Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with the latest update for Declaration of Death, and boy oh boy we're here! We're here! *trumpet sounds and confetti* Chapter #5: A Life Without Meaning, prologue five, and also, with it... a cast to announce! Submissions closed on Halloween and I received a lot of wonderful subs, and there's a blog, and I am simply brewing with excitement. The cast list is down below, but there are some things to get through, so let's cover them! Last prologue was from the Mutts Designer, Nyria, and there were some arena hints given, with a huge advancement of how Felix is on to Nyria about... well, something. This last prologue is from Poem Cavalli's perspective, since I have been told people have been dying to hear from her, and there's a lot to cover with her that I am excited to get into! So here we go! Hope you all enjoy Chapter #5: A Life Without Meaning.
"Any momentary triumph you think you have gained through an argument is just a Pyrrhic victory. Demonstrate, do not explicate," ~ Robert Greene
Poem Cavalli: Victor of the 1st Hunger Games P.O.V
"I want to be given a seat at the table, Poem. And you're going to help me get that seat."
Poem Cavalli tries batting away the thought, but even still, after it being three months since she's sat down in Felix Fiore's home that proves the man is trying way too hard to be accessible, the words haunt her, tattooed to her eyelids in black ink even as she sleeps. She'll feel his hand press down into her arm, thumb at where her pulse is in her wrist, digging down deep until he's pulling out her viscera. She shudders, his syrupy sweetness hitting her in the face as she thinks of his pale face, slender cheekbones, hair so white it is the color of a cloud… rotten, rotten, rotten.
There are so many other things in the world to be thinking about as it rockets by her at a hundred miles an hour, but Poem needs to put her tension off towards something else lest it consume her while she sits still. Pacing would indicate nervousness, and to the sharks in the water swimming at her feet, the last thing they need is a scent of her blood rising and spilling into the pool below.
A victory tour, Poem tries recalling the name of it. Paraded around the districts as a symbol, a celebrity if one is to believe that, to revel in what she's accomplished in surviving the Games. "In killing people," Poem mutters to herself, in her head, hands wringing back and forth, they resting in her lap. It's a new design, what she's wearing, shades of blue with rivers of gray falling in a lot of lace at her ankle. She's been working overtime in her fabric room of the Victors Village home, but that is because the Capitol demands rise higher and higher by the hour.
Fashion shows, galas, balls to attend… the girl never has a moment to herself, which she's thankful for, as if she were to spend a single moment in solitude, Poem knows it'd end with her bursting into tears. The dreams do not go away at the thought of Niklaus Peverell standing above her, lips on hers while blood pours out of the hole in his neck. Except, no, that's not right… he's beheaded yet-
Her living vengeance stands in the corner away from her, Rudy Patterkinn, the man who hurt her district partner beyond belief now incapable of spewing lies and hurting others from the tongue cut out of his mouth, forever her personal Avox to come and go and do as she demands. Poem locks eyes with the older man from across the dining car, her entire body trembling as she tries to focus on the greenery past him.
It is not just Rudy in the car, either, as her escort from back then, someone who is starting to become a father figure to her when her own is out of town on business – "Always out of town on business," Poem snarks in her head, rolling her eyes. "His little girl is pawned off to the world and he's always 'out of town.'" – Damien Paladine, is over by the biscuit and cookie platters, hands milling over all the possible choices one can engorge themselves on. However, it isn't just him… Poem looks beyond the dessert tray to the cold cuts, where President Emrick Israel and Head Peacekeeper Lydia Wickervein are stuck in one corner, speaking in hushed voices.
She didn't expect either one of them to be at her doorstep when she has Rudy get the door when the doorbell is ringing off the hook earlier in the morning, all ready for her big day. Frankly, Poem wishes to spend her entire life locked away in a closet, so at least then the upset voices do not reach her, and all of the sycophants who wish to have her autograph and her signature and her heart could simply douse themselves in gasoline while she holds the lit match… it is unexpected, enough so that the cup of cool coffee in her hands goes down the wrong tube when she takes a sip.
They are to be with her every step of the way, which Poem finds to be absolutely ridiculous… why would the president of Panem be interested in her tour? Aren't there a thousand and one more important things that need to be attended to than her? She doesn't mind the attention, and she has to admit it is nice to see the man again since she last left the Capitol with Felix Fiore's words haunting her like a jilted lover. For Lydia, however, she is a lot less amicable and warm that Poem ever remembers the woman being beforehand, though their interactions had been severely limited besides cautious glances tossed over towering plates of seafood and bouquets of decaying roses that she fails to water.
Damien asks her about that, once, when he's in her kitchen as she's finishing the sewing work on the tie he's wearing to some sort of banquet. "Why the dead flowers?" her escort asks, looking away from Poem while she fits the tie on him. "Isn't that a bit morbid?"
"My lover got his head cut off," Poem says, looking him in the eye. His face blanches at the words, lips parting open to perhaps apologize, as that is all Damien seems to do these days. "I watched a girl who tried to kill me get speared in the lung. My best friend in the arena, as I'm told, got his head caved in. I pushed a girl off of a tower…" she shakes her head, swallowing the rising flow of acid that threatens to spill out. "Dead roses are the least of my concerns, Damien. But thank you for mentioning it, I'll add it to the laundry list."
He stops asking her questions about the house for a couple of weeks.
In the midst of all of this, with Felix leering down at her from his gilded throne, and with Cain Passionia ringing her up at random hours of the night on matters of national security – "Wrong number," Poem will mumble, and simply hang up – there is this expectation for Poem to be bowing at the Capitol's feet. She will admit, although she'll never say it aloud, that the rebellion and its subsequent war did not affect her like it would've for Catalus, or the stories that Portia would say, and even as she saw how it destroyed Camilla's entire family in one fell swoop… she cannot say, however, she can give the Capitol a free pass.
"Why make it annual?" Poem asks the president, before she left the Capitol the last time, with Felix's demand sitting on her back like Atlas holding up the world. "One time wasn't enough?"
Emrick doesn't bat an eye as he bids the victoress a fond farewell, his lips creased into a thin line. "It didn't satisfy Cain's bloodshed enough."
Poem catches herself thinking about that at times, standing at the counter and washing dishes when Rudy is out sleeping or injecting himself with the white slush that ruined her lover's life. She volunteered – a mistake she's kicking herself over every day, despite her naysayers – and it robs the life of someone who had been cruelly selected in an unfair proceeding… it shouldn't upset her whether or not the Games were continuing.
Except, with her role as a victor, comes the rushing tide of being a mentor. The word sits on her tongue like a block of ice that refuses to melt despite the sun being atop her head, sweat pouring down her face. Brought back to the Capitol, year after year, and watching another set of twenty-three tributes die, and whomever is selected (or those that decide to volunteer, if there are any of them out there) from District 8, be put under her wing… Poem sometimes debates reaching for the bottles of wine her mother tends to leave out when she visits, yet she never stays.
Damien makes it back to her, holding onto a sugar cookie in his hand, a napkin bunched up in the eaves of his pant pocket. "Want a cookie?" he asks her, holding it out for her to take. "You hardly ate anything for breakfast, and I saw you picking at your plate during lunch."
Poem smiles softly, keeping her gaze tethered to the floor pattern… it would make for an absolutely amazing dress design, like someone torched a pile of dry leaves in the middle of winter, ashy gray, like the- she shakes her head, cutting off the memory. "I'm okay, Damien," she declines, sweetly, holding a hand up. "Just… nervous. No one will tell me anything."
"I think that's their preferred method of communicating," Damien mutters, tossing a glance over towards the president and the Head Peacekeeper. "Communicating by not even saying a word."
She bites down on her lip, kicking her foot back and forth over the carpet. She could waste the entire day by looking out the window until they reach their first destination, where it is a district a day until it is all wrapped up in the Capitol. She'll return back to District 8 for a celebration, eventually, but Poem can see it in the eyes of her kinsmen… they hate her. There is a fire in their eyes that Poem has never seen before, for she had a front row seat to the rebellion despite never being impacted by its shrapnel. They don't love her, but truth be told, Poem doesn't love them back, either. She doesn't owe them anything, but it shouldn't kill them to show a little support.
"It's not like I made people die for me," she laments in the covers, stretching her arms out to embrace the emptiness that stays behind. It should be Niklaus laying there, with their limbs entangled in love and passion and a moment of carefree living, as Poem misses living like she misses him, but her bed is empty save for her isolation. "I dusted my knees off and fought to live."
The temperature from the other districts is something she has been incapable of getting a read on, but Poem is certain that for every person who wishes that she be burned at the stake, there must be a champion of the people hidden elsewhere in the crowd, and out there will they defend her honor and her word.
"I don't want to do this," she hisses, getting in close to Damien's ear. "I don't want to be here…" a level of panic rises in her throat, Poem stuffing her hands into the pockets of her dress. Felix had commented back then, in the Capitol, how he loves the pockets, a genuine compliment coming from the perfumed pounce, so Poem sees no reason to not include them with every design she creates.
"Poem, you don't have a choice-"
"They can take their rules and shove it up their asses," Poem spits back, but she's unsure of who 'they' would be referring to.
Her pockets represent comfort, a part of her where everything is hidden away. Poem's hands encircle around the thin, nearly weightless object that goes unnoticed as long as she never reveals her cards or shows her hand.
She holds onto the needle under the cover of her pockets, closing her fist around the tool that saved her life, the very device she plunges into Vesuvia Vocanova's heart, letting the girl scream until she hits the ground and her skull smashes on impact. Poem is still unsure why Nyria Kirchner would've given it back to her, along with the cryptic words that are relayed in their brief conversation, but since that day… she's never been able to find her and thank her.
"Not like she'd thank me now, after what I've been doing…" Poem mutters, rubbing her brow, letting go of the needle, the moment of anxiousness passing over her like water on a rock. She shouldn't be serving Felix, she shouldn't be serving Cain, or Emrick, or Damien, hell, she shouldn't even be-
"Poem?" comes the voice of Emrick Israel from the other corner of the dining car. "Miss Cavalli, I'm trying to get your attention-"
Damien snaps his fingers in front of the victor's face, Poem jostling in place, a warm blush setting on her face as she breaks from the rabbit hole her mind cascades down. It happens frequently, more often than Poem wishes to admit, always requiring someone to snap her from the reprieve.
"Yes?" she ventures forward daringly, getting up from the chair. She can feel Rudy's eyes on her, but she doesn't care; he doesn't make her nervous, and if there were anyone else in her life she'd need to kill, he'd be the first to go.
"I was just letting you know that Lydia and I have decided the best course of action in how the proceedings will go when we get there," the president says, a smile on his face. She doesn't trust it: the facial expression, the words, the man himself… he reeks.
"Where exactly is there?" Poem questions, resisting the petulant urge to stomp her foot. "No one's told me a word about any of this trip except I am on a train and giving speeches," she looks between the two officials, fire brewing in her stare. "I am not-"
"District 9, Miss Cavalli," Lydia interrupts her, the Head Peacekeeper's voice jarring to Poem. She hasn't heard the woman's voice in a long time, and as she expected, the light has all but dissipated, a cold husk left behind in the reverb. "Going in descending order."
Shit.
Poem is unsure how she feels about it, except that her stomach is going to lose the little bit of lunch that she ate. She dreads going to Three or Ten, which is easy enough, as Vesuvia and Nokomis were downed by her own hands. Two and Four will be difficult, intentional antagonists in her journey as she'll have to speak about Portia Beninblade and Orion Maythorpe. Why- why couldn't it be ascending?
"Nine?" Poem squeaks, and she simply wishes the world could swallow her whole. "Like, as in District Nine?"
"Yes," Emrick says, a frown on the man's face. "We should be about a half hour out from reaching there. We'll be taken to the Justice Building, and the mayor will introduce you, and you're to give a speech that has been prepped for you. Say words about the tributes and all that."
"I- I- I…" Poem stammers furiously, colliding with Damien as she takes a step back, away from the president, who beyond the frown on his face, has turned entirely unemotive. "You realize I'm part of the reason that District 9 doesn't have a victor and-"
She can't.
She absolutely can't. This isn't fair. This isn't… no, no, no, no!
Poem is unable to process what she does next except flee for her very life out of the dining car, despite Damien and Emrick's cries for her to come back, and despite all of his faults, Rudy follows like the dutiful servant the man is…
Poem Cavalli feels no joy in her victory, no pride in her duties, and she dreads the hour in which she must fully embrace the guilt she's tried to outrun.
There's no more running, and it is time she faces it head on.
It takes thirty minutes for Damien and the president to coax Poem out of the room. She's shoved herself in the closet, wrapping herself up in shawls and blankets and bandanas and other jackets, shivering away as she hears the dying screams of Camilla Rodriguez fill the closet space like firecrackers going off in the corners. There's a rather violent suggestion from Lydia about breaking the door down with a crowbar and simply dragging the victor off of the train, which earns admonishment from every person in the connecting car, the little bit of it heard by Poem stuck in the closet.
It is that admission that gets her to scramble out of hiding, to Damien's chagrin. She can see it on his face when she reveals herself, the disappointment furrowing in his brow. I thought you moved past all of this. I thought you started to feel better. You were starting to act like you didn't have a problem.
She's given a glass of water and run through the cycle one more time, all the while Damien is brushing her shoulders up and down, telling her to breathe in and out as if she were giving birth. "How will Lamaze breathing help me here?" Poem questions in her head, but it is all punctuated into silence when Emrick asks if she'll be okay, since there cannot be anymore delays in the schedule.
Unfortunately, she doesn't see a way out of this, and Poem has to admit that part of her soul is hurt by her own evident lack of progress, but there is not enough time to argue with herself any longer.
The train pulls into District Nine's station, and before Poem is ushered out, Rudy and Damien hot on her heels, the victor hears the president mutter the happiest sentence she's ever wanted to hear.
"I told Cain that this was a bad idea," Emrick's voice is filled to the brim with displeasure, before he helps Poem down from the train.
It is a short ride over to the Justice Station, while Poem looks out the window eagerly to get a glimpse of the world. District 8's skies are usually smog covered, smokestacks spilling out poisonous fumes that land in the water she drinks, or in the food she eats, and the Capitol smells like someone picked one scent – it's often roses – and went into overdrive with it. District 9 feels homely to her, the signs of the war evident in how fewer trees there are compared to the Capitol, or even in Eight, or the scorch marks in the field that she assumes only come from one thing.
People's mistakes caused those.
"You okay?" Damien asks her again, as Poem sits her head back, letting her stylist – Poem believes it is absolutely silly to have some Capitolite woman dote on her with designs and styling ideas… it is her very empire, and it is being undercut by some socialite who thinks rouge is the end all be all of the makeup world – move her braid to the side, adding a flower – a white carnation – to her hair. Poem feels pretty enough, in an outfit that she didn't design, however. It is some sort of pinstripe suit with… good heavens, are those shoulder pads?
"I'm fine," Poem lies, keeping her expression level, swallowing a heavy sigh. She's brought the needle with her just in case, Poem wriggling her hand around in the pocket of the suit to press the sharp indent into her skin. Not harsh enough to break the skin, since she knows more than anyone what blood stains do to clothes, but enough to remind herself it is there, her limit. "I'll just tear a hole with the needle to these shoulder blades. Someone's getting fired for dressing me like Emrick," she thinks sardonically, flitting with the note cards in her hand. She's not sure who wrote them – they look like Cain's handwriting, but that's neither here or there – but the language in them is ghastly. All lies, like what she assures Damien with. "I swear it," she says again, as Damien quirks an eyebrow at her.
"Lydia and I will be on stage with you the entire time," Emrick says to her, the president revealing himself from the shadows of the foyer, Lydia in tow, the woman ever so expressionless. Poem doesn't take her eyes off of the Head Peacekeeper, something unnerving her to the core about her. Eyes don't glisten like they're made of metal. The president had already greeted District Nine with some sort of promissory speech about sacrifice, which sounds like complete bullshit, yet it has Damien applauding, as Poem rolls her eyes. "You'll be fine. Lydia is running security."
That really makes her feel so much better, Poem keeping her smile wry.
Lydia nods at a few Peacekeepers holding the doors shut, they opening the way for Poem, she shielding her eyes from the stream of sunlight that pours into the hall. The mayor from District Nine, some greasy man who gives her the absolute shudders at how he holds himself, and the slippery eel-esque way that his hand slides out of her grip when she first greets him, is at the microphone.
"And proudly presenting, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Poem Cavalli of District Eight, the very first and certainly not the last," Poem can see Emrick smiling at the words, her throat seizing up at the glint in the man's eyes. "Victor of the Hunger Games."
The mayor steps aside for Poem to take a step up to the microphone, she not reacting to the grin on his weasel-like face. There's a small smattering of applause, Poem resting her right hand into the suit pocket, digging her thumb against the pinpoint of the needle.
She looks out over the crowd that has assembled out front, a lump forming in her throat. They… she's not entirely certain what she expects when looking out at the crowd, for it is a thought in her mind the moment she is taken from the train towards the Justice Building. They look just like her. People. Everyday citizens. People with emotions in their eyes beyond just a sordidness or glazed over droll. There's a few smiling, someone even waving, which Poem matches back.
However, under all of that, there's a tension in the air, it settling on her shoulders like cinderblocks. The square has not been done up in any special way, and the people are in various states of dress, some even still in their pajamas, others in overalls or work suits that look more like prison jumpsuits if Poem is being asked her opinion.
"Good- good morning," she catches herself fumbling over the word, her voice echoing along the buildings, but there's no response back. Five hundred faces simply blinking at her. No one is moving, and the only other sound besides Poem clearing her throat is the Capitol photographer snapping a picture of her at the head of the stage. "Thank you for joining me."
It all feels wrong. She is the life of the party, she is an effervescent girl who drinks champagne and is as bubbly as the bubbly in the flute, yet it has all simply evaporated instead under her veins. Poem stutters again, glancing down at her hands, at the cards that have been so neatly typed out for her. They're smooth, whereas her skin feels like it's been scraped with a rock.
"I have to admit," she says, candidly, looking up and at the crowd, matching with the face of a boy in the center of it, his dark hair and tanned complexion eerily reminding her of Camilla Rodriguez. "When President Israel and Vice President Passionia told me of my role in all this, I have to say I didn't catch onto it at first," Poem laughs, immediately frowning. Was it too shaky? Did it sound natural? Is everyone going to see through her veneer? She's a little girl out of her league, yet her head is up in the clouds, so she won't admit it. "I am not one who shies away from showboating…" Poem trails off, licking her lips. Now she just admitted to looking like a massive bitch… "Think, girl! Think!" she screams at herself.
It is the morning of the Games, she and Niklaus intertwined in her bed, under the sheets that have lost their rosy fragrance and smell of afterglow than anything else. She's crying, terrified that she'll die, and that she knows she needs to be brave but-
"You're braver than you give yourself credit for," Niklaus tells her, kissing her on the forehead to stop her incessant babbling. "You would've leaped off of the roof last night after what Richmond did to you. You're not a coward, Poem. You can be brave."
She didn't really believe his words until she watches her lover's head separate from the rest of his body, and he is not there to hug her around the waist and kiss her forehead to tell her to be brave again…
"I'm lucky," Poem nods, looking down at the cards. Lies, about it had been an act… lies at how she knew what she's signing up for, since she believes that the world needs to bow at her feet and worship her, that Poem Cavalli deserves worship… why would she read these cards aloud? "I took a gamble and it ended up letting my fate be more fortunate than others…" she trails off again, her gaze centered on that young boy she spots in the center of the crowd.
His face had been more of a general expression, but at whatever she says next, it changes immediately into something filled with venom, eyes burning with a black hatred that Poem has never seen before.
The boy is shifting his hands into his pocket, and all she can do is stand still in place as the boy, with great aim, flings something at her. It hits her directly in the face, Poem crying out in disgust as the object is slimy, slimy and cold, and it splatters on impact.
It gets the stage in an uproar, Lydia barking out an order, the Head Peacekeeper pulling her gun from her hip. There's commotion in the crowd as well, as the boy cups his hands around his mouth.
Poem flicks away a chunk of the cold projectile, she recognizing the feel that it is a tomato… he threw a tomato at her. Flesh, and when flesh is squeezed hard enough that it bursts, its guts are exposed and-
"Millet!" someone in the crowd shots, a girl around his age tugging at the boy's jacket, trying to yank him back into the masses.
"She's dead!" the boy, Millet screams. "Camilla died, and you didn't help her! You let that District 2 brute slaughter her!" There is pure fury in his voice, it reflected clearly on his face, Poem dropping the terrible speech cards to the stage. "We don't want you! No one in Panem likes you! You're a selfish bitch, Poem Cavalli!" Millet is screaming.
She staggers back away from the microphone, but not fast enough for the equipment picks up an outcry of panic and pain, it echoing along the streets. She cannot register anything as she plays over his words… they don't want her. They aren't happy to see her. No one in Panem likes her, and she's selfish…
"Camilla…" Poem whispers the dead girl's name, as if speaking it would somehow bring her back to life. The girl she tried to kill, the girl who's friend she did kill, the girl she watched die, where all she did in trying to help Camilla escape is warn her… did she do enough?
Poem crumbles to her knees, unable to stop the tears from spilling down her face. Millet's words are all she hears, even over the sound of Lydia brusquely stomping past her as if she were another beggar in the street. She replays the hauntings over the sound of a gunshot, or the panicked screaming that ensues as a bloodied bullet hole appears in Millet's forehead, the boy falling down to the ground dead.
Poem realizes that even in her victory, without Niklaus, Catalus… even those she had been at war with, she's alone. Empty, and alone. Her life is without meaning.
Poem Cavalli realizes, as chaos erupts over the District Nine town square, that she isn't loved, and that there's no place for her.
No one wants her. No one loves her.
No one hears her as she curls in on herself, unleashing one long and unyielding scream.
Declaration of Death Blog: dod2 . weebly . com (remove spaces to search up the blog!)
Tribute List (Boy - Girl)
District 1: Dorian Argenti [Submitted by ladyqueerfoot] / Harquinne Villoria [Submitted by Apple1230]
District 2: Cerberus Arkwright [Submitted by Reign of Winter] / Desdemona Farsiris [Submitted by thorne]
District 3: Tauren Anatole [Submitted by daydreamer626] / Jasione Byun [Submitted by Firedawn'd]
District 4: Ren Maris [Submitted by rising-balloons] / Naia Marsay [Submitted by TheRaichuinRavenclaw]
District 5: Velimir Novotny [Submitted by symphorophilia] / Veryn Alenti [Submitted by ladyqueerfoot]
District 6: Ridley Lifeson [Submitted by Dr. Redneck] / Astra Enoshima [Submitted by ladyqueerfoot]
District 7: Narcissus Wylder [Submitted by LordShiro] / Ilana Wylder [Submitted by LordShiro]
District 8: Sable Faru [Submitted by Audmirable] / Ness Turner [Submitted by LiveFreeOrDie]
District 9: Roark Barlowe [Submitted by thorne] / Maeve Nightingale [Submitted by Audmirable]
District 10: Philip Woodacre [Submitted by TheRaichuinRavenclaw] / Anais Denali [Submitted by darthnell]
District 11: Conrad Culler [Submitted by Reign of Winter] / Azalea Oleander [Submitted by Reign of Winter]
District 12: Smoke Hartisan [Submitted by Audmirable] / Anneke Van Acker [Submitted by Dr. Redneck]
Well, ladies and gentlemen, there we ae, our tribute cast! It was an absolute blast in getting so many amazing submissions, but of course with that comes the struggle of not accepting the cast... I received 46 submissions, an equal 23/23 divide, which meant twenty-two subs had to be rejected, and I took the best of the best which has shaken down to what's here. Not everyone has their first pick for where they wanted their tribute to end up, but that happens a lot. I took no pleasure in excluding anyone, and to those that did not get in, I am very sorry. You are more than welcome to sub them elsewhere, and if you wish to speak to me on Discord in a DM or here on FFN with a PM about why I didn't accept your tribute, I will absolutely do so, just reach out. To those that did get in, thank you, cause, good lord, the people I have at my disposal to work with are incredible. I think a special praise is given to Audmirable and Shiro for having tributes in all four of my full-length SYOTs, which is a feat in of itself.
And like I said, for the first time ever, there's a blog! It took me one pain filled evening to learn it is not my strong suit, and so the amazing and wonderful Linds, otherwise known as ladyqueerfoot is the one who designed it for me. I gave her a really simplistic template I wanted to follow and handed her the info from the subs; go check it out and see the cast, as well the Capitolites you've been reading about... she did an exceptional job, and it's all thanks to her you guys get to see this. (And blog reviews are lovely to see, to give Linds credit where it is due)
For the chapter, as this was our last prologue... Poem is going through it on the first ever victory tour, and while this may have been the very first stop, you'll of course be seeing her more over the rest of the journey. For the pre-games, I am following the exact same format as Liberty... every tribute will receive an intro (six chapters of four), and then two more povs in their time at the Capitol before the Games. These selections were done via careful planning. Our first set of intros, in Chapter #6: Heralds of Sanguinity, are from the four povs of Ilana Wylder, Ren Maris, Maeve Nightingale, and Dorian Argenti, so be on the lookout for that soon! (This cast truly is exceptional).
I want to thank you again for submitting, and reviewing, and all of the support, means a lot to me. Can't wait to get this started! See you all again soon! Have a great day! Love you all! Bye!
~ Paradigm