throwing knives and climbing walls with fake rocks jutting out of them.

Rayla and Callum stood side by side, unsure of where to go or what to look at. Never once had they had so many options.

District 1's Peacekeepers were perched in the many corners of the room, bold-faced and armed.

Callum glanced at Rayla, who could only smile in what she knew presented as requital.

"Go find something you're good at, Nine," she told him. "We'll be seeing each other around."

Another sentence that they could read between the lines of. Another promise without uttering the word "promise."

Retreating to the numbed state of being Rayla had adopted from District 1, she began exhibiting her skills for her unchosen mentor. Many of the tributes rotated throughout the center, enabling Rayla various chances to use whatever part of the tutelage she desired. So she wordlessly demonstrated to everyone watching that she could start a fire and keep it going for however long she wished, identify almost every plant and herb that the center granted her, track animals of erratic sizes, and use the stars as a map.

By the time she moved onto weaponry, Rayla was starting to feel back at home, imagining Runaan and Tide beside her, reminding her how each armament was forged and how to use it effectively. There were pocket knives, axes, dual blades, bows and arrows, slingshots, hooked swords, and far more that Rayla had never faced before. No matter, she displayed her talents with the different types of weapons to the very best of her ability, hoping it would be enough.

Lastly, she knew she had to spar. Hand-to-hand combat was something she'd been training in since Runaan had permitted it. What she didn't plan on was a Career challenging her to the ring, though.

Olympia, a seventeen-year-old from District 4, saw Rayla eyeing the empty mats and quickly caught on to what the volunteer was pondering.

"Want me to call a friend?" she teased with a grin, stepping into the ring and bouncing on her feet excitably.

This girl matched Rayla quite well. Each was about the same height (though Olympia had two inches on Rayla). Both of them had similar builds and smarts. Even their hair color resembled each other's.

"I'll be yer friend," Rayla announced, matching the girl's grin.

Behind them, a handful of Careers and lower district tributes alike snickered and halted briefly to watch.

Rayla positioned herself so she was leaning all of her weight onto her toes, curling her fingers into fists and swinging her head to toss her stray hairs behind her ears.

"Alright, Untamed. If you stand firm against me, I'll talk to my friends about letting you join us. Don't think we haven't been watching you."

For whatever reason, Rayla nearly turned her head to see Callum's reaction to the Career's suggestion. When she caught herself though, she merely shook her head and smirked.

"I never said I wanted to join ye. I just want to see where I stand with ye."

Olympia ducked her head and lost her grin, nodding. "Alright. I won't hold back."

Keeping her word, the Career girl shot to one side, attempting to throw Rayla off before she dodged at her. Runaan had taught Rayla to mind every possible consequence though, which saved her from Olympia's first strike.

District 12's volunteer ducked and swerved, punting out her foot to drive into the back of Olympia's knee. She quickly adjusted her balance to her other foot and faced her opponent with a lively glare, distracting Rayla so she could land a punch to her chin.

Letting her jaw go limp, Rayla shook out her hands and balled them up into fists again, aiming for Olympia's cheek and then kneeing her in the stomach, hopping away and landing back beside her.

Two headlocks, one close sprain, and countless bruises later, they split apart. The Career had won, but Rayla hadn't given up. She was currently standing on quivering legs, shuffling from right to left to get out of Olympia's reach. Never waving a white flag though, never admitting her defeat.

"I'll stop before I really hurt you. Like the administrator said, we can save this for the real deal, because you won't be joining us."

It wasn't yet a fact, only a dare. Olympia was raising both her eyebrows, staring down at Rayla questionably.

"I'll see ye in the real ring, then."

"I'll put up a better fight."

Rayla smiled, her mind racing. Beneath her sprightly demeanor she was fretting over what had just happened. Of course the Careers would make her their target if she didn't enlist with them. They weren't comparable to her, though. Rayla wasn't a cold-blooded killer, even if that's what it took to win the Games.

Runaan had taught her better than that. She would find another way to win.

"As will I."

There were no clocks nor windows in this level of the Training Center. None of the tributes had any grasp of how much time had passed, though it felt like hours.

If anything, Rayla found herself growing exhausted and bored. Had the mentors really been watching them this long? How long had "this long" really been?

Despite her efforts to avoid him, Rayla watched Callum out of the corner of her eye and he did the same to her. Perhaps, after however many hours had lapsed, District 9's volunteer took Rayla's reiterating gaze as an invitation, because he walked over to her with his head down.

Callum didn't shine like her or the Careers. He came from a lower district and it showed. Weaponry, simulations, identification, none of it came easily to the volunteer. None of it seemed to come to him at all, in fact. For all the hours that had endured, he'd only been familiarizing himself with the center, wandering around and taking in all that he could. Some booths held his attention, although he didn't use them the way they were intended to be used. It looked more like he was trying to figure them out.

Rayla could see that the wheels in his mind were spinning. He was memorizing and devising. Something wise kept him from looking directly at Rayla when he approached her.

His strength lay in his mind.

"Ye shouldn't be near me," Rayla rasped.

Callum looked from her to the other tributes, wondering if she had intended to growl her words.

"I didn't even know your name until today," he reassured her. There was no smile playing on his lips, but there was a friendly glint in his eyes. "I've never met someone like you, an Untamed. Let me make use of my newfound knowledge."

They were talking between the lines again.

"We're good, Rayla. Plus, it's not unnatural for us to start making alliances."

He was watching her closely, studying her features to gauge her reaction. Silent seconds idled before Rayla gave a curt nod.

"Aye, with our district partners or Careers." She shifted her stare to his, taking the fortuity to study his features this time. "We're a bit . . . different."

"Tributes have done it before," Callum pointed out. "We're the same, really, with your Kin and my Coalition."

Reality found its way to Rayla, then. It was burning cold, flooding into her bloodstream and echoing behind her every thought.

"The end won't be different."

She lowered her head.

It's useless, pointless even if it's a smart plan. Why go through this loss again, if I can help it?

Callum put his hand on hers, drawing her back to him. Unforgotten memories flickered between them. Rayla thought she'd forgotten the feel of his hand on hers. She had forgotten the sensations, but the emotions that had stirred inside of her flowered out again, and she realized that she'd been longing for this unnamed sentiment since they'd parted.

Stupid, stupid. How can I be so stupid? How can he be so stupid, to do this in front of an audience?

If the gamemakers hadn't been watching, if the tributes hadn't been observing their prey, Rayla would have pulled away.

If they had been alone, she would have blithely stayed, allowed her gaze to linger on her blanketed hand. Undoubtedly she would try to make sense of what she was feeling, and ask if he was feeling the same way.

But the reality prickling at her skin kept her stare straight ahead and her limbs still.

Rayla wasn't sure if Callum could read any of this.

His grip endured comfortably. "I'll do this for you, if you do it for me," he told her. "Rayla?"

A long, uncomfortable halt. Too many questions to filter through. And then a desperate, ardent reaction.

Another curt not, another enduring squeeze, and it was decided.

They were allies. They were going to fight for each other.