Day four, night.

CAELLE LOVAGE, DISTRICT TWO FEMALE

As the sun sets, I try to find a place to sleep, but dozing off seems impossible. Every way I position myself, every way I face, every move I make brings fire searing through my shoulder.

"I can climb higher than any of you!"

"No way, Caelle. I've been climbing these trees since I was little and my parents took me hiking out here. You're a city girl."

"I swear I can! I'll race you right now!"

"Girl, I don't doubt you can climb trees, but you're not the best. You don't have to be the best at everything."

"Ugh, let me prove it! It's not about being the best."

"You're always so competitive, it kills the fun. Ugh, fine! Fine. You take this tree, I'll do that one. They're the same size and type."

I keep floating back to this memory… the pain of landing on my shoulder when I fell out of that tree is the only thing in life that's come close to the pain I feel now. Rough bark on hands, the gut-wrenching sensation of falling, the agony of landing on jagged roots and upturned stone—the fiery slashes of pain I feel now blows that out of the water.

I grit my teeth and try to roll over again, hoping the shift will finally soothe the ache and let me rest. Or maybe my stupid mentor could send me some stupid sponsor gifts, since I definitely earned so much money from sponsors during this stupid competition.

Unless they took my money and bet it all on Cyrus? Would they do that? He betrayed me. Our mentors have to be hedging their bets on one of us. They could split it… will they? District Two is the only district with both tributes surviving, and the only trained tributes to boot.

I'm here with a ruined arm, but Cyrus is pretty beat up too. I made sure of that.

But I couldn't kill him.

He's injured badly, I'm certain. At least as badly as me. What did I do to him in the battle at the great hall earlier?

He has a cut on his throat- where I couldn't finish the job, it's only superficial- and his back is torn to shreds. Back injuries can be totally debilitating, especially lacerated like his is. They can do damage to shoulders, stiffen the neck and legs if I'm lucky, and maybe he's had enough blood loss to-

No. Be real, Caelle. I know he walked away from the great hall earlier, which means it's not fatal or immobilizing. And he could still hold weapons, which means I didn't do any real nerve damage to his arms.

Which means he still has use of both his arms… and I just have one.

I scowl at my makeshift sling, feebly trying to flex my fingers and only getting pain for my trouble. Damn Andros and that hellbeast. Damn my disloyal district partner and his little girlfriend and that bitch from Three and Eliana and everyone who has ever stepped in my way.

I have one arm and one sword, and four opponents. The odds that I can convince them to turn on each other before they turn on me… is low. I hate the idea of trusting Cyrus at all ever again, but maybe I could appeal to our home and convince him to knock some of the untrained tributes out of the way before we inevitably fight to the death.

One on one, I'm the best. I could take any of them. But even I know that four hand to hand battles in a row is exhausting when you're in peak form. And the way these Games are going, I doubt that the Gamemakers would let me take breaks in between. They want constant action.

I should be getting a sponsor gift. Where is it? The night after a major fight, and there's nothing for the best player of the Games? Do others know something I don't? What if they spent the money? What if sponsors withdrew donations after my injury? Can they do that?

I snarl at the idea of Cyrus being backed by sponsors who once championed me. I'm the best! I'm the essence of a trained tribute! I've proven myself over and over! I'm the top of the pack!

And… none of what I've done matters even a tiny bit if I don't finish strong. And my arm is ruined. Really, truly, ruined and I can't think of another injury of this caliber currently handicapping another tribute.

Which means I have the worst injuries of the remaining five. And that… levels the playing field.

I give up on sleep entirely, sitting up straight and tightening my grip on my sword. I can't afford a single moment of letting my guard down. I've been the best player, which means they'll keep throwing things at me. I can't stop now. I'm too good. I have to stay on watch. I have to make up for my arm with diligence and keenness and the willingness to kill on sight.

What if they took away my sponsors because I didn't kill Cyrus? Or what if they're holding out for the final moment to send me something great… and they changed their minds because I was ready to betray my district partner? I don't know what they want, I've just been trying to give the best show. What if they wanted a slow Games this whole time and they actually hate me because I kept the speed up?

I shake the thoughts away. I did what was best, and it got me here. The injuries aren't my fault. It's final five- allies don't exist anymore. I do my best, and my best is the best. There's simply not another option.

I have slaved away for the Gamemakers for the last four days- no, since the day I started training- and I have been the best tribute the Games have ever seen. I have made the Games go my way until this point, and injured or not I will continue to do so. I will be the best Victor, and I will have made my point clear.

And I will not sleep until I have done so. I can't rest with an injury like this, can't make myself any weaker. I have to push through. No falling. No weakness. Not until the rest of them are all dead.

KEPLER MALLIS, DISTRICT FIVE MALE

When I was first questioning God, I had a phase of exploring literature from other religions. It was difficult to find, but it turns out librarians, like me, are more interested in the search for knowledge than in only preserving views the Capitol approves of. I think people would be shocked what kind of materials are available in dusty old rooms in the backs of buildings. Or sometimes, hidden in plain sight in antique shops or decorative bookshelves.

I squirreled away so many stories. I struggled, sometimes, with all the contradicting theories of the way the world began and the stories of early humankind, but then I realized that it's easy to swallow if you think of all of them as… just stories. Still not as easily understood as science, where theories can be examined and hypotheses can be tested, of course. That's why I stuck with science. Some questions still don't have answers, but the scientific approach is comforting. Even when applied to questions of philosophy.

Anyway, one story keeps bubbling to the forefront of my mind. My father put the fear of Hell in me, but Hell was different in other stories. Sometimes it even seemed escapable. One ancient society told the story of Orpheus, who went into the underworld to try and retrieve his lover's soul. He failed, of course, because he was human, but he went into Hell and returned. Odysseus also saw the ghosts of the dead and continued on with his life.

Obviously those stories are not true. There's not fact to back that up, and now we have very different ways of understanding things like death and loss. But I can't help feeling that somehow I have found a new way to relate to those old stories.

My stomach growls pitifully, wrenching me back into the very much inescapable reality of the Arena. Every year the Games are presented as some larger-than-life story, but it's not. Living through this is something that I don't think anyone can imagine until they're stuck in it themselves. And I wouldn't wish this existence on anyone.

I'm starving. I recognize the symptoms… I can't recall the last time I ate. Or what I ate. Or where I was at that point.

But there's nowhere to go but up. My field of vision feels constricted, narrowing in on stone walls and sconces and staircases leading up. Nowhere to go but up.

I've taken lives. I've lost my mind and I'm not entirely sure I have it back. But right now, the only thing I'm sure of is that the idea of leaving this horrid room scares me. Whatever's up those stairs is unknown—and it's only human nature to be afraid of the unknown.

Starve to death or face the unknown. The choice is easy but it doesn't make the action any easier.

I still don't want to die. I thought, at first, that I would rather die than make it through the arena. Logically, it's less painful than this drawn out struggle. Less work, too. But I've never wanted to die- the fear of Hell added to survival instincts spurred me on- and my body, though weak and aching, doesn't want to give up either.

So I step forward, stumbling towards the staircase. Hand gingerly placed on the cold stones of the wall for balance, I shuffle one step at a time upward. The flicking light from the torches urges me onward, beckoning.

I allow myself to imagine that I'm Orpheus, leaving the Underworld behind. Not allowed to turn around, always facing front. In that story, he lives even though his mission fails. Well, for a while. Eventually he dies a horrible death, too. It seems like everyone in old mythologies ends in awful ways no matter how many times they manage to evade Death.

Some bitter part of me whispers that's what your father deserves for putting you through the emotional torture he did. But I force that down with the memory of my mother, seemingly miraculously cured after her accident, and keep stumbling forward.

I heave a ragged breath when I reach the landing of the stairs, keenly aware that even a short journey uses up far too much of my energy. My stomach gurgles again, wrenching itself into knots. I need to find food, and soon. I don't know who or what else is still out here.

A cool breeze hits my face and I flinch. The smell of fresh air and dirt surrounds me, oddly comforting after who-knows-how-long breathing my own stale air. I must not be underground anymore. Sure enough, a small window near the landing shows me a view of the sky, and I can see a few stars peeking through the clouds. It's nighttime. What night, I'm not sure. In here, time is an illusion at best, a curse at worst.

I pull myself up to the window and peer out at the night sky, letting the wind wash against my face. Tears prick at my eyes—I'm almost ashamed of them. The breeze is enough to make me cry now? I don't like crying. Not when I feel so out of control and weak already.

Somewhere above me there's a light rustle. I hold my breath and duck down, hoping I haven't been spotted by anything. I don't need that, not when I've just emerged from the dungeon and haven't even been able to get my bearings-

Oh.

A parachute catches on the edge of the window, dangling just within my reach. I snatch it up with my better hand and tear into it, feeling particularly feral.

A small sandwich, a pack of crackers, some raisins, and a water skin. To me, it looks like the richest feast imaginable.

A slip of paper tied to the water pouch reads "You don't know how lucky you've been. This is your last chance. -J"

My mentor has saved my sorry ass, as Wes would probably phrase it. I know if I eat it all I'll make myself sick, so I start with a small bite of the sandwich. It's simple fare, ham on wheat bread with a bit of cheese and lettuce, but the entire concept of fresh food is luxurious.

I gaze at the stars as I nibble my sandwich, allowing myself to just be glad I'm alive for a moment. Gladness is hard to summon, and I've never been that great with sorting out my emotions, but something about the immediacy of the arena makes it a lot clearer.

My heart nearly stops at the first note of the anthem. I cough up the bite of food I just swallowed, heart racing, before the projections in the sky remind me where I am.

District Four girl is the first to appear. A Career? I know others of that group have already fallen as well… not sure how many remain, but I'm not complaining. She's followed by Malek of Seven and Inaya of Eight… faces I'm sad to see, but I remind myself it's better to be sad than it is to be dead.

As the anthem fades, I sink into a corner to finish my sandwich. There can't be that many left… and I've been lucky. I'm close. For the first time, I believe it's possible that I could actually go home. Likely? No. But I think I've seen Hell and lived. From here on out, it's not quite so scary.

CYRUS AUGUSTIN, DISTRICT TWO MALE

When Caelle dies, I'll grieve her.

Or at least that's what I told myself at the bloodbath. I was so caught up in justifying Shark's death to myself that it felt like a given. We're district partners, we've known each other for years, we work passably well together. We had that while Shelby and Shark certainly didn't. And that helped me justify Shark's death.

Murder, not death. Use the right words, Cyrus. No more pussyfooting around the truth. I turn the sword over and over in my hands, watching the light from the torches glint off the clean, shiny metal.

Caelle tried to kill me. She wouldn't grieve for me, and the dull pound of a bruise on the side of my head reminds me of that every second. She's the one who wants me dead. What she and Andros did to Eliana… what she's done to so many others… next time we cross paths, I don't think she'll hesitate. It would be arrogant and stupid of me to assume any weakness in my remaining competition. Even if she couldn't bring herself to do it last time, she'll steel her nerves. I'm sure she's talking herself into it right now. Or stalking me, having already made up her mind.

When it comes down to it, there's one victor. No district partnership survives the reality of the Games, and there's certainly no room for grief. Which means I have to kill her before she kills me.

Fucking hell. I don't want to kill again.

I let my head drop into my hands as I groan. The movement makes the wounds on my back throb with a new wave of agony, but I'm too tired to feel the fresh pain.

It feels like I've spent years in this arena of stone walls and broken swords. Yet, it's only been what, four days? Four days of constant crisis where every decision is harder than the last. Where every loss hurts more and all the pain compounds. I barely feel human.

I know I have to do it. I know I have to, but I don't want to. Not really. All the adrenaline from the earlier battle has drained from my body, leaving me limp and loathe to fight. After Shelby died, I felt like I could charge right back in and kill everyone, but the longer the night drags on, the less I want to see any of the other tributes ever again. At first my new sword felt like a gift of violence, a new grit that would see me through to the end, but now it shines like a gaudy trophy.

The sword…

When my blood touches the sword, I'll receive a great gift. Some final trick of the Capitol? Do they want me to win? Was it luck, or was it Gamemaker strategy that I was the one to touch that pond?

A week ago, I would have swaggered and said of course I deserve that kind of honor, I'm a great person who would make a great Victor. But now it just feels dirty.

But there's something I like about this surprise advantage. It's my blood. When my blood touches the sword, I gain something. I don't have to hurt another person to get that, just myself. On some level that's way easier. There's no guilt in that—no poor tribute crying out in pain or battle to the death. No deception. It's my choice over my body, and I've certainly felt enough pain that a few more drops of blood won't make a difference.

The papercut-thin laceration on my throat twinges in agreement at that, and I wince. Caelle really did a number on me in the great hall.

I don't want to bleed anymore. I've felt enough pain. Why would I accept more willingly? What's wrong with me? To kill or not to kill? To bleed or to defend myself? Why can't I make up my mind on any of it? I'm wrestling with my own convictions. Cyrus from five minutes ago vs. Cyrus now.

I wish I could fucking sleep. My eyes are sore and tired from all the damn crying I've done today, but they won't close. Every time I try to relax, I just see Shelby's glassy, staring eyes. And Malek's blood gurgling from his shoulder. And Eliana's decapitated head. And the fear in Gareth's eyes when I let him go. And Shark's eerie, empty smile.

I want to be out of here, I really do. That feels like the most true thing in the world. I yearn to be away from this place, no matter what it takes. Honestly, going out in a body bag sounds better than spending another full day in the arena. But above all else I want to see my brothers again. And to do that, I need to get home alive. I need to win, no matter how hollow victory is.

I take a deep, slow breath, trying to focus on my lungs and not the pain in my back. I don't care about winning, I care about surviving. For my family. Not for the glory. There is no glory in this. If I make it home, I'll be the worst Victor ever. I'll just sit in my family home all day, never again taking for granted the life I had with my parents and brothers.

There was this one time when I was barely a teenager that Conrad was getting bullied at school. Some punk kids thought they could pick on him and call him soft, but I wouldn't let them target him. When I saw it happening, I beat them up. I had just started training at that point, so I was just starting to learn combat. It was good enough to leave them in tears, anyway. But Conrad's face—I remember expecting him to be thankful and impressed, but when I turned away from the bullies and met his eyes I only saw fear. When I hurt them, I scared him.

How is my family going to treat me when I come home? Will I ever have the family I used to? Will they ever treat me with the same love they did? I grew up with parents who gave up the family career because they loved and prioritized their children. I repaid them by volunteering for the Games because I couldn't say no to an acquaintance. I didn't think about my family at all.

Will they still love me?

I know I have family members who've killed before. Some of them even worked with the Capitol in the Dark Days. But war feels different than the Games. I don't feel like I deserve their love or forgiveness. I want it. I want it so desperately. But I don't deserve it.

And if I win, I'll have to do a Victory Tour. And something about the idea of seeing Malek's family—Shelby's family too, holy shit—makes me want to curl up in a ball and wait for Caelle to find me right here.

No matter what, the Augustin family comes first. If I can picture families I've never met grieving, how much worse would it be for my own? I don't want to leave them like that. I need to go home, if only to spare my mother and father the pain of burying me.

Eventually, I'll be able to forgive myself for everything I've done in here. The Capitol can bankroll a therapist, I'm sure. But to cause the least pain for the people I still care about, I need to go home. A hollow victory, but a necessary survival.

But before that time comes… I need to find some way to rest.

SHARIF NAFTI, DISTRICT EIGHT MALE

The flickering shadows on the wall only serve to make my headache worse, and I can't push through for long. I sink to the floor in the fetal position, clasping my head in my hands and rocking back and forth. I hiss through my teeth, finding some strange comfort in the act of choosing to inhale and exhale. I've never had a headache this bad in my entire life. The timing isn't great.

A jolt of pain brings on a shower of flashing lights and blurriness in my left eye. Looking out of that eye almost gives me the sensation of a gray curtain being pulled over my vision. Fucking hell—ouch.

I want to slump down and fall asleep right here. It sounds so much better than continuing onward. The flagstones almost look like huge pillows on the ground… but sleep is dangerous. It prickles the back of my neck and I don't feel safe closing my eyes. I've been on the edge of collapse since the fight earlier and yet can't bring myself to lie down anywhere. There's something sinister about dozing off that makes me paranoid about not waking up again.

I force myself back on sore and blistered feet, shuffling down the hall again until the lights get too wavy and I have to blink hard. The weird veil is still graying out my peripheral vision. The animal instinct is telling me not to stop, not to sit down and rest. I have to keep going.

I think I almost passed out after the fight. All I remember is the smell of smoke and the feeling of blearily stumbling along before falling down. Yeah, I definitely fainted. But that was hours ago and the time in between then and now is just as fuzzy. I've lost track of where I was or what I did during that time.

The thing I remember most clearly is a daydream- maybe a memory, maybe a fantasy- about my little outpost in Eight. Sitting, calm in the sunrise, friend at my side, biggest stress in my life the burden of schoolwork and pressure to socialize.

All at once, it really hits me that even if I do go home, I'll never experience that again. I'll never be able to just sit in the glory of anonymity, living my solitary life the way I like. If I survive, my entire life will be owned by the Capitol and I'll constantly be in the limelight.

It'd be worth it, I think, to not die. But it's not the life I ever wanted, and I think I'll be miserable all my days. What I'd give for just ten minutes back before they called my name… ten minutes to enjoy what I had, to know how lucky I really was, and maybe even come up with the nerve to tell her how I felt about her.

And I cry. I sob, my vision blurry and head pounding, for the life I could have had. Should have lived. A solemn, quiet little life, probably following the steps of my parents in their standard jobs, nothing too impressive. But at least there was love, and at least they had a choice in the matter, and that life never had to experience the Games. I want that so badly. I've never wanted like I do right now. I just want to be normal.

The crying turns into gasping turns into wheezing turns into wobbly, half-taken breaths. I don't have a lot in me, and that's already more feeling than I've felt in maybe ever. The acute pain of wanting something I can never have pierces right through my soul.

It subsides as my eyes run out of tears, and I'm left even weaker and shakier than before. The headache is slightly improved, though, and I'm not complaining about that.

Wherever I am now, I can't see any windows. Underground? Maybe on the same floor where Malek and Inaya hid for so long, although I'm mostly certain I trailed down a different staircase. The spiral steps don't look quite the same either; they're going in a different direction. Clockwise instead of counterclockwise, or vice versa? I don't know enough about construction.

The heavy wooden door is oddly inviting. Maybe I can hide in this room for the night and finally feel safe enough to go to sleep for a bit?

I tug on the ornate metal handle, but the door is firmly wedged shut. I pull harder. If I can get in, this could be a perfect hiding spot. I've done so well at hiding for the past few days.

Finally, I set my feet against the grooves of stone in the ground and pull with all my might. The door creaks open and I nearly fall backward with my own momentum. I land on my ass, but at least I don't crack my head on the floor again.

The room inside the door is small and dim; only one torch flickers in its sconce by the door. I peek in and my breath catches in my throat- who the fuck is that?

The torchlight glints on metal. A Peacekeeper? No. A man-sized suit of armor, but no person inside. No tribute lying in wait or weird guard.

I slip into the room to find many more suits of armor lined up in a row. They look heavy and ancient, all chain mail and gauntlets and clunky helmets with visors.

Now, armor… that's a great way to defend myself. I might not be able to walk in full armor, but a helmet or breastplate might do me some good against attackers. I'll just pick out some pieces for myself and then maybe take a rest on the floor.

The suits of armor also have huge shields mounted on their forearms, painted with ornate crests that look like ancient versions of the district seals. They look too heavy for me to carry, I think I'll stick with a helmet instead.

I reach for the visor of the nearest suit, hoisting myself up on the shield to reach it. It creaks beneath me, and then the arm gives out. I crumple to my knees. Not as sturdy as I thought it would be.

Wait.

The cacophony of creaking continues. Is it my eyes playing tricks on me? The suit of armor draws its arm back to the original position and then turns its head towards me.

No. Unfortunately, not a trick of the shadows.

The other suits of armor start creaking too, arranging their shields and looking at each other until slowly, they all train their faceless gazes on me.

I scramble to my feet and try to duck out of the room, but one of them knocks the door shut. The one I touch steps forward and looks at me as much as a suit of armor can 'look at' anything.

I don't like being the center of attention, even from a bunch of tin men.

I raise my hands to perform some sort of… apology? Before I can say a single word, the first suit lunges out with its shield and knocks me right back into the door. My head snaps back, hitting the door handle, and I see stars again. The world seems to tilt and my stomach swims with nausea.

I don't have a chance to catch my breath before a metal fist drives into my stomach. I wheeze, doubling over and sinking to my knees. My whole body goes to jelly and I don't even puke, I just drool.

Another shield comes smashing down on my shoulder, and I whine in pain. Something crunches- is that me? Holy shit. Everything's in a fog, I can barely see or register what's going on.

Another blow, and this time I don't even know what direction it came from. Suddenly, I'm just sprawled out on the floor, unable to move. I whimper, but things are shutting down. The hazy blackness at the edge of my vision swims more and more into the center until I can hardly make out light.

Another strike, and I'm dimly aware of something wet running down my side. Another, and another. They come faster and faster, but my body's been through so much today that my pain maxes out and I stop feeling any sort of new sensation.

The suits of armor swarm me, and I can feel my body jerking across the floor as they stampede over me and out the door. A foot descends, I feel the cool metal on my cheek, and then the crunching of-

ALTHEA BIACHI, DISTRICT THREE FEMALE

The cannon jerks me awake, but it's not like I've actually gone to sleep. Drifting in and out of consciousness isn't the same as sleep.

I guess that means someone else is dead.

Cool.

The sky outside is starting to lighten, so I roll out of the bed I found and put my shoes back on. The familiar morning routine kicks in and I automatically go to put my hair up, pulling my now-stringy blonde curls back in an imaginary ponytail. My hair tie disappeared long ago, so I let my hair tumble around my messy face again. My parents definitely hate this look for me.

My curls swing into my eyes and I catch a faint whiff of singed hair. The scent makes me gag— I can't control the retching. It takes mere seconds before I'm dry heaving, forced onto my knees from the violent jerking of my body. Nothing but bile comes up from my stomach, and it clings to my tongue and the inside of my cheek as I spit it out onto the carpeted floor. A shame there's no one to clean it up for me.

My throat burns, but I have no more water. I don't have much of anything except myself left. And that is honestly kind of a tragedy. I'm fantastic, but this is pitiful. And 'fantastic' is only what I tell myself to keep the charade going. Fake it til you make it and all that.

And what is there left to fake? I have no makeup, no clothes, no beauty supplies to put on the mask my parents want me to wear. I'm here in my shredded tunic, nasty hair, scars visible, acting insane… basically the opposite of what I'm supposed to look like in public.

I'd get a bigger kick out of it if I wasn't living through it at the moment. At least my eye is basically feeling back to normal. The rest of me? Eh. I feel like a Peacekeeper tank ran me over and then reversed back again. But in a muddled way. Once upon a time I might have compared it to a hangover, but that sounds childish now.

I sit back on my heels and wipe the bile off my mouth. It's got a brown tinge to it. Cool. Breathing in deep through my mouth to avoid smelling burnt hair again, I roll my shoulders and stare grimly at the wall in front of me. It's all I'm capable of. Anything else is too much effort.

A faint, rhythmic thudding echoes through the castle. Bad news, I'm sure, but I've had such a shit time that I can't be bothered to react. It gets louder. I try to muster up the courage to face it, but I just sit and wait. At least it doesn't sound like Caelle or Cyrus running like hell to find me and kill me.

Nothing particularly surprises me at this point, but the appearance of a bunch of robot knight armor is new. A bunch of medieval metal shells march through the door of the bedroom and within moments I'm surrounded.

I look at them. They look at me.

I don't have the mental capacity to interpret their actions, so I shrug. The knights remain motionless for a few moments, and then one raises one creaky hand to point at the door. Is that rust or blood on its shield?

Clear enough.

It takes me a few seconds to get my feet under me, since I'm still shaky from heaving. I start walking towards the door, but the knights sweep me up and usher me into the corridor. They set a steady marching pace, trapping me in the midst of their formation. It's a struggle to keep in step with their oversized strides, especially with the one behind me bumping me with its shield constantly. I want to hiss something like "If you're trying to hit on me you don't have to be so literal about it," but it's a fucking suit of armor so the joke wouldn't land. I save my energy instead.

I see the massive double doors of the great hall ahead and instinctively trip. I don't want to go back in there. The smell of fire clings to me like rot, and I don't think I'll ever escape it. I don't want to go back in that bloodstained room. I don't want to go back, don't want to see it again, don't want to don't want to don't want to! Anywhere else, please-

But the knights catch me and force me through the doors. It's almost relieving to see the room has been rearranged in the night, and now there's a huge round table in the center of the room. The throne on the dais is still there, but the focus now goes towards the wooden 'O' right in the middle of everything. There are chairs around, and food on the table. And weapons. In between the dishes of hot, steaming food, there are knives and javelins and clubs displayed like centerpieces. I can't decide which aspect of the table dressing is more attractive to me at this exact moment.

And then I see that nerd from Five, seated calmly at one of the chairs. A knight pulls out another chair and I'm rudely plunked down in it by my escort.

"Oh fuck me. Seriously? Family dinner?" My stomach grumbles, but I'm loath to reach out and help myself to the food. I'm hungry, but nauseous.

The knights, save one or two, disperse again.

"Sorry if you didn't want to see me," Kepler starts. I shrug, which doesn't stop him from continuing. "It's nice to see you, honestly. I haven't exactly been keeping up with who else is around. Careers, probably, is all I've got."

"Cyrus and Caelle, most likely. And the two of us. Congrats."

"Really? That's it?"

"I knew them and myself, and now you're here. So… I think this is it." As I say it, I realize this means that either Kepler or me or both will likely never leave this room again. I watch him come to the same realization and the color drains from his face. Between the two of us, I actually like my chances, but I'm also too tired to care. It's all just facts now. Besides, the idea of Kepler killing me would honestly be such a disgrace to my family it's kind of funny to imagine.

I try not to think too hard about the massacre that took place in this very room yesterday. Living numbly in the present moment is going much better for me if I can hold it together.

I'm too aware. I want to turn my mind off. Holy shit, why can't this be easier? Where did this clarity come from? It has me teetering on the brink of… something. I'm afraid to look. I'm genuinely afraid.

I focus very intensely on Kepler instead. "I haven't seen you around. The knights bring you here too?"

His face does something interesting. "I've been… learning about myself. And yes, I was corralled here a few minutes ago."

"Kill anyone yet?"

He nods but can't say the words out loud. Some part of me is kind of impressed, but it's too distant to really register.

"Me too." It's not kinship or camaraderie, but a weird sense of connection links us. Odd.

The creaking and marching of the knights gets louder, and two doors at opposite ends of the room burst open. One group seats Cyrus at the round table, and another brings in Caelle.

I automatically take stock of their condition. Caelle's arm is fucked up so bad she's made a sling, and Cyrus winces whenever something touches his back. Cool.

I'm still fucking terrified of those murder machine teens, but maybe less than I used to be. Or maybe I have less room for fear in me now. Emotions limited, error 404.

I glance at Kepler across the table and watch as his gaze flicks between the pair from Two. They're making ugly, spiteful eye contact with each other. Interesting.

Caelle reaches for a knife on the table, but the knights stop her from touching the weapon. Oh?

Cyrus tentatively reaches for a pear. They allow him to take it and bite into it.

The sun peeks through the huge window of the Great Hall. It's dawn of the fifth day, and we have been brought to breakfast at the round table.

5th: Sharif Nafti. Teddy, thank you for your submission.

SURPRISE I'm alive and still writing! Comeback! I'm still finishing this one y'all. It's been ages, I've moved states, I've gotten my silly little vaccine, I changed careers. Things are happening!

Final four! I bet you can guess what happens next. If you're still reading. I have to admit the reason I promised to still finish this story is because of Ace asking once a month and Nate reviewing... couldn't leave you hanging so close to the end... just a lil cliffhanger! Oh, and also the oath I swore when I started this story that I'd see it through. I'm a Taurus, I keep my word no matter how long it takes! You all know I have a history of finishing stories a year after starting them.

Anyway. Here we are. Next chapter is a glorious finale setup, and then we'll round out the story with some epilogue and call it done! Thoughts?
I don't mind if I'm posting into the void at this point.

Take care out there! See you soon!