District 7 Justice Building
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.


Bryony Linden, 17
District 7 Female Tribute


I should have known something would happen when my mother, Sylvie Linden, victor of the 2nd Hunger Games, kissed my forehead this morning. The doctors diagnosed her with PTSD with precognitive psychotic episodes—a supplement used to describe her accurate yet unproven "sixth sense" of anticipating the future. She once described it as having a gut-wrenching feeling, rather than a vision, when something bad would happen. The doctors threatened to diagnose her with paranoid schizophrenia and place her in a mental asylum if she continued talking about her premonitions. She never spoke about them again, but her actions said enough.

She only kissed my forehead when she was worried about me.

I should have known something would happen when my ex-girlfriend's brother, Matvei Zaltana, victor of the 19th Hunger Games, yelled at me before the Reaping. Aiysha said he was the reason we broke up, but I didn't believe her. Ever since we met, Aiysha refused to let her brother dictate her life. It didn't matter that he was a victor or that he was the only family she had left; Aisyha wanted to have full control over her life. Yet, this morning, when I knocked on their front door, Matvei was outraged to see me. I was so surprised by his raised voice that I didn't process how unusual it was until I was walking to the City Square.

He never broke his emotionless façade.

I should have known something would happen when Seraphita Grace, the District Seven escort for seven years and counting, paused for an extra second before announcing the selected girl's name. She was a self-described "aesthetic perfectionist." She obsessed over the little, indiscernible details of the Reaping: every chair on stage had to be evenly spaced, the Reaping bowls had to be exactly twelve steps away from the microphone, she had to pause for exactly one second between opening the slip and announcing the selected name.

She never paused for two seconds.

But even with the subtle hints and the general aura of uneasiness, I didn't know that Seraphita would announce my name. And nothing could have stopped the overwhelming dread from coursing through my veins.

The surrounding children move away from me. It doesn't always happen—there are years where the reaped kid has to push their way to the stage—but the Linden family name is famous in our district, even before my mother became a victor.

An opposing movement in the crowd—someone moving toward me, not away from me—breaks me out of my stupor.

I refuse to be dragged to the stage by Peacekeepers.

Although my heels sting from my beige stilettos, I walk with calmness and determination. This walk is a vital moment: it's the Capitol's first glance at the tributes and the tributes' first glance at their opponents. If I come across as strong, I could earn sponsors and be seen as a formidable opponent and a potential ally to the other tributes. But if a Peacekeeper drags me to the stage, I lose all of that respect.

When I'm a few steps away from the aisle, someone grabs onto my forearm.

I tense. The cameras should be on me by now, so everyone is going to see me being unwillingly escorted by a Peacekeeper. This is not how a strong tribute—much less a daughter of a victor—should be seen.

It takes me a moment to realize it's not a gloved hand holding my wrist. No, it's a calloused hand with supple fingers that I'm far too familiar with.

I look up and stare into Aiysha's brown eyes. For someone who used to pride herself on being guarded and unreadable, her face is as transparent as a freshly cleaned window pane. Unshed tears swell in the corners of her eyes. Her lower lip quivers. Her Adam's apple bobs up and down, as if she wants to say something but her vocal cords have been severed. Although her grasp on my wrist tightens, I can tell that her brain is working in overdrive, overthinking her every action. Why is she being so hesitant?

My eyes drift toward the stage, and I notice Matvei standing a bit straighter next to my crying mother.

Everything clicks into place.

"You knew," I hiss. "You knew this was going to happen."

Aiysha shakes her head, but no words escape her lips.

"Is this your goodbye?" I snort. "This is how we're ending things. No heartfelt speeches, no declarations of love. Just you breaking up with me and sobbing when I'm walking away."

In my peripheral vision, I notice the Peacekeepers start to move toward me. They must be getting annoyed with my little delay.

"Well, you know what?" I huff. "Screw you!"

I punch her in the face, and she crumples to the ground with a vocalized sob. Peacekeepers are immediately on me, shoving me toward the aisle and onto the stage. But I smile through it all. Even with the ushered walk, I doubt the Capitol or the other tributes will ignore me now.

Seraphita frowns when I take my place beside her. I can't tell if she's upset that I was reaped or disappointed by my actions, but she continues on with the Reaping.

"Do we have any volunteers?" Seraphita asks.

Nobody responds. A choked sob escapes my mother's throat.

"Well, then," Seraphita continues, "I will now select our male tribute for the 21st Hunger Games."

While she takes her twelve steps to the Reaping bowl, my eyes flicker to the four other people on the stage. My mother's face is covered by her hands and her blonde hair. If the audible sobs were any indication, her makeup is probably ruined by all of her tears. Mayor Tessa Lewith-Silverthorn's hand rests on her thigh for comfort, whereas the mayor's husband looks confused about how he should be acting. But I'm most surprised by Matvei's demeanor. Although I just punched his sister, I see his smug satisfaction in his eyes… as if I did exactly what he wanted.

My stomach lurches at the thought.

"And the male tribute is"—Seraphita pauses for her signature second—"Juniper Anatole."

I barely keep my jaw from dropping.


The walk through the Justice Building is tense and silent, the only sound coming from the clacking of Seraphita's stilettos. If the six Peacekeepers surrounding Juniper and me are any indication, everyone thinks we're a threat. Even my mother hasn't tried to breach the entourage of Peacekeepers, but she has stopped crying. I guess that's something.

It takes all of my willpower to avoid looking at Juniper. I haven't seen him in sixteen months—not since he was arrested—and he looks different in his orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. His natural brown hair is dyed black. The bags under his eyes are darker than before. He's lost maybe ten or fifteen pounds—not enough to be alarming but enough to notice. He has a red scar along his bicep, starting an inch above his elbow and disappearing under his sleeve.

My heart lurches at the thought of what caused it.

It's all my fault.

It's my fault that he was breaking the law, that he was caught by Peacekeepers, that he was disowned by his family. He was going into CapDocs because I wanted to know about my father. Because I didn't want to ask my mother about it. (Not when her answers were always vague and ambiguous.) He had nothing to gain from helping me, but he did it anyway.

And he got arrested while I walked away without punishment.

I should apologize and beg for his forgiveness. But I can't. Not right now. Not when my mother is within hearing distance.

She can never know what I've done.

"Here are your rooms." Seraphita gestures to two doors on opposite sides of the hall. "Your visitors will each have five minutes to say their goodbyes. After you are both done, you will be escorted to the train together." She fixes her gaze on Juniper. "Keep in mind that there are cameras in the rooms. We won't be able to hear you, but we will be able to see if you do something. Are there any questions?"

Juniper lifts his cuffed wrists, raising an eyebrow.

"Those will be staying on as a safety precaution," Seraphita explains. "If you behave, we will remove them on the train. Otherwise, they'll stay on until we reach the Capitol. Anything else?"

Juniper and I remain silent.

"Good." Seraphita claps her hands together. "You two can pick whichever room you want. I'll see you on the train."

I turn toward Juniper. "So… What room do you want?"

He doesn't even look at me. He just walks toward the room on the right, one Peacekeeper following him inside.

I sigh. I guess that's my answer.

My mother moves toward the other room, but I raise my hand to stop her.

"Don't visit me," I say with seriousness. "We'll have our goodbyes later. I just want to see the people I might never see again."

She chokes on a sob as I close the door behind me.


Juniper Anatole, 16
District 7 Male Tribute


"Are these really necessary?" I raise my eyebrow, shaking my wrist that is handcuffed to the metal table. "Where would I even go?"

The Peacekeeper remains mute, their hand lingering over the firearm strapped to their belt. I don't know if it's meant to be a threat, but we both know they can't hurt me. Killing a tribute before they enter the arena is a capital offense, punishable by public execution. Even if I annoyed them until they were pulling out their own hair, they wouldn't pull the trigger. They were trained better than that.

I bang my head on the table. "Can you at least tell me why I'm here?"

The Peacekeeper doesn't respond.

"Ah, the silent treatment. I see." I lay my head to the side so I can look at the Peacekeeper. "Or maybe you can't speak. You still have your tongue? I didn't think that Avoxes could be Peacekeepers, but things might've changed." I look the Peacekeeper up and down. "You do look like an Avox, even with that helmet on."

"Shut up."

"Oh good, you can speak." I lift my head, smiling widely. "Now, can you tell me why I'm here?"

"You have a visitor."

I snort. "Unless the rules changed, they don't let prisoners say their goodbyes to the reaped. And my dad and step-mom could care less if I'm dead. They haven't seen me in over a year. So what's the real reason you're here?"

"You have a visitor."

"You already said that!" I slam my fists on the table. "Are you stuck on a loop or something? Are there any thoughts going through your brain right now?"

"You have an important visitor."

"Are you always this—"

I snap my mouth shut when the door opens. Two Peacekeepers enter with their tranquilizer guns drawn, as if they're expecting me to have a violent reaction to their presence. But when the next person enters with tear-stained cheeks and unruly blonde hair, I realize my mistake.

They didn't expect me to be violent toward them; they're expecting me to be violent toward her.

They were right.

If I wasn't handcuffed to this table, they would've had to use their guns. I clench my fists instead.

"Wrong room," I sneer. "Your daughter is across the hall."

"She didn't want to see me, so I came to see you." Sylvie's tone is somber and coarse from all her sobs. She turns toward the Peacekeepers. "Would you mind giving me some private time with Juniper?"

The Peacekeepers hesitate and glance at one another.

"Ma'am, I don't think that's a good idea," one of them says. "Prisoner 610722—"

"Juniper," Sylvie interrupts. I hide my surprise behind a scowl. "His name is Juniper."

"Juniper has been considered a high-threat inmate by his warden," the Peacekeeper continues. "It would be unwise to leave him alone in your presence."

"Isn't he going to be in my custody on the train?" Sylvie whines with exasperation. "I don't see how this would be different."

"We're making arrangements for Peacekeepers to join you on the train."

Sylvie runs her fingers through her scalp and clenches her hair. "Well, I would still appreciate some time with him. Alone, regardless of the precautions."

The Peacekeeper hesitates. "I'll give you five minutes. But we will be waiting outside the door if you need any assistance or if we hear any commotion."

I wait until the door shuts behind them before snickering.

Sylvie raises her brow. Any trace of sadness is wiped from her face. "Why are you laughing? You're going to be dead in a week."

"Wow, you have a real edge to you, don't you?" My tone is laced with sarcasm. "I thought you were just a blubbering, unstable, insane victor."

"Please," she scoffs. She walks toward the table and takes a seat across from me. "We both know I'm the reason you were arrested."

"Are you admitting to fabricating evidence?" I lean forward. "Because the Peacekeepers are right outside. They probably heard your confession."

"I helped them arrest a criminal. I didn't do anything wrong."

She leans forward, close enough that I can smell the minty gum she must've chewed before the Reaping. It's oddly intimidating.

I lean back first. I try to maintain an indifferent expression, but Sylvie must sense my discomfort because she snorts.

"Why are you here?" I ask. "To gloat? Because your daughter is also going into the arena. I could kill her and you wouldn't be able to do anything about it."

"You wouldn't kill her. You care too much about her."

I ignore the heat rushing into my cheeks. "Why. Are. You. Here?"

"I want to know what you found on CapDocs, specifically what you told Bryony."

I snort. "Why don't you just ask her?"

"Because she can't know that I know."

"You confuse me." I frown. "You don't want your daughter to know that you're competent? You want her to think that you are unhinged and fragile?"

"Yes." She nods. "Because then she'll worry about me and the Capitol won't think she's plotting something against them. They won't think she's her father, so she'll be safe."

"Well, it doesn't seem like it's working."

"I know." Sylvie sighs. "Just… What did you tell her?"

"The truth."

"About?"

"Her father."

Sylvie stares at me for a long moment. I can see the figurative smoke rolling out of her ears, and the explosion happens in the form of open palms slammed against the table.

"You are an idiot!" Sylvie hisses before the Peacekeepers enter the room.


After Seraphita gives Bryony and me a tour of the train, everyone reconvenes around the flat-screen TV in the main car. Matvei stands the farthest away, leaning against the small bar in the corner and nursing a glass of dark liquor. His dark eyes never leave Bryony as she joins her mother on the plush couch. An Avox brings a pink cocktail to Seraphita, her eyes flicking between the escort and the three Peacekeepers guarding the door. She doesn't even listen to Seraphita's words of gratitude before scurrying back behind the bar.

"Are the Reapings done yet?" Seraphita asks. She sits in the recliner next to Sylvie, leaving the chair beside Bryony as the last open seat. "I heard Four's was interesting, but nobody will tell me why."

"Not yet." Matvei shakes his head. "One just ended. Two hasn't gone yet."

Bryony's eyes lock onto mine, wide and vulnerable. I can read every thought that passes through her mind.

My father will be on that stage, her eyes say. I'm going to see my father. I might even meet my father at the Capitol.

But will he know? I want to ask. Will he even care that you're his daughter?

"What were the One tributes like?" Seraphita asks Matvei, oblivious to the silent conversation between Bryony and me. "Volunteers?"

"The girl was, but the boy was reaped."

"Humph." Seraphita frowns. "Is he a decent tribute?"

"Fifteen years old, average build, depressed," Matvei lists off on his fingers. "He'll be in the middle with his favoritism and odds of winning, maybe on the lower half if the competition is interesting and strong. Unless he's hiding something, he'll be the first Career to die. Maybe even in the bloodbath."

Seraphita's frown deepens. "Hopefully Two will be better."

"Wait…" I turn away from Bryony and look at Matvei. "How did you figure that out?"

"He has a gift for analyzing tributes," Seraphita answers for him. "Just wait until he watches all the Reapings. Last year, he almost perfectly predicted the tribute placements. The only person that threw him off was the boy from Six. "

"It's the reason I survived the Games," Matvei adds. He eyes Sylvie. "I didn't have much of a mentor."

The TV switches over to the District Two Reaping before Sylvie can respond (if she was going to respond). Seraphita lunges toward the remote—spilling her drink in the process, much to the Avox's annoyance—and unmutes the TV.

"… four tributes who are related to a victor," Caius Fulbright, the Master of Ceremonies, is saying. "Fresia Blodwyn from Eleven, daughter of Poppi Blodwyn. Laelia Lantbruk from Ten, cousin of Gania Spalding. Bryony Linden from Seven, daughter of Sylvie Linden. And Zephyrin Greer from Five, cousin of Bronsen Raede."

"Do you think another one will come from Two?" Lucretia Laurent, the Announcer, asks. "Both Daedalus's daughter and Ooma's sister are eligible."

"It's possible." Caius runs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. "Maybe one of them will volunteer. But after One and Four…"

"It's not looking like a good year for volunteers."

"Four only had one volunteer?" Seraphita scoffs. "I can't believe I trusted Elixyvette again. She's such a liar."

Matvei snorts.

On the TV, Caius and Lucretia stop their commentary as the District Two escort reclaims the microphone.

"In the last two decades, District Two has claimed three victors," the escort says. "Daedalus Brantlie, victor of the 4th Hunger Games."

I glance toward Bryony, but she doesn't meet my eyes. Her blue eyes are fixated on the screen, taking in every detail of her father.

"Are you okay?" Seraphita asks. My heart stops when I think she's talking to Bryony, but she's looking directly at Sylvie. "Are you two still in a fight?"

Sylvie nods.

"He's a dick" Seraphita whispers. "Hopefully he gets a weak tribute."

The District Two escort announces the reaped girl's name. It takes a moment for the cameras to focus on the girl, but when they do, it's clear that she will be a threat. She's an older tribute—seventeen or eighteen—with a massive scar running from her left cheek and down her neck. It makes my scar look like a paper cut.

Seraphita cringes. "Maybe—"

"I volunteer!"

Seraphita exhales.

"And what's your name, sweetie?" the escort asks.

The volunteer smiles. "Honoria Brantlie, daughter of Daedalus Brantlie."

Everyone on the train freezes.


End of Chapter 6.


Current Tribute List:

District 1
Lorcan Estrelle, 15
Veira Faustus, 17

District 2
Xolani Satine, 18
Honoria Brantlie, 16

District 3
Skagen Matisse, 13
Eulalia Psy, 17

District 4
Tycho Searling, 17
Mayuri Odelle, 18

District 6
Kaia Palani, 15
Lark Devereaux, 16

District 7
Juniper Anatole, 16
Bryony Linden, 17


Author Note: Thank you for reading this chapter! We are halfway through introducing the tributes!

Q: What do you think about Bryony and Juniper?

Next Chapter: Privilege (D9 Justice Building)