.

—-—-—

haven

—-—-—

Sweat shimmers on the surface of Mallen's shoulders, muscles curling in her back. She lifts herself up again, fingers white around the horizontal bar, elastic rigid on her shins. Her jaw locks, her throat tightening as she strains, lifting her chin above the bar.

I lie back. The Vaults floor is dusty and cold on my bare shoulders. I fold my knees up so my back loosens, my legs rigid with day-old fatigue, my arms heavy and stiff along my inner biceps. My hands sting from hanging against the bar, an ache Mallen's no doubt feeling fiercely.

But naturally, she doesn't stop at the first sign of pain. Mallen has an easy strength to her, her motions simple and fluid. She doesn't really need the band she uses, adding tautness to the base of her body so she's supported externally in pulling herself up, but maybe she's afraid of lifting herself without any assistance. It checks out— if I know Mallen, she's less self-reliant than she'd like to seem.

More often than not, I'm the one she comes to. But I can't always lift her up, and these exercises are hers and hers alone to succeed or fail at. Inevitably, so are the Games— it can only be one of us at the end of it all, a fact I'm constantly trying to distract myself from. If Avari's any indication, it's hard to be friends with your closest competitors. In the end, someone always loses. And as much as I love her, I can't let that be me.

Mallen's face is flushed, her eyes fluttering shut against the next contraction of her biceps, her lats. She readjusts her grip at the bottom, chalk tainting the dull hue of the bar and holding slick to the creases in her fingers. Her lips drop, doubt blooming between her cheeks, a look she wears far too frequently for her abilities.

"You got it, Mal," I say.

If she hears me, she doesn't visibly react. She's reached that level of fatigue where sounds and sights blur, their boundaries losing sharpness until the pounding of blood in her veins and the deep-set ache in her muscles become all she feels, hears, experiences. She knows nothing but the weight in her arms, the tugging sensation of muscle and skin against their fibers, and the weight of judgment tipping side-to-side on its axis: the relief of relaxing, or the raw pride of resistance. Sometimes it's not about how much you can give, it's how much more is worth giving?

"One more," I say when she pauses, hanging limp with her entire weight straining her arms, gravity pulling her down. "Give me one more—"

"Shut up," she snaps. I stifle a laugh and she tries again, lifting herself up and forward, her chin just tapping the top of the bar. She pauses again, fatigue clawing at her frame. She tilts her head up, eyeing the distance between her and the top. It's the same length as ever, but a greater challenge with every effort. Is it possible to reach it?

I see it in her eyes, too, as the pause gives her breaths time to shudder out of her throat, hints of calculation, resentment, fear. Is it worth trying?

She determines it is. She strains, her arms tightening once more as she lifts herself up, pressing against the band and clinging to the bar, desperate as she slows three-quarters of the way to the top. Her arms lock. She grimaces, a small cry cutting through the gaps between her gritted teeth.

Her arms give out. Her grip holds but she dangles, her knuckles and the base of her fingers keeping her a foot and a half from the ground— enough to hang on, but not lift herself up.

"Fuck," she spits, and frees her legs from the grip of the band. She drops the last few inches to the ground and unhooks the band from where she looped it between her hand-holds, chalk still dusting fist-sized spaces along the bar. When she shows me her hands, they're red and worn, swelling calluses stretched along the inside of her knuckles.

"Cute," I say. "Come on, let's do core."

"Let me breathe first, bitch."

Mallen sloshes water down her throat, her breathing heavy. But she's smiling, the way she always does down here. There's some security in the Vaults in the form of distance and insulation from expectations. If you time it right, you won't run into another soul down here. Then there's no need to compare yourself. Or at least, no reminder that you should. It might be different if Mallen and I weren't so used to being partners, but that sense of comparison is the same whether she's with me or not— I guess there isn't much to hide when she knows exactly what I'm capable of.

Mallen extends along the ground, stretching her back and arms. When she comes up to balance on her knees, she's left faded handprints on the Vaults floor, like the gentle dusting of snow. "What if… we…"

"No."

"…Skipped core."

"No."

"Come on," she whines. "Why?"

"Don't tell me you're getting lazy."

"No, I just…" She considers. "I don't want to."

"Be more of a baby. Come on."

"What's the point?" she says, coming down onto her back like it physically pains her. "Getting actual visible abs? First of all, I stopped caring about abs the day I learned about pasta. Secondly, why do you need them?" She reaches her arms up above her head, extending them so her stomach tightens. "You can just stretch the right way and your ribs start looking like a six-pack."

It takes me a moment to process her words, that she isn't making a joke— she means it, and it stings. Maybe it's better that it's just an off-handed comment to her. It doesn't mean anything.

It matters to me, though. It bothers me through the rest of our workout where I'm silent, my torso twisting and aching with the burn of isometric holds, my elbows rigid on the floor as I hold my body tense, all the while a hint of nausea, anxiety manifesting as illness, creeps into my throat.

Our last hold stretches longer than the minute we've set aside for it, or it seems to, but not for the pain slicing along my lower abdomen. When we finally drop, I get to my feet quickly, pulling my water bottle with me, and step out into the stairwell.

Mallen lingers in the Vaults as I wait for her and take small sips from my water.

It's stupid. She obviously didn't mean any harm and it's stupid for me to take it that way. But is it my fault for expecting her to know that sort of comment is off-limits? It wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't said a word to her about my appointment with Eliska, but she'd been the first person I told. She knows how afraid I am of what I've done to myself, and she should know it's a sore subject.

I just don't know how to tell her that, especially when she appears at the base of the stairs a minute later and asks, "You alright?"

"Yeah. Just wiped."

I'm grateful that Mallen isn't so touchy. Khione was always the type to be a bit too affectionate, to wrap an elbow around my neck with a bit too much gusto. Mallen's grabbed my hands a few times, but I don't know if I would be controlled enough to politely shake her off if she tried to do that now. "What are you thinking?" she says, as we reach the top of the stairs. "About coming over?"

I'd left her invitation open earlier, unsure how I'd be feeling after the lift. I'm grateful for that now; I'm feeling more inclined for a quiet night here. "I'm pretty tired," I say. "Gotta get some work done, anyways. You know I can't get anything done at your place."

She's visibly disappointed, but she doesn't fight it like she normally would. Maybe she senses I'm irritated with her. Not that that's ideal by any means— I hate the thought of upsetting her, even if she was the one to insult me in the first place— but it's easier than having to explain it. "Alright. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

I don't feel as lonely when she leaves as I normally do, which stings even worse than missing her, worse than the initial burn of her comment. Once I cool off it won't bother me anymore. Or maybe it will. Something about her behavior has rubbed me the wrong way lately: joking about Cavara, whispering during Elias' funeral, even those mild comments that used to be funnier and now just seem needlessly disrespectful.

I feel justified in deciding to stay here for the evening, especially when that choice wasn't solely because of Mallen. For once, I live somewhere that feels familiar, like it suits me. I'm not in the same hurry to leave where I live like I used to be. Why not enjoy it?

What that looks like, more often than not, is heading back to the girls' barracks after dinner once my schoolwork's done and curling up on the top bunk, my back in the corner, with one of the many manuals stacked along the shelves: histories of prior Games, intermediate shortsword technique, guides to wild food sources in all terrains. I'm far from an ideal student, though, and I don't get far into any of them before my mind starts wandering.

I wouldn't really be focused anyway, I convince myself, with Ardana loudly hoisting herself up on the bunk next to me. "What's new, Scout?"

I'm not used to sleeping in the same room as another person, let alone nine others. I feel somewhat safe knowing they have no reason to make an attempt on my life, but the awkwardness might be worse— not because I don't know them, but because of who I've replaced. Ardana's chattier than the rest though and, as my immediate neighbor, she's easy enough to confide in. "Feels weird being the new Claudia, not going to lie."

"Oh, definitely," she says. "It was way less weird seeing that bed empty than seeing someone new sleeping in it. That's not a complaint, by the way. Just an observation."

"I know," I say.

"Especially— I don't know. Girls will go home sometimes or they'll be sick and it was easy enough to pretend that was true for her too. Just sucks." Her lips twist. "I mean, no one's actually going to say that, because she was the best in our year, and now that she's quit officially, we all have a chance. But it sucks, honestly. She deserved better than what we gave her."

"We?" I question.

"Like— I mean, the bullying was bad from the Eighteens. Really bad. I don't agree with moving her up, but I'm not going to be that much of a horrible person about it."

Poor Claudia. Got exactly what she aimed for and never even got to experience it. "What did they do?"

"Nothing physical. Obviously, Claudia was protected from that sort of thing. But it wasn't pretty."

"What, they just said things?"

"Not just—" Ardana sighs. "I don't know how to explain it. I guess… do you ever go through those moods where you feel like you can't do anything right? Or, like, that all your friends hate you?"

"Sometimes."

"Think of that. But your world is suddenly so much smaller, because you're really only talking to the same ten or so people every day. All you know is how to kill, except now no one's telling you you're good at it, they're insisting it was a stroke of luck that got you that spot. Everything you knew about yourself starts to fracture. And how are you going to cope? Where's your support coming from when everyone's either turning against you or is complicit in letting it go on?"

I frown. "Why did you let it happen?"

Ardana shrugs. "I don't know. I didn't really want to get in the way of the Eighteens, I guess. Nothing was stopping them from giving me a beating." She swallows. "I don't think anyone realized how bad it was until the Reaping, honestly, mostly from Flavia and Marlowe. But everyone was guilty to some degree."

I remember the way Claudia watched Cavara that day in Aspra's office, the day Cavara offered to tape my shoulder: skittish, the way outer kids eye the Careers in those sixty seconds before the Bloodbath starts. I don't like thinking of Cavara as a bully, though; I can't make it fit with the Cavara I know. "How is Claudia doing? Do you know?"

"Oh, she's okay," Ardana says. "I mean, maybe she's still got some side effects from the sheer amount of pills she took, but she's alive. Just, she didn't want to come back. Naturally. Not that she would have been invited back."

"Doesn't that…" I trail off. Ardana's toying with her fingers, vacantly tracing her nails along the backs of each knuckle. It's an awkward question, but it's worth asking if it bothers me. "Does that scare you, how that sort of pressure… did that to her?"

Ardana shrugs, relaxing back against her pillow. "It wasn't just the pressure, though. Right? It was her, the circumstances, the people…" Ardana gnaws on the inside of her lip now, like she's got to be moving or picking at something every second before her stress consumes her. "It's going to be different. Especially because I'm not Claudia. My goal— obviously, it's to get the nomination. But I want to be so secure in how I accomplished that that I don't have any room to doubt myself. Humility is important, of course— you don't want to die to some dumb mistake because you underestimate your other tributes— but not at the expense of confidence. That's where I think we're really different, me and her."

It's unsettling, though, as I curl into sleep a half-hour later. I did well yesterday, and even so, I know I'm capable of more. Yet, why do I feel more like Claudia than Ardana? More inclined towards doubt than confidence?

Reason says it's what I'm used to, that my mindset won't change in a day, won't shift unless I practice it. But as I drift to sleep, doubt lingers regardless: it won't change until you're good enough to deserve it, either.

Cas should be more proud of his pre-Trials placement, personally. Third of twenty-two boys and he's… well, not upset, exactly, but it still bothers him, a week after the fact. "I was seventh," I say, just to make it about me. "You don't see me complaining."

He's not concerned about the number, though, more so about his relative placing. "I don't know how I'm supposed to beat Tarq. He's lethal."

"Start by beating Pike," I say. "No way you'll forgive yourself if you let him beat you again in Sixteens."

It's easier, far easier, to focus on Cas' chances than confront my own. Seventh out of nineteen is good, but that's a minimum of two spots to overcome— three if I count Elissa, who only finished behind me because she passed out. Who am I supposed to beat? Avari came in third, which I can only imagine has her frustrated to no avail after finishing first our Fourteens year, regardless of what it counts for. Iona, of all people, snuck into first place the same way she snuck up to my height last year: entirely out of nowhere, until nobody could ignore her. Training with her, though, it's like nothing's changed at all— she's interested in talking to nobody, playing nice with nobody. All she sees is herself.

That's fine with me, really. I've seen all I need to see of Iona to know even if she were the type to entertain conversation at the drinking fountain, our conversations would run nowhere. I catch myself between sessions beginning to see her the way I'd imagine other districts see our volunteers: through a lens of fear.

I'm grateful we don't prefer the same weapons, so I don't have to run into her as much, especially as the weeks progress and we begin losing numbers. Lenna is first, gone in the very first month, although at eighteenth of nineteen, it was likely going to be either now or next July. In September we lose Tamris, Amelia, and Invictus. Tess drops when she's diagnosed with a stress fracture in her ribs, caused by breathing too hard for too long from the running we continue to add to our training schedule. Kaia makes it to November before she fully flames out, but that fatigue was prevalent as early as August.

As for me, I'm hanging in better than I thought I would, which I attribute to Mallen's continued company, Cas' familiar presence, and Rhodes' unwavering support as the training cycle progresses. Mallen still elects to do her runs too early for my tastes, but I begin to prefer running with Cas anyways as November bleeds into early December and the ache of winter presses into the Atheneum. If I ever try to race him, it's in friendly competition— there's no pressure to beat him like there is Mallen, who is inevitably my competition. I understand that more the longer I spend in the barracks, where even while there's security, whispered threats among the bunks, across the table, and between the bathroom stalls are enough to leave Ardana sleepless next to me. I wake at night, occasionally anxious for irrational fear that I might be targeted for no other reason than I'm easy pickings, to see one eye staring back at me, the rest of Ardana's face buried in her pillow. Some nights I even miss the relative safety of my family's house until I remind myself that I renounced safety as a priority the day I decided it was the Games or nothing.

Cas, like me, has a tendency to run longer than he's supposed to, farther into the slopes surrounding the Atheneum than is prescribed. Even when my calves and hamstrings ache I follow, because what other option do I have? Turn back and run the rest alone? Tell Cas to cut his workout short for my sake? I don't want to stifle him, but I don't want to be alone, either.

It's not like the phenomenon will last. Winter in the mountains gets devastatingly cold and icy, not safe for extended runs with the shoes we're provided. Cas seems to know this, or at least that's what I attribute his ever-lengthening workouts to.

When we stop for a drink mid-run one afternoon, the sun creeping lower by the minute, I mention it off-handedly. "You act like the distances Urban gives us aren't enough."

"I'm not tired at the end of them," he says. "Not unless I know I'm doing more than everyone else is."

It's a compulsion for him as much as it is for me. Maybe for different reasons, but the sympathy remains. "Do you like running, though?"

"Am I supposed to?"

I shrug. "I do."

Sometimes Cas watches me with more attention than I know what to do with, like he's trying to figure me out. I've tried to counter it in the past, but he's always been somewhat hard to read, so I base how I think he sees me on his actions. More and more we've ended up partnered on runs or for workouts these days. So even if he's displeased, he can't dislike me. Not for a single comment. "I'm glad, then. I'm sure it makes this whole thing a little easier."

It's something I would have overthought when I was fourteen, at the peak of my stupid crush on him. Maybe I've changed my mind these days. Or maybe I just don't trust it properly, that wispy hope that I mean more to him than being another one of his training friends. It's not just the way I find myself craving contact so badly it aches, the simple touch of a shoulder pressed to mine, arms holding me steady. It can't be just that.

I want to mean something, no matter how small.

As sad as it is, I feel I matter more the more people drop from our year. Roland quits in mid-December. We get a week to breathe at the beginning of January and Arrius doesn't tell a soul, but he never returns to training. As for Traian, I'm of the belief he's already been looking for an excuse to quit when he tears something in his knee that even Eliska says she can't fix. It's a job only the Capitol can provide, just like that test she said would capture my bone density and test its strength.

I've been fortunate so far on that front— I'd say I was lucky if I didn't think I had so much to do with it. Eliska provides the pressure to be better but I'm the one being disciplined, feeding myself even when I'm full to the point food is even more tasteless than before. But if I don't like what I'm eating regardless, it's much easier to wave off anything unhealthy, to make my nutrition a science. And I grow as a result of it, those ribs that Mallen joked about fading under my skin, my arms progressively becoming more toned to match the muscles in my legs.

But as other cadets fall victim to injury as the year continues, some worse than others, I feel my time is coming up. It's not just paranoia, lingering from my first meeting with Eliska where I was half-certain my bones were going to splinter at the base of my legs with every off-kilter step I took. It's simple common sense. Injuries are natural in a physically demanding environment, combat or not. As the stakes are raised, more injuries are bound to come.

And come, they do.

I'm in the third group to be released, still pulling at the tight-fitting skins underlying my training garb by the time Denali grabs our map and compass and starts tailing around the building. Az and Sep hang back, still toying with their vests. I walk in the middle, my hand wrapped around my right backpack strap, watching my breath paint the air ahead of me until the Atheneum disappears from view.

"Should be about a fifty-minute hike," Denali says, her voice just in earshot as she faces forward. Az and Sep won't hear her, but they're not at risk of breaking off. All they need is to follow. I skip up to Denali, keeping my ears open for any other groups, but we're already spread too far towards our base area. "How are you doing on water?"

"Fine," I say. "Mind if I take a look at the map?"

She passes it over, comfortable enough in our direction so far to allow a moment without her guide. I've traversed the Atheneum's slopes a number of times through runs, hikes, even the small bits of outdoor training Kova or Urban have liked throwing in when indoor training becomes too repetitive. But this is the first time I get to fully explore the outer area, far out of reach of the Atheneum's control or of the nearby towns. Our base is situated in the very top left of the map, one of the furthest from where we started. Seven others are scattered amongst the grasses and wooded covers.

Thirty-two cadets remaining made eight perfect teams of four. Urban had to do this today, before anyone else quit before he could run it the way he wanted to.

I pass the map back and pull my sweatshirt up to loop around my chin. My fingers are rigid with cold but I don't dare wear gloves, not when my weapon requires precision in my grip and release for every throw. I jam my hands into my armpits, where the layers of warmth help insulate some of that blood flow, but my circulation still feels frozen in my veins. At least my legs are warm under that added protective layer beneath a pair of thick leggings as they push against earth and rock, carrying me further into the wilderness.

When we finally stop, I'm sweating under all my layers. I start to pull my sweatshirt off until Denali chides me for it. "Keep it on. We'll get colder the longer we wait here."

My watch reads 7:42, giving us a good twenty minutes until we're able to go hunting for the other groups. I drop my bag, looking through it a third time just to busy myself. There isn't much— a mostly-full water bottle, basic first aid materials, and a face guard, which I secure around my head. I've had my knife belt looped around my waist since we first stopped, getting used to the pull of added weight and feeling somewhat comforted by the closeness of the weapons I have at my disposal. These ones are no practice weapons, either— they're serrated, sharpened metal. Even with our protective gear, they'll hurt on impact.

I'm eager for it, oddly enough. That hunger doesn't scare me like I thought it might. Instead, I'm antsy, my fingers twitching to throw knives, to take out the competition. Who's first? I find myself thinking, as the darkness of early dawn fades into a chilling morning. My breath is less potent, but still opaque as it hovers in mid-air. Who wants to try me?

"Eventually we're going to have to head back towards the Atheneum— we can't be spread out here forever," Septimus is saying. "But we've got time, if we want to think of going towards 2 first."

"Why not wait here?" Denali says. "It's last team standing. We're out of the way, might as well be smart to let the others pick each other off first."

"Sure, if you're scared," Az says. "But I want to get hunting."

"Me too," I find myself saying. Not to appease Az, but because I do, really. I'm shivering with anticipation now, sweat still clinging to the inside of that protective covering which really does not breathe well. I can only imagine how hellish these are to wear in the heat of summer— although overheating is still better than the alternative. "I say we head down towards 4 first, keep one side protected because we know no one's really going to be coming from the west."

"Our west or theirs?"

"It's the same west, dumbass," Az says. "Who's in 4?"

I remember the group behind us all too well. "Tarq, Thalia, Kiera, and Cas, pretty sure."

"Oh, fuck."

"What about 2?"

"Mallen, Iona…" I can't remember the rest. "But they might be heading at 1. I don't know."

"Let's all just jump Tarq and see what happens," says Az. "He's got a spear. Scout can just snipe him and then we'll deal with the rest."

"Easy," I say. "Because they won't see the four of us coming at all."

"Not if it's just one of us. You'll go ahead and scout it out."

"Good one," I say. "Fine. But if I get murked…"

"We'll avenge you, or whatever," Septimus says. "7:59. You guys ready?"

I roll my shoulders back, stretching my shoulders out and down, practicing a few more weaponless throws. Az wraps his fingers around his sword, its edge narrow and razor-sharp. The skins will protect most of our bodies, but our hands and feet are still vulnerable. I'm just glad he's on my side today— I'd hate to be on the receiving end of one of his blows, protective shield or not. He, like Iona, would be the type to go for the fingers even if we're sworn against it. I don't trust him to follow the rules, even if I've agreed to.

At eight, my alarm buzzes on my wrist. I click it off and we're immediately on the move, slow but steady, Denali taking up position at the back while I lead us forward. Altitude is in our favor— we're able to hold at a distance while scanning the surrounding landscape for bodies. I catch a glimpse of movement at one point and freeze, but it vanishes— an animal, perhaps, or just a flicker of leaves. The wilderness is silent, eerily so. My shoes scuffing in the dust seems louder than it should be, but no one ambushes us as we follow the map south along the outer boundary line.

"I'm bored," Septimus says around a half-hour later, when we haven't run into a single group.

"Hush," Denali says, her voice low. But no one's around to hear it.

I check the map again, basing our position off of the sight of higher mountains in the distance. "We're just skating around everyone, probably. We'll head further in if we don't see anyone in the next fifteen or so minutes."

It's tense, not knowing if any other groups have been eliminated yet, what position we're in, where anyone else is. I check over my shoulder as we move forward, even knowing we're technically protected on our right side. I don't trust the silence. I don't particularly trust Az and Denali, either. Septimus is loyal enough, but Az has a tendency to corrupt him into losing focus. Denali's fine, but I have to believe there's a reason she hasn't improved in the rankings since Fourteens. Even as we pace forward, her face is weighed down with exhaustion; there's no eagerness there to seek out the other cadets.

Which is why we nearly miss the first person we come across, until I sense movement and force the others to freeze. "Behind us," I whisper.

One body, moving low among the trees. It's hard to tell through the overgrowth, but it looks like his shoulder's stained red. I can't tell if he's alone or not. "Down there. Torin."

"I'll go," Az says. "Surround him. You girls take the front."

"No, I'm staying up here," Denali says. "I'll keep a look out so you all don't get fucking jumped."

The hillside's far too exposed. There's no good way to pursue him, but we have no other option besides letting him go, and then what's the point of this whole exercise? It's the most Games-like activity we've done since being here, and we'd be foolish to treat it like a regular session— these results undoubtedly matter for something, even if Urban seemed more focused on getting us more live practice than on rankings. So we spread out, Az circling around behind Torin as we move forward, Septimus taking the right flank.

I keep ahead of Torin, just out of sight on the slope. I don't know what his plan is, but I don't particularly want to bait him towards me, either. That's an easy way to get slaughtered early. I could send a knife towards him to see how he reacts, if he calls for help or circles back to a group if he has one, but I don't want to call unnecessary attention to myself. The Games last days, weeks even. There's no reason to get impatient, even in a smaller-scale version that will only last hours until one team remains. So I bide my time, tracking him forward across the landscape, glancing every so often towards where I know Sep is. I lost sight of Aziel about five minutes ago, but Torin doesn't act as though he's seen him.

Until he freezes in place, hand tightening around his sword. I stop, watching for his next movement.

Out of my periphery, I see a flash of movement— Az, brazenly breaking for Torin. Torin glances over his shoulder and starts running. My heart skipping, I draw a knife from my belt and launch it forwards.

It strikes Torin two steps later on the outside of his right shoulder, puncturing the first layer of his vest. Red oozes out and down the side of his arm as excitement flares in my chest. He whips his head around and locks eyes with me.

Behind him, Az reappears, hurling his spear forwards. It hits Torin at the base of his back. More red splashes from his side. Torin whirls around, wielding his sword. Weaponless, Aziel freezes.

That's when Septimus appears, his weapon raised. Torin tries to break towards his right and stumbles as he lunges out of the way of Septimus' charge. He falls to his knee, the way Akello always hated, and Az takes the opportunity to knock him to the ground and strip the sword from his grip.

"Where are your teammates?" Az demands.

"Dude, just kill me," Torin wheezes, the wind knocked from his lungs.

"Hiding somewhere? Trying to ambush us right back?"

"They're all gone," Torin says, wincing. "Tarq's group got us."

"All of you?"

"It was Stasia and Arkyn against Tarq and Cas. What do you think was going to happen?"

"Where'd Tarq go?"

Torin grimaces. "Find him yourself."

"Is there a reason you can't just tell us?"

"Maybe because you're toying with me?"

Aziel takes Torin's sword and drives it down into his chest. His vest bursts with black, a lethal blow, even though Torin himself is unscathed. "That better?"

Torin glowers, but gestures back the way he came. "They were going north," he says. "Saw them about ten minutes before I heard your ass stomping around in the fucking leaves."

"Cheers," Aziel says, then punctures Torin's vest again for good measure before letting him out from underneath him. "Hey, enjoy your early shower."

"Fuck you," Torin says.

Sep takes his pack. I retrieve my knife, heart still drumming with pride and adrenaline, and we circle back to Denali. I scan the area behind us, but it's quiet again, uninhabited with Torin now gone.

"So they're back the other way," Az says. "Which means we're heading back again."

"Why are they moving further away?" I ask.

"They're looking for us, probably. We're the ones to beat, aren't we? We all got top seven or higher."

It surprises me to be seen as a potential threat, even if it's partly from the group I'm in. I tighten my hand around my knife, feeling more like a proper Career than I've ever felt. "Yeah. Makes sense."

Denali frowns, picking at her nails. "Are you still sure that's who we want to go for first?"

"Yes," Az and I say in sync. He looks at me. "We have to report our results either way. Might as well take out the biggest guys early. That sort of shit looks good to someone like Urban."

And, for what it's worth, I'm eager to fight Cas properly. We've spent so many years sparring and training together, I'm interested to see what sort of opponent he is. Even more eager to beat him. All it's going to take is one knife to the chest, quick like he won't see coming…

"Let's go, then," Septimus says. I hitch my pack back onto my back, wiping the remaining dew of my water bottle from my bottom lip, and head back towards our base.

The morning pushes forward, leaving behind the coldest part of the day, but not enough to warm my hands. I bunch them, working my fists open and closed, as I keep my eyes out for Cas, Tarquin, or the others. Every so often we'll hear yelling, distant and too far out of range to be a threat to us. That's the only way we track our progress, knowing that at least four of the other groups have lost members while we remain four strong.

It's not the most functional group, I'll be the first to admit. But we're still surviving two hours into the contest. Az is antsy though, and does a poorer job of hiding it than I do. He turns his sword over in his hands, swinging suddenly at invisible targets.

"Az," Denali warns.

"I want to kill something," he says.

"Then stay still so they don't kill us first."

"No one's going to do anything if we aren't anywhere near them. Seriously. Where's the map?"

That's when I hear movement again, a stone rattling down the side of the hill. The rattling of the map is far too loud and I stretch my hand out, quickly silencing them. "Stop."

We fall silent again, scanning the landscape below us. But there's no movement but the swaying of yellowed grass along the hills. I spin, looking behind us. Nothing. "I swore I heard…"

"Shh," Denali says. "I saw something."

"Probably Az trying to kill bugs," Septimus whispers. "If you guys want to knife him, though—"

Az punctures the back right pocket of Sep's vest. Sep jumps, red spraying out. "Az, you fucking—"

"Stop," I hiss. I watch the aspens, all branches now amongst a blanket of brown, molded leaves. There's no cover below. I look up.

And just catch a glimpse of motion on the next slope. "They're up there," I say, taking off running. "Come on, we have to—"

"We're not chasing them down," Denali says. "They're up higher—"

"Get down towards the trees," Sep says. "Lead them away."

There's less cover on the east side. That's where I spot Kiera as she tries to slide down the slope. My knife catches her clean in the chest, black coating the rest of her vest, painting over the red along her arms. She screams and Tarquin appears above her, flanked by Cas and Thalia.

"Move!" I yell. An arrow screams past my head and my heart skips. Another bounces off the back of my thigh. "Go— come on, spread—"

I'm chasing Aziel down the slope, my heart racing. Thalia launches another arrow from somewhere behind me and it lodges in the back of my vest. I can feel the red coursing down my back. "Where— are we—"

Aziel takes cover among the rocks. I slide in behind him, my body blocked except to see who's coming. "Where's Sep?"

"Tarq got him," he says. His front is stained red, punctures marring the sides of his vest. "Fuck, what the fuck do we—"

"We're still getting Tarq," I say. "Denali's still back there, maybe she—"

But I'm distracted as Cas gets closer, Tarq ten feet behind him. I don't know where Thalia is, maybe she's out fighting with Denali somewhere, but Cas is just one toss away.

But I swore I'd get Tarq. Az is trusting me with that. I stand and flick my wrist, launching a knife at Tarq as he closes the distance— thirty feet, twenty. My aim is true, but he narrowly knocks it away with his spear.

"How the—" Aziel's on his feet. "Wait, Az, get down—"

But Az has no plans to stay down. "On your right!"

As Cas reaches the base of the slope, Az launches himself at him.

"Az!"

Cas swings at him, slicing the front of his vest. Too shallow for a lethal blow, though. Az tucks his sword below his arm and hits Cas at a full sprint, knocking him back against the base of the slope.

I hear Cas' head strike rock before it registers that I'm seeing it, before it registers that the blood he leaves on the rock as he curls sideways isn't the paint from our vests, but coming from the back of his skull. "Az!"

Tarquin pauses, leaving himself open. I fling a knife towards him and it strikes him right below his ribs, severing the surface of his vest. He looks up just as Az drags his sword down along Cas' spine, black bursting from his protective cover.

Then Tarq moves again, aiming for Az. Aziel steps back behind Cas and their weapons strike two feet from where Cas lies.

"Get him out of the way!" I scream. "Move! Move!"

"Scout, get him—"

"I can't, you're on him— get out of the way—"

It's Denali who coaxes Tarquin back towards her, wielding a black-stained battle axe. I keep a hand on my remaining two knives, ready to throw, but no one else approaches.

"Cas," I say. "Cas—"

"Fuck," he breathes.

"You're fine," I say. "Hold on."

I look over just in time to watch Tarq skewer Az. I'm convinced he's going to take out both of them until Denali finds an opening and buries her axe in the back of Tarq's vest.

"Where's Thalia?" I yell.

"Out," she calls back. "What are you—"

His pack is lodged under him. I'm afraid to move him if I don't have to, so I dig through my own bag for gauze, tape, any medical fixings we have. It's not much, really. It looks exactly like a med pack would if you knew the person you were giving it to had their entire body protected from the ankles to the neck. Still, I press what I have into the back of his head, as gently as I can.

He winces, but it's vague, disoriented. It terrifies me.

"Tarquin," I say. I'm not the closest to him, but we have a shared friend in Mallen at least, and I have to hope he's got the common sense to listen to me. "You guys are out. Get him to Eliska, or I swear—"

"No, I will," he says. I'd expected him to be more furious at losing his entire team, let alone getting taken out himself, but he's distracted the same way I am. As much as training matters, neither of us want to see Cas hurt.

"Can you sit up?" I ask Cas. Breathing heavily, he props himself up. "Good. Okay. How about—"

"I'll walk," he snaps. But as he gets to his feet, his footing wavers. I grab his shoulder reflexively. "I'm fine. I've got it."

I let him go. Tarq stands beside him, still cautious. "Guys, it's far—"

"I made it here. I'll make it back."

"That's stupid," I finally say. "Your head is bleeding. You want to walk forty minutes—"

"What else am I going to do?"

"I—" I don't know. I don't know if they'd bring one of those Atheneum vehicles, the ones that are always parked out front but no one ever sees moving, out into the mountains for an injury. I try to think of what Aspra did when she was here, but I can't remember. "Send Thalia or Kiera ahead, maybe. Someone can come get you."

"I'm not fucking doing that."

My fingers tense, not with cold, but with frustration. "Make Az do it. I don't care. You realize how stupid that sounds, when you're bleeding out of your head, when you probably concussed yourself—"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not!"

"Just let us go," Tarq says. "If he gets worse, I'll make him stop. But nothing's happening if you're going to stand here fighting over it."

I shake my head, infuriated. "We shouldn't even be fighting—"

"Scout, come on," Denali says. "We still have to do this."

The session. As if it even matters. "You better be in Eliska's office when I get there," I say to Cas. "In one piece."

"Scout."

My hands still trembling, I turn. "I still have to get my knives."

"Quick. Come on."

I retrieve one, my grip shaking as I stow it back in my belt. I lost the second when I knocked out Kiera, but I don't even care. I'm still so mad at Cas, even as Denali and I climb back up the slope until he's far out of sight.

Except Aziel's the one who did it to him, I remember suddenly. I whirl around, ready to let him have it, except he's long gone. Probably disappeared into the greenery to murder some rabbits or something. "Did Sep and Az already go?"

"Yeah. I've got their supplies." I let Denali fill my bag with half of the materials, lightening the weight on her shoulders. "You're not going to do that with every person we kill, right?"

"Oh, for—" I sigh. "You do realize his head was bleeding, right? Like, he was actually hurt?"

"That's the point," Denali maintains. "The only reason we're wearing the skins is so we don't actually die. But if you think people aren't going to get hurt out here—"

"That's not what I'm saying." I shake my head. "Say Tarq cut your hand off just then. You think I should just let you walk your ass back like you're not grievously wounded?"

"It's not Games-like—"

"I don't care. We're all Two, right? I'm not okay with letting you guys get mauled and not trying to minimize the damage."

Or so I tell myself. I'm not as quiet as I should be as we snake back towards the middle of the zone in a roundabout path back towards the Atheneum, distracted with worry. I hate it, hate how Cas reacted, hate how I can't even focus on trying to find the next team as Denali and I press forward, the sun creeping higher overhead until we're forced to remove our outer layers and zip our vests back on over our tops. I hate feeling like I'm wrong for acting with what I at least believe is common sense. I'm tired of Denali, too, her silence so aggressively judgmental that I'm half-hoping one of us gets taken out by a lucky shot so I don't have to keep going forward with her.

"Where are we?" I ask finally, because of course, Denali's hoarding the map again.

"Near 7, I think. Look— we just left that whole grassy area—"

"Right there. Yeah," I finish.

"And Urban said everyone needs to be back in this lower quadrant by one."

I check my watch: 12:33. "So, what? Do we want to stay here and wait them out? Or keep moving?"

"Up to you," she says. It surprises me. She's been in control most of the late morning.

Or maybe she just doesn't know the right answer. "Come on," I say. "Back towards the rocks. We'll get some cover and then stop for water."

Or so is my plan, until I step around the rocks and come face-to-face with Avari.

I feel my shoulders and chest ignite like a live wire, jolting me backwards. My hand fumbles for a knife but we're too close for me to throw it like my instinct says to do, and I'm dead, except she's caught off-guard the same way I am. Then I see her belt, empty but for one knife. Her hand hasn't even reached the handle.

I lunge for her just as she brings her arm up to block me, my knife digging into my fingers with how hard I'm gripping it. "Denali!" I scream.

Martina's right behind Avari, her bow at the ready, but she doesn't have an open shot as Avari and I swing at each other, messily and brutally. I hear Denali come running, but Martina quickly fires at her and Denali has to duck away.

Avari cuts at my collarbone. I kick at her legs as I steady myself and she slips, but it's not enough to make her fall. An arrow comes screaming into the fray but it bounces off Avari's arm. She doesn't even seem to notice.

"Denali—" I gasp, just dodging Avari's next strike, but she can't help me. Avari lunges, knocking me back against the dust. I kick myself away as she drags her knife against my leg, forgetting that won't do anything with the skin protecting me. I can't let Avari get on top of me. As much as I've been growing stronger, so has she. I have to stay a step ahead of her because equal footing means nothing when we aren't equals.

But in seconds, I'm trapped under her regardless. My face and throat are protected but it's not fear that she'll hurt me that holds me frozen, it's the instant understanding that whatever I thought I did in pre-Trials, outlasting her on a single meager wall-sit, means nothing anymore. Not when Avari is still so much stronger, so much more skilled, undoubtedly in the advantageous position. I thrash as she brings the knife down, my vest spewing blood along the outside of my shoulder. I'm stuck. I'm stuck. Denali won't save me. I kick my legs up, no longer to free myself, but to beat into Avari's legs, because that material won't split but it doesn't stop that force from pushing through and bruising her. She flinches and I pull a knee up, jabbing it into her side.

Avari flares suddenly, her left hand shooting down before I can react to wrench my knife from my grip, already slick and loose, not stopping once I've dropped it, forcing my fingers back until three of them pop, pain flooding my vision. I grab vacantly for my blade but she's jabbed her last knife into my chest, where black bursts forth, dark like terror.

I grip for my fingers with my free hand, pain screaming from the swollen joints, and force myself to my knees as she frees me. "That was not—"

"You went for me, too," she says. "You knew you were dead and you just wanted to hurt me. So it's fair."

"It's not the same," I hiss, pain pulsing at the edges of my vision. "I didn't break something."

But she's unforgiving. There's no triumph in her voice, either, which makes it worse, makes me feel like I did something wrong. "I didn't mean to," she says, and backs away.

Denali's vest is stained black. I wince, cradling my hand, as Martina and Avari scale the rocks, heading up towards higher elevation. Denali sips from her water, her lip curled in disgust. "How did we both get jumped like that?"

"It was stupid," I say, too frustrated to say anything more. I drop my pack, rooting around with one hand for tape to lock my fingers together.

"What happened?" she says.

My fingers are already turning blue with bruising. Even twisting my hand to adhere the tape to its tender surface makes me hiss as my heart rate slows, adrenaline fading in the aftermath of our fight. "Bent my fingers back," I say, not caring to admit it was Avari who did it. "It's fine. Let's just go back."

I don't know how well we did, and at this point I don't particularly care to know. Sure, we beat Tarq's team, but I have no idea how the other groups have fared until we make it back to the Atheneum, where a number of Sixteens are clustered around Urban outside the hallway near the training room. I strip my vest off and duck into the locker room to remove the protective skin, leaving Denali to report our results. Once I'm back out in the entryway, I step around the other returnees and head into Eliska's office, waiting along the far wall for cuts to be stitched up and bandages to be wrapped.

Cas lies back along one of the benches, his head back against a pillow. So he did make it back in one piece. Tarq remains next to him, ever loyal. "He alright?" I ask.

"I can talk too," Cas mumbles.

"Eliska says it's probably just a bad concussion," Tarq says. "She stitched his head up already, so at least he isn't bleeding. Seems more like a wait-and-see type of thing than anything, though." He catches sight of my hand, my fingers taped hastily together. "What happened to you?"

"Something stupid," I say. "Doesn't matter. Just waiting for Eliska to tell me they're broken."

But it's not Eliska who notices me first, who takes in the hand I keep curled against my stomach amongst an assemblage of other cadets with various scrapes and contusions. "Oh, Scout," Rhodes says. "Your throwing hand."

"At least I still have it," I say, more bitter than I should be with him.

He just shrugs. "Let me grab some ice for you. As soon as Vance is done, we'll get you on that bench."

When Vance has cleared out, I push myself up on the table with my good hand, wincing with the effort. Rhodes pulls up a stool next to me, gently settling in next to the bench. "Let me see your hand."

I let him strip the tape away and examine my fingers, hissing through my teeth as he tries to move my middle three fingers around. They're not too misshapen or bent, but they're painful on contact, already round and purple with swelling. Trying to move them is far beyond being worth the effort. "Ow."

"What happened?" he asks.

"Avari," I say. "We were fighting and she bent my fingers all the way back."

"Yikes," he winces. "Did you at least beat her?"

"Ugh. No." I watch Cas, unmoving but still thankfully conscious two benches down. "We beat Cas' team, though. I mean, if you count that as beating him."

"Yeah. Tarq told us what happened." He frowns, then pushes a pillow under my hand, an ice pack resting on its surface. "Rest your hand here and I'll prop the ice on."

I do as he says, and the cold presses in, immediately stinging against my skin.

"I keep thinking about what Aspra would have already said to Urban by now," Rhodes says under his breath. "But that's part of the reason they got rid of her, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

He raises his eyebrows, then relaxes. "Because she called Valerius out for us trainers putting you in unnecessary danger. But you didn't hear that from me."

"Just like you didn't hear this from me," I say, "but the kid who did that to Cas is the whole reason Cas was in here last time, when we thought he had a concussion. Not sure if you remember that, but— yeah."

"What's his problem?"

"Who knows?" I say. "He stabbed one of our teammates earlier just because he felt like it."

"Charming," Rhodes frowns.

"Truly." I sigh, the ice sharp and uncomfortable against my skin. "Twenty minutes, right? And then if you could help tape me, or whatever I need to do…"

"Eliska's probably going to want to take a look, first. She's going to be better at deciding whether your fingers are actually broken or not. But don't worry, I'm already thinking of exercises we can do if you can't use that hand."

"Oh, thank you," I say. "Or— wait, does that mean I have to do that whole lefty thing again?"

He smirks, getting up and moving his stool away. "It's a surprise."

"Rhodes—"

"Rhodes, I need your help dealing with everyone else who's coming in, please," Eliska says, her voice heavy with impatience.

"Of course," he says, his roguish expression fading as he returns to the crowd of bruised and cut-up trainees near the doorway.

I lie back, sighing as I try to relax against the pressure of the ice around my hand. Thinking about it only makes me more frustrated, but how do I not think about it when it's all I can feel, all I can see? The only way to distract myself is by thinking of something worse. And obviously, that's Cas. I watch Eliska step over towards him, but I can't hear what she's saying with how busy the training room is. So I watch Tarq's face, trying to read what she's saying by his reaction. When Eliska steps away, Cas sits up, pushing himself back against the wall. I wave Tarq over with my free hand. "What'd she say?"

"That she's kept him here long enough, that he should go home and rest because it's too damn loud in here. Paraphrasing, of course."

"Yeah. Tell me he's not trying to go back alone."

"He is."

"I'm going to strangle him," I say.

"I guarantee you that will not help him."

"I know," I say. "I can take him if he can wait here a few minutes. I'm not sure if you live nearby."

"I don't," Tarq says. "It's a couple hours back. If you don't mind…"

"Not at all. He does, though."

"He'll get over it."

And he does, even if it's evident he's none too pleased when Tarq relays the plan back to him. But he doesn't argue, doesn't try to hop off the bench and run out on his own, which I guess proves how low the bar is right now. Still, I look over every few minutes, and again once my timer's up, to make sure he's still waiting there.

"Let me take a look," Eliska says, coming over to turn my timer off. My fingers are more numb now, so while she grips my fingers with a bit more vigor than Rhodes did, it's not quite as painful. "What happened here?"

"Another cadet bent them back until they popped," I say.

"Yeah, looks like they did a number on you," she says. "Thankfully, it's just going to require a bit of rest for this hand. We'll tape it up, make sure you keep icing the next few days, and then take it day by day."

"Are they broken?" I ask.

"Possibly," she says. "Sprained or broken, but your treatment is going to be pretty similar regardless. Either way, you're going to need to rest these fingers. Rhodes, you mind taking care of Caverley's hand for me?"

Rhodes glances over from the first bench, where he's distracted setting up ice for Pike's ankle. "Yeah," he says. "Give me just another minute."

"And how are you feeling?" Eliska says, her voice quieter. "Any improvements with—"

"Fine," I say quickly. "Yeah, I had one last week. I'm good." Rhodes, get over here.

"That's excellent," she says. "And you're looking better, too."

"Thanks," I say. Go away, go away, go away—

"Does she need a wrap?" Rhodes asks. "Splints? How do you want to go about this?"

"Let's tape her fingers first," Eliska says, as I exhale. "Then bandage her hand and wrist and I'll see if we have another splint somewhere."

Rhodes comes back over with a handful of tape and wrappings as Eliska disappears into the back. "She keeps making me do everything for her."

"I thought that's why you were here."

"It was," he says. "Except she only does it because she's mad because she thinks I tried to flirt with her."

"You did not—"

"I didn't!" he maintains. "Just because I was friendly the first day—"

"I'm so telling Aspra you tried to flirt with her replacement."

"Don't you dare," he says. "Huge misunderstanding. I die a little every time I have to talk to her. Now hold your hand still before I stick all your fingers together."

I watch as he loops thin strips of tape around my three fingers, freezing their lateral movement. He takes the thicker bandages, then, and starting along the outside of my wrist, wraps my wrist and hand all the way up to where my fingers are locked together. His thumb and pointer finger work carefully, dextrous and well-practiced. But his last three fingers on that right hand, his middle to his pinky, share a tremor, like they're not quite in tune with the rest of his hand.

When he's done with the wrap, I try to wiggle my fingers and find that I can't. The pain's more manageable when they're immobilized, with or without a splint. "Now look what you've done," I say. "My whole hand is dead. You killed it."

"You're welcome," he hums. "Eliska, did you find anything?"

"Yeah, and it smells like mold," she says.

"I'll pass," I say quickly. Cas is waiting, patient or perhaps too exhausted to complain. "Am I… can I leave? I told Cas I'd bring him back."

"Tell his family or whoever he's staying with to keep an eye on him," Eliska says. "He can sleep, but check on him every couple of hours or so, okay?"

I nod. "Thank you. And thank you, Rhodes."

"You'd be welcome if you stopped insulting my wrap jobs."

"I'm not insulting— anyways," I say, slipping my shoes on my feet. Cas is perched on the end of his bench, looking all sorts of pale and tragic. "Hey. Sorry about that."

He fixates on my hand as he eases himself off the bench and back onto his feet. "What happened to you?"

Oh, I so don't want to tell him. But considering everything, it would be pretty unfair not to. "Avari and I got in a fight about an hour after we ran into you guys," I say. "She got in a dirty shot."

"Not as dirty as Az."

"You know what, that's completely fair," I say, as we press back into the foyer and I retrieve our things from the front entry. "Oh, wait. I was going to check the results. Give me just a second."

But of course, not everyone's back yet. No doubt Avari's still out there, with or without Martina. I make a mental note to check first thing in the morning and head out, holding the door for Cas. "Are you feeling any better? How did you get back?"

"Walked," he says. "And— listen, I'm really tired, so I don't really have the energy to—"

"Oh. Of course," I say. So I walk in silence with him, making sure he stays steady. It's not far, of course— we made this walk a dozen times the few days I stayed at his place, even if he's slower on his feet now. But it's mindless and familiar to take him down and into Naissus by now, even if it's less than homely for me. Compared to Flavia Solva the homes here are more cramped, walls dusty and splintering. The main road's built of crumbling pavement, but it's not as loud as it is near Avari's, where the tracks run nearly parallel to her front door.

We lead each other down his street, the activity along the busier stretch of road fading behind us. At his porch, I wait as he unlocks the door. "Are your parents home?"

"No," he says. "It's still early."

"When do they get back?"

"Around six," he says. "Don't feel like you have to stay—"

"Even if I didn't want to, it would be careless to leave you alone with a concussion," I say. He opens the door and presses into his living room. "You want to stay on the couch for a bit?"

He nods vaguely, and I pull the door shut and lock it behind us. I tug the blinds closed, dimming the room so it's not so bright. "How's that?"

"Better," he says. "Thank you."

"Are you going to rest now?"

"Don't really feel like doing much else."

"Then rest. I'll get you what you need. Pillows? Water?"

He considers. "Water, please. And— oh, there's some…"

"Something to eat?" I guess.

"No, in the bathroom— painkillers," he says. "Whatever the brand is called."

"Yeah. I'll get those. Anything else?" He shakes his head gently. "Okay. I'll be right back."

I fetch a glass of water and the bottle of painkillers, watching to make sure he only takes a pair of the pills. "And then I'm going to check on you in a couple of hours, okay? I don't think I'll have to wake you, but try not to hate me if I do."

"I won't hate you," he says, almost laughing. "I just… fuck."

"That bad?"

"I just feel drunk," Cas says. "I hit the ground and felt like I'd had three shots all at once."

"Must be nice."

"...And I also feel hungover at the same time."

"Alright. Maybe not, then."

He smiles faintly, his eyes creased. It's dark, but light still slips in, and I get the sense it's still too bright for his preferences. "Thank you, Scout. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"Yeah, well, I'm not sorry I yelled back," I say. "You're dumb for being so stubborn."

"Not even. I'm fine. See?" He crosses his eyes.

"Don't do that," I laugh. "Okay. Seriously. I'm letting you rest. I'll be in the other room if you need anything, but please try to rest. At least do that right."

"Fine," he caves. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Cas."

I head to the kitchen, watching the clock as I settle down at the counter: 2:12. I've been up since five and a nap is practically screaming my name, but I've got a responsibility to make sure Cas is alright. As fatigue weighs on my eyelids, I curl my legs into my chest, prepared to spend a long two hours reading.

Until Cas decides he no longer wants to be cooperative. "Scout," he whines.

"What?"

"I'm bored."

I hope he can feel my glare from here. "Then go to sleep."

"I'm bored of sleeping."

"It's literally been ten minutes," I say, checking my watch. "Go back to bed."

"Scout," he repeats, as if this is the most unfair thing I could possibly do to him.

I match his tone. "Casimir."

"Oh, you take back using my full name."

"Or what?"

"Or— I'm going to use yours," he threatens.

I make a face, even though he can't see it. "That is my full name."

"Scout's your full name?"

I've already opened my mouth in response before I consider how absurd his question is. "Um— wait, what did you think it was short for?"

The longer he's silent, the more terrified I am for whatever he's about to come up with. "I mean, I don't know. I— that's dumb. Your name isn't even a real name. Who the hell came up with that?"

"Oh, I wish I knew," I say. "I'd totally go ask them about it."

"Stop patronizing me. You know I have brain damage."

"Yeah, barely."

"Barely?" His exaggerated outrage is comical. "Weren't you the one screaming at me not to walk back to the Atheneum a whole two hours ago?"

"I was not screaming," I say. "I was raising my voice, concernedly, in a concerned manner—"

"You were screaming."

"I'm going home," I say. "Gonna go hang out with Tasia and Otho, who are less grating company than you right now."

I hear Cas roll back over on the couch, pulling the blankets up over the squeaking upholstery. "That's, like, the worst thing you've ever said to me."

"Yeah?" I say, unbothered. "Go to sleep before it gets worse."

And he does, or at the very least he's quiet for the next hour. I doze, catching my eyes closing as I read the same page of that stupid food sources manual over and over. At some point I start playing with the wrapping on my hand until I force myself to stop before I completely shred the thing. Eventually I just start wandering around his kitchen, trying to keep busy without hovering.

"What are you doing?" I hear Cas say from the other room.

"Nothing," I say, which immediately sounds suspicious. "I mean, actually nothing. I have no idea."

"Why are you in there?"

"I didn't want to, like—" I scoff. "I mean, I thought it would be weird, like I was watching you sleep, or something."

"Well, don't do that. But you can, like, not be in the whole other room."

"Fine," I say, though I'm quietly pleased. His fridge was starting to look at me funny and making things all awkward in here. "Mind if I turn on the TV, though? Or is that going to be too loud?"

He's still sideways in his same position on the couch when I go back to the living room. At least he looks somewhat less pale. Or maybe he was never that pale in the first place. "Too loud," he says. "Sorry."

"All good." I settle in on the chair next to him, wrapping my arms around my knees. "Are you feeling any better?"

"A little less rocky, but still exhausted."

"Then go back to sleep. That wasn't even two hours."

He makes a face but obliges, too tired to argue, which is excellent because I'm also running out of steam. I peek at my watch, vowing to make it to six in the evening, telling myself I've changed as I stare down at the manual.

I haven't changed a damn bit. Next thing I know the house is completely dark, and the only reason I've woken up is because there's someone at the door, twisting a key in the lock. I sit bolt upright. "Cas."

"I've been awake for half an hour," he says.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "I swear, complete accident."

"Casimir?"

Silas Lamot steps into his home, flicking the light on next to the door.

"Why's it so dark in here?" he asks.

"We fell asleep," Cas says. "Well, individually. Not, like, together."

I wave to Silas. "Cas has a concussion. By the way, Cas, you should probably lead with that next time."

"What happened?" he asks. "And do you want the light off? Or on in there?"

"Off in here," Cas mumbles, glowering. "But it's fine right there. I just— I got knocked into a fucking rock."

"It was cooler than that," I argue. "But, yeah. He got his head stitched up and he's just been resting here for the last few hours. I've just been keeping an eye on him. You know, trainer's orders and all that."

"Well, thank you," Silas says. "I appreciate it. How are you feeling?"

"I just realized this was a pun," Cas says, "and I hate it, but it's the best way to describe it, so… rocky."

"Ew."

"Shut up, Scout. I said I hate it."

Silas sets his bag down, finally, too distracted to do it the minute he came in the door. "Why don't we get you to your room. You feel up to walking?"

"I hurt my head, not my legs."

"Then let's get up," Silas says. "Come on."

Cas gets to his feet, throwing a blanket over his shoulder, and heads down the hall. I rub the sleep from my eyes, my back quickly stiff from how I fell asleep, curled up in a cocoon of stringy limbs. Maybe not so stringy anymore, but it's habitual to see myself that way. I stretch my arms above my head and my shoulders pop, my upper back and neck releasing.

"Do you want to stay for dinner, Scout?" Silas asks, reappearing in the hallway.

I try to think of an excuse, but I can't formulate one fast enough. And I really do want to stay. Silas is no great cook, but the company is nice. Besides, I like Cas' family. If the Atheneum is a second home, then Cas' house is a third. When Silas or Marius or Cas ask me to stay, they mean it. So I do.

It's not as awkward as one might think, even with Cas resting in the other room. It's not the first time I've stayed here, trying to coax conversation out of the Lamots. Essentially, what they want to hear is that Cas is doing well, and that I'm succeeding, too. Cas isn't one to brag too much, so they adore me telling them about how he actually does in training. Marius, when he comes home, is eager to hear me recount how Avari and I competed during pre-Trials. "I've never liked her," he admits, a spoon dangling below his lips. "Too obsessed with herself. Doesn't give a damn about District pride. Just wants glory and I'd bet she'd stab her District partner in the back to get it like that one girl tried to do last year."

"She's not so bad," I say, and then hold up my bandaged right hand. "But she did do this to me."

"Like I said," Marius says. "Doesn't give a damn about the District. What's the point in hurting each other when it's all of you against the rest of the Districts? She doesn't get it."

Where it does become awkward is in the thoughtful in-betweens, where I see glimpses of the Lamots I didn't see the first few times I stayed here. There's an easy intimacy in the way their gazes hang on each other after the other ends a sentence, a care I can't recall seeing in either of my parents. I sip at my water, trying to swallow the lump in my throat with my last swig.

When dinner's over, I hover awkwardly in the doorway, both of Cas' parents refusing to let me clear the table for them.

"Do you want to stay, Scout?"

"Oh, I don't want to overstep," I say.

Silas frowns. "I don't want you going back alone at night."

"It's a ten-minute walk."

"In the dark."

"Well…" I trail off. "I've got to be back early."

"Then you're welcome to head out whenever you need in the morning," Silas says. "Don't feel like we're keeping you here, but seriously. It's no problem."

"I can check on Cas, too," I qualify. "He's supposed to be looked at every few hours just to make sure he's not too loopy in the head. That's why I'm here, anyways."

"You should sleep," Silas says.

"I insist." Even if more of that insistence is rooted in guilt than anything. If I'm staying here, I'll at least make my presence worthwhile.

"Alright," Marius says. "Just… make sure you're taking care of yourself, alright? There should be some bread and eggs in the morning if you want to make anything for yourself, but otherwise, don't feel like you need to ask for anything."

"Thank you again," Silas says. "For looking after him."

"Least I can do," I say. Seriously. "Goodnight."

I curl up on my side, wrapping the familiar throw blankets around my legs and shoulders. But it's not enough to keep me fully warm. Not when, a few minutes later, Marius and Silas turn the lights off in the kitchen. Their silhouettes are faint and ashy as they disappear down the hallway, their conversation dulled by distance, but their closeness is deafening.

Only once they've gone to bed, their bedroom door shut and silent behind them, do I actually feel my aching, heavy and swollen across my legs and torso. I hug the blankets tighter around me, but I'm far too empty to sleep.

In the morning, my hand is even more stiff and sore than it was yesterday. But I've already told Rhodes I'll be at our session, injured or not, so I fix myself a quick breakfast and head off into the lightening morning.

He and I are the first in the main gym, even after I've shuffled quietly into my room and changed back into clean training gear. Right before I go in, I remember to check the results.

Our group was fourth out of eight. Individually, I was sixth out of thirty-two. Not half-bad, but not quite Victor, either.

Neither was Avari, as it turns out. Mallen was. Which I'm conflicted about. Because on one hand, that's tremendous for her, and I'm proud of her. But her success is my failure, long-term.

It's just hard for those feelings to coexist. I don't know what to make of them, so I try to bury them in my warmup.

Rhodes plays around at the knife station as I jog and loosen up my legs, swing my shoulders, and coax circulation into my back. I watch him throw between stretches. His motions are slightly awkward, albeit technically correct. When I come around, he's scattered throws all around the target.

"Not bad," I say.

"At least I know how to teach it," he says. "How's that hand?"

"Dysfunctional," I admit, examining it. I didn't trust myself to rewrap it properly to ice it last night, but his wrapping job has held. "You know, I still can't believe you tried to flirt with Eliska."

"Stop trying to say I flirted with her."

"You so did."

"No, I didn't. And you know why? Because she sucks."

"She doesn't…" Then I remember how she tried to bring up my cycle with me again yesterday. It was fair of her, probably the right thing to do, but it was still uncomfortable. Besides, Rhodes clearly prefers Aspra. "Well, okay."

"Compared to Aspra, she does," Rhodes says.

"Compared to Aspra, everyone sucks."

"Even me?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Alright, enough, smartass." But Rhodes isn't really annoyed; he just needs to at least appear to maintain some bit of control over this session. "You ready to start?"

"Yeah," I say, and then reconsider at the devilish grin on his face. "Wait. No. Please, no—"

"Tell me it didn't save Cavara's life, knowing how to throw left-handed."

"I know it did," I say. "I just hate how much you love it."

"It's funny to watch you get mad about it. Because you care so damn much about it."

"No, I'm mad because I hate it."

"Then try getting good at it," he says. "Maybe you won't hate it so much."

I take the knife he holds out to me, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. Not that he's wrong, but he's still irritating. "First throw," he reminds me. "Doesn't need to be perfect. Just needs to be made."

It's one of his favorite mantras, one that's supposed to help me stop trying to make every throw perfect, because I can stand here dreading an exercise as long as I want, but I won't get through it unless I start.

I'm embarrassingly right-handed, though. I've made the comment to him before that my left hand is more of a liability than Cavara's was when she couldn't even move her fingers. But I pull back and flick my wrist, watching the knife sail diagonally towards the target.

It's not a great throw, by any means, but it sticks.

"See?" he says. "First throw down. All you can do is get better." I stare at the pattern in the target, though, taking in where my throw landed. "What?"

He didn't take any of his knives out of the target. I can see clearly where each throw fell, and compare my own, poor toss to all of his true attempts. "Nothing," I say. "Just— imagine being so bad at knife throwing that my first off-handed throw is better than all twenty of your previous throws."

His scowl is so worth the retort I get. "I'd flip you off if you could retaliate. But it looks like someone fucked up one of her middle fingers."

"Use your imagination, then," I say, raising my bundled hand.

He just shakes his head, stepping away so I have free access to the rest of the knives. As I lock my fingers around the next handle, he asks, "What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing," I say.

"You sure?"

Nothing except a bit more comfort. A bit more confidence, nurtured by the calmness of Cas' house at dawn, waking up in a place that doesn't judge me, doesn't expect the worst from me. Once that first wave of sleepiness had burned off, foreign optimism had risen up to take its place, making me far more relaxed and slightly more brazen.

I don't know what it is, but I'm not against it by any means.

"I'm just in a good mood," I say. "That's all."

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Good morning friends, strangers, lovers. I'm dead inside from doing 9k of this on Friday and then boldly editing all 12k of it on Saturday like a fiend. Enjoy my pain!

Literally nothing to say today. I don't know. Hope everyone's happy and healthy.

See you next time for 13.

With gratitude,
Ali