.

—-—-—

faith

—-—-—

My eyes lock onto the horizon.

I curl my fingers, opening and closing both fists, and roll my shoulders back. My back tightens, rigid in preparation.

A wisp of a breeze exhales along my neck. Under my ponytail, the loose hairs curl, spindly, cold with sweat against my bare skin. My knees give, a final inch or two of bend.

Just in time, I remember to breathe.

"Go," Kova calls.

I pry myself forwards from a standstill, my soles digging against the sticky pavement, pressing in then off in a melodic synchronicity that teeters on the edge of chaos. Furious, singeing acid swarms into my calves, my hamstrings. My chest is heavy from air it can't draw quickly enough.

Martina's feet pound against the concrete, drumming like shots or heartbeats. My legs tighten with fatigue. My nose twists, my brow pinches, and I force life into my limbs, desperate to stay ahead.

I cross the line six feet ahead of her. Even before my legs have stopped I hitch over, choking back gasps as my lungs scream.

"Next pair, on my mark!" Kova's voice booms across the Atheneum's front landing. At the opposite end, Sep and Tarq line up, their chests bowing and heaving before Kova shouts again, "Go!"

Their bodies drive forward. Their feet tear against the pavement, their legs stretching against the foundation, tightening with each forced, frenzied step as they force themselves towards the line.

Sep's body gives out at the finish. He stumbles, crossing three steps in front of Tarq and then collapsing to his hands and knees. He folds to his side then lies rigid on his back, arms crossed behind his head, forcing his lungs to widen and draw in something softer than the daggers he pulls between his teeth.

My nervous system reacts first. There's a shot of something sharp and icy into the back of my neck even though Akello isn't talking to me, has hardly even looked at me. "Get up!" he bellows, as Sep's chest heaves. Sep curls towards his side, his face torn into a grimace, and gags, spitting onto the pavement. "Get off the ground!"

Sep crawls to his feet. Kova yells out again, sending Cas and Aziel barreling towards us. But my eyes are on Sep, how his head hangs like he can hardly carry himself upright. He buckles to one knee. I step forward, more out of instinct than purpose.

Akello gets to him first. He grabs his shoulders and pushes him up and backwards until his back bruises against the wall. "Stand the fuck up, and stay up."

My ears ringing, I look back towards the race path. Cas crosses a safe distance ahead of Aziel, his cheeks pink and splotchy from exertion. His hands clutch at his knees, his back curling. But he's able to pick himself up after a moment, his chest pulsing but slowly settling.

I know better than to be caught nodding at him; it's every cadet for themselves. But I catch his eye and wordless understanding passes between us.

Well done.

Likewise.

Sep hasn't left the wall. He uses it as stability, leaning against the hard concrete, his eyes squinted shut. Akello watches him, eyes beady, his hands gripping at his clipboard like talons wrapped around his prey. But he doesn't approach, and neither do I.

Kova calls out again, for the final time: "Last two!"

Only now do I let myself feel the full weight of my exhaustion. Panting, I watch as the distant shapes of Mallen and Avari ready themselves, their bodies bending, their shoulders tightening.

Upon Kova's "Go!", they push forward, their forms expanding as they press themselves closer, the strain and determination materializing across their faces, blurry in the haze of the afternoon heat. They're evenly matched for the first forty or so feet, legs driving them forward at an equally blistering pace. Then Avari falls off, her pace slowing even as her face tightens with exertion. Mallen pulls away, first by inches then by yards, and crosses nearly five seconds before Avari finally staggers to a stop.

Avari's face is pinched, her lips tightened in pain. She hitches over and props her left hand on her knee, holding her right arm close to her body, as her chest shudders. I watch her longer than I should, letting curiosity win out over pride until I remember she told me not to worry about her. So I focus on my breathing, keeping my arms linked behind my head, and roll my ankle out. It pinches faintly, still tight and unstable. Wonderful.

Valerius takes in our heavy breathing, our sweat-streaked faces, and keeps his send-off short. "We'll begin at the same time tomorrow and finish two hours later. Plan accordingly and do not be late. Easton, Akello, anything?"

Akello shakes his head. But Easton steps forward, stowing her clipboard under one arm. "You get one week to show us your strengths. We're two days down, three days left. You don't have any time to waste not giving every last bit of effort you can." Her voice is louder now, her gaze passing through the group like a knife through flesh. "I don't give a shit if you're tired or hurting. If you want to prove why you're worth the next two years of our time, you'll suck it up and push through it. No excuses."

When we're free to disperse, Cas moves towards me. I quickly wave him away. "I'm going to get my ankle patched up. I'll see you at your place."

"Like hell you will," he says. "Just meet me back out here when you're done."

I smile before I can help myself. "Fine. But if I take any longer than twenty minutes—"

"I'll come check you for frostbite. Got it."

I trudge inside towards the training room, feeling the tug of my legs with every step. But that's pain I can manage; soreness aches far less than regret.

Inside, Rhodes is nowhere to be seen. I sit perfectly still as Eliska makes me an ice bag and successfully navigate her attempts at polite, albeit stiff, conversation. By the time my timer rings, I'm sufficiently uncomfortable. She wraps my ankle mindlessly, weaving the tape around my foot with a kind of cold efficiency that leaves no folds and no tears— clinical, as is customary from her. I mumble a neat thank you as she sends me on my way.

True to his word, Cas is waiting out in the entry room. He's not the only one, but I move to him first, my eyes tracing over the four others with him. "Good to go?"

"Yeah. How's your foot?"

"Fine. Numb, mostly." We start down the drive towards Cas'. I can feel the straps of my backpack scratching against my neck where my top dips, leaving the sweat-coated skin raw to its tattered touch. I roll my shoulders back, keenly aware of how tight they've become. "But fine. Running didn't bother me too much."

"Yeah. You looked fast as hell."

Avari's behind me, talking quietly with Tarq. Still, I keep my voice low. "Thanks. I felt good. How'd you do today?"

"Oh, you know. Not amazing. Not bad, though. Actually—" He leans back, smirking until Tarq looks up at him. "Actually kicked Tarq's ass at the spear station earlier."

Tarq bites back. "Oh, you wish."

"I did!" he laughs. I smile but it's forced, hanging fragile on my lips. I keep my eyes between Cas or Tarq, never on Avari, even as I feel her watching me. "I did, and you're just too bitter to admit it."

"Sure, sure," Tarq says, waving him away. "Whatever helps you sleep better at night."

"And I'll do it again, too."

"Sure, you will."

Any other day I'd join in ragging on Cas, but I'm still feeling the effects of this afternoon; my head is beginning to throb and my throat is dry and ragged. What I'd like to do, more than anything, is turn around, take a cool shower, and crawl right into bed. But Cas wanted to see me after, and who am I to say no to him?

At the door to his place, Cas twists the lock to let us in. I exhale into the muted darkness of his living room until he tugs the shades open, flooding the cozy space with light until it swells.

"Anyone want water?"

"Please," Torin says.

Cas disappears into his kitchen and returns with glasses for the six of us. I take mine eagerly and down my water in seconds. With an amused smile, Cas returns to refill my drink. I take my time with the second glass, taking slower sips while the other five discuss placements.

It's nothing we haven't already gone over. But it's all anyone can think about. Pike, as always, overestimates himself. "Guys. I've said this a hundred times. Tarq's one, I'm two—"

"Give Cas two," Avari cuts in. "You give yourself so much credit, Pike."

"Because I should."

"Why do we even keep talking about this?" Torin says. "They've had a whole year, or two, or five, to figure us out. They've probably known since Fifteens."

"So who is it then?" Pike asks. "I mean, for the guys, it's us four for sure. And then—"

"Sep," Cas says. "Has to be."

"No shot—"

"Over Az?"

"One hundred percent. Sep's way better. Az is a fucking liability half the time."

I shouldn't chime in, but Cas' word choice sets me off. "Yeah, we were scrimmaging once and I had him and Sep in my alliance. Az was just stupid. Stabbed Sep for no reason and kept swinging at trees because he was bored. Almost got us all killed."

"Oh yeah, I remember that," says Cas. "Or, I mean, some of it. The part where he was swinging. Not the part where I blacked out for half a second."

"Right," I say. "He's crazy, too."

"Yeah, well, so's Iona. But she's a shoo-in." Avari grimaces. "I still think Az is better, though. Sep's just bigger."

"Sep's really damn good at sword fighting, though," Pike says.

Torin rolls his eyes. "Of course you'd say that."

"Say what?" Then Pike realizes what he means. "Oh, shut up. I'm not fucking gay."

"Are you guys seriously doing this again?" Avari snaps.

"It's not even about you," Torin says. "Fuck's sake. Stop being so sensitive."

"I don't care if it's about me. Stop being a prick."

"Whatever," Torin scowls.

"I'm not kidding. You know damn well who lives here with Cas. Shut the fuck up or get out."

The living room goes dead silent. Pike stifles an uneasy laugh, turning it into a muffled cough. Avari watches Torin but I can see the fire fade from her expression, stubbornness giving way to self-consciousness.

Cas is the one to finally break the silence. "It's fine, guys. Can we just leave it?"

"Really?" Avari says.

"I don't really want to talk about it, period."

Like me, Avari is inclined to yield to Cas. She exhales, her skin flushed. "Fine."

"Thanks," Cas says. His cheekbones are pink. I'm just as uncomfortable, but it's Avari who looks the most embarrassed as the boys return to the conversation, casting her outburst to the side.

"I still think Sep's better," says Pike, not missing a beat. "Size-wise, weapon-wise. I mean, they're pretty even until you take into account that Az is a fucking psycho."

"Hey, like Avari said, it works for Iona."

"Maybe because the girls aren't as strong. As long as you're semi-competent with a spear—"

"They're plenty strong," Tarq counters.

"Oh, yeah," Pike says. "But I mean— depth-wise. There's about four or five who are actually good. The rest all sort of blend together."

"Ouch," Avari laughs. Her face is still pink, but she's doing a decent job pretending no one else can tell. "But you're not wrong."

"So Iona and you. Then maybe Elissa in three—"

"No chance," Tarq says. "Mallen over Elissa."

"And if Iona beats me, I'll cut her," Avari says.

Pike scoffs. "Oh, you're better than Iona. And even if you weren't, every single one of us would rather have you as a District partner."

If Avari's flattered, she forces it down, out of sight. "Yeah, well, let's just hope Valerius and Easton think so."

"Then who's five?" Pike asks. "Because I don't think Mallen necessarily beats Elissa—"

"Hey, maybe we don't have to go into that," Cas says, catching my eye. I try not to look so sullen and tired, but he's already caught on. "There are far more of the guys here to defend themselves."

"It's just speculation," Avari says.

"Yeah," Pike says. "It doesn't mean anything. Just a guess. And for what it's worth… Elissa over Mallen and Martina. Yeah. I said it."

"That's not even a hot take—"

"I'm going to get some more water," I tell Cas. I get to my feet and escape to the kitchen, putting as much distance as I can between myself and the living room. I run the sink, letting the rush from the tap drown out the rest of their conversation even as my cup overflows, spilling into the basin below.

I hear Cas following me in. I knew he would, but I can't help but resent it. Frankly, I crave privacy. After two days straight of being judged and evaluated and perceived, down to every detail from how I hold my limbs to the expression I create mid-fight, I want to feel unseen.

The base of my stomach tightens, sick with nerves.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly from behind me.

I don't turn around. "It's not your fault, Cas."

"Doesn't mean it isn't still shitty."

"I mean, I can't stop them from talking about it. I just don't particularly want to be in the room to hear how that conversation goes."

"I know," he says. "I know, I wanted to stop it, but I didn't want to totally make it clear—"

"No, I know." I rub my eyes, painting stars behind my eyelids. It's so stupid, all of it, most of all the fact that apparently I'm so fragile now as to be hurt by the opinions of a few people simply speculating on the outcome of Trials. Who says I wouldn't have been included in that conversation if I'd waited around long enough to hear it? And yet I know I didn't imagine the bite in Avari's voice when she'd laughed with Pike. You're not wrong. She hadn't argued for a sixth, and unless she secretly thinks I can beat out Martina, then that speaks for itself.

My head is cloudy, the skin below my eyelids stretched tight against my cheeks. I twist my lips, feeling the skin stretch, dry and dusty, and lift the glass to my mouth.

Water washes down my throat, but my tongue still tastes foul when I pull the glass away. As much as Cas wants to fix this, he's as complicit as the rest of them, as far as I'm concerned.

"If it helps," he says, "I really think you've been doing well."

I put my glass down and turn to him. "You do?"

"Of course," he says. "You were really strong during the run yesterday and the sprints today. Plus the knife work I got to catch between drills. And there's going to be more of that tomorrow—"

"So why didn't you vouch for me?"

Cas pauses. "What?"

"Out there. When they're not even saying my name, why aren't you bringing it up?"

He looks baffled. "Scout, I wanted to stop the conversation—"

"That's the problem," I say. "You'd rather stop it than actually stand up for me."

"Scout," he says, his tone turning desperate. "That's not— I was trying to—" He exhales, running his hands back against his scalp. "The whole point was to just not have to talk about it in the first place, because I know you weren't happy about it."

"Yeah, because I knew I wasn't going to be mentioned, Cas!"

"You don't—"

"I do," I insist. "I do know that. And yeah, maybe I could have spoken up for myself, but that's really, really shitty to have to do just because nobody else will. I mean— do you even think—"

Cas curses under his breath. "Of course, I do, Scout. Just because I didn't say it—"

"I needed you to say it, though," I say.

He watches me, unsure of how exactly to respond, his mouth opening an inch before he closes it again. Behind the half-closed door to the living room, the others continue their debate. They're laughing at something. Someone, maybe. With Cas gone I'm sure it's easier to make mean-spirited jokes at another cadet's expense. And though I have a hard time believing any of them would say anything about me so close to earshot, the fact I have to question it in the first place is telling enough.

"I'm sorry," he says finally.

It's fine, my instinct tells me to say. But for once, I don't say it.

"Thanks," I say.

His face falls. I feel my cheeks warming, my breath shortening. I move back towards the living room, but my body is tightening already, even as I fight off that insidious tension.

"Scout," Cas says, before I can make it out.

I pause, irritated. "Yes?"

He exhales, leaning against the door frame. "I'm sorry. It's shitty for us to try to rank each other, and I hate being involved in a conversation where I have to qualify you at all. It isn't fair. But obviously I can't be unbiased if they ask."

"I'm not asking you to be unbiased," I sigh. "I just… need to know you believe in me."

"I do," he says. "Of course, I do."

"Yeah?"

"I just didn't realize it had to be said," he says. "And that's my fault. I just— I tend to assume sometimes that you're as confident as you look. Because you should be. You deserve to be, you know?"

"Sure," I say.

"I mean that. I think sometimes you forget how good you are at all this. It's not bad to be critical. Just make sure you're focusing on what you're doing right sometimes."

If I weren't in such a bad mood I might laugh. For him of all people to tell me to focus on what I'm doing right— well, maybe it's easier for him to see it in other people than in himself. I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Fine. If I have to."

It's addicting to please him. When his smile widens I'm reminded why I try so often, why I push aside my own needs for a moment of his own happiness. It's not like he takes advantage of me; as far as he knows, I'm doing exactly what I want to do.

That just isn't the truth.

As much as it eases his conscience, it only burdens mine to feel so heavy under my own thoughts. I sit back in the living room, sipping dutifully at my drink, as the conversation flows soundlessly around me. Inside me, his seed of doubt takes root.

I try to ignore it, the same way I've ignored the last two days' worth of setbacks in favor of my small victories. But it grows, feasting on the dread that's been building in my stomach since the minute I stopped running.

You're fine, I assure myself, though I feel anything but fine. My fear is real. My resolve crumbles, allowing in the narrow, pinching worry that has the capacity to break me down from the inside out.

What if I don't make it?

In the warmth of the barracks, my anxiety burgeons. I wake after only an hour of rest and peel my blankets back, draping the edge of one as lightly against my bare shoulders as I can. It's still far too oppressive. When I curl back onto my side, folding my knees together with just a sheet between them, sweat, cold and teasing, slicks the underside of the joint.

I stare into the dark, my eyes burning with fatigue but never feeling heavy enough for me to fully fall back into sleep. Instead I curl sideways, wrapping my bare arms around my pillows, and feel my mind grow cloudy with the rhythmic breaths of sleeping forms below me.

What if I don't make it?

Before, it was easy enough to put off the thought, to subdue reality with the illusion of time: two years before Trials, six months, two months. Then months became weeks, weeks turned to days, and now I'm staring into the night coming to the realization that Trials is now, and I've already lost two days of it.

I turn over my pillow, roll onto my other shoulder. Finally I give in and climb down from my bunk. I use the bathroom and avoid my bleary eyes in the mirror. I drink water from the tap. I do everything I can to make myself more comfortable and it's still not enough to fall asleep. I lie sideways for hours, pinching my nails between my fingers, trying to force my mind to quiet. Frustration burns under my eyes and in the back of my throat, but I'm restless, untangling the sheets from my limbs only to find my headspace is even more knotted than before.

I watch the walls until their midnight hue glows with the beginnings of dawn, until a glimmer of red crackles on the horizon. With nothing better to do, I find my way to my feet, my legs trembling in the morning cold. I pull my laces tight and tighter until the tops of my feet sting with the pressure.

At the front landing, I remember my ankle, how I still need to rest. I balance between my heels, gritting my teeth against a decision that has no good options.

I know what I should do, though. Cursing to myself, I push back into the entry hall and shuffle towards the barracks. Even if I won't sleep, if I can't make things better, I can't make them worse.

At this point, I can't afford to.

"Ten minutes," Valerius calls over the din, a warning rather than an invitation. "Grab some water, stretch out, and meet back at your primary weapon station."

The main gym is alive, rowdy with excitement for the fight we've just witnessed. It was Cas and Tarq at the end of the sparring contest, Tarq the clear favorite even as Cas battered him amongst calls to kill him, get him, finish him off, Lamot, from cadets so secure in themselves— enough, at least, to take a side, while I stayed silent. Who am I to choose a winner? As far as I'm concerned, I've been an imposter this entire time.

Cadets fill in around me, shoulders brushing past me to congratulate Tarq like I have no tangible shape. I feel myself stepping back, blinding myself to the aftermath of the fight in my haste to make it to the toilets.

I sit in a stall, my vision swirling with exhaustion. Acid lifts in my throat, my stomach curling over. My cheeks flush, red with panic. As I put my face in my hands, lifting my palms against my eyelids, there are footsteps, slow and steady, past the sinks to the far end of the restroom. I inhale slowly, recognizing that my short window for any sort of emotional exodus has passed.

I come out and rinse my hands, clearing the dust from under my nails, the grime from the lines of my palms. When I tug a towel from its dispenser next to the door, Mallen nearly catches me in the shoulder on her way in.

"Oh, hey," she says.

"Hey."

"How'd you do?"

I make a face. I'd pulled an unlucky draw, facing Tarq himself after easily taking out both Stasia and Thalia. But losing wasn't the worst part. It's how he'd beaten me, with so much ease and finesse it had hardly seemed like he even cared one way or another whether he'd earn a spot at the end of the week.

"Ugh. Sorry. But I lost first round, if that makes you feel any better." She hums as she closes herself in the near stall. "Fucking Martina."

"It happens," I say.

"Whatever," she says. "I actually couldn't give two fucks how I do right now. My period just started and I would rather die than do any more competitions today. I mean, there's going to be a ton of us at that station, anyways. Maybe they won't notice if I just don't go."

She's joking, but I'm not laughing. "Maybe. I'll see you after."

I'm early to my station as usual, but I'm not the first one there this time. Naturally, Avari's already laid claim to a target. I take the one next to her, my hands itching for knives to throw. Without weapons to calm my nerves, I settle for tapping my fingers against my thumbs.

She looks up as I approach, but ducks her head down almost instantly when I meet her gaze. As the silence progresses, I offer a futile olive branch. "Hey."

"Hey."

"How's it going?"

She only shrugs. That's my ticket to go quiet before I embarrass myself further. Chewing at the inside of my lip, I scan the gym for a trainer, anyone approaching our station to kill the tension before it kills me.

Thankfully, Urban is of a prompt mindset as well. "Just you two?" he says, setting down a collection of knife bags. We each reach to take one. I'm careful to avoid grazing Avari's hand. It might cut me. "Good. Makes judging this a lot simpler. Let's start with a set apiece, twenty-five from short. I'll move you back once you've finished the warm-up."

I line up at Urban's beginning distance, already resenting that I'm paying so much attention to Avari when, by all means, this should be my station. My place. I pull out my first knife but my focus is on the sound of hers coming free, the rattling of blades as her bag goes still.

Focus. You and the target. No one else.

I hold the edge of the knife in my fingers. My wrist comes forward. The blade spins.

Even before the knife lands I know it'll be off. Just by a few inches, but precision is critical. I try again, correcting my aim only for it to falter again on my next throw. I exhale, eying the target, my stare narrowing. Every throw is off. Something's off.

Breathe.

But breathing doesn't fix it.

At twenty-five tosses, Urban calls for us to retrieve our knives. We move back behind him for our first set. My shoulders are loose, my arm warm but not fatigued. But I have trouble tying my pouch back against my hip. My palms and fingers are slick from stress.

"I'm looking for three things here," Urban says, walking between us. Behind him, the two targets appear to burn under the hum of fluorescent bulbs overhead. "Speed, accuracy, and technique. On my count, you'll have twenty-five more throws. Games-pace. No hesitation, no split-second pausing. I want to see aggression and urgency here. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

We're still, neither of us daring to so much as nod our heads in case it puts us a half-second behind the other. I'm reminded of old Reapings, the way Avari and I would race each other to the pens. Everything was a contest. But things were lighter then, too. Not like this, where any loss to the other defines our very worth.

"On my mark," Urban says, and lifts his hand as he steps out of our range. "Go!"

My knife's already out of my hand before he's finished speaking. Judging by the thud on the target next to me, Avari's done the same, keeping a knife at the ready even before his go-ahead. Before my first knife has even found its mark I've picked up the next, as fast as I can, only flinching to make the most minor of corrections if I see my prior toss has strayed away from a critical hit.

More often than not, it has. My breathing becomes more rapid as I move through my set, but not with exertion. Nerves bubble up into my chest. I force my arm faster, even as each blade scatters, more and more spread from the target's center.

I finish three knives ahead of Avari. It's a minor discrepancy, but she's irritated all the same, her countenance pinching in frustration as he exhales with the release of her final knife. Until she sees how we've both finished, her throws far cleaner, more precise even if her last landed six inches to the right.

She's nervous, too, I remind myself. All I want is to make this. All she wants is to not lose. That puts far more pressure on her.

But what's pressure worth if I can't focus the way I need to?

Urban notes down our placements, the spread between our knives. I curl my fingers into a fist, tapping my feet against the floor. I'm vaguely aware of the beating sounds of swords against each other, cadets tearing dummies apart, but it's all so distant. It might as well just be the three of us. Or the two of us, really. Urban is more of a witness to our contest than any real piece of it. As soon as he's done writing, Avari and I move forward to retrieve our blades without him even giving the call.

We don't say a word to each other. I hear my own breathing in the space between the clattering of knives back into their pouch, the scuffling of shoes from other stations on the training mats along the near wall. Avari's eyes are heavy on my back, but I can't stand to look at her. I tug my last knife free and move rigidly back to Urban's next distance.

"Same thing," Urban calls once Avari has lined back up next to me. "Twenty-five more. Go."

Avari is far faster this time. I can tell immediately by the thud of blades into her target, the grunts and quick breaths she exhales with every flick of her wrist. Tightening my brow, I increase my own speed. But my accuracy, again, falls off.

It's like I've never thrown before. My body knows what it's doing; I've trained this motion ten thousand times. But the mental piece, the ability to see a target, read its positioning, and manage my strength and technique, feels like it's become disconnected.

Even when I pull my knives from the target after the next set, I don't feel like I'm in control of my own body.

I line up again, a sheen of sweat along my scalp, and try not to panic. I keep my eyes on my targets, my hands on my knives, begging myself to break this down into smaller and smaller pieces: me, my target, my knife. Nothing works. Whenever I notch a throw the next two seem to curl sideways or lift higher along the rings.

And Avari notices. She doesn't need to focus to beat me anymore; all she needs is to wait for me to beat myself. I refuse to look at her but I can't possibly ignore her, not when every time we move to retrieve our blades, hers are notched even tighter around her target circle while mine have found a new way to scatter.

By the time Valerius calls for each station to clean up for the night, the only thing I have to show for my efforts is the sweat on my back and the shame along my spine. Face aflame, I retrieve my last batch of knives, fumbling my last two in the process.

They clatter on the ground next to me. I bend to pick them up, frustration scorching through my hands.

She's knelt down with me, watching me as I come up one short. She reaches out to hand me my last blade. "Here."

I look at her then, extending a hand to take my knife back.

In a second, my worst fear is realized. Not hatred, not contempt. My eyes lock on hers for a moment, just long enough to read exactly what's behind them when she looks at me: nothing at all.

I want to talk to someone, I realize, as I hang back from the rest of the twenty-something cadets clearing out of the gym. Maybe I can justify my poor performance, somehow. They have to know I'm better than that.

Or am I? Have I trained so extensively in low-pressure environments, alone with only my thoughts and a target, that when the stakes are raised, I'm unable to rise to meet them?

Regardless, I know I can't actually go up to a trainer and try to plead my case. The only reason I've waited to leave is because I don't want to run into Mallen, have her ask me again how'd it go? only for me to tell her, again, I've failed to prove I'm capable of any sort of success here. And I don't want to lie to Cas again. It'll break my heart.

Instead, I duck into the medical room, which is empty of trainers and cadets alike at this late hour. Alone, I ice and wrap my ankle on one of the training tables, but it's not anything near what Rhodes or Eliska or Aspra would do. Naturally. When have I ever held a candle to any of them? Add those three to the long list of people I can't seem to compete with.

Enough. I grit my teeth and shuffle out of the training room, the loose tape on my foot dragging on the floor. I should shower, but I expect a few stragglers to still be drying off, and I don't want to run into any of my competitors. Instead, I sit out in the entry hall as it empties until I'm the only cadet in sight.

Moonlight glows along the tiles. In the silence, my pulse echoes.

What can I do? What's left for me to do to salvage this? Try as I might, I can't seem to come up with anything that will save me.

I wait until I'm certain the shower room will be empty, then I ready myself for the implosion I'm about to have as soon as I turn on the water. The funny thing is, as fucked as I probably am, I don't feel like crying anymore. I check to make sure the shower room is empty, just in case. But in this space, I don't crumble.

I don't know what to make of it, frankly. I claw my hands through my hair, rinsing away all the grime and tangles and dust, gritting my teeth against the sting of hot water against my shoulders. I've left room for grief and frustration to fill my mind, but instead, it's bitterness that rises into that space.

Bitterness at so many people, not even really myself. At Akello. At Nell. Those two are obvious targets. If Akello hadn't given up on me so early, maybe I wouldn't have become the very cadet he always told me I was. I'm close, so close to making this. But it's not enough to overcome Martina, Avari, Elissa. Maybe if Nell or Akello had tried just a bit harder, I could have been strong enough to be like Iona.

And Mallen. I'm bitter at her, more than anyone. Bitter that she's got the confidence to shake off tough defeats at Trials when she's the one who showed up three years late and still took the place of girls who have been here the whole time. Tarquin, too, but it's Mallen who's going to continue on while I'm left with the same fate as all those cadets who quit because they couldn't handle how tough training is. And then what distinguishes me from Denali? From Khione? What were these last two years worth, then?

It's so unbelievably unfair, I realize, that I'm in this position when Mallen's the one who showed up new here two years ago, essentially clueless and on her own. And who was the one who helped her most? Who did the right thing to her own detriment? While I've scrambled for this last spot, Mallen essentially cemented her place here that first time she won those mock Games. In doing so, she proved that she could beat not just any girl in her year, but everyone in our class. Meanwhile, I've had no choice but to focus on being better than one cadet at a time, Martina or Elissa, but even if I could beat either of them, if I could consistently win against Iona and Mallen and Avari, then what does it matter if the other side still has Pike? Cas? Tarq? In what world do I come out a Victor over not just one of them, but every single one?

I might be good with knives, good at running, good at gritting my teeth and putting in hours of work. But good isn't great. Good doesn't get me through Trials. Good doesn't get me into the Games. And good doesn't get me that victory. Until I can beat every single other cadet here, I haven't proven I'm worth making Seventeens.

Akello said something similar once: that my inability to defeat every single cadet meant I might as well not be able to defeat any one of them. I know because I remember just about everything he's ever told me. I hear it when it's too quiet, when the blood pounding in my ears, or the screaming in my calves, or the pressure of Cas' body between my legs aren't enough to drown it out. It overcomes the thunk of knives, over and over, striking targets. It buries Rhodes' easy laughter, the praise that lifts from his tongue, so effortless but so insubstantial sometimes when there are other words that are so much heavier, sharper, stronger.

I hear it because it's the truth, really. That's the cruel reality of everything he's ever told me.

I turn the shower off, the handles squealing under my fingers. I wrap myself in a towel but don't want to move. All there's left to do today is go to sleep, and all that does is beckon in tomorrow as if it's something I'm remotely looking forward to. I stand in the shower, towel twisted under my armpits, and watch the condensation drip down the tiled walls.

In the dull glow of the bathroom lights, I try again to imagine, really, what my life would be like without this.

I still can't. Every time that sting of failure trickles into my thoughts my stomach twists, roiled with sudden nausea I can't shake until I get the thought out of my mind. I breathe shakily, tensing my fists. But there's no relief without distraction.

The only thing that can save me, I come to decide, is perfection. Flawlessness in everything I do for the next two days. Except I'm not flawless, and I never have been. I've only ever been my best, and who wants that, really?

I bend to dry my hair. Chills creep along my back. When I straighten, I find my eyes in the mirror, the fog fading from the heat of my shower.

My gaze traces my body. Nose, chin, chest. Arms, still too skinny. Torso, still speckled with the edges of ribs, even amongst the ridges of abdominal muscles that have grown in across my stomach. Long legs, wiry from strength I've forced into them over years of running these hills over and over again. What's it worth if there's nowhere left to run?

There's still a chance, slim as it is, that this isn't over. Maybe I blew my last shot at the knives station. Regardless, I can't go down without giving this everything I have. I'll fight until my last minute here.

Isn't that what I've always done?

"And how does this feel?"

"Hurts."

"Can you be more specific?"

"I don't know. It's kind of— the middle of my shoulder. Sharp." Avari winces as Eliska rolls her shoulder up and towards her ear. Her lips flare into a snarl before she exhales, a shudder just discernible in her shoulders. "There."

"Right here?"

"Yes." There's a bite in her voice. "Ouch. Stop."

"Have you been taking care of this at home?"

Avari's eyes are still closed as she forces down her discomfort. "Sometimes. I don't know. It's hard to find time."

I step quietly past Avari and Eliska, claiming the empty bench next to Eliska's desk. I undo the laces on my left shoe and strip the sock back from my ankle, then start the first layer of tape around my foot.

"I need you to take this seriously," Eliska is saying, her voice flat with displeasure.

"I am," Avari contends. She opens her eyes to stare Eliska down. "I am, of course I am. It just doesn't feel like icing or stretching does anything. Because I'm basically just working my arm to exhaustion anyways."

"I understand," Eliska says. "But you need to trust me here. I'm trying to look out for you."

The strip's uneven. I replace it with another, the old tape stinging as it peels from the top of my foot. The end is frayed when I tear it from the roll. I pull the loose string away only for it to unravel and wrap around the edge of my foot. Frustrated, I tear it all away.

Avari is quiet, watching the wall past Eliska, her eyes tracing the anatomical posters and portraits of Victors notched evenly next to shelves stocked neatly with medical supplies.

Eliska relaxes her grip on Avari's arm. "I get that this is a busy week for you, but it's only going to get tougher. You have to take care of yourself."

"I am. I'm trying."

"You don't have to prove it to me. Just do it."

Avari sighs, leaning back against the wall.

"Ice after you're done today," Eliska tells her, moving in between two benches to let Rhodes pass behind her as he enters. "I'll give you more aspirin, but resting and preventing this from worsening is going to be much more effective than ignoring it, I promise you."

"I know," Avari says, her lips twisting. "Thank you."

She shifts to give Eliska room to wrap a heating pack around her arm. My focus splits, half-aware of Rhodes moving to stow his bag in one of the closet cubbies, but I don't look away from Avari, whose face tightens and eyes narrow with irritation even as the warmth begins to relax the muscles in her shoulder.

"What's up?" Rhodes says. He drops down onto the stool next to my bench.

"You're late," I say, finally bringing my eyes back to my own business.

"Barely." He frowns at my bare ankle, the skin still yellowed with old bruising. "You need help with that?"

"No."

"No," he mocks, noting the mess of tape on the bench next to me. "Here, move over."

I don't argue. I look on as he tears away neat strips of tape and sets to work. Anchor strips. Stirrups, tri-layered over the ankle bone. Figure-8s around the foot, over and underneath. He wraps the heel, seals the edges, and tears the tape cleanly at its end.

"That's the best tape job I think I've ever seen you do," I say, trying to flex my foot and marveling at how sturdy it feels.

"Please," Rhodes says. He stows the roll of tape away and disposes of my loose scraps. "You flatter me."

"I didn't say it was good. Just said it was the best I've seen you do."

"And that's why flattery will get you nowhere."

"Fight me, Rhodes."

"With what? That busted ankle?" He clicks his tongue. "I really wouldn't."

"It's not busted," I say.

"Not anymore. Not since I became a god at taping ankles."

"I feel like you're giving yourself a lot of credit here for my own improvement," I say. "Sorry, but whose fault is it I got hurt?"

He shrugs. "No idea. Akello's, probably."

"It's always Akello's fault."

"One hundred percent," he says. "I, on the other hand, have done nothing wrong, ever."

Scouring my brain for alternatives, the memory returns all at once. I cough, trying to mask my laughter, but it doesn't work.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, you want to say it so bad. Just tell me."

I say it under my breath so I won't be overheard. "Eliska."

"That was not—" But I'm snickering too much for him to get a word in. "Scout, shut up."

"Eliskaaaaaaa," I taunt, as I push myself off the table to slip my sock and shoe back on. "Eliskaaaaaaa—"

"Oh, you are not leaving right now, you coward."

"I have to go!" I say, my voice lighter than it's been all week. "Thank you for the tape!"

Just before I'm out of earshot, I hear him muttering about how he's going to leave me alone to do it myself next time. It's funny, because it couldn't be further from the truth. Whenever I'm in the medical room, he's the first one to help me, eager to get me back on my feet.

My smile lingers on my lips until I step into the main gym, the milling forms around me reminding me sharply of what's at stake. I keep away from Cas and Mallen, allowing stress to overcome me, too tired to force it back.

"Happy Thursday," Valerius begins at the top of the hour, a subtle smile lifting his jaw. "We'll go ahead and get started right away, but first, a brief run-through of today's schedule. Just like the last few days, we'll start with endurance testing, some swimming, some running, then back in the gym to warm up with your weapons groups before your private sessions. Today we'll also be holding brief interviews with each cadet and either Akello, Easton, or myself. Don't overthink it. It can only help you. Easton, Akello, anything?"

Easton shakes her head. I tune Akello out, my mind already carrying me down to the Pit with the recollection of what happened last time we were tested. My head goes light with worry.

But as we begin moving out, Mallen falls into step with me, and her presence brings me back to the present. "Ready to kick ass today?"

"You know it," I say, stepping down the first set of stairs leading beneath the Atheneum. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, totally fine. As soon as I got home I just knocked the fuck out and woke up feeling like a whole new person." She grins, looking only a tiny bit crazy. "Hey, set up next to me for this, will you? I want to pace myself against the fastest person here."

Despite everything, I smile, even as the air grows colder, the stone damper, slicking under our shoes. We emerge from the narrow hallway into the Pit, which despite its width and openness is so dark and stale it's just as confining as the corridor we came from. Constructed under the main base of the Atheneum, it's all stone and concrete but for the expanse of murky water that extends from the near ramp to the far wall. I have no idea how deep it goes. Most of us wouldn't dare find out.

"Boys first," Easton calls. "Spread out along the edge. On my mark."

I watch as Cas's body bends, his shoulders curling as he lowers himself, ready to run in without an instant of doubt. On Easton's "Go!", he pushes forward, legs carrying him against the water's resistance until he's in deep enough to kick off from the ramp and cut through the water, taking long, thrashing strokes to force himself ahead of the boys to either side of him. It's never been about form, only raw power, when it comes to Pit races. Maybe we wouldn't beat the average Four volunteer in the waves, but that doesn't matter. As long as we can stay afloat, as long as we can move across an expanse blocked by sea or strait, what matters more is how strong we are, not how cleanly we can swim.

It's largely this sentiment that causes the chaos out in the water. Under the spray, against the dull echo of splashing against the walls, the boys gasp for breath, already exhausted. But there's more after this, even after they've survived the lengths to and from the wall. I feel a pinching in the base of my stomach, apprehension for what's to come.

The swimmers emerge from the water in staggered chunks, panting and bent over, spitting water from their mouths, but all standing, all surviving. Then Easton's voice lifts over their hollow panting. "What are you doing? Back upstairs. You should be running."

Cas slips, but keeps his footing, as he stumbles out of the Pit followed by the rest of the boys. Three miles for them, now. Three miles for us, too, but I can hardly focus on that when the water is staring back at me, dark as death.

My head is clear like static. Akello leans against the wall behind us, his arms crossed as he regards our efforts with indifference. Disdain, even. Even when he isn't watching me I feel his eyes stripping me down, layer by layer, until he can see the fear I'm hiding deep under everything else.

We stand at the concrete ramp, water tilting at our toes. The Pit reeks, dank with mold, but that's nothing compared to the terror that clings to my senses.

"To the wall and back is one lap. I want three, fast as you're able. Then, same as the last group, you'll be running three miles around the grounds. Do not stop. Am I understood?"

I remember Ceto now, someone I've hardly thought about for two years. She'd stopped swimming midway through testing and Nell had screamed her out of the Atheneum. She'd thought quitting was the better choice over drowning.

As I bend my knees, ready for the exhaustion that's going to cloud my every thought, I feel fully that she was wrong.

"Go!"

I stagger forward through the water until I'm knee-deep, then dive forward, as if to the wolves. With every kick, every desperate stroke, I expect my back to tighten in pain until the best I can do is flail my legs, gasp for air, even though Akello needs me to be faster. Under the ache, then agony, across my body, I'm listening for that pain to come, sharp and sudden, just as it did the day of Fourteens testing. I had been so afraid I'd hurt my back beyond repair, but somehow I'd feared the damage to my status more.

There's no pain in my back now, at least. I kick forward, choking for air. My eyes sting where they're half-submerged in the water but I don't need to see to sense where the wall is: too far. Always too far.

Breathe.

Except I'm rigid across my shoulders and into my ribs, sharp pain spiking with my next breaths. I know what comes next. Exhaustion. Frustration. Humiliation.

The wall. There's the wall. I press into it and kick back, regretting for only a moment that it's not more of a relief to reach it, that all it marks is a checkpoint rather than an achievement. Then I'm back the other way, kicking harder, if not to end this more quickly then to drown out the chaos in my head.

It's not a long swim. Three or four minutes, tops. But the sting of fatigue comes on so quickly, so sharply, that time slows, measured only by heartbeats, only by strokes or splashes, anything I can count to keep hold of reality. It's not long enough for numbness or mindless motion. It's long and lengthened by the counting of turn-arounds: the wall, the ramp, back again, until I'm coming back for the last time, every whisper that I can't finish this suddenly forgotten in the inevitability of completion, inevitability that seems to grow more distant with the reality that there's still half a lap to go, and encouragement does nothing to stifle the pain.

But there's the ramp now, I feel it against my fingertips, and I push myself out of the water, my ribs stitched together. I anticipate Easton's warning and don't dare slow down, even with water squeezing out of my socks. Even when I feel Akello's eyes, hard and heavy on me, I don't lose sight of the hallway, don't dare even stop to breathe until I'm far enough out of the Pit for the air to go silent.

No splashing. No gasping breaths. Just the force of my feet against the stairs and the sudden realization that there is no one in front of me.

We collect in the gym at the end of the three-mile run, all varying degrees of weighed down with water and fatigue. I find myself scanning the collection of the cadets, but instead of jealousy, a new sensation washes over me: these are my people. No one else would willingly do what we are doing to ourselves for the purpose which we're doing it for. If they would, they'd be here.

I don't know what I'm going to do without them.

Valerius divides us by surname, drawing a line between Lamot and Moreau, to which Tarquin replies with a scowl only Cas and I can see. "First group, you'll be meeting with Easton, Akello, or myself first. The rest of you, you'll stay here for private exams. First group, with me, please."

Out in the foyer, Valerius divides up the first three cadets. Mallen winks at me as Easton takes her back to her office, following behind Az and Akello. My stomach churns at the thought of having to sit and plead my case for Akello yet another time. Forget worrying about what I might be asked— would he even give me a chance to speak? Or would he take the opportunity to belittle me further, knowing there was nothing I could do to stand up for myself, when any misstep could cost me everything?

I chew the inside of my mouth, pretending to busy myself with redoing the laces on my left shoe. Really, I'm trying to keep my mind off of Avari, sitting two cadets down from me. She leans forward onto her hands, perching her elbows on her knees. Even in her fatigue, she keeps her back straight. Of fucking course she does.

I don't even know where the resentment is coming from— the new resentment, that is, aside from my typical irritation— until the corner of my tape, coming loose from my shin, draws my attention. How bad is that shoulder of hers, anyway? Not bad enough to keep her out of Trials. Nothing could be. Not bad enough to keep her from notching bullseye tosses yesterday, but bad enough to warrant Eliska's genuine concern. I know the difference, don't I? Maybe Eliska did want the best for me in all those times she brought up my eating habits. But her tone was accusatory at best, and always from a place of superiority. With Avari, it sounded like she was speaking to someone she knew far more deeply. One she almost saw as an equal.

Fuck that.

I'm worth more than the way she sees me, the way Akello sees me, the way Avari sees me when she bothers looking at me at all. I'm so tired of having to prove it every day. But if someone has to, it has to be me.

"Caverley."

I straighten, my eyes keeping forward. Relief isn't a strong enough word to describe the release I feel knowing it'll be Easton rather than Akello in that room with me, but as I follow her back, I have the thought that she might potentially be more dangerous. After all, it's her year I'm still trying to get into.

As cold as she may be, I don't feel as vulnerable under her gaze as I've felt with Akello. I sit four feet from her desk, too far to read the notes over which she props her elbow, but close enough to feel her reading me.

Her face is stern. I sit still, waiting for the go-ahead. Or to be yelled at. For what, I'm not sure. I'll figure it out eventually.

"How are you holding up?" she asks instead.

She wraps her hands around each other, rubbing idly at her fingers. I frown, watching the uncomfortable movement. "I'm fine. And you?"

"It's a long week for everyone. But we're almost there." She clears her throat, checking at one of the pages on the surface in front of her. "You know, Valerius and Akello wanted a stricter interview policy. Strict questions. Time constraints. But I'd prefer a more candid conversation, if that's okay with you."

"Yeah. Of course."

She exhales, her brow pinching together. I sit patiently, knowing better than to draw out her claws. Finally she asks, "Were you first in the run today?"

"Yes."

"Right. I thought you were. And— on that ankle?"

"It still works," I say. "Maybe a bit sore, but what isn't?"

She doesn't smile, just nods distractedly. "How do you— do you run more on your days off, or supplement training with something else?"

"I used to. Not as much anymore," I admit. "With my ankle and all. But I don't mind the extra conditioning, honestly."

"Good," she says. "That's good. A lot more of the Games is endurance-based than they give credit for, you know. Staying power. Not that everything else isn't just as important, but it's that endurance that really proves critical at the end of it all." She's looking back at me now, her gaze sharp but not as piercing as I've come to expect. "That and drive, of course. There are… too many volunteers, not just from Two, but any District who think that this is what they want, and then they reach the Games, and you can just tell— they weren't really in it. They wanted the glory, the fame, the money, and weren't prepared for what it actually meant. That's what I mean by endurance, too. Mental endurance. Strength of self."

I nod, devouring her words.

"Which leads to the obvious question. Why do you want this? Why do you— you in particular— want to volunteer, risking your life in the process, for District Two?"

It's a deceptively simple question, one whose possibilities might overwhelm me had I not been considering my answer for the past five years. I take a deep breath. "I'm from Carinthia— Flavia Solva, specifically— and that's where I started my training, right, back when I was eight or so. And there's a decent center out there, but it felt very… I don't know what the best word is. Juvenile? Immature? Training felt like a hobby there. You go to school, go to training, come home, whatever. It's hard to really invest in it until you come somewhere like this."

I remember the way my mentality changed, inspired by the awe I felt for the much larger-scale system the Atheneum held. It made me feel small, when I came here. But not unimportant. More so that I had a larger role to grow into. "Being here has shown me the way you're supposed to live— fighting, struggling for something that matters. Unless you're actively trying to make yourself stronger and better every day, I don't think you're really living. That's what Two has given me. That's what the Atheneum has given me." I swallow, trying to slow my words, even as nerves spurn them to flow faster, blood spilling from a wound. "Risking your life for something is the only way you can undeniably prove your devotion to it. That's the way I've always felt. And that's why I want this. Because sure, I can lie and say I want to represent Two for the honor of being the best in this class. But that helps nobody. This District, what we stand for, that's bigger than me. I believe it's my duty to serve it. You and everyone in this institution have given me a better life, and that's the least I can offer back in return."

I watch as Easton scribbles notes down into a charted document, but don't look close enough to see what they say. Through all of my answer, she has not visibly reacted. Finally, she pauses, just enough to watch me with that same calculated stare I've come to expect from her. "Risking your life, and killing in cold blood, are two very different concepts. We need you to do both."

"I understand."

"Because you're not just fighting as you are in training, with one winner and one taking a consolation place. You're fighting to kill."

"I understand."

"You're taking on five other volunteers who have as much training as you do."

My skin warms, flushing with adrenaline and excitement. "Yes. And I'm well-equipped to kill every one of them when the time comes."

"Even your District partner. The person you've trained with the longest."

"If it's what has to be done."

"They all say that," Easton says. "Every single person who wants to volunteer. And then they go to the Games, and they look their District partner in the eyes, and they hesitate. Every single time."

"Not Slater," I say, before I can stop myself.

Easton pauses, and I almost think I've caught her off-guard before she settles herself. "Not Slater. Still, that's one of dozens of volunteers who have frozen under pressure when they promised they wouldn't."

"If I had to kill Pike, or Sep, or Tarq to win, I wouldn't hesitate," I swear. "I'd expect that at the very least from them, as well."

"And what about the other tributes?" Easton asks, not slowing down. "If there's a twelve-year-old at the other end of your knives, and he's completely defenseless, and all he wants is to live one more day, he doesn't want his family to watch you cut his throat out, he thinks you're horrible for wanting to kill him. I mean, aren't you horrible? For killing someone that helpless?"

I imagine it, then, someone a year or two younger than Nico standing between me and victory. Except then he just looks like Nico, and in the second I allow myself to consider my words, I can't come up with a reason why I wouldn't kill him, too, if it meant victory for Two. I swallow. "If he can't fight back, that's not my fault. And maybe this is callous of me to say, but I really just don't see how they can go to the Games every year without at least trying to prepare for it, and still play victim when they die again and again."

"You talk like you think Two is inherently better than any other District." Easton frowns as she says this, but more so like she's considering, not like she disagrees. "Do you?"

"I do."

"Why is that?"

"Look where we are," I say. "Everyone here is doing something very few people anywhere else have the strength to do. Why? Because it's hard. It's brutal. Of course, it is, but that's why we do it. And that's what sets us apart. That's why we have the most Victors. That's why we are the District that provides policing for the other Districts. That's the sort of merit and power that we aren't just given, right? We earn it. We earn it because we're one of the only Districts that actually rises to the challenge of the Games, that takes the chance the Capitol gives us to prove ourselves. We see the Games for what they are: an honor. An opportunity. We don't have to force kids to the Capitol every year because we're not afraid of a challenge or afraid of those who govern us. We welcome the risk and say give us more. We thrive on it."

"By that reasoning," Easton says, her brow knotted, "then why not Peacekeep?"

"Because I don't want to Peacekeep," I say. "That's not what I've trained this long for."

"No, of course not. But there are transferable traits and skills— fitness, cleverness, the ability to hold strong to a prescribed set of beliefs. Take Eliska, for instance. She was a very strong cadet who went on to do good work with the Peacekeepers until she came back last year. They don't always take cadets, but there are a lot of people who think like you in their ranks, and no doubt you could do very well there."

But I don't want to be like Eliska. Besides, she's not the only person I know with a history around Peacekeeping, and there's no way in hell I'd give Aris the satisfaction of following in his footsteps. That's one more person who's never seen the best in me. My stomach burns. "I don't want to police the other Districts, Easton. I want to dominate them."

Easton's pen twitches to a stop. For a moment she only looks at me, long enough for me to start to worry that I've come across too strongly. But even as her eyes meet mine, they're vacant, watching something far beyond my own expression.

"And what makes you the best person to do that?" she asks.

I have my answer planned, mentally rehearsed. But the emptiness in her expression reminds me not of my value, but of the way Avari looked at me last night. And then it's Iona, Avari, Elissa, Mallen in my mind doing everything I said I was capable of, leaving me behind because I couldn't prove to anyone who had a say that I was worth taking a chance on.

What makes me worth it?

"You said it yourself," I tell her, before my stomach can twist so hard that it suffocates me. "Your volunteers need mental endurance. You need someone who's going to stick it out to the end, no matter what they go through to get there. I can promise you, without a single doubt, that I will never give up on this District."

My breathing is shallow as I finish, my chest tightening with anxiety. But she doesn't seem to have noticed. She watches me a second longer, her eyes narrowed, reading me as deeply as she can dig. I don't try to challenge it; I have nothing to hide.

"Okay," she finally says. Her pen falls back into place between her fingers. "Thank you, Miss Caverley. You're free to go."

It's icy how quickly she reverts to a more clinical, emotionless caricature, instead of the woman who was just spiritedly warning me about the dangers of the Games. I get to my feet, nervously gnawing at the inside of my cheek. "Thank you," I echo.

"Exit to your left, please. Down the hallway, towards the main gym." She doesn't look up, just pens slow, neat notes along the page in front of her. "And close the door on your way out."

Just before I leave, I glance back at Easton. She doesn't watch me, only motionlessly eyes the notes on her desk, lost deep in thought.

I pull the side door open with my left hand. Blood soaks my top, my palm splitting from the pain.

Dirt cakes my shins and dusts the sides of my face. I can feel it as I hold the door open with my elbow, sliding the loose hairs back with my good hand. I scratch at the spots of caked skin, uncomfortable with the grime.

The hallway immediately in front of me is vacated. I hear a lull of low chattering from the main room, the one with the viewing window where we'll be able to watch the finalists fight each other. For now, I need to find the medical room.

Kova nods me towards a doorway off to the right. I step inside, taking in the barren space, an even smaller room than we have at the Atheneum, with even fewer resources to boot. But that doesn't stop Eliska, who's bent carefully over Septimus.

My stomach twists. Rhodes stands next to her, but his eyes flit to me when I enter. "What do you need?"

I watch Septimus a second too long. "Um. Sorry. I need my hand wrapped."

He nods, moving away and motioning me towards the open bench next to Eliska. Septimus is shaking but forcing himself to stay silent, even as Eliska moves his bad leg. The skin he was wearing to protect himself from weapon blows has long been removed. When she shifts, I see blood bubbling around the jagged piece of bone that pokes from his shin.

"Look over here," Rhodes says, readying a gauze strip for me.

"I'm not squeamish."

"You look squeamish."

"I'm not," I maintain, my tone sharper than I expect. "It's just, you know, I was there when it happened."

Knives in my hands. Sun in my eyes. I'd been running, seeking distance from Septimus as he closed the gap between us, weapon raised to batter me. I'd flung a knife over my shoulder, more as a deterrent than in the hopes of landing a killing blow. Mid-stride, he'd been caught off-balance, turning to avoid the knife and stepping awkwardly along the rocks as he did.

I'd heard the snap. Seen him fall, his form crumbling along the rocks and twisting in immediate agony. But it hadn't registered until his blood had begun to soak through his shield skin, a membrane impermeable but for damage from within.

Rhodes dampens the bandage with alcohol, presses it against my skin. I wince but keep quiet. This sting is nothing compared to Septimus' shattered leg, an injury that, inevitably, was my fault.

"I did it," I admit quietly. "Not— not on purpose, obviously. Just— unlucky, maybe. I don't know. He was trying to avoid my knife."

"Look over here," he repeats. I oblige. "Palm out. Spread your fingers."

The jagged skin pulls against itself, sharp and cruel. That's where Elissa had cut me right before my knife found her chest tracker, culminating in a burst of black. I hadn't even noticed until I'd grabbed another knife to ward off Aziel and the pressure had almost made me cry out.

"Eliska's taking care of him," he says in a low voice, as he presses antibiotic ointment into my palm. "His leg's bad. But he'll be okay. Don't blame yourself—"

"Oh, I'm not blaming myself," I say. "Not for the injury, at least. I couldn't have planned that if I'd tried."

When Septimus had gone down, I'd thought he was faking at first. It's a tactic I've seen from desperate outer-District kids: play dead, then stab them when they get close. I'd been wary, then, as I approached. As he'd convulsed, curling onto his side, I'd put my knife in his back.

Just to be sure. Just to be safe.

Turns out, he'd had no intentions of beating me. At that point, all he cared about was the pain.

"It's so stupid," I whisper, "but— I don't know. I tried to help. I didn't know what to do, but there was a tiny bit of medical supplies, and I thought maybe I could staunch some of the bleeding, and I was trying to roll the skin back up, but he was in so much pain—"

"Hey. Hey. It's okay. Slow down. Breathe." He holds my palm still, pinching the sides of it with both hands as it trembles against my leg. "You did more than most would have out there. The fact you tried to help— that says something, Scout."

I inhale shakily. He flattens a clean gauze pad along my hand, then wraps it slowly in a bandage.

"How was the rest of it?" he asks.

I breathe slowly, thinking back to four hours ago, when we'd first been released along the perimeter of the external arena Two calls the Amp. Valerius had mentioned, as he, Akello, and Easton had introduced us to the area, that the cadets selected to the final ten spots would become very familiar with the expanse of land over the next two years. It puts our old mock Games around the Atheneum to shame. Ten times the expanse of land, ten times the environmental danger. It would prepare us better for a rugged arena, he'd said. "It allows us to simulate, as close we can, the isolation of the arena and the true experience of using the natural landscape either to your own advantage, or your opponent's detriment."

That, inevitably, had proven to be true. Not just with Sep, but with the others I'd killed: Kiera, almost immediately once the session began, as she'd almost vanished into the trees. Torin, as he'd ascended a hillside where I'd already claimed the high ground. I'd missed the kill zone on my first throw at Elissa, but the momentum from catching her off-guard from a distance provided me with enough confidence to finish her even as she cut at my hands. The only reason Aziel had gotten me was because I'd been grappling with Elissa. His shot at my back had shown no skill or stealth, just opportunism.

"Fine," I say. "I had two kills before him. One after. But I don't know how many people are left, and Aziel got a cheap shot on me. It was so stupid."

He looks quickly at Eliska, who's getting Sep to sit up. Sep's face is pinched, sweat glistening along his cheeks. But his leg is wrapped now, heavy bandaging hiding it both from further damage and curious eyes alike. He leans on Eliska as she helps him out of the room, a crutch under his left shoulder, and though he has to know I'm here, he won't look at me. His neck is flushed, red as regret.

When the room is quiet, Rhodes clears his throat. "Want to know a secret?"

"Indulge me."

He shrugs. "Today doesn't matter."

"What?"

"Just that. The Games today were only for ironing out final placements. Whoever wins it all will be the top cadet at the beginning of Seventeens, but that's all it means. Decisions were basically finalized last night."

"You're joking," I say, dread thickening in the base of my stomach.

"I'm not." He tugs the wrap around my hand slowly, tightening it so it pressures the open wound. "You can't put too much weight in something that, ultimately, is up to chance. It's more about consistency, how you perform across the span of a week, or since they've known you, really. Anyone can beat anyone."

"But wouldn't you trust your winners to win in the actual Games?"

"In theory, yes," he says. "But this is nowhere near the actual Games. For one, all of you out there today are Careers. It's more evenly balanced than it would otherwise be, and for the most part it's too even to tell who, overall, is better than anyone else. You can't take alliances into account. Sponsorships. Those sorts of factors. There's so much more at play than one day here can show anyone."

I scratch idly at the side of my head with my free hand, feeling inexplicable embarrassment at the dirt that comes free from where Elissa and I had fought in the dust. Finally, I exhale. "Why would you tell me that?"

"So you stop worrying about all this," he says. He finishes his wrap, tightening the last bandage cleanly around my hand, and squeezes my palm softly. "Scout, you've done great. I know you have. I'd pick you ten times over if I had a say. And if you've never believed me on anything else, believe me on this."

I scoff softly. "I completely choked on Wednesday, though."

"I can promise you," he says, "everyone had bad days this week."

"Okay, but mine happened at the knife station. That's where I'm supposed to be good— the best, really."

"Then that's the best place it could have happened. Look. The trainers— Kova, Urban, anyone else who's seen you or worked with you— they know you're good at knives. It's everything else you had to prove to them. Did you?"

My jaw locks as I'm about to speak, my words dying on my tongue. I try to remember the beginning of this week, though it feels like years ago, now. The long run, the unarmed combat. I'd lost to Iona in the run, but only because I'd been hesitant on my bad foot. The second day I'd pushed myself harder on the sprints and won nearly every one of them. The Vaults testing had gone about as well as expected, but I'd won the endurance test yesterday, too.

That just leaves the weapons drills, the seemingly endless barrage of other cadets to contest after an hour or so each day of technical showings. Outside of losing to Tarq on Wednesday and Aziel today, I haven't done horrendous against the others. Or, most of them, at the very least. How many times did I lose to Mallen? To Martina? To Avari? To the ones who actually mattered, because they're the ones ranked ahead of me?

"I don't know," I say honestly.

A chill runs through my body at the deep-rooted honestly behind my words. I don't know. I don't know if what I did was enough. And there's nothing I can do to change it.

He's still, watching me. I look up. "At least… I did all I could."

"I know, you did."

I swallow. My body is heavy, exhausted from the week. But I need to hold on just a few hours longer. At least until we make it back to the Atheneum, and they tell me whether I earned a place or not.

"I'm going to go watch the end of this," I say, pushing myself gingerly up and off the table. "Thank you for, you know, patching me up."

"Hey," he says. "Whatever happens— you worked so incredibly hard, Scout. You should be really, really proud of yourself for that."

I smile softly, trying to keep my lips from trembling. But I can't get the words out. I just nod, looking away before he can witness my grief.

In the main room, the excitement is palpable. The space outside the main window is alight from spotlights that stretch into the night sky, casting startling whiteness across the dirt-packed landscape.

I seek out familiar backs of heads in the accumulated crowd, finding Mallen easily on the far left side of the room. I scan a second longer, looking for a dark gold head of curls, but I can't locate Cas in the mix. I step next to Mallen, nodding to her as I fill in beside her.

"Hey," she says. "Heard you got a bunch of kills. Nicely done."

"Who told you that?"

"Oh, nobody. I just figured you would. And you're not arguing, so it looks like I was right."

"Shut up," I say, too flustered to come up with a better response. We stare out the window, waiting for the last few cadets to come into sight. "Any idea who's out there?"

"I'd expect anyone who's not in here."

"Never mind." I scan the room again, not knowing who I'm looking for until my eyes fall upon her sleek ponytail at the very front of the room. From the side, Avari's face is twisted with clear disappointment. "How'd you get out?"

"Torin got me early on, the fucker. Looks like he was eliminated right after me, though."

"Yeah. I got him," I say. "So Tarq's still out there?"

"Yup. Cas, too, I'm pretty sure. I think Sep is the last one."

"No, Sep isn't out there," I say. I lower my voice. "He got hurt really bad out there. Basically snapped his leg."

"Shit," she says. "You think they'll kick him out for that?"

I hadn't even thought of it. I'd been so consumed by my own doubts that I forgot the way trainers treat kids with serious injuries, even though I've known it since Dom lost his hand two years ago. "I don't know," I say, guilt sinking in my stomach. "If this wasn't Trials, maybe. But he was supposed to make it."

"I know," she says. "That's why I'm wondering."

"You didn't see him when he came in? Or when he left?"

"No," she says, looking quizzical. "Maybe they took him down the other hallway."

Wouldn't want anyone to see one of the top cadets being dragged out of Seventeens, I suppose. "So who's the last?"

"Not sure. I saw Avari earlier looking all sorts of murderous. Mar's here, Elissa, Iona, Pike…"

"Az?" I wonder.

She frowns. "I… actually haven't seen him."

"Great," I say bitterly. "Wonderful. Maybe Tarq will knock him on his ass for everyone to see."

"Or maybe he already has," she says, inclining her head towards the side hallway. Az stands against the wall, his face dirtied and slick with fresh sweat. "So that just leaves…"

"Final two," Valerius calls, his voice echoing outside through speakers that line the edges of the Amp's viewing walls. "Come forward under the lights."

"Of course, it's them," Mallen says. "First they're finalists two days ago, then they beat everyone out here, too. Thank fuck they're both guys or neither of us would ever stand a chance."

I find my stomach twisting for reasons I can't place. I watch for any signs of the two of them as the seconds drag on. Finally, Tarq appears from the forest to the east. There's an uproar from the guys in the room who, in their excitement at Tarq's supremacy, appear to have forgotten he's their main competition for that coveted volunteer spot. As his face ignites in the floodlights, Tarq looks as strong and formidable as ever.

But so does Cas, as he comes over the slope to the west. There's a dull hue of fatigue in his posture before he rolls his shoulders back, releasing confidence into his stance. It's not forced, but fueled. He's bracing himself, ready to fight for his right to be here.

When the two finalists line up next to each other, their faces are neutral, hardened against all emotion. With all eyes on them, with theirs being the final fight of Trials, there's no room to spare for personal acknowledgement. Just how the other fights, and how they can defeat him.

"Moreau. Lamot."

Tarq's brow tightens. Cas' throat lifts. Both boys brace themselves for the battle.

"Fight."

Cas lunges first. Tarq blocks his blow with the handle of his spear, gritting his teeth against the initial force. He twists his weapon, forcing Cas to recover his grip. My stomach pinches. But Cas knows how quick Tarq can be, too. He recovers quickly.

Tarq steps back. His spear arcs, long and heavy, across his body. Cas parries, holding both hands on his weapon. Then he lashes out. His blade catches Tarq across the shoulder. Tarq strikes back, his next swing stronger, and lands a blow against Cas' ribs.

The skins are made to prevent puncture wounds and provide some padding, but they don't protect much against blunt force. Cas reels from the blow. Then he feints, and Tarq buys it. In an instant he's jabbed for Tarq's chest. Tarq just barely blocks it, but he's forced to defend himself now as Cas swings blow after blow against him, pushing forward with an aggression I've never seen from him. Even when the same pair fought on Wednesday, Cas was more controlled, clinical in his technique. Now, he pushes forward, hungry for victory.

I realize, as I watch his form tighten, him so keenly focused on defeating his partner, that I've known this all along— he comes alive outside. As technically sound as he is, fighting in a sterile, isolated gym environment was never where he thrived. It's evident in the way he's always run longer than anyone, the success he's seen in hunting sessions or scrimmages out around the Atheneum. Outdoors, the fighting seems more real.

As I watch them, I can hardly tell that this is a practice fight between two cadets. It's vicious enough to be life-or-death, to be a real fight in a real arena between two real tributes, both desperate to win but fatigued from their time in the arena. The whole room knows it, too. First quiet with reverence, the shouting has quickly spiraled out of control, even though Tarq and Cas can't hear us, likely can't even see us. Except instead of calling for Tarq to win, more and more voices call out in support of Cas. My nerves lighten, my chest filling with pride for him.

"Come on, Cas," I say under my breath. Mallen hits me.

Both of the boys are exhausted. The fight quickly becomes sloppy, slowing as each of the fighters considers their opponent, looking for an opening. They're evenly matched and that's what tires them; there are no breakthrough moments like there might be against a weaker opponent. They are forced to fight against their own mistakes now, to recover quickly and force the other to do something damning.

It's a battle of focus, more than anything. They're equally matched in terms of skill and conditioning. Where Cas is quicker, Tarq is stronger, and it quickly becomes clear that it's going to come down to who breaks first.

I know Cas. I know how he softens in my presence. I know his kindness, the way it glimmers in his eyes and his cheeks and his lips, the trace of his fingers when he closes his hand in mine. Training seems like the exception to who he is, deep down. Or it did until now.

He does not stop. He does not give in. He grits his teeth and pushes back against Tarq, his cheeks aflame with exertion. Tarquin comes right back, his blade battering at Cas but never finding the killing blow.

Cas steps aside, finding a different angle. The light catches the side of Tarq's face and finds the whites of his eyes. Cas lunges forwards, going for Tarq's legs. Tarq and Cas grapple, their bodies low to the ground, fighting to keep the momentum on their side.

And then, inexplicably, Tarq's feet appear to catch. Cas stabs into him and Tarq falls, his back in the dirt.

It only takes a second. But I see the moment Cas' blade rises, his form silhouetted against the floodlights, a glint at the edge of his sword. He moves like a shadow. He grips the handle of his sword and, with an exerted yell, drives it down into Tarq's chest.

Tarq's cannon fires, and the Amp erupts.

"No fucking way," Mallen shouts. I'm still watching the boys, my eyes drawn to the way Tarq tries to stand, his chest heaving from breathlessness. Cas shudders, panting just as hard, and offers him his hand. Tarq takes it, and he pulls him up.

And then the two shake, offering mutual respect for a fight well fought.

"He really just—"

"I know," Mallen says. "I have no fucking clue how. But he did it."

"He's going to be first," I say. A shock runs through my spine. Placements. They already know who's in.

Dread seeps under my skin. Already the first few cadets are edging towards the doors for our quick debrief, then the ride back to the Atheneum. But I want to stay here. I want the fight to continue, my time here extending by every blow. I'm not ready to leave. I'm not ready to leave.

I don't want to face the possibility that I won't be here next year.

But Mallen pushes forward, out towards the vans. My heartbeat racing behind my ribs, I force my feet to follow her. Every limb is heavy, rigid, as it attempts to delay the inevitable.

Move, I tell myself. You're going to find out one way or another. May as well be tonight, with your head held high.

So I move forward, onward towards my fate.

I'm resting at Mallen's feet at the end of it all, my back to the bench she sits on. Cas sits next to her, his hands drumming in his lap. Tarq, too, is close by. But I get the sense he'd rather be alone to consider the results.

The trainers had initially said they'd start bringing people in as soon as we returned from the Amp, but they've been talking in private since our return. I can't help but think it has something to do with Sep. I curl nervously back against the bench as Mallen kicks me. "Ow."

"Sorry. I'm just antsy."

She wouldn't be the first to have nervous tics at a time like this. "When do you think they'll be done? I thought we were supposed to know by midnight."

"I don't know, Scout. Why don't you go back there and ask them? Knock-knock, Akello, it's me, your favorite cadet. I was wondering if you guys could hurry it up because I really want to shower and also I heard the cafeteria had chicken and I'm actually really, really hungry—"

"Fuck off."

She huffs, pulling her feet up to her chest. All around us are cadets in similar positions, some resting on the ground or huddled with their friends. But the chatter is more subdued than normal, voices hushed and reverent.

It's easy, then, for the room to fall silent when Easton appears, looking not even a bit fatigued even as we approach twelve-thirty. "We will call individuals back one at a time. If you are not asked to stay, you will exit out the back of the building. If you make a spot, you will be in the main gymnasium and further details will be provided." She reads the first name from the clipboard in her hands. "Casimir Lamot."

All eyes face our direction. Cas stands, his head high. He does not turn around. He follows Easton straight down the hallway until they vanish around the corner.

"Do you think they'll go in order?" I ask Mallen.

"Only one way to find out," she says grimly. Then she sees the look on my face and brings her legs down so she can shake my shoulders. "Hey. You'll be okay."

"You don't know that."

"Well, of course, I fucking don't, but it's a nice thing to say anyways," she says. "Either way, stop picking at your nails. It's gross."

I follow her orders, only because it's easier to control my nerves if I have a tangible, physical way of tracking them. I can't control my anxiety, but I can ball my fists up, not to fight someone else, but to restrict myself from fighting myself.

It's not two minutes later that Easton reappears at the end of the hallway. "Iona Sylett."

Iona stands stiffly and follows her back. I bite the inside of my cheek, making sure to keep Mallen where she can't see it. When Easton appears again, she calls Pike's name.

"Not Tarq," I say. "But he was second, right?"

"It's going to be fine, Scout," Mallen says. "Don't think too much about the order. It'll drive you crazy."

Next time Easton emerges, she reads, "Arkyn Tiersias."

"I didn't even know he was still here," Mallen says.

Not for long, I think, but I can't even finish the self-righteous thought before a new wave of anxiety-induced nausea swells inside me. I force my breathing to even, but my chest feels stiff and shallow.

Kiera goes. Thalia follows two minutes later. As the numbers dwindle, I don't hear my name. Each time Easton comes out, a shock of dread shoots through me. But it's never me.

Tarq goes. Mallen is right after him. "Good luck," I say. She smiles softly and follows Easton down the corridor.

There's fifteen of us, then ten. When Aziel is called back, his face twists in clear arrogance. Avari is after, following Easton neatly, her feet falling into place like they were always meant to walk that hallway.

My eyes sting. It's past one now and my heart is still ticking the seconds away like a time bomb.

I know the truth. But I refuse to accept it until I have to.

With every cadet who is accepted, my chances diminish. With every cadet who leaves, Easton takes less and less time to reappear. My time here is shortening in front of my very eyes.

All the girls who could have made it over me are gone. I remind myself there's no clear order to the cadets they've spoken to, but one look at the four final cadets around me, none of whom has ever cracked the top ten in any Trials to date, tells me everything I need to know about what my result will be.

And then my name is called. "Scout Caverley."

I rise, smoothing my palms on my shorts. Easton's face is clear and smooth, devoid of flaw, devoid of any tell.

She doesn't speak as we move down the hallway, as if I'd be able to hear her over the drumming in my ears. I walk the corridor mindlessly, muscle memory the only thing keeping me on my feet.

"Come in," she says suddenly, and opens the door to an empty viewing room. Three chairs are set up at the front of the room, two of them filled by Akello and Valerius. I step in, waiting for their call before I take my seat before them.

Silence accosts me. I sit on my hands while Valerius considers the clipboard in front of him. No one speaks.

My eyes drift to the empty screen behind them, darkened in the wake of another Games run its course. Anything to avoid their eyes, really, while the sheer concept of Akello having any real say in my placement, like he had a false one a year ago, threatens to shake me. He can't have any more power than Valerius or Easton, can he?

Whatever it is, I hope he isn't the one to say it.

Valerius straightens his arms. He flips the clipboard over in his lap. Then he nods to me. "Okay. Caverley." He drags each syllable of my surname through his teeth.

"Yes, sir," I say, when he says nothing else.

He watches me for longer than he should. There's a gleam in his eyes like he enjoys this, the head games, making me wait. As a cadet, it's still my responsibility to appease him. I keep patient as the seconds drag on.

I've never been claustrophobic, but the room feels like it's choking me, holding my breath in my throat for a second, two, ten, until right before I'm about to suffocate, Valerius speaks.

"Congratulations," he says, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Miss Caverley, you were our final pick."

I don't move.

I don't even blink.

My body warms, starting from my shoulders and slowly pressing towards my fingers, my cheeks, my toes. All the while, I stare forward, waiting for Akello to scoff and tell me just kidding, of course you didn't fucking make it.

But he doesn't. When I look at him, his eyes fall to his lap.

My eyes find Valerius, somehow, amongst my spinning vision. "Thank you," I say, as soon as I've composed my voice.

"Understand that this is a duty as much as it is a privilege," Easton says swiftly. "Expectations will be higher than you've ever known. Because at the end of this, we are looking to choose which cadet will bring us a victory. We offer no leeway. No forgiveness. This is to become your life, your sole pursuit. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I say quickly. "I understand."

She almost smiles, then. It feels like a victory in and of itself. "Well done. We'll see you back in the gym."

Valerius smiles again. I don't trust it. But I accept it, because I must.

"Thank you again," I say, feeling their eyes on me as I leave but knowing, for once, I deserve it.

The gym is bright like glory.

I stare out into the open space, struck by the sheer expanse between the few cadets who remain. I remember when this gym was filled with hundreds of prospective cadets all vying for their chance at victory. Out of hundreds, it's hard to believe there are only ten of us left.

Avari stands in the very middle, Elissa and Az at her wings. When I enter, they look up from their conversation. Elissa's eyes meet mine and she gives me a respectful smile. Az doesn't react, but I don't expect him to; he has no reason to care about which girls make it.

Avari does, though. She tries to subdue it, but I glimpse it anyways: utter shock in her eyes as they widen, her lips splitting. She won't say anything— she's not that needlessly cruel. But her surprise says everything she doesn't: that she thinks I shouldn't have made it.

I can't fault her for it. Part of me doesn't think I should have made it, either. But the trainers saw something in me that I didn't, just like Cas has. I look for him now, passing by Martina, who lies on her back as she stretches a finicky hamstring.

He's across the room, lounging back against the wall with Pike and Tarq. None of them are watching the door. They must have been done with their agony a half-hour before I was. I remind myself that doesn't matter, either. As far as I'm concerned, we're equals now. Or mostly equals. I feel Iona's eyes on me and find her alone near the spear station, looking as murderous as ever. But maybe that unhappiness lies in her discomfort— she seems like she'd be far more comfortable with a weapon in her hands than having to talk to anyone else here. Feeling just as exposed, I gravitate towards the boys.

"Cas," I say, as I come up behind him.

He turns. He looks up. Then he smiles, his face spreading so wide, so warmly, it makes my chest swell with satisfaction. "Scout!"

"Hi," I say, everything feeling a little bit surreal.

"Nicely done," Tarq says. "I guess you're the last one in?"

"Yeah, that's what they said." I scan the room again, taking stock of who else is here. I've seen almost all of the boys— okay, there's Torin, then, the last of the five. My stomach sinks before I can stop it. Sep was better. I know he was. But there's nothing I can do. I have to understand that.

I push it out of my mind. "Your fight was incredible, by the way," I tell Cas and Tarq. "Both of you. Almost looked like a true finale."

"If it were a true finale, Tarq would have won," Cas says.

"Would you just—" Tarq shakes his head. "Stop. You won fair. I'm not doing this for a seventh time."

"Or Pike. Or someone else."

Pike has no interest in arguing for Cas. "Yeah, totally. You just got me on a bad day."

"Pike," Tarq says, "My guy. You've been having a bad day for two years straight."

Laughter catches in my throat. It sounds like something Mallen would say.

I feel a shock go through me. I stop laughing. I jerk my head up and scan the gym again.

Avari. Elissa. Iona. Martina.

Me.

Mallen didn't make it.

Mallen didn't—

"Seventeens!" Valerius enters the gym, Easton and Akello following close behind. "Circle up in the center. Quickly."

We get to our feet. I stand next to Cas, but the other side of my body feels bare. I scan the group again like I might have been wrong the first time. Tarq and Pike, Elissa and Avari. Az. Torin. Martina. Iona. Cas and me.

Why isn't Mallen with us?

"First off, I'd like to offer you all my sincerest congratulations— and, more importantly, to be the first to truly welcome you to the Atheneum." Valerius pauses, but not to chastise someone for making a sound. In fact, he smiles. "Each of you has something significant to offer our program and our District. You have all shown tremendous potential as a future volunteer. Now all that's left is to make that final decision— and there's a whole lot more work to do to get to that point."

My stomach crawls. But I find that it's easily buried under the pride Valerius instills in me. So is the guilt that comes with it.

"Two years from now," Valerius continues, "right here, in this room, two of you will be selected to represent District Two in the Eighty-Fifth Hunger Games. It is our job to prepare you as fully as we can. In turn, it is yours to apply yourself, to devote yourself to your craft, and to stop at nothing to prove yourself."

As if I could ever. Even now I already feel myself latching onto the Atheneum, its goals, its standards, the way I always have but now with far more certainty that it might hold me right back. It's easier than it should be to push everything else out of my mind. Even Mallen.

It doesn't feel so wrong without her, really. It was only ever going to be one of us.

Akello passes packets of papers around, supplementing each with a hard graphite pencil, as Valerius continues to speak. "Typically we'd have you complete all your paperwork the night you are selected— however, it's late, and I'm as ready as any of you to get home and get to bed. If you would meet back here at noon tomorrow, we can go ahead and finish the bulk of that. For now, however, take a look at that very first page." Iona passes me my packet. I eye the top paper and pass the stack sideways to Cas. "This is the most important document of the lot. If you cannot agree, then you will not return."

I skim the paper as Valerius explains the wording, but I understand it easily.

Cadets are bound to the Atheneum through the duration of this contract. The only exceptions that will be made are in the case of extreme or debilitating illness or injury.

No quitting. No backing out. No giving in because it's too hard.

Like I could ever.

Cadets must gracefully accept the decisions of the Committee on their selected volunteers. Cadets are never permitted to volunteer unless granted express clearance to do so by the Committee, as previously determined by the announcement of both alternates.

Follow the rules. Earn the spot or don't. Even if it ended up with a victory, I could never dream of doing what Cavara did. It feels disrespectful, somehow. If I go to the Games, I'll have properly earned it.

Finally, if selected to volunteer, the two chosen cadets must volunteer. The same exemptions apply.

That is, if I am selected, there is no going back.

At the bottom of the page, just above the line for my signature, is a footnote: Revised July of 82 ADD.

The ten of us find a surface to note our signatures on. I pause with the point of my pencil hovering along the bottom line, allowing the gravity of the situation to set in. With one signature, I change the course of my future irrevocably.

My heart skips. It's like when a stray knife sails too close, or when I watched Cas' skull strike rock. Just as easily as I could give myself this world, I could destroy everything I've built up. It wouldn't even be difficult.

That's what scares me most. I could ruin everything in the next three seconds. And there would be no return.

But I don't. My throat throbs, but I grit my teeth and scratch gray across the page.

Akello holds the small stack of completed contracts. I watch Iona pass hers along wordlessly before I approach. I look him in the eyes and hold out my contract.

It feels like two years pass before, his eyes not falling from mine, he takes the paper. "Thank you, Caverley."

I don't respond. I return to the group, feeling warmth wrap around me the further I move from him.

I belong here, now. Officially.

"Well done," Valerius says once all of us have returned our contracts. "Now, go home, get some rest, and I'll see you all tomorrow at noon. Once again— congratulations, you ten."

Slowly, the other cadets move out. I'm not quite sure where to go now. All week I've had clear structure, defined directions, predetermined places to be. Martina and Aziel wait around to talk to the trainers, but I have no reason to. There's nothing else I'm waiting to hear.

Cas and I hadn't made plans for the evening. I hadn't known if I would make it and I knew I wouldn't have wanted to see him if I hadn't. He lingers behind after Tarq and Pike are gone, waiting for my go-ahead.

"Think I'll stay here for the night," I say. "It just… it feels right."

"I understand," he smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I have nothing to do in the gym but I lag behind anyways, soaking up the moment. The openness of the gymnasium invites memories to fill in the space: hours of rigorous sessions as a twelve-year-old, learning who I was and what I wanted. Avari and me fighting with beginner swords, her ending up on her back, watching to make sure we were out of sight of the trainers before rolling onto her side and laughing so hard I couldn't help but giggle, too. She'd come over between drills and proudly show me her torn-up finger pads after hours of bow work. I'd show off my own, the bruises burned into my biceps, gashes along my hands. Until those gashes grew customary, bruises were the norm, and her fingers grew callouses, thicker skin than I could ever seem to grow.

Maybe the novelty wore off, but I never grew truly bored, not when there was so much more to improve at. And I still feel that way, even with as much progress as I've made, especially since the start of Fifteens, adding hours per week of technical work, finally seeing steady, promising growth. My eyes linger on the throwing stations where I spent the most time this year, knowing every single one of them counted, and every single one of them was worth it.

There's a lot I've lost to be here, but something better has always risen to take its place. More will have to change for me to make the Games. I don't fear it, though. I'm prepared for it.

I've always been prepared for it.

Finally ready to move past this week, I exit into the foyer, looking ahead to washing up, getting some rest, and regrouping to prepare for the next two years ahead of me. But one person makes me stop.

I meet his eyes from the center of the room, watch his face ignite in pride. I feel my chest lift, my mouth spread, and a tickle in the back of my throat.

Then before I can think I'm racing towards him, a sob choking in my throat. His arms spread open, gates to the gods. I take two steps and leap into his arms, wrapping my hands around his shoulders, not caring that it's all giddy and I'm sort of crying, just that it feels effortless, thoughtless.

Rhodes' arms close around me. Under the unbearable ecstasy I feel, there's warmth, too. Security. Safety in being held.

I can't remember the last time I was hugged. I can't remember the last time I deserved to be.

"Thank you," I breathe, my voice hardly a whimper now. "Thank you— thank you so much—"

I feel his laughter against my chest, like it's mine, like it's with me. "This was all you, Scouty. I didn't do a thing."

I'm too choked up to respond. I just hold fast, grasping as tightly as I can to my euphoria, for once not immediately afraid of losing it. My happiness is as steady as he is. I feel it from where my forehead presses against his neck and down into my fingertips, along every inch of my skin, a current of pride in my veins. It's warm along my cheeks, my nose, my throat. The tickle behind my tongue. The glittering under my eyes.

"Congratulations," he says softly, his voice like bliss.

I close my fingers around this moment, and refuse to let it go.

agreatleap. weebly. com

When I tell y'all this chapter was the BANE OF MY EXISTENCE. I mean, I'm super super proud of it now, but my god there's a reason it took me 8 months and about 17 drafts. Anyways, apologies for the long wait!

With this, we end Part III and march onward towards Part IV. What cheeky surprises will await us? That's for me to know, and probably you to find out although literally this chapter had me on life support so who knows. This cluster of chapters is one of the core parts of this story, which means a LOT is happening and also my perfectionism is at an all-time high. Expect more perfectionism, but updates will inevitably come.

Thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you next time!

Much love,
Ali