A/N: Again, massive thanks to symphorophilia for betaing this chapter! c: It really wouldn't've gotten how it is now without your help - so thank you so much for betaing throughout, I do so hugely appreciate it!

I also have no idea HOW I forgot to mention this the last chapter, but thank you so much to BradiLain for creating the currently stunning cover for TTATTS! :D Check it out - her work is amazing!

Althea Ivory. District 4.

If there's a constant in Althea's life, it's this:

She needs to win.

Most District 4 kids experience the same; told to be better, told to train, told to make it to the stage. And so, the Ivory family made them experience the same: payrolls going into preparation, the eversupply of bronze and gold in their mansions, slathering their armoury with halberds and fire-hardened spears, all readying for a volunteer.

That was Talon's life.

Her mother would barely give her even a side-eye; she would scoff and leave for another high-class socialite meeting, like the Games groupies for eventual victories. Her father had thrown all his money and all his time behind her brother; making him, moulding him, mentoring him, doing all he could for him. Sure, her father said it was fair — but she'd seen how he looked at her, his wrinkled nose and wrinkled eyes going up and down her stature.

He'd gazed at her stature, an athlete's, as lean as a willow tree. At her physique, stronger than bulls. At her curves, sharper than daggers. At her smile—a winner's. At her eyes— the Ivory trademark, striking-electric blue. Oh, no: power wasn't a problem for them.

"It's fair, Althea," Talon would echo with a sneer, dragging out the last syllables of her name, and he'd shoulder past her, talk about the 52nd Games, how the District Four female had drowned, what an insult to our reputation, and a year before that brutalised, by a mutt no less, and before still, throat slit by her fellow Careers, how fucking pathetic, don't you think, Althea?

She'd bristled and she scoffed; and Talon would shrug, mouth, what, I'm just saying. And who's been on a win streak? We're lucky to have actually competent male tributes carry our District.

And of course: she had nothing to prove the same.

She couldn't steal his spot in the 53rd Games. Nobody was going to steal his spot in the 53rd Games. Talon Ivory, they'd proclaimed, in hushed whispers, he's this year's official volunteer. Have you seen him? And you know the Ivory's. Some crazy training's got to have gone into him. He'll bring back the Victor's Crown, no doubt.

She couldn't do anything but watch her brother march up to the stage. How he screamed out, echo-loud, he'll bring them glory.

And so Althea had watched the 53nd Games. Watched him murder three outer District tributes in the bloodbath. Watched him thrust his bloody halberd up in the air, grinning to the sponsors and roar, for Four. Watched him intimidate the other Careers, I'm sorry, how many did you kill again? Watched him pick up a switchblade in the Arena, that he'd tucked into his pocket. Watched him jag his switchblade into the District One male's throat. Watched him tromp around the Arena, like the entire Games was his to take. Watched him be stabbed in the back by the District Two female.

Talon died. 19th Place in the 53rd Games.

Oh, her parents panicked. They scrambled for their reputation. District 4's win streak, in tatters. They denounced her brother. They had their money; they had their training centre; they had no pride left. And that left her.

Althea Ivory.

Good thing she's already prepared, then.

Rhodos McNamara. District 4.

He's aware of Mrs. Larimar's eyes on him. Rhodos grips his guitar tighter. Her eyes are waiting for him, alight with a certain calm that chills his skin with a coolness fit for the District Four's winters.

Rhodos's fingers finally find the strings. They slip a little, and he presses harder on the fretboard. He strums the first note. He keeps his eyes ahead, away from Mrs. Larimar's keen gaze, and he forces his shoulders down. Forces himself to relax.

He strums. His fingers pluck the strings, carefully, slowly, deliberately. He controls his notes, moves his fingers. His heart pounds in his chest.

Calm down. This isn't a test.

Rhodos's eyes roam about Mrs. Larimar's music room. It's quietly bare, with more space than not filling up the tiny music chamber. Her windows, as always, are closed. There's only the slight, hazy tint of sunlight that radiates the windows - but it doesn't make it past the glass.

Rhodos likes it - it's small but comfortable, facing out towards the sea, even if he never hears the tousles of the waves himself. Mrs. Larimar had always insisted upon keeping the windows shut, even if it made Rhodos colder than he would have been had they been opened; but he never complained.

It's basic, too - there's only a dusty piano and a grimy microphone stand that occupies the room aside his guitar. It made sense: being one-footed, Mrs. Larimar liked ensuring that everything was practical and functional, especially for manoeuvring. But there was another reason for her utilitarian room, too: the number of kids learning from Mrs. Larimar had recently deteriorated, as they'd been encouraged to enter the Academy instead by their parents. Even Rodriguez, who had seemed so enthusiastic to learn how to sing, eventually dropped off, too. It had left Mrs. Larimar with only eight or so children to teach - barely anything compared to the sixty or so that she'd tutored when Rhodos had first started learning from her.

Rhodos continues to play. His teacher's sole feet's taps are quiet, but audible. He focuses ahead towards the windows ahead of him: at the twisting sea, moving as if in a tableau while he lets his music fill the atmosphere.

There's a silence that settles in the room once he's strummed the last note. Rhodos lets his shoulders relax after it's over. Her eyes are still upon him, and he's aware of how she's stewing in the silence.

"Look at me, Rhodos," she clears her throat, finally. He jolts his head up to her. There's something thoughtful that stays in her eyes, one which crawls Rhodos's heart in dread.

He'd done something wrong—he didn't think he'd messed up. He'd rehearsed this piece, twice, thrice, a dozen times in the quietude of his house, every time his parents were away. He'd arranged it himself. And the steeliness of Mrs. Larimar's grey eyes did nothing to soothe his jumbling nerves.

Finally, Mrs. Larimar sighs. She shakes her head, once, hard. "No. That was… horrendous. You can do much better, Rhodos."

He swallows. "Okay," he says. The words itself are scratchy against his throat. Criticism… especially from Mrs. Larimar, has never been easy for him to stomach.

(Before, when he was merely a child, he would've gulped, would've broken into tears, at her words, at the thought that he didn't do well. Didn't do what she wanted him to do. Didn't meet her expectations.)

"Oh, of course," Mrs. Larimar says. There's a certain distaste that twists her lips. "It's passionless."

Rhodos winces, slightly. It isn't the first time he'd taken criticism from Mrs. Larimar. If he couldn't accept criticism, he wouldn't be here. But this was new criticism. However poorly he played—however many times he messed up or had a note go awry—his music was never passionless.

"Right," he says, and the words knot in his throat. "How… can I change that?"

Mrs. Larimar sighs. "Rhodos," she says, levelling her eyes towards him. "I think you know better than anyone how to change that."

Rhodos takes a moment. How did he mess up? No—all the notes came out well, came in succession, he didn't go off-pitch. He played the piece well—he'd arranged Tristesse on the guitar, because he'd heard the piano piece whilst at one of his parents' distinguished parties, and it was irresistible not to replicate it on the guitar. It was one of his favourite arrangements, one he was most proud of. He'd memorised the placings when he was fifteen, in his house, wedging and fumbling his fingers across the strings. He could close his eyes and lose himself in it; he was supposed to lose himself in it, when Mrs. Larimar asked him last week to perform one of his most beloved pieces. He didn't— he wasn't—

"I wasn't focusing," he says, finally.

"Yes," Mrs. Larimar says, without giving him a look nor a nod, "You're not focusing, Rhodos."

They stay in that silence. It's true—he wasn't focusing on Tristesse, like he should've had. He wasn't focusing on his music. He was striking out notes like they meant nothing, like they were things to get done and be over with. He and Mrs. Larimar had a name for those types of composers.

They're the dull ones, Mrs. Larimar had said, a somberness twinging her lips. They've buried themselves so much in their skills and accolades that they've forgotten what it meant to enjoy the music they made.

Rhodos pushes back a frustrated sigh.

"Look at me, Rhodos."

He turns his eyes up towards Mrs. Larimar. There's something empathetic that twinkles in his music teacher's eyes.

"What's your mind on?"

He lets the silence take the room, for a moment. It's heavy, that feeling in his chest, and his words are dry in his throat. He can't quite say anything—words struggle to his lips, but they falter on the tip of his tongue. It's not as if he has anything to say. Mrs. Larimar knows he'd returned from the Academy this morning; she knows the hours which he trains. She'd endured Rhodos's sullen moods after he entered her music room without a word post-training. Mrs. Larimar had seen him practically transform when it came to music.

She knew how he felt about his parents' wishes, training, the entirety of it. Rhodos had told her about the Academy's process, their vetting, the escalation of his parents' wishes regarding the end result of his training: fight harder, Rhodos, your training is vital, hear me, do it for the McNamara name. He'd often apologised to her after those sessions because he would have to miss her music classes to do what his parents wanted him to.

Mrs. Larimar listened to it all, with a sympathetic, almost saddened tint to her eyes. Rhodos had always reassured her: you know where I'd rather be, he'd say.

He's volunteering now. He'll reach what his parents had so desperately wanted, what they so needed him to do. He'll make them happy, finally, and then perhaps Father would actually give him a tight nod, good job, Rhodos, and then perhaps Mother would finally hug him, and go, I'm so proud of you son, I love you. He'll have to win, of course, for riches and money, for his parents' rightful positions to be reinstated in society. But he's made them happy already by agreeing to volunteer. Father had spoken of him, during their customary visits to the mansions of his old friends, this is Rhodos McNamara, my son. He will bring us new fortune with his victory in the Games. Mother had smiled at him—more times in a month than she had in an entire year—and his heart had swelled so much at every pull of her lips.

He can't imagine how much more delighted they'll be after he wins.

(If he wins.)

He's suddenly too conscious of Mrs Larimar's eyes upon him. Her previous question lingers in the air, decorating the atmosphere with an entrenched heaviness.

"I don't know," he admits. He hadn't expected to go so soon. He thought that he'd have more time. Ten more months of indulgence - of hearing a tune, of creating his own pieces, even if they only touched the ear of Mrs. Larimar. Ten more months of performing at the local bar, ten more months rowdy sea-songs which patrons had thrust at him, ten more months of old-time tunes and riffs, even if he had preferred classical music so much more.

Her sudden quiet is disheartening. Typically Mrs. Larimar is one of the few people Rhodos can be content around in silence, but this isn't one of those times. He shifts slightly; feeling all too aware of himself.

"Well," Mrs. Larimar says, and there is a certain kindness inclined in her eyes, even as she clears her throat, firm. "Wherever your focus was, it certainly wasn't on your music. Again. You do not get to disrespect Chopin. Not on the guitar."

Heaviness lifts. Rhodos feels the tilt of a smile flick over his lips. "Try again," his music teacher offers. "Focus on your music. Not anything else, Rhodos."

Rhodos closes his eyes. His fingers twine the taut wire, but they go soft under his touch, as if deferring to his command. It's the same as before, but his mind's quiet now. He finds the first note and plays.

He lets himself go to the music; he flows, he sways, he hums. He's cold in Mrs. Larimar's living room - he always is - but the chill doesn't distract him. Tristesse twirls, twists, and dances in the air: it's a wondrous sound, lovely and soft and strong and everything at once. Rhodos doesn't realise he's finished until his fingers pluck the string once more, and there are no more notes left of the piece to pull him back to the fretboard.

The silence envelops the room is too potent with the loss of music that had inhabited it moments before.

Rhodos opens his eyes. Mrs. Larimar's watching him rather than looking at him, considering him. Anxiety grips his heart, but it's less than it had before.

"Much better," she says, her lips inclining slightly.

Rhodos relaxes. "I'm glad you think so," he says. "Thank you."

(He feels better. It's like a weight's been lifted off him, through the notes and the playing. As if he'd been alleviated. He feels free.)

(Maybe.)

"Don't thank me," Sonata Larimar says, a slight scoff working its way up her mouth. "Thank yourself, Rhodos, for that piece."

It's not usual that he gets a compliment from Mrs. Larimar - he could count the times he'd received them from her in their whole ten years on one hand. He feels a slight blush tinge his cheeks. Mrs. Larimar's having none of it, however — there's still quite a lot for you to improve upon, Rhodos. Now, for the technicalities…

Though he practices nearly an hour more, Rhodos is halfway out the door before he has a chance to make note of it, waving goodbye to his music teacher as he steps out into the street. Yet before he can leave, Mrs. Larimar's voice hits his ears, stopping him in his tracks.

"Rhodos. Will I be seeing you on that stage tomorrow?"

He'd been so lost in music that a comment regarding the Reapings was the last thing he'd have expected out of Mrs. Larimar's mouth. And everything crashes back into him. His parents. His reality. His life. Rhodos attempts a smile, even as the hollowness of his chest weighs on him.

"You will," he says, swallows. Why are the words so hard to get out?

Something flicks across Sonata's expression. If Rhodos wasn't so attuned to her, he wouldn't've realised, either. Anyone else would've assumed that it was firmness, sardonicism, or the beginning of a reprimand - but he knew her face for what it was.

What she's feeling is sadness.

"I'll miss having you here," Sonata says.

"I'll…" the words short in his throat, as he finally meets Sonata's eyes, as he takes in her house, her calloused hands, her music room that made a tableau of the world, and finally her. This woman who'd taught him, who never gave up on him, who saw his passion and understood him.

"… I'll miss being here," Rhodos says, and there's a tightness in his throat that tangles his unsaid words together.

"I know," Sonata says, her wrinkled lips working up sideways. "But I'll see you afterwards, won't I?"

The sincerity of her belief in him is shocking. It's more than what he'd put in himself—and the fact that it came from Sonata Larimar warms his heart warms his heart in an inconceivable way.

"I—I should hope so," Rhodos says, and he straightens his back, "I—want to."

Sonata tilts her head towards Rhodos. "Wouldn't've expected otherwise from you, Rhodos."

It's too quick, their farewells. He steps out, his guitar slung over his shoulder, as Sonata gives him a curt nod.

Once the door clicks shut, he's left alone to the gusts of the winds and the thrashing sea and the roiling clouds.

Rhodos has never felt so empty before.

Althea Ivory. District 4.

If there's a constant in Althea's life, it's this:

She needs to win.

Her parents like to parrot the words back to her, again and again, grudgingly, coldly, almost madly: we've invested so much money, so many resources, so much time in you, Althea, don't waste it. You will return a Victor for the Ivory name. You must win; you cannot lose.

As if she hasn't wanted it herself. But, oh, her victory wouldn't be for them.

Althea clicks the door of her parents' house behind her. It's too suffocating—it's so shut, barred-in windows and too-stoic walls. She never understood how anybody could live in there.

(Her parents always thrived in their confines of glass and quartz and gold. They had lived to shower their house in pretty decoratives—meaningless riches, lifeless symbols, emblazoned animal heads, carved stone of heroes and Victors. Her parents are in there, too, now, and she doesn't want to deal with them, but that's another matter entirely.)

She turns her way down into the sea. It's not that long way away from her parents' house—a curve down the open-green path that twists down into the beaches. They have a sea-view; but unlike the houses that line the cliffs above, they're level-ground.

Althea's fingers flitter across the strewn bushes across the way down. She'd done the same, when she was eight, twelve, fifteen, an absentminded movement which had calmed her nerves - she hadn't noticed it till Kani had pointed it out to her, amusement turning over her lips: Althea, are you here to feel the plants?

She'd chuckled, then, but now something else twines Althea's lips. Oh, no. It's how she anticipates.

Her feet finally hit the sand, and Althea makes her way into the sea. She wades in, till she's knee-deep, chest-deep, till only her head's over the waves. She closes her eyes; she inhales—further, further—

Althea sinks. The sea hums by her ear; the bubbles tickle her skin. And she lets her head tilt back, and her body follows, too, till she's slant, drifting, right underneath the water's surface sheen. Till she's falling, slowly, into the sea too.

She sinks. She doesn't breathe—she doesn't need to. Kani had taught her the skill: the one thing that had helped her survive her Games, that had helped her survive in sea and sand alike. Breathing is instinctual, Kani had whispered into her ear, after they'd lain on her bed, panting their night together away, Not breathing goes against… all the tenets of human life. But if you'd steel yourself. If you'd take a breath and pretend it's your last. If you empty yourself out. You'll feel. You'll feel the breath of life against your skin, you'll feel the winds and the waves ripple through you, you'll feel stars invigorate you. And there's something so beautiful, something so rewarding… about appreciating life that way.

Althea sinks. Her breath's gone; her eyes are closed; her skin feels only the waves. For a moment, there is nothing in the world she cares for—she's of the sea. She's not Althea Ivory, she's not her parents' daughter, not Talon's younger sister, she's not anything. She's empty.

And she hasn't felt so alive before.

Rhodos McNamara. District 4.

He bumps into Venice on his walk back home. He'd found her by the District markets, buying the freshest fish from the stalls - halibut, the most expensive kind, just the way her husband likes it. His sister's delighted to see him: she gives him a hug which he lets himself relax into. She offers to walk him back home, and that's what they do: swaying side-by-side, in content silence.

It's unusual how the years change things. When he was fourteen, his stomach would've twisted to see his sister in their house: twenty-two, lounging in her room, working on her art without a care in the world whilst their parents focused their attention on him - why aren't you training more, Rhodos, you need to work harder, I've signed you up for supplementary classes, you're doing so poorly, how do you expect to win the Games at this rate?

Their words had withered him, but he'd only worked harder. He'd spent endless hours at the Academy, throwing spear after knife, not stopping even when sweat marred his brow, even when his peers had long disappeared into their parties somewhere. He worked till his trainers and mentors looked on in awe. He worked till he could see the conciliatory nod of Father, till he could earn the slight smile of Mother. It had fostered a sort of warmth in him - seeing them happy, seeing them proud.

However, he would always come back to find his sister in her room, doing whatever she wanted. It would constrict his stomach, the way she practiced her art without so much a complaint from their parents, and diminished the light that had flickered and lifted his heart at others' eyes.

"I haven't seen you in so long," Venice murmurs. They're strolling across the streetside, now - they're halfway away from their house, halfway until they get to the familiar sight of unkempt bushes, of a cold place chained by weary gates of iron. "I've missed you, Rhodos."

"I know," Rhodos agrees. "I've missed you a lot, too."

(He isn't lying. He hasn't had an opportunity to see Venice in a long time - not since Father and Mother told him to focus on training and had limited every kind of external interaction possible. Sometimes, he'd have old friends come over of their volition, people he hadn't seen in five or six years, who gushed about missing him and saying they wished they could've talked more. Rhodos replied in kind, because their faces would light up when he did so and he wouldn't have been able to stand the expressions they might have taken on if he'd told the truth. But he never had to do that with Venice.)

"How's your husband?" he asks, almost involuntarily. The contentment in Venice's face freezes. Rhodos grimaces - no, he didn't mean for that to happen, damnit - and he backtracks quickly.

"I mean—nevermind him, how's your art? Did you finish the art-piece of the sea - that you've told me so much about last month?"

The tension only leaves his shoulders when he sees Venice's face relax once more. "I have!" she says. "I managed to clear up the palette colours and decided to go for the bold stroke…"

Rhodos lets his sister talk - listening to her speak of visceral colours and of careless brushes and of pastels at melting tips. Her words entrance him, and settles them in a certain comfort that Rhodos thrives in. When she's done, he tells her about his music - of the new composition that he's writing, of how Sonata's doing, of his recent performances at bars.

Soon, they're by the entrance of their parents' house. They fall quiet as they approach the bushes, the iron, the doorway. Venice's eyes don't meet his. Rhodos lingers with his sister - as if he could ignore the presence of his parents' house looming above him if he did.

"Rhodos," Venice says, suddenly. "You're volunteering?"

He lets a thin smile ghost across his lips. "Yeah," he says. "I am."

Venice bites her lip. There's a dread that builds in his throat as he tries to read her, as he tries to figure out what's going on in Venice's mind. She knows what he thinks; she knows what he feels.

He wants to say— please tell me that I shouldn't go. Please tell me that you don't want me to go. He wants to say— please tell me that you want me to escape, run away, disappear somewhere. Please tell me that it's what the both of us can do. He wants to say— please tell me it's okay to say no.

"Okay," she says. "If—if that's what you want, Rhodos."

Her reply crushes him.

He watches as Venice turns away, as she leaves him to their parents, to volunteer, to enter the Games. As she returns to her husband.

(Because there is nowhere else for either of them to go.)

Althea Ivory. District 4.

If there's a constant in Althea's life, it's this:

She needs to win.

It's that which had led her to seek out Kani.

Kani Fairchild. District 4 Female. Victor of the 49th Games, at barely fifteen years of age. One which Talon conveniently forgot to mention.

Althea remembered watching her Games; the sun bearing down, break-dusk, against an Arena that had deteriorated from a supple sea to a dying desert in the span of five days. Strewn in mist and dust amid the dunes was Kani, and staggering before her a once-ally, the District 7 Male. Althea hadn't remembered his name when she was watching the broadcast—her eyes had been fixated upon the deadly girl with glinting grey eyes. It was one easy flick from Althea's wrist, and the hook stroked down his throat and ripped strips of skin away from him: gleaming apple-red, the colour of pulsing flesh was almost entrancing.

He'd been left for the flies when Kani had triumphed, victory glistening in her eyes. She was the originator of District 4's win-streak; and Talon its end.

Kani was nineteen, and she was fifteen when Althea had found Kani out in the District forests. Kani was staring down a stream, and Althea's breath had been taken away: she hadn't expected to find the Victor of the 49th Games so beautiful.

Kani had caught her stare, and she had tilted her head towards Althea. Althea had gone over to Kani, had steeled her breath, and did exactly what she came to do: she'd requested to train, to learn from the 49th Victor of the Games.

Kani had looked on, amused, till she said: show me what you can do.

They've trained there, since. After Academy training and after she evaded her parents, Althea would come here: under the early twines of night, the twilight a smear of moss-green and sea-blue across the skies. They would fight: swords against swords, dagger against knife, legs against knees, fists against arms, skin against skin, teeth against flesh. Althea had kissed her, or Kani had kissed her - she couldn't remember, but it didn't matter. They'd kissed under the dusk and the starlight of the night. They'd kissed and they haven't stopped since: lovers of the night, wrapped in the cocoon of their solitude, nobody but them in their world under the stars.

Lovers of Victors were nothing new: but she and Kani were something else entirely. She loved the Victor of the 49th; Kani loved the Victor of the 56th. They were girls who loved; they loved a type of love Althea's parents would've never approved of, that their District wouldn't've approved of, either.

(Perhaps there is something of love between Victors that is far too intimidating for them to fathom.)

They'd watched the love of One and Two, together, of the 55th Games. When the rest of the District scoffed and jeered at the screen, she and Kani had watched in seclusion, in the safety of the Victor's Village. Althea's heart had ran miles after the Games' end. But it wasn't the lack of Victor that had left her so unnerved. It was the girls. They were Careers, they were so close to victory, they were supposed to win.

But they were dead girls all the same.

"We're different," Kani had murmured to Althea, after she'd spent the night, awake, tossing in bed for all the things she couldn't think. Kani's breath was a reprieve for Althea; her heart had always quelled when Kani spoke; but it hadn't this time.

"We're not dead lovers. They were tributes—they were too consumed in their love—they were doomed, Althea. But we're Victors. I am—and you'll be, too."

Her heart had stilled. Althea had turned to her, then, something pushing up her lips. "Do you think so?"

"Of course, Althea," Kani had said, and her eyes had shimmered so bright in the night, "I haven't been certain of anything more."

"Alright. But do you think I'm not," and a little smile had twitched up Althea's lips, "consumed?"

Kani had smiled back at her, then, under the stars of the night and in their Victor's home. "That's how you'll come back to me."

(And it's that night when she decides for herself: she needs to win. Is there any surprise why?)

A/N: What did you think of Rhodos and Althea? I really enjoyed writing about these two - especially in drawing parallels! Between them and in the last Games as well (omg… :'D) - are they gonna get along? They're evidently both looking to be free - but what do you think about the ways they approach trying to achieve that?

Now that all of the Careers have been introduced, how do you think they'll interact with each other? Any standouts or favourites now? Final charts?

Some Extras:

This was Rhodos' piece/arrangement on the acoustic guitar - Chopin Etude op. 10 no. 3 Arrangement: www. youtube watch?v=mXEtkxIzaDg- I mostly imagined him as enjoying classical music and Chopin had seemed to fit him well - even though the musical instruments they play are different. Other musical pieces that felt of fit him was Chopin - Ballade No. 1 and Beethoven - Moonlight Sonata. Obviously, they're piano pieces… but music is intersectional. :)

Althea's theme song was Palace by Hayley Kiyoko. I'd considered a stanza or so under the heading of her POV because it had fit her really well, but I think I'll just leave this extra tidbit, tbh. Speaking of songs, I've also made a playlist of the TTATTS crew! playlist/ 3kjGy1rYSG3Dsr3SU983cZ?si=sDYr2j8LRrafgBeFh71wcQ - I've linked both in the Discord for easy access, haha.

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts in reviews. :D

Next Update… Interlude. June 14th.

Okay, so - I've just calculated that I'm writing around 20k words per week, spread across this project and my main project, which is why I'm in need of a breather - I've only now just realised the degree of work I'm putting on myself. Because of this, the next update on the 14th will be considerably shorter (expect around 1k-1.5k words), as I try to sort out my workload.

I'm currently also unfortunately swamped in coursework, which contributes towards the shortness of the next Interlude, so the update may also come later than expected. While I'm honestly loving writing TTATTS, I think my best course of action is to finish my main project first (which should be done in about two weeks, if my calculations are right), so then I can dedicate more time/effort into this fic. We'll still be getting weekly updates - just shorter ones, and no more 6k word monsters haha.

Thank you for understanding, and stay safe, everyone!