.

Then sail, my fine lady, on the billowing wave—
The water below is as dark as the grave,
And maybe you'll sink in your little blue boat—
It's hope, and hope only, that keeps us afloat.
— From The Penelopiad, Margaret Atwood

— - — - —

a great leap in the dark
part iv: seventeen

— - — - —

atlas

— - — - —

My throat floods with acid. Stars press into my eyes. Throwing a hand over my mouth, I stumble sideways to the bucket. All it takes is one glimpse at the mess already inside for me to fully retch, spitting bile into the container as my body trembles with fatigue.

Easton's voice cuts through my nausea, pressing to the forefront of my mind. "Get back on the line, Scout."

I obey, as I always do, as I must. I press forwards, back into the sprint tempo that Easton and Valerius set for the twenty intermixed Seventeens and Eighteens at the beginning of this, knowing I can't disappoint her.

I don't remember what it feels like to be still. We've been running forever.

"Finish it, Scout." Liviana stands across from me, her hands pressed into her knees. It's not encouragement. She demands it. As if I'd ever stop, as if my legs could ever let me go. If the acid isn't in my throat, it's in my quads. My chest heaves. My mouth is dry and acrid-tasting.

"Stop," calls Easton.

I know it's too early to stop, but I comply, stumbling to a finish, straightening against my will. Beside me, Avari is folded over, wheezing out shuddering breaths. Livi has already turned away, her face flat, expressionless.

"Dabral, level with me here," Easton says, stopping in front of Avari, who straightens quickly, her face contorted in exhaustion. "Do you want to get knifed in the fucking Bloodbath?"

Avari shakes her head.

"That isn't an answer."

"No, ma'am," she says sharply.

"Do you want to embarrass this District in front of the entire country?"

"No, ma'am."

"Do you want to waste every goddamn second we have put into making you a half-decent cadet, simply because you don't feel like busting your ass when we tell you to run, Dabral?"

"No, ma'am," Avari says again. Her tone is acidic.

"Then act like it," Easton says. She steps away like Avari's very presence disgusts her. "Second group, back on the line. We're starting over. Because if we can't do it right, then why do it at all?"

My legs feel broken. My lungs pierce with every breath I take. But this is who I am. This is what I earned. I need to continue to earn it every single day.

"Go," Easton calls.

I'm the only cadet who lingers in the gym once our session lets out. The rest are gone as soon as possible to shower, to get fresh air, maybe to properly rinse their mouths after the workout. Aside from the one time I threw up, I actually feel fine. At least it's not my turn today to clean the bucket.

Besides, there's still work to do, and Rhodes is expecting me. We start off sparring, an easy exercise that quickly turns competitive the more I try to land blows against him. But he has more than seven years of experience on me, and he easily parries every strike.

"Stop doing that," I say.

"Stop doing that," he mocks. "Come on, Scout. Just be better."

I swing again. He reads me like a book. "Am I that easy to defend against?"

"It's not you, Scout." Rhodes forces my weapons up, just missing his critical shot on my chest. "It's just not fair that you have to fight someone so strong and smart and perfect."

"Yeah, and what Games were you in?"

"I told you—" He swings hard. Our weapons clash, the force nearly staggering me. "Me and Aspra were in the Sixty-Fifth and a half Games. Co-Victors. The reason no one tells you about it is because of how horrifically cruel it was to the ugly outer District kids. Me and Aspra were just so pretty that everyone died."

Sometimes Rhodes says things that are so stupid, I don't even bother making any effort to counter them. "You're annoying."

"You know she's been working with Cavara?" Rhodes says, landing a blow against my left shoulder.

"Who?"

"Aspra. Doing her rehab and everything." He notes the interest in my eyes. "Yeah. They're hoping to get her back to the Capitol this year."

"Oh," I say. "That's great." It's been hard to get news about Cavara. Easton probably knows more than anybody, but I'm not exactly about to go make small talk with her while she's watching me throw up into a bucket. "So you've seen Aspra?"

"No. Just heard from Easton." He's becoming breathless with the effort of fighting me off. It's satisfying, somehow. "She checks in with Cavara fairly often. Mentor duties, and all that."

"I didn't realize mentorship extended beyond the Games."

"Only sometimes. Hands up."

I adjust my positioning. "I just have trouble imagining, like, Slater and Easton grabbing a coffee and bonding over the silly little shenanigans Easton got up to in the arena." I land a clean blow against his ribs, but my pride is short-lived once I realize Rhodes is just watching me, hardly making any effort to defend against me. "What?"

He doesn't say anything, but his mouth twists up in amusement.

"Okay, what?"

"Nothing. It's just a funny example."

"What makes it so funny?" He smirks. "Rhodes, please."

"You really don't know?"

"I know Slater was her mentor…" Slowly, and then all at once, I pick up on what Rhodes is implying. "Oh, shit. Wait—"

"There you go."

"They're— wait, how long?"

"Since a few months after Easton's Games."

"No way."

"Why is that so shocking?"

"I don't know, I guess…" I watch him, realizing I've made subconscious assumptions for about as long as I've known him. "Okay, this is going to sound stupid, and I'm sorry. But I— I always thought you two were a thing."

He practically snorts. "I told you we were just friends, like, three months ago!"

"I know! But— I don't know, things change."

"In three months? You think I could give up on Eliska that fast?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"You think she'll notice me one day, Scout? Oh, can you go talk to her for me? Say I'm really funny and sweet and cool?"

I roll my eyes. "I'm not a good liar, Rhodes."

"Ouch," he winces. "I am so perfectly polite to you, and this is how you treat me?"

"You're easy to attack."

"Yeah, say that to this entire sparring session."

I pout. He laughs obnoxiously. His body is relaxed, his blade down against his side. I could hit him with my weapons, right now, and it wouldn't even be difficult. But part of me doesn't want to waste the opportunity to talk.

"Cavara, though," I say. "So she's doing better?

"Night and day," Rhodes says. "It's taken her a good while to recover from the surgeries she had back in the Capitol. Basically had to learn how to walk again, not to mention adjusting to losing her dominant arm, which— I mean, you can imagine."

I sure can. Not that I particularly want to. It tends to make me nauseous. "It'll be good to see her back."

"Oh, definitely. That girl deserves a bit of celebration after everything she's gone through."

I think of her Victory Tour celebration, now. The fanfare, the euphoria on the streets. It was one of my favorite nights, but part of me hasn't felt the same since then. Because after that night, Two fell quiet again, with our latest Victor all but isolated. With Cavara back, maybe things will start to feel right again.

I roll my wrists out, feeling my swords fit neatly back in my grip. Enough worrying about other Victors when there's my own Games to focus on. "Again?"

He nods. His features relax, no longer so serious. Then he returns to that same competitive expression I've come to know so well, focus twisted with some tame sense of arrogance. Regardless of if he was chosen, it's the clear face of a Career. I'm drawn to it.

"Again," he says, and lunges forward.

The sleeves on my last sweatshirt are torn when I lift my arms overhead, holes blossoming beneath my armpits. When I rummage through my bag of belongings, I know I won't find anything else, but I need the confirmation if I'm going to make the unpleasant trip home.

Tomorrow, then. I won't last another night in the cold with these ratty layers. My stipend only just covers extra expenses— medicine or dinner away from the Atheneum once a week or extra socks when I've torn through the front of my favorite pair. Unless I want to solicit my mother for more money, something I've done unsuccessfully a handful of times, I'm not going to be able to afford a new coat.

I can't help shivering under my blankets, the sheet and top layer just warm enough to ensure I fall asleep eventually, but they were never made for comfort. What's the point, when we'll be sleeping in the leaves in the arena a year and a half from now? As uncomfortable as I may be, I know better than to complain about it, even amongst the muffled complaints of Iona and Elissa below.

It's just one more thing that separates me from my bunkmates. With last year's Eighteens gone, the other four new Seventeens have taken their place. Oddly enough, with more of my year here I feel less like I belong than ever. I was here first, and I earned my place in this final five, but it feels to me that the other four have merely stepped into a role they were always destined to fill. When I moved here, I essentially forced myself into clothes, a bed, a schedule that didn't quite fit in a desperate effort to fit the mold. It worked, don't get me wrong. But as much as I deserve to be here, part of me struggles to shake the way I started out.

It's harder than I expected without Mallen, too. I hardly ever have time to actually see her and she hates talking over the phone, so more often than not I don't talk to her at all.

My mind, as usual, drifts to the worst case scenario: that she must resent me for taking the place I was sure she deserved. But ultimately, what's it worth if she does? I was better. If she's not here, her opinion can't matter to me.

I sleep uneasily, eventually finding darkness past midnight. I wake quickly at the slightest sound— Martina slipping out of bed, her sock feet nearly silent against the cold floor. I watch her disappear, my eyes trailing after her and never fully closing again until she returns to curl back amongst her sheets.

In the morning we eat together in the small cafeteria, filling our plates from the meager platters set in front of us. This time last year, we were still receiving victory shipments from the Capitol— rare meats, fish crafted in herbs, even the occasional taste of sugar at the end of the week. I guess even as the favorite District, we don't get everything we want. Most days it's porridge, hearty but uninspiring to consume day in and day out. Toast and eggs find their way into the rotation every few days, underripe fruit that would be better if I could take it from the dining hall and stow it in my bunk for another two days, but everything remains in this room. Apart from the clothes in our bags and the books we may be holding onto to study from, there's really not much else we can say we're allowed to have personally.

I sit across from Cas, but his eyes seldom lift from his plate, his hands, the utensils he clutches so sharply they may as well be weapons. Along the wall behind him, a guard paces, keeping an eye on the tables just in case one of us decides to use them as such. Despite his brushed hair, his skin fresh from the shower, Cas' eyes hang heavy. He won't admit to me that he's exhausted, though. He never does.

"How'd you sleep?" I ask him, my voice low. The cafeteria is near-silent— the few of us who might want to talk to each other hardly have the energy to.

"Fine." He swallows a bite of porridge, slowly. Carefully. "It was freezing last night."

"I know. I have to go home this morning and get something warmer."

He winces. "Shit. Good luck."

"Thanks," I say.

"You want to come over after?" he asks. "Dinner with my parents?"

It's our day off. Panem knows I've got nothing better to do. "Sure."

"Does six work?"

"Yeah. I want to be asleep by nine, though." The only cure I've found for early mornings is a consistent sleep schedule— awake and asleep at the same skewed hours every day.

"Fine by me," he says. "I feel like I'm basically asleep as soon as it gets dark. Which is, like—"

"I know. So early."

"I miss summer," he says.

"Games season," I say longingly. "We have to earn it, though. Gotta make it through the cold first."

He pouts. "We should have been born in Four."

"Yeah, maybe. If we wanted to lose every year." I finish my water and climb to my feet. "See you later."

"Bye, Scout."

No one else says anything. I keep my eyes on the door, though in the edges I take in the sharp, static forms of Avari, Elissa, and Tarq, making headway on their meal but not so furiously that they won't spare a look at me, ducking out early to go pick up a sweatshirt, of all the trivial things.

It's hard to know what people think of me anymore. Harder still not to care.

I rap my knuckles on the door, my fingers raw with cold.

I throw my hands in my pockets while I count the beats, glancing quickly to either side at the houses flanking my own. In my training leggings, the dark colors from my neck to my toes, I stand out in stark contrast to the muted winter grays— leaves dead and torn to pieces, snow piled along the walkways, mud blemishing its purity. Instinctively I push along the grain of my ponytail, forcing the wisps around my forehead back for all of a second before they float back out of place.

It takes forty-two seconds, twelve of those spent debating the rudeness of a second knock, for my mother to open the door. Her breath clouds the air in front of her; mine catches in my throat. "Hi, Scout."

"Morning."

"What do you need?"

I draw my hands from my pockets. In moments, they're rigid with cold. "Wanted to pick up a few more things. Layers, mostly. It's been cold."

"Not back for money this time?" But she steps aside, allowing me entry into her home.

I tug my feet out of my boots and stack my shoes quickly against the wall. "Not this time. Don't worry. I'll be in and out before you even realize it."

I hurry upstairs, my feet pounding against the steps. My room is largely empty, the same as the last time I was here— mattress bare, closet barren, the few hanging shirts pressed to the far side of the rack. I rifle through them quickly before reaching up to retrieve Aris' sweatshirt, ten years old but still warmer than anything else I have on hand. It doesn't matter. It's just for sleeping, anyway. But I stow it under my elbow just in case. In case he's here, in case he recognizes it, in case he exaggerates his role in my life just because I used to look up to him, and now can't even stand to look at him.

It's not him in the hallway, though. It's Nico, balanced in the doorway, half-curious and half-cautious. Fourteen now, he's already grown to reach my height. Another year and he'll have surpassed it. There's strength in his shoulders, muscles budding where I had to force mine to exist. But I'm not resentful; I'm proud.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"Just stopped by for more clothes," I say. "Mom wanted to be mad, too. Thought I was begging her for money."

He laughs softly. "Because that went so well last time."

"Yeah, yeah." But I smile as I make my way to the top of the stairs. "Hey, you want to get dinner next weekend? Maybe the weekend after?"

Nico lights up. He's only three years younger than me, but he still seems like a kid. "Yeah!"

"Yeah?"

"Well, not next weekend, because I have a project for school. And then the weekend after I think Gray wanted to go camping. So maybe… next-next-next weekend?"

"Sounds good. I'll call. Just… try to pick up first so I don't get stuck talking to Dad."

"Yeah. Of course." He smiles. "See you, Scout."

I move downstairs, having secured what I came here for. Easy. This wasn't so bad.

"Sure you don't want lunch?" my mother asks.

I'm lacing up my right boot, my fingers trembling on the strings. She stands at the entry to the kitchen, freezing me in place. I shake my head, the movement more delicate than I want. "No. I'll get something back at the center."

"You sure?"

I sigh, my shoulders tightening. The back of my neck is warm even as a draft passes along my spine. "Do you want something from me?"

She tightens her lips and shakes her head, as if it's surprising that I would even consider it. "No. Just felt like saying that you know you're always welcome back here whenever you need."

If I weren't so tense, if my chest weren't legitimately rigid, I might laugh. "Okay. Sure."

"I mean it."

But you don't act like it. "Aris and Dad hate it when I'm here."

"Your father resents you for training—"

"Even though he got me into it."

"—But he doesn't hate it when you're here."

"Aris does," I say.

"Well, you were a little bitch to him."

I frown. "He deserved it."

"Doesn't matter."

"If he wanted me to be nicer to him, he shouldn't have ignored me and treated me like shit whenever I tried to have a relationship with him," I snap, forcing my second boot back on my foot. "For fuck's sake. Bet you still baby him, don't you? Even though he's living at home and I'm the one out making a name for myself?"

Her lip curls. "Careful, Scout."

"No, thanks."

My mother's eyes are cold on mine. "You really want to lash out against me, too? When I'm the only one continually vouching for your training?"

"Only because you want a winner in the family."

"I never said that."

"But you've never denied it."

"Then what's wrong with that?" she says. "Wanting a Victor?"

"Nothing," I say. "Panem knows that's what the rest of the District wants."

"So why are you acting like such a bitch?"

That's twice now that she's said it. "I'm just standing up for myself. Someone's got to do it, right? If everyone here, practically, is going to attack me for actually having a fucking purpose in life, because that's so irresponsible of me—"

"I never attacked you."

I do laugh this time. The frustration has sent heat coursing into my shoulders, turning my throat warm and softening my chest just enough to exude a single, strained laugh. "Never. Not once. Okay."

"You're acting like I've been cruel to you."

"No, you're right," I say, getting to my feet. "I'm wrong, obviously. I should know better than to trust years of experience and gut feelings."

"I supported your training when your father didn't," she says. "I kept the Games on when he wouldn't dare to watch them. I let you move when he tried to make you stay here. When he wanted you to quit."

"That doesn't mean shit."

"Like hell—"

"You're acting like you carried me through this," I snap, "when all that was was you not getting in my way. You let me move? What a fucking joke. The best thing you've done for me is basically leaving me the fuck alone for two years—"

"Scout."

"I mean it."

"I always knew you were ungrateful," she says. "To me. To the Capitol."

"Of course, I'm not."

"You are. You're just too immature to see it."

"Oh, go ahead," I say. "Say I'm immature. When you're the one name-calling and calling me a bitch for learning how to fight back."

She only rolls her eyes.

"What?"

"It just makes sense that this is what you'd call fighting back. Considering the only Victor your center has produced in the last five years is a cripple who cut her own arm off out of sheer panic."

Naturally, she still has disdainful thoughts towards Cavara. I thought we were done with that the day I moved out. But if she still brought Jasira up a year after her death, I really shouldn't be surprised. "Oh, go to hell."

"If that's the type of system you're happy with," she says, "then, by all means, go get yourself killed in the Games. I can't stop you." She shrugs, retreating into the kitchen. "Bye, Scout."

She's too prideful to lose. Some things never change.

I don't say goodbye to her. My sweatshirt under my arm, I push out the door and back into the cold. The door closes harshly behind me.

The entire way back to the station, I'm reeling, even though I know I need to ignore her. Or maybe not. Sometimes I get tired of having to claim a private training room or hide in the bathroom for a minute of personal space. There are days I miss home, miss being left alone even amidst the few conversations that always seem to end with one or both of us pissed off. It's nice to have my own space, honestly.

But this is exactly why I left. No space is worth that atmosphere to me. It's why, even under Akello, training was always preferable to me. There's a difference between cruelty I can control, and cruelty I can't.

By the time I reach Cas', I've cooled down some. Which is a relief, because I don't know if I'd forgive myself for being short with his parents, especially Marius, who speaks of me with such regard I'm almost embarrassed to be there while he praises me.

Almost. There was a time last year where I was, not that I didn't trust him, but I didn't believe him. I'll accept his good words now that I've earned them.

"So who's winning right now?" he asks. "Between the two of you?"

"Cas," I say.

"Yeah, right." Cas is having none of it. "It's you, for sure."

"No."

"No one is getting near you with those knives."

"No one is getting near me at all if I stay in fifth place." I chew on my spoon. "Right now it's probably you and Avari."

"Still?"

"She's good," I tell Marius. "I know you may not like her, but she's really hard to beat."

"Well, someone's gotta do it, right? Might as well be you."

I shrug, but a smile lifts on my lips. "Maybe. I'm taking it a day at a time. She's just had the advantage for a long time."

"Which means she'll fall harder," Marius says. "Count on it. I'm rooting for you."

It's a bit ridiculous when I think about it, Marius preferring me in that arena with his son, but the way I'm sure he views it is that, no matter what, one of us will give our life for the other. If Cas has to die honorably for a victory, he'd prefer it to be mine.

"We're still a ways out," I say after another bite of stew, which I have to force myself to eat slowly since it's the best thing I've tasted in two weeks. "But— thanks. That means a lot."

Neither Marius nor Cas allow me to help clear up after dinner, so I find myself in Cas' room, my eyes tracing surfaces that haven't changed over the months I've been here. His closet remains cleanly organized, the carpet clear, his desk spotless. I lie on my back on his even bedspread, my knees together, feet splayed.

There's stars on his ceiling, the ones Nico and I had when we were younger. When we'd turn off the lights, they'd glow, somehow. I've never noticed them before. He's tall enough now to take them down, but he must have a reason to keep them there, the only real expression of personality his bedroom has.

I'm still staring at the ceiling when Cas comes in, closing the door behind him. "It's fucking freezing out."

"I know," I say. "What are the odds Easton wants us hunting in it tomorrow?"

"I'd say they aren't exactly in our favor."

I let myself smile, my chest going numb as he lies next to me. He curls sideways so his eyes are on me, but mine are skyward, steeled towards the stars.

"What's wrong, Scout?"

This again. It's a conversation of formalities. He asks, or I ask, and the answer is always the same. I'm tired. My legs hurt. I want another day off. No matter what, our difficulties turn towards training. Never from their source.

It's so much easier that way. It's simpler to deal with something that can't be fixed when I've convinced myself it's coming from something I cannot change. We manage training until it's done. We manage ourselves as best we can.

But it's exhausting in its own right to keep things so bottled up, especially when almost every day the question presents itself: what happens at the end of all this?

"What if it's us, Cas?"

"In the Games?"

"Yeah."

He shrugs. "Then one of us wins. And one of us does everything they can to ensure that."

"And that's okay with you?" I ask. "Wouldn't you rather it be Iona? Or Elissa? Someone who… I don't know, you're not as close with?"

"I've thought about it. I think— I mean, yes. I would rather it be them if I win, but there's no guarantees of that, you know? If I don't, it's better that it's you."

He means it in a good way, but it doesn't sit right with me. "And that's a risk you're willing to take?"

"Are you not?"

"No," I say. "Because I want to win. And if you're with me, then that means you're dying in that arena, and you're not here when I get out."

When I turn to look at him, his eyes are on me— my nose, the freckles along my cheekbones, my lips as I gnaw at them. "I thought you wanted it to be us."

"Maybe I did," I say. "But then what's the use in even being with you, now, if that's our end game? It's only going to hurt worse once we're torn apart."

"That's more than a year off."

"It'll be here before we realize," I say.

He's thinking, his face frozen as he rationalizes what to say, and how to most evenly present it. It's easier for me to look upwards. I tilt my head, eyes on the sky, watching the stars absorb their glow.

"Are you saying we should stop seeing each other?" he asks.

My eyes flit back to him. "No!" I say. "No, of course not. Look, all I'm saying is that we have to be ready for something like that. I just think it's smarter if it's not the two of us in that arena."

"But we don't decide that," he says. "Even if we did… I could never expect you to give up your dream."

"I know."

He frowns. "But you want me to give up mine?"

"No, I don't, I—" I rub at my eyes, seeing stars behind my eyelids. "No. I don't know. It's just— it's really weird that Marius said that, I think. Like, him wanting it to be the two of us. Right?"

"Well, he trusts us. He trusts that we're close enough to try to defend each other. He says that goes a long way. And, I mean, look at who else it could be. He doesn't know Elissa or Martina. He doesn't trust Iona, from how I've described her. He hates Avari. I think it's just safest if it does end up being us."

He doesn't grasp it— that I don't want him in that arena. But he's right. It's unfair of me to suggest he give something up on my behalf, not when this was how we met in the first place. Ultimately, it probably won't even happen. A hundred alternative scenarios race through my mind: Cas getting injured, being forced to drop. Az or Tarq or Pike becoming better than him and taking over the volunteer spot. There's any number of ways that we don't end up in the arena together, and only one where we do.

If he wants to talk odds, they're against us in the best way.

"Okay," I say.

"That's it?"

"Yeah. I just— I needed to think about it. But you're right. It's far off. No use worrying about it when we just have to get through every day at a time."

Cas's smile is soft on his lips. It would be so natural for me to come closer, to press mine against them. But I wait until he moves for it, until his breath softens against me.

When he wraps his hand around my face, tucking my hair back, his fingertips tracing my cheekbones, I don't move. I don't push back against him like he wants, draw my fingernails against his spine, tug him against me until I'm caught under his weight. I let him kiss me, and that's it.

When he pushes further, I draw back.

"Scout?"

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm really tired."

"Oh," he says, frowning. He shifts sideways and I roll back, breathing lightly. "Okay. Did you— do you still want to stay here? Watch something? I wasn't going to head back until later."

"No, I actually—" I sit up, turning to watch the weather outside his window. It's difficult to see in the dark, but the air is clear. The snow hasn't started. "I wanted to get back before it starts snowing."

"Yeah, of course." He quickly gets to his feet, making sure I have room to move off his bed. "I'm going to stick around for a bit, but I'll— I'll walk you out."

In the living room, I wave a curt goodbye to his parents. Silas waves back, but Marius nods to me. "Remember what I said, Scout."

"Got it," I smile.

It's a relief more than anything when I'm alone in the dark. For a moment, as the door closes behind me, I stand still and just breathe into the night.

It's quiet. My shoulders loosen in the open space.

If it weren't so frigid I'd think about standing here longer, but that'll only tempt fate. I'll end up with a fever, miss three days of training, and somehow lose every inch of progress I've made over the last six months. All because, for a moment, being with Cas felt suffocating.

It's ridiculous. I force it out of my mind.

Yet when I'm safe inside the Atheneum, positioned high on my bunk, my covers tight around my neck, I look up at the ceiling, into the blackness above. No stars, but the tension creeps back in, too tangible to ignore.

It's not the first time I've felt this way. Not by a long shot.

If something doesn't give, it won't be the last.

My wrist aches from writing. My back is stiff from keeping still for nearly an hour. I can't lose focus, though. In between workouts, there's a tremendous amount to be learned.

Today, it's about piecing together an attack—applying our knowledge to detail a confrontation and the way it plays out, by defining our primary attack and predicting the movements that come after. The full process, Easton calls it, of winning a fight.

"You don't just need to know where another tribute is vulnerable," Easton says. "Once you understand that, it's about extending that knowledge, and looking ahead. Here's what I mean."

She draws a rudimentary diagram on the board, two torsos from the neck to the waist. One holds a sword. The other's hands are empty. "Take this— an unbalanced fight. The simplest example I can provide you. Let's say you're armed, and you want this kill as quickly as possible. A Bloodbath kill, maybe. Any situation where you need this done quickly. Where are my best targets here?"

A couple of the boys offer easy responses. The chest. The throat.

"Right. That's not too difficult. There's very little they can do to defend against you. Now, let's say this tribute does have a weapon, and they are fairly competent at using it. How do we open up those targets?"

"Wait for them to attack," Elissa offers. "If they're striking, they're obviously more vulnerable."

"And what if they don't attack? If they can read your motions, if they know exactly how to defend themselves, how are you going to breach that without simply exhausting yourself?"

Wait for them to make a mistake, I think. But I'm immediately grateful I didn't say it when Martina suggests the concept and Easton shoots her down.

"Sure. Against someone poorly trained, maybe. But your typical Career tribute—" She twists her lips. "Let me put it this way. Why not just play defensive the entire way? Why not let our opponents exhaust themselves? Forget about needing to play offensive in order to secure kills for the sake of the Games, or for sponsorships, or any of that. Why don't we simply defend?"

There's a beat. Finally, Cas responds. "Well, we can't perfectly defend ourselves, can we?"

"Right," Easton says. "Whenever you, or any other tribute, are defending yourself in any way, you are leaving other areas vulnerable. If you are continually striking at another tribute's chest or stomach or shoulder and you are not adapting to their reactions, then nothing will change. You can know twenty different kill spots and not be able to attack them effectively. Here's the key: you need to be able to consider, in the moment, what your opponent is giving up when they defend themselves a certain way."

She scans the room. I know she'll call me up even before her eyes land on me. "Scout. Up here, please."

Nine pairs of eyes shift to me. I step forward, my shoulders back.

"Thank you for helping me demonstrate," she says. She pulls a knife from below her desk and lines up across from me. I don't flinch. "Please dodge this attack. I really don't want to clean up any blood."

She slashes at my stomach. I'm lucky she's given me warning— I might have pulled my arms up to defend myself, and gotten sliced along the forearm. Instead, I pull my stomach backwards, narrowly avoiding the edge of her blade.

"Now freeze."

I oblige.

"Every defensive movement has a drawback," Easton says. "Most have several. Take Scout. Her instinct was to draw back, which, in all fairness, is probably the best move here. Still, she's fucked, even if she did have a weapon." Easton gestures to my upper body. "She pulls her stomach back, and now her chest is out. Maybe her arms are out to counterbalance her reaction, which means they're not able to defend against—" She lunges forward, stopping her knife an inch from my chest— "an attack. Or, they're up against her chest—" She pulls my arms up— "and her throat is open. Both sides. The front of her neck. Or maybe her hands are up, bracing against my knife. Then you easily slash her wrists if she has no weapon. Point is, every defensive reaction provides a new offensive option. But you need to understand where your targets are and when they're available. Thank you, Scout."

I return to my seat, my pulse racing.

"You know basic anatomy by now," she continues, putting the knife away like it's only a pen. "You know the best locations to compromise, your key arteries, where, exactly, to hold your hands in an effective chokehold. Now let's practice putting them together, and determining how to free up a target by attacking somewhere else."

By the time we're let out to shower and finish our studying, my brain is foggy from trying to take in everything I couldn't fit into my rapid-fire note taking. Ten minutes, I tell myself, desperate for a quick break between sessions and studying. I'll take a break for ten minutes, clear my head, and reset. Instead of leaving my materials on my bunk, I stow my books back in my bag then hitch it over my shoulders— you never know who might sabotage your study materials— and move down the hall to the training room.

I don't really need anything, but I haven't talked to Rhodes all day. If he's not with his cadets, more likely than not he's helping Eliska, or at least giving off the appearance that he's being helpful by pretending to put things in the right places while he's actually slowly rearranging the training room without her noticing. Unfortunately, he's still out by the time I check in, but Eliska's already noticed me, and I can't sneak away.

If I'm here, I might as well get ice. Eliska helps me stack an ice bag against my shoulder, then wraps it so tightly I can barely breathe. Not that I need any breath to spare on her— these days, she mostly leaves me alone.

If Aspra were still here, I might ask if she needed help. As tedious as the memorization is, I've actually picked up most of the anatomy lessons pretty quickly, and I'm already pretty efficient at first aid. Trouble is, as polite as Eliska may be, I don't quite trust her, nor would I say I enjoy her company.

Especially when it's shared with Avari. Of course, she's here as soon as I come in. Couldn't have done it while I was in the bunks or showering, of course. For what it's worth, I know it's unintentional. Judging by the miserable expression on her face, I'm the last person she wants to see here. But she doesn't have a choice. She takes the furthest bench from me, rubbing at her eyes. Her face is twisted, slightly pale.

It's not my business— she's always told me that much. But I can't help my curiosity.

"—fucking hurts, no matter what I do," she's saying to Eliska, as low as she can manage. "I don't know why, but it's been an issue for weeks—"

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I don't know," she says. "I thought it would go away."

Eliska frowns. "You should know better."

"I'm sorry," Avari says. She winces, bringing her knees into her stomach.

"I told you to stop eating all that shitty, fatty food—"

"I'm not—"

"I can almost guarantee you haven't changed a thing since last time we talked about this," Eliska maintains. "If you want to sit here and complain to me about your stomach, give me something new. But right now you're just upset because you're getting fat and staying fat."

"Eliska—"

"I've talked to Akello. He says nothing has changed. I'm inclined to believe him."

Avari's face is sullen, incendiary. "I'm not eating shitty food."

Eliska shrugs, looking Avari up and down. "Sure."

But to me, Avari looks leaner than she's ever been. Her face is narrower, her arms and legs tight with muscles. Her shirt is loose around her stomach when it used to fit cleanly around her ribs.

Avari rolls her eyes, her lips twisting. Eliska bites back. "Don't roll your eyes at me."

"If you took me seriously, maybe I wouldn't have to."

"Fix your diet," Eliska says sharply. "Then come back to me if you want actual help. But I'm not going to sit here and let you complain to me about something I've told you to fix ten times."

Avari pushes herself off the bench, landing loudly on her feet. She doesn't say anything else, just locks her lips and stalks out, fury evident in her posture, in every step.

I don't know what to make of it. I pretend to be reading through one of my books when Eliska turns back to me, but she's smart enough to read through it. "At least you're doing what I say," she mumbles.

Only because I have no choice.

Their conversation stays with me for the remainder of the evening and into the next morning. At breakfast, I take in what Avari's eating as slyly as I can. But, just as she's said, she's staying away from the fattier foods. A small bowl of oatmeal. Half an apple. A diagonal cut of toast.

On our way out of the cafeteria, I fill in next to Cas. "You know what's up with Avari?"

"Yeah," he says.

"And?"

"She'll be fine," is all he says.

I frown. "Okay. That's all?"

"I'm sorry. It's just not really anyone else's business. I only know because she told me."

It's reasonable, but for some reason I find myself irritated all the same. "I heard her and Eliska talking about it yesterday. Something with her stomach, and Eliska wouldn't stop commenting on what she's eating—"

"Like I said," Cas comments, keeping his voice even. "She'll be fine. And it's not—"

"My business. I know. She told me not to worry about her, and that's fine."

"So what's the problem?"

I exhale, knowing I'm being irrational but somehow not being willing to stop myself. "I just wanted to know what it's about. I thought you'd tell me."

"It's not my business to share."

"Cas."

"You're being unfair. If she came to me asking about you—"

"I know. But that's different."

"Because we're dating?"

"No, because we—" I stop short. "Wait. We're dating?"

Cas can't help himself. He laughs. "Thank you for that, Scout."

Except I'm not laughing. Once he notices, neither is he.

"Scout?"

"Oh," I say stupidly.

"Wait, wait, wait—" Cas shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. "Hold on. Did you not— did you not think—"

My stomach is sinking like a stone. "I don't know. I don't—"

"Scout?"

"We never said we were."

"I didn't think it had to be said."

"No, I know."

"But you didn't."

"I guess it makes sense."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know!" I say.

"I mean— what did you think this was?"

"Cas," I say. "I… I know we're exclusive, if that helps, but… we never said what this was. I mean— we're sleeping together."

"That's it?"

My face is aflame. "No. But that's all we have time for, isn't it?"

He looks hurt. "Scout, you're worth more than that."

"I know," I say quickly. "Cas, I know, and so are you, and that's not what I'm saying, but…" I tense my hands. "We literally have training right now. We can't keep talking about this."

"Maybe we should."

"Not now. Not during training. Later. Please."

He looks stunned. But he doesn't push things any further. In the gym, I stand beside him, my eyes burning, and focus as best I can on Easton's instructions for the warmup.

This will be fine, I assure myself. You'll fix this. You always have.

I keep my distance from him for the entirety of training. In between knife drills, I catch Avari watching me, but neither of us speak. There's no need to acknowledge her conversation with Eliska, no reason to extend the olive branch to someone who will snap it underfoot.

Especially not when it landed me in this mess with Cas in the first place.

It must be my dread that forces training to speed by. As soon as Easton's said the word, Cas' eyes are on me, and I don't even have the chance to move away.

"Can we talk?" he asks, one of the first times he's ever raised the question. "Please?"

We move to the foyer. He takes a seat on one of the benches but I stand in front of him, not willing to sit down.

"It was a misunderstanding," I say, before he can start. "I take full responsibility. It doesn't change anything, and it shouldn't."

"You didn't know we were—"

"I didn't know that we defined it," I clarify. "We've never talked about it. Like I said, it doesn't change anything, doesn't mean we won't spend the same time together—"

"Scout, I care about you. I really do. And I just— I feel a little blindsided, you know?"

"I'm so sorry," I say. "Truly. I didn't know."

"Exactly," he admits. "You didn't know. I didn't know we hadn't talked about it. So it's all good."

"Yeah?"

"As long as this is still what you want."

He's watching me carefully, reading my first response. "Yeah, of course I want to stay together."

"Not just together," he says. "Because if we are, I want it to be real."

"It is real."

"No. Like, dating. Not just… one of us thinking we are."

I don't agree right away, and he notices.

"Cas," I say, "we just talked about this the other night."

"You said it was fine."

"I said it was fine how we were. Now it feels like, for me, you're making it more serious when we just talked about how that might not be a good idea."

"So you'd rather just keep doing whatever we're doing now. Just sleeping together. Right?"

"Cas, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"You don't have to apologize," he says. "I'm sorry that's all you thought we were."

For a moment, neither of us speaks. Shame, so sharp, so vicious, crawls across my skin. All the while, I keep my eyes on my feet, afraid to see the look on Cas' face.

"We just hardly have time for anything else, you know? It's not that I only see you that way. It's that, ultimately, that's what it feels like it is." I shift between my feet. "And this feels foolish, anyway. Not just to be talking about this here, but to be talking about it at all. There's so much that's more important than this. Training. Our Games. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"So, what?" Cas says. "Do we just leave it like this? Pretend everything's the same as it was this morning?"

"Yeah," I say. That's what we've always done.

My eyes find his, processing hurt, confusion, frustration, all in one glance. I look away almost immediately.

He sighs. "Well, okay."

"At least until next weekend. Until we have the time and space to do this properly. But right now…"

"I get it, Scout," he says. "I'll see you at dinner."

With that, he gets to his feet. He offers a sad sort of smile back in my direction before he's gone.

"Well, fuck," I mutter.

My body aches, not from soreness, but from agitation. Naturally, my best release comes in the gym. Without thinking, I gravitate back to the weapons stations, my eyes seeking out my favorite person to talk to.

I join Rhodes at his station, watching him toss spears with striking accuracy across an array of dummies. "It helps me teach," he'd told me once, when I'd asked him why he still practiced. "If I know how to use these weapons, if I've practiced them recently, then I know the motions better. I know what's supposed to be done. I know what's easy to make errors on." He tilts his head towards me in acknowledgement, but finishes his set before getting distracted.

When he's done, he waves. "What's up, Scout?"

"Can we talk?" I say.

"About what?"

I watch him retrieve his weapons, extracting the spear points from hearts, throats, stomachs. A clean tug is enough for the spear to appear unmarred. The dummies, though, are unfixable. "Anything."

He takes a seat at his empty station. I flop down next to him, lying with my chin on my arms.

"Training bugging you?"

"Everything is bugging me," I say. "Sorry. Not to be the biggest downer you've ever seen."

"Can't say I blame you," he says wryly. "Training sucks. Hey, if it makes you feel better, I saw Akello almost eat shit earlier."

"Yeah?" I perk up.

"Clipped his shin on the edge of his seat at our meeting. I have never seen a man go so purple so fast."

"Who knew that was the way to take him down? Just one clean kick to the shin."

"Thank Panem that prick never made it to the Games," Rhodes says. "He'd bruise his leg coming out of the Bloodbath and need sponsor money to stand up again."

"You think he'd actually get sponsors?"

"At least one. His mommy might sponsor him a peanut butter sandwich or something for her precious boy."

"Can you imagine what kind of mother would give birth to that?" I say. "Like, do you think she's even human?"

"I mean, what else gives birth to demon spawn than a literal demon?"

"You think he was born? I think he hatched."

"He came into being under a cold, stormy night."

"Rose out of a swamp."

"Spent his infant years feasting on the flesh of small animals," Rhodes continues. "That would explain so much."

"How do you think he sleeps?" I ask. "Or does he? Maybe he hangs upside down in his office with one eye shut while the other just scans the room or something."

"No, I think he sleeps normally, just not past about three in the morning when his sleep paralysis demon shows up."

"I bet I'm his sleep paralysis demon."

Rhodes chokes. "I hope he cries himself to sleep every night. I'm going to be very disappointed if he doesn't."

"He does deserve that," I admit. I roll onto my back, kicking my legs in the air like I used to do when I'd stretch in the training room, me and him and Aspra. "But I don't think he's capable of any emotions besides violent rage."

"Yeah, he probably cut out his own tear ducts so he wouldn't show weakness. Which actually wouldn't even be in the top ten most psychotic things he's ever done."

"I mean, that's pretty hardcore," I say. "There's a ton of people in the Capitol who would be throwing money at him for that."

"But would you sponsor him?"

I exhale, throwing my arms out to the sides in dramatic fashion. "If he wants a sponsor gift from me," I say, "I'm sending him a suicide pill."

Rhodes bursts out laughing. The sound carries, drawing the attention of a handful of cadets at the archery station. More notably, it flows inside my veins, wrapping around me like an embrace.

"Holy shit," Rhodes says when he's finally contained himself, wiping tears from his eyes. "I fucking love you, Scout."

He's still laughing, but I'm frozen, fixated on his words. My chest is warm. The heat flows to my face, warming the breath in my throat.

My shoulders loosen. I watch him as he looks at me, his eyes so blue, his smile so warm, so welcoming. The laughter trickles from his throat until it goes quiet.

His lips freeze. He hears what he's said, sees my response. "Oh," he says softly. "Oh, Scout… not like that."

It takes me a moment to even register his response. Then my stomach plummets and my pulse drums in my throat. "No, wait, that's not what I— I wasn't—"

"It's okay," he says, but he's stiff as he straightens up, his jaw tense.

My eyes are burning.

"I'm sorry," I say, the heat in my face now excruciating. "I'm so sorry."

He laughs nervously. I want to die.

"It's okay. I promise." But the moment, so loose and light just a minute ago, is lost.

We sit in silence. Around us, sessions flow smoothly. Arrows pierce targets, blades strike blades. This gym is a hurricane; we are the eye of the storm.

But this is no calm. This is hell.

"I have some session planning I need to finish up," Rhodes says. He gets to his feet. "Should have done that before the workout, but, you know."

The humor has drained from his voice. My chest pinches. "Yeah, of course."

"I'll, uh, see you tomorrow. Right?"

"Yeah," I say quickly. "Yeah. See you tomorrow."

He grimaces, bending to clear up his weapons. Normally I'd offer to help, but this doesn't feel like the time. Instead I watch as he goes, slipping out the door before I can do anything but tighten my fingers into my knees, the pain grounding me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What have I done?

What have I done?

I stand in the showers for more than a half hour, hoping the scalding spray will leach the embarrassment from my body. I curl my fingers until my nails dig into my legs, wrap my arms around my chest and hope when I release them, the tension will cease. Instead I replay the afternoon over and over again like I did with Elias' death, but it doesn't desensitize me, just heightens my discomfort.

Hurting Cas. Embarrassing Rhodes. Could I have done anything worse than that?

I'm the first to curl up in my bunk that night, my arms folded between my knees. But I must be the last to fall asleep. My mind is racing, rationalizing every word, every thought that's passed through my head about Cas. I'm sure we never talked about it. I know why he's hurt, of course, and he has every right to be. But it can't be all my fault— this thing works both ways.

I still shouldn't have said anything. Should have kept my stupid mouth shut, because now this makes getting back to the way things were so much harder.

But is that even what I want?

The thought is too intrusive to be swept away. It lingers like a pesky fly; whether I try to ignore it or force it away, it comes back around a moment later.

I feel stuck. I want to change.

And then, Rhodes. Which was even worse, because I don't think he understands how much of a misunderstanding it was. I was simply caught off-guard by his choice of words. Wasn't I?

It's not like I have any feelings towards Rhodes beyond that mutual friendship. I respect him as much as any other trainer— more, even, because he respects me, doesn't treat me like a piece of scat under his shoe. He's never yelled at me, never hurt me, only ever made me feel better about myself. Whenever I've tried to tear myself down, he's pulled me back. Every single time.

He's been there for me more than anyone, and that's worth more than I can even express, that invaluable consistency I've come to take for granted. But that's not the same as… well, not the same as how I feel about Cas. Whatever that is. Just because I'm drawn to him doesn't mean a damn thing if I seek out anyone who will tell me I'm good, who will make me hate myself a little less.

I like myself better when I'm with him, though. I don't know if I can always say the same about Cas.

I roll over, my eyes on the ceiling, like I'm staring into the abyss.

The more I let my embarrassment fester, the more I'm tempted to bury it in bitterness. Not only self-directed, but at Rhodes, for making me feel so stupid, so immature. Oh, Scout. Not like that. My arms twist around my body and I bury my face in my sweatshirt. It had felt condescending, even if that wasn't his intent. I resent him for making me feel so ashamed. Even if it was inevitably my fault, it's easier to push it elsewhere than it should be.

And while I'm at it, I'm bitter at Cas, too. For making me look stupid. For making assumptions he had no right to make about a subject he had never breached.

Besides, it's not like he's ever confessed any strong feelings towards me. For what it's worth, no matter how he means it, Rhodes has at least said he loves me.

Cas has never tried. Not once.

I don't even get a full day to dread my evening session with Rhodes. He comes and finds me in between sessions. I'm not expecting him, and don't even have a second to mentally prepare myself before he comes around the corner and I just about die choking on my water.

"Hey," he says. "Can we talk really quick?"

"Sure," I say. I shrug at Cas and follow Rhodes out front and around the corner.

He doesn't stop until we're out of sight from the Atheneum's entry.

"I'm so sorry," I say before he can get a word in. "About yesterday."

"Scout. It's fine." To his credit, he sounds like he means it. In fact, he seems almost amused. "Stop beating yourself up about it."

I relax some, but I'm still self-conscious. "Okay."

"I mean it. You don't need to apologize, and I know, you love apologizing, it's fun for you, whatever…" He smirks at the sheepish look on my face. "Trust me. It's fine."

"Okay," I exhale.

"Secondly— and more importantly— I talked to Easton last night. She said she can shift a few things around and take over your sessions, so if that's okay you'll be working with her—"

"Wait, what?"

"If you're comfortable," Rhodes says, "I think it might be a good idea for you to work with Easton instead."

"I don't— why can't I work with you?" He sighs. "Rhodes, if this is because of yesterday, then it was just one thing. It was dumb of me. I know. But that's passed!"

"Look, Scout," he says. "I know it was a mistake on your part, but it made me uncomfortable. I don't— well, I think I'd feel better with some space for the time being."

"It won't happen again," I insist. "I'm sorry, it was just a stupid reaction—"

"Scout," he says, and this time his voice is lower, far more serious. "I haven't told Easton what happened. I'll keep that between us. But I'm not comfortable, and I need you to respect that."

I do. Deep down, I do, and I know I should be more forgiving with him. But I can't help but lash out. "So, what? I'm never training with you again because I made one tiny lapse in judgment? Because I offended you, or whatever? I mean, what are you even uncomfortable about?"

"Scout," he says. "I never said that. I never said I'm never working with you again. But, for now, I just feel a bit uneasy about the suggestion that me and you… you know."

"I don't…" I'm having trouble wrapping my head around it. Part of it's the deep-rooted shame that clouds my vision and threatens to drown out his words. Part of it is sheer disbelief that, after all he's helped me through, he wants to leave me without so much as a second chance. "Rhodes, why?"

He feels bad. He has to. I've seen that expression in his eyes only once— the day he confronted Akello, the day I realized, for nearly a year, Akello had lied to me, taken advantage of my emotions and preyed on my insecurities. "You'll be okay, Scout. We got you to Seventeens. Maybe… maybe someone else will be better at getting you the rest of the way."

There are tears in my eyes, as stupid as they are. He cares, I tell myself. He hates doing this, but he thinks he has to do it.

"Please," I say, my voice crackling.

He doesn't look away. His eyes are so blue, the depths of the ocean that tug you from shore, pull you under the waves. "I'm sorry. I really am."

The tears burn out of my eyes, water to vapor. It's not regret. It's not sadness. It's fury, all of a sudden, because I can't lose Rhodes. Fuck any stupid, superficial feelings I've had. I can't lose him as a mentor. I can't lose him as a friend.

And he wants to burn that down.

"I'm sorry," I say. "But if this is enough for you to fucking turn your back on me, then you need to get over it. It's fucking immature."

"Scout," he says. "Stop."

My face burns. He knows my game before I've even played my turn. There's nothing else I can do without burning this bridge more than it's already been burned.

Resigned, I say quietly, "Okay."

Behind him, the sun tucks behind the mountains, the impending darkness beckoning in skyfall. There's a chill in the air, a draft that won't go away with layers or cover. It's in me.

"Have a good rest of your session, Scout," he says.

Then he's gone.

Nobody's watching to judge me for it, but I know I can't go after him or beg him to reconsider, even if that's what I feel like doing— begging, as pathetic as it sounds. I stand frozen, tears crawling into my throat until I tighten my hands, forcing that hurt deep below the surface until anger, far lighter and more effortless, rises to the top. It's anger that moves me back into the gym, fuels me through the rest of the day's training, and sees me staying in the gym long past the end of our session embedding knife after knife into throats and ribs and chests.

Alone, just like I used to.

It feels familiar in the worst way. It brings back thoughts of Akello, my constant fear, the permanent pinch of panic between my ribs. When I stop throwing it's not from fatigue, but from anxiety that threatens to consume me.

He'll change his mind, I tell myself, as the darkness creeps in. He's just embarrassed, like me. He'll come around.

But in my negative state, I don't believe that optimism for a second.

I don't see Rhodes for four days.

It's intentional, to be fair. I stay out of medical until I know he's gone, and keep my distance from the main gym when I know he's there. It's not too hard of an adjustment, really. All I have to do is act completely opposite to what I've done for the last six months.

His sessions don't overlap with mine, which makes avoiding him much more manageable. I only see him in passing, then, in between weapons training and combat practice. Another glance towards the open door, as if I expect to see him. And for a second, he's there.

He looks in only briefly. It's long enough for us to make eye contact. But in a second he's gone, as if he was only passing through.

"More duels today," Easton says. I exhale and refocus. "Yesterday we had Iona overtake Aziel, and Tarquin beat Elissa. Today…" She checks the notes on her clipboard. "Avari and Martina, you're up first."

Martina gets to her feet. Avari, slowly, follows suit. She stands stiffly across from Martina, rolling her shoulder out.

"Any weapon you'd like," Easton says. "Skins are here. Get changed quickly, and we'll begin."

The girls return from the foyer with their bodies covered from neck to ankle. Martina selects a wooden spear, its point dull but otherwise as heavy and substantial as a true weapon. Avari, to my surprise, pulls a basic training sword from the stack rather than the knives she's so accustomed to.

Even with the sword, it's clear her shoulder is ailing her. She dodges Martina's stronger swings but can't block with her injured arm. Her swings are slower, her movements hesitant. In an otherwise balanced fight, any hesitation bites her.

It's not close in the slightest. Martina batters Avari's upper body, then swings for the legs. When Avari buckles, Martina drives her spear against Avari's chest, leaving her gasping and breathless.

Easton, however, doesn't look displeased. Instead, her lips twist ever so slightly. If I didn't know better, I'd think she looked smug.

As the girls move to put their weapons away, Easton says something imperceptible to Avari. Avari just flushes and turns away.

"Next two," Easton says, while Martina and Avari change out of their skins. "Pike and Scout, go get changed."

My stomach lurches, but I keep my expression even as I grab a skin and go to change into it. In the foyer, I find myself looking, but it's thankfully empty.

The skin is tight against my stomach, tighter than it should be. I force it over my chest, my stomach, realizing with a shock that it's smoothed over— where I could see my ribs, now they're covered.

It's a good thing, I remind myself. It means I'm getting stronger.

In the gym I watch as Pike selects a long spear, matching Martina's choice. I consider my options. For dueling, a short-range weapon is the smarter choice by far. It's safer when matched against someone who, at close range, is deadly.

But my Games are in less than two years. If there was a time to be safe, it's long gone.

I pull a knife belt from the weapons cache. These are slightly lighter than the ones we use against targets, but it shouldn't make much difference. What's important now is creating and maintaining space for myself. I don't want Pike to even have a chance.

Easton meets my eyes as I set up a safe distance from Pike. I know I've made a questionable decision even without the frown on her lips. But she eventually shrugs, perhaps curious to see if I can hold my own from close.

"On my mark…" She looks between Pike and me. "Go."

I have a knife out and in his chest before he can so much as lift his spear to block it. In the moment he reacts, I've pulled another and launched it forward. He jerks sideways and it strikes against his left shoulder.

Two hits, but my element of surprise is gone. I grab for a third knife as Pike charges, his spear up and ready to strike.

I don't release it. He swings low. But it's not the hit he's planning to make, I can tell by the way he cuts his movement short. He expects to take advantage of my reactionary movement, the leaning back only to expose my throat, my chest, my hands.

I don't let him. He expects my surprise. Not the way I dip out of the way, ducking to avoid his second strike.

I wrap my arms around his spear and jerk him sideways. He's off-balance. I could end this now, a knife to the throat, clean and quick.

But why would I cut it short when I'm having such an easy time?

He rebalances, and in the second it takes him to get back into a strong stance I've danced away, four more steps of distance. On my heels, I launch another toss across my body. It strikes him cleanly in the stomach.

There's murmuring across the group. I can't listen to it. Another knife is in my fingers already, but Pike is back in range where he could kill me, negate everything I've done to him. There's a difference between confidence and arrogance, and I refuse to be the latter while I still have room to fall.

Pike lunges. His full strength is afforded, so I move the way I should, jerking sideways so his weapon pierces the air an inch from my ribs. He recovers quickly and I push away. It's not enough space to throw my next knife. His weapon arcs. I move with it, not able to avoid it but at least able to negate some of its force.

It still strikes with enough force to leave a bruise along my left shoulder. When he lifts it back, I send a kick into his stomach. He staggers back. It's enough room for a quick shot, a flicked wrist, another blade into his ribs.

In a real fight, four knives would stagger him. Here, they're hardly heavy enough on contact to leave a bruise. But he's not just slowed by my blows, but my momentum. He's landed one shot while I've had four easy strikes.

I know my fellow cadets well enough to know what fuels them and what burns them out. Cas becomes more vicious when he's down. Aziel can't handle frustration. Tarquin seldom reacts to anything, but to be fair, he's rarely down. Martina fights just as hard no matter the stakes. Iona can't handle losing. Avari panics under pressure.

Pike is a wild card. Some days he's even, his emotions contained. Others, he can't conceptualize failure. But I don't need him to fall apart. I just need him to slip up one more time so I can end this definitively.

And he does. He pauses with space between us, giving himself a moment to regroup and try to determine how best to beat me. But in that time, I've moved further away, technically outside the confines that other tributes have set in previous duels, not that it matters.

He just blocks my first knife with his spear. The second slips under its handle, striking the right side of his chest.

The third catches him right in the throat.

"Enough," Easton says.

I pause, my next knife already perched in my hand. I'm not even breathing hard. I could fight forever. But I've made my point.

I retrieve my knives, my cheeks warm with pride. I'm not looking for Easton the way I might look for Rhodes, but she passes by me anyways, just close enough to comment, "Nice work, Scout."

I hide my smile. She's gone already, calling for the other eight cadets to set up the next drill while Martina and I change, but that pride lingers for the rest of the hour, until the minute I step outside the Atheneum's front doors.

Brisk air stings across my cheeks. The door catches as it closes behind me, lodged on its own tense hinges. I scan the front landing, discerning blurred shapes among the shadows along the edges of the spotlights that light the walkway in front of the facility.

There's Cas. And talking to him, Avari.

Don't be a baby. I walk towards them, stepping forward to fill in next to Cas. "Hey."

Avari stops short. Cas looks down.

"Oh, come on," I say. "What is it?"

Avari eyes me warily. Cas steps back. "Scout, let's go."

"No. I want to know."

"It's not—"

"I know. It's none of my business what you think of me, Avari. But if you want me to change something, you have to tell me what it is."

She swallows, shifting between her feet. "It's just petty of me. That's all it is. Don't worry about it."

"I don't care."

"Fine." She exhales sharply. "Again, it's petty, and dumb, and Cas didn't even want to hear it, if that's what you're worried about. But I'm sick of you being a kiss-ass. With Easton. With Eliska. Hell, with Rhodes. It hasn't been cute for a long fucking time." When I try to protest, she cuts me off. "You know that's why Easton likes you so much. Yeah, you're good. You work hard. But you're not…"

"Avari," Cas says.

I frown. "Not what?"

"Not good enough," she says, her voice dropping.

My chest pinches. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means—" she says— "that you don't deserve her favor. Easton's. I deserve that. I do. Know why? Because it's probably me or Iona at the end of this who gets that volunteer spot. Not the girl who probably brown-nosed just to even make Seventeens. Right? You're good, Scout. You're a good fighter. You're really damn good with knives. I can appreciate that. But you're not made for this, get it? Sheer skill isn't what gets you a victory."

"Did Akello tell you to say that?" I spit back. "Can't even think for yourself, can you?"

"Oh, that's fucking rich, coming from you."

"Avari, stop," Cas says. "Scout, come on—"

"I'd be careful how highly you think of yourself," I say over Cas's protests. "Considering the girl one spot above me absolutely tore you to shreds today."

She laughs, but I can tell I've struck a nerve. "Yeah? We all have those days. Some days I'm not great. Some days you can actually hit your knives in a target. It balances out."

"Avari."

"You're still judging me based on one day of Trials six months ago? Just because you haven't gotten any better in six months doesn't mean no one else has. In fact, I'd watch your back when it comes to rankings."

"Is that a threat?"

"Not a threat," I clarify. "Just a warning. You spend too long resting on your laurels, you might end up stepping on some toes."

"You talk a big talk for someone who's going to stay fifth at the end of this all," Avari says. "Remember that."

"Scout, come on."

Cas' arm brushes against mine. He won't pull me away, but it's time to leave, and we both know it.

"Fine," I say. I take a breath and it catches in my chest, warm like the creases around my eyes. "Let's go."

I don't give Avari any more of my attention. I'm already walking away. I have no plans to wait for Cas to catch up. Because if I stop, or turn, or hesitate a moment longer, I'll break. And I can't, not in front of Avari.

"Scout," Cas says, stepping quickly to fall in beside me. "I'm sorry, Scout, she was complaining to me, I wasn't trying to enable her, I swear."

"It's fine, Cas."

"I literally— I told her not to talk shit about you to me. She knows better."

"I believe you. It doesn't matter."

"And I'm sorry she thinks that way. But I didn't have any part in it. I want to be there for her as her friend, but never at your expense—"

"It doesn't matter, Cas!" Snow sticks to the wisps around my scalp, and I tug my hood tighter over my head. "She'll think what she wants to think. It's not your responsibility to stop her. Okay? So just— forget about it."

He's silent. Finally. Maybe it's tense, but it's better than the alternative. My insides are twisting, frustration and heartbreak commingling in the cold.

"It doesn't matter," I repeat, my voice quieter.

Snow floats down between us as we walk, dusting Cas's eyelashes, grazing his cheeks. "That's what you say about everything. That it doesn't matter. That I should forget about it."

"I know."

"It can't always be like that, though," he says.

"No, but it's easier. I don't want you to have to get involved with everything."

"But I want to."

"But I don't," I repeat. "Look, thank you for defending me, but that doesn't magically make me feel better."

His brow tightens. "Can anything I do help?"

For his sake, I consider. But all that comes to mind is wanting him gone, wanting to be back home, only where is home? The barracks have never been comfortable. Going back to my house back in Flavia Solva after what happened last time isn't an option.

"No, Cas," I sigh. "I just need to process it myself."

At his house, the windows are dark. I push inside stiffly, my feet sore from where they've pressed against the edges of my boots. When Cas offers to make me hot cider, I shake my head.

I sit on the floor across from his bed, my hands pressed to my temples and every bone in my body laden with exhaustion.

Cas comes in with two mugs in hand. I inhale instinctively, but he only stacks them on the shelf by his bed and takes a seat across from me, his legs hanging off the edge. His feet tap the floor in a nervous rhythm.

He doesn't try to talk, and for that, I'm grateful. Instead, he lets me breathe. He lets me think. It's the best thing he can do for me. Even if, by the time I finally meet his eyes, I'm crying.

"Scout," he starts.

"It's okay," I say, tears choking me up. But then I'm really crying, and I bury my head in my arms, curling against my knees. "Just… give me a second."

Everything is painful. Leaving is painful. But staying is worse. Not when every day feels like this.

I can't keep living like this.

"Cas," I say finally, my voice trembling.

"What's wrong, Scout?"

What isn't? Avari. Rhodes. My family. Mallen. Training, all of it, because it's never been so uncomfortable before and as hard as I work, I know I'll never be comfortable, not until I've earned the nomination, made it into the Games, and won. And you, Cas, my best friend, the one I've known and loved the longest, because I don't think we understand each other the way we used to.

When I think of the last time I was happy with you, Cas, I think of fireworks and biting shots and face paint and bonfires, the torches we lit fading as soon as we drew them from the fire. The relief I felt when you kissed me, because it meant I could stop thinking so much about it for just a second. A train leaving the tunnel. Sparks fading like falling stars.

You must know this. You must know that I haven't been happy here for a long, long time.

But maybe, like me, you thought you could fix it. Patch it up with something nice, a compliment, your lips on my neck. And I can't blame you for a second for that. I thought you were enough. I thought this— all of this— was my fault.

Turns out, it was no one's fault. Just a side effect of forcing feelings that weren't there, because maybe it might make me feel a little bit more worthy of something akin to love.

"I'm sorry, Cas," I say.

He understands. Only three words, but there's a finality to them, and my voice gives way again to the sharp edges of tears. I haven't said it, but he knows.

"Why?" he asks. His voice comes out like a plea. "I mean— why now?"

I take a long breath, trying to steady my breathing. "I care about you," I say, "so, so much. I need you to know that. But something here isn't working— hasn't worked for a while. And I think… I think what made me realize it was how I kept wanting space, needing time away, even though we don't even get that much real time together, you know? And— you know, we want different things, I think, too. Even if we hadn't had that talk earlier in the week…" I cough, fighting back a sob. "It felt inevitable, in a way. Even if I could never figure out how to admit that to you, or to myself."

His brow is knitted, concern or confusion, as he tries to rationalize something that, ultimately, still seems like a blindside.

"It's so hard to explain," I tell him. "And I want to, but I don't know how, besides the fact that, like— I don't know. Like I said. Needing space, and all that."

"Yeah," he says. "I know. You've said that before."

"Have I?"

"Maybe not so clearly, but I could have figured it out." He sighs. "And it's hard, you know, because I just assumed you and I were on the same page, and everything was fine. But I never asked. Maybe I should have."

"No," I say. "No, it's not your fault. I felt that something was wrong and I never said it, just tried to fix it myself, and then when I couldn't…"

When I couldn't, I went to Rhodes for support, instead of Cas. That's how I should have felt about Cas all this time. Instead, I contributed to that unbreachable distance between us, and made everything worse.

I should have never let it come to this. But I think I've always been afraid of hurting Cas, and that's no way to live, either. To walk on eggshells for an entire year instead of making my concerns known, because it's easier to play a martyr than to watch my closest friend be in any pain.

"I'm so, so sorry, Cas," I say. Heat rushes over my body, the shame heavier than any weapon or weight down in the Vaults. "I should have… I don't know. Said something sooner. It's just— it's hard."

"How long have you felt like this?"

I swallow. "A long time."

"Like… since Trials?"

Fresh tears well up in my eyes. I shudder. "Like… since the beginning, maybe. But I didn't understand. I thought it was training, I thought I was just overwhelmed, I didn't…"

His expression is too heartbreaking for me to keep talking.

"I'm so sorry," I repeat. Sorry for hurting you. Sorry for holding out and making it so much worse, inevitably. Sorry for being an idiot about all this.

But he isn't angry. He watches his hands, turning them over, swallowing whatever it is he's feeling, but it's not anger.

"It's okay," he finally says, his voice soft.

Another sob curls out of my throat.

He moves carefully off his bed, every step calculated. When he sits down on the floor across from me, every instinct tells me to pull away. But he doesn't try to wrap around me. He's never been the type.

He reaches out, his hand finding mine— warm, soft like the night he first kissed me, the night we already began to fall apart.

"It's okay," he repeats, and when I look at him, there are tears pressed into his eyes, too. But they don't fall. "Breathe, okay? Don't worry about me."

My voice is a whisper. "I didn't want to say it— I didn't want to hurt you—"

"Hey," he says quietly. "I'll be fine. You— you need to do what's best for you. If you're not happy…"

"I was," I choke out.

"And things change," he says. "As much as it hurts…" He swallows. His hand tenses around mine. "It'll be okay."

He sits with me until I stop crying. I wipe my eyes with my forearm, forcing my breath to even out with long, deep inhales. All the while his hand is in mine, the smallest gesture, but it's tremendously comforting. It's more than I deserve.

"Do you want this cider? Might have cooled off some by now."

My face warms. Of course, he brought me a mug when I said I didn't want any. And of course, he's offering it now, when I wouldn't blame him for simply making me leave. "Yeah," I say, my voice quiet. "Thank you."

I take a sip. The drink soaks into my chest, warming me briefly from the inside out until it's retaken by numbing cold.

I swallow, the motion arduous for something so innate.

"I guess I should probably go," I say.

He nods. He takes the drink from me, his fingers curling sharply around the handle, and leads me out of his room. At his front door, I smile weakly as I bend to lace my boots up.

"Is that Scout?"

Shit. I clear my face as Marius appears in the hallway outside the kitchen, his face friendly and so, so naive. "Hi, Marius."

"How's your day been, Scout?"

My stomach twists. How was my day? I pushed myself to exhaustion for the four hundredth day in a row. I squarely beat another cadet, only to have my former best friend dispel any pride I might have had in that accomplishment. I witnessed Rhodes, the person I think I trusted the most, openly ignore me. And I broke up with your son, and I couldn't even say out loud what I was doing, because it hurt me too much to admit it.

I see Cas over his shoulder, his face shrouded, before he disappears into the kitchen. I swallow, pushing the tears back as my eyes burn.

"It was good," I say softly, trying not to cry. "My day was good."

My fingers shake on my laces; I can't get my boots on fast enough, or my coat on over my shoulders. My face red, I pull the front door open.

Bitter, scathing cold assaults me. I squeeze my eyes shut against the torrent of snow that rushes into my face and tug my hood further over my head.

The wind is violent. The air is glacial.

I can taste the tears in my throat as I turn back inside. "Hey, Marius?"

He sees the storm outside and chuckles. "Yeah. I don't think you're going out in that. Just stay here for the night until it dies down. I know Cas won't mind."

My eyes blur. I see Cas behind him like a shadow, his shoulders heavy, his face dark. When I meet his eyes, I feel my pain reflected, a mirror of my soul.

I think of a long, cold night next to him, and my body trembles.

The door closes behind me. With it, my only escape is gone. I curl up on the couch, hugging my knees in towards my chest. When Cas comes to sit beside me, there are miles of distance between us, merged only by the offering of another mug. Warm cider to stave off the cold.

I accept it gratefully. It's not a peace offering, but it's an offering all the same.

Not to save us. Just to make it through this night.

agreatleap. weebly. com

Howdy! This was a much more fun chapter to write than the last, as you can probably tell. We're getting into some of my favorite parts of this fic and I can't wait to share what I have planned with you all.

Expect next chapter sooner than the last.

With gratitude,
Ali