Hey hey! We have our first Reaping up and ready for you guys to read!

This character was sent in by the lovely Hoprocker and I hope I did him justice with his introduction. As you can also see, the SYOT is still open as well! So if anyone wants to send a character/wants to send multiple characters, feel free to have at it! I've updated the list on the forum with Altan's name, which means District One is officially CLOSED!

I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and let me know what you think of our first Tribute so far ^^

01 - A Proud Knight

"Again."

Father kicks him back before taking stance again. Knight exhales loudly, feels the pressure in his gut from the hit. He too takes a stance again, barely giving the ache time to leave. He raises the sword until it's level with his jaw, feet shoulders' width apart. Father does the same.

This is routine; the way Father berates him and kicks him away mid-training, the way they start again and dance the same lesson over and over until it sticks in Knight's mind. He's grown used to it by now—it's been his childhood, his life—but it still isn't enough. Eighteen years and it still isn't enough. Ever since the announcement of the Quell's theme, it'll never feel like enough.

They lunge for each other, Knight taking the defensive as Father aims for each and every sliver of an opening he presents. He'd been restless last night, unable to sleep until late thanks to the thoughts that had raced through his mind and recalled President Snow's gleeful smile as she'd read the rules out to her people. His lack of sleep may as well be as obvious as a bright neon sign in the middle of a street.

A babysitter. That's what he'll be reduced to if he volunteers this year. No; that's what he's going to be—there is no "if" over him volunteering, he reminds himself.

Father's blade glides along his own, the shrill sound of metal scraping together causing Knight to wince. He swoops under the blade, under Father's arm, and is quick to aim for his exposed side. The swords are dull and can hardly break the skin of even the most fragile fighter through clothing, but there's no mistaking the pain they bring when they mimic a strike. The hit may as well be his, a positive sign that he's ready to take on the Hunger Games this year and win. Father won't regret making him wait another year—

Knight is barely granted time to slow down as he watches Father's body lean away from him. The sword flies past Father's side, missing by a whole inch and a half, as Father moves to Knight's side. One foot kicks out—a low sweep, one Knight won't be able to avoid—and then the boy's golden-brown eyes are locked with the floor, face aching and air rushing from his lungs as the rattling of his sword rings in his ears. It's no longer within arm's reach, which means only one thing: Knight missed his mark, and in the process lost his chance to prove himself.

There's no remorse in Father's voice as he steps around Knight and declares, "You're sloppy, Altan. Defense is adequate, but I expect more from the most promising Tribute of our District."

Not enough. He needs to do more to close the gap. Needs to fix his mistakes before the Reaping. He wipes at his face as he pushes himself to his feet; no blood on the sleeve of his gear, no pain in his nose to suggest injury. Just shame and frustration.

Knight looks up at the clock above the doorway, catching sight of Father undoing the straps of his leather arm bracers. Father spares him no look over the shoulder, no acknowledgement that he's concerned for his son's wellbeing. Just disappointment and annoyance.

"Do your laps until breakfast," Father orders. "See to it that you're presentable come the Reaping, as well."

The minute hand points to the ceiling. The hour hand is pointed to the floor.

6AM. Three hours until the Reaping.

He begins the laps once the training gear is packed away. Around and around the training field, counting the steps and pacing his breaths as the sun begins to rise. Father hadn't needed to tell him to do it, the laps part of Knight's daily routine since he began training for the Games. He supposes it'd been a way to further remind Knight of his disappointment—a way to say that Knight still needs someone to tell him what to do, even at eighteen.

Others would find it strange, just how little Knight is affected by this. In terms of pride, he's slowly picking up the pieces that have been chipped away by this morning's training; but in terms of familial affection, there's nothing. Father and Mother have always had a strictly professional relationship with Knight, just as Knight has with everyone else. He's had classmates avoid him for how cold he can be, had training partners request someone else because of his reluctance to assist in their own betterment. But Knight hasn't cared. Still won't, not even when he wins the Quell and returns home a victor.

He's the best of his generation, Knight reminds himself as he watches a few of the early risers join him on the track. Better than the up-and-coming kids starting their training, better than all of the other seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds itching to get into a Game before they turn nineteen. But he still has a long way to go.

There's at least a dozen of them by the time half-past-six rolls around. Three of them girls his age, two only a year younger; the remaining six boys are all eighteen, itching to volunteer this year just as much as he is. Only one keeps up with his pace, the others jogging a short distance behind and talking amongst themselves. Knight had never made it his business getting involved in the kinds of friendly rivalries they all seem to want—not because he thought it unnecessary and boring, like few others. Knight is among the majority that is afraid of the pain volunteering will bring themselves and others after a bond is forged; a majority his parents belonged to until they were nineteen, only to resume again after he was born.

The girl beside him doesn't have that fear, he notes. She's always been so overly social and involved to some degree with everyone. She's never shown interest in skipping the Games—more often than not she attempts to raise her hand, only to be beaten by someone more eager than her—but there's still part of her that doesn't look like it wants to join the rest of her peers. Knight had once wondered if she'd been afraid of loneliness, if she couldn't stand everything being strictly business, but the thoughts had been quick to stop once they'd begun to disrupt his training regime. There's nothing about her that sets her apart from the rest of the potential Tributes—nothing, but the fact that she's the daughter of a Quell victor.

Knight may not know the girl's name (for obvious reasons), but he's more than familiar with Atticus Clarke. Seventy-fifth game, only twelve years old; he'd been a favourite of the sponsors, always ten steps ahead of his competitors thanks to his abundant supply of weapons, medicine, and armour. Among the few twelve-year-old victors of District One, but definitely not one of the more outstanding ones.

Father had said that Atticus wasn't as skilled as the Knight family had been, even lamenting that it had been a shame that only anyone under thirteen could participate that year. Mother had been fifteen and leagues ahead of her peers, only to have the opportunity snatched away from her for another year. They don't dislike Atticus—but they don't like the Third Quell's theme and outcome, either.

The Clarke girl is saying something to him, dragging Knight's attention away from the track by force. He thinks she's made the obvious remark of him being awake early, and as much as Knight wants to remind her that he always rises with the sun, he refrains. It's an attempt at small talk. An attempt to try and get a friendly response from him. Knight can appreciate the sentiment—this is the last year they'll be training, and then they'll be free to forge their own bonds—but until this Game passes, he'd much rather be alone.

He picks up his pace, practically sprinting now as she waits for his response. He can feel her gazing down at him in surprise, slowing until she joins the rest of the teens. By the time he's made it halfway around the field, the Clarke girl has all but given up trying to get his attention.

It's a rude way to avoid someone, especially so close to a deadline they're all trying to meet, but it's the only solution Knight has right now. He can't just tell them to go away—they're getting in a morning run just as much as he is—and he definitely can't say something horrible. It's better to keep his silence, to keep up the image of the stoic and mysterious Altan Knight they're all used to by now.

He stops for a quick five minute break after he passes the group two more times. He stands in the middle of the training field, leaning his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. It feels like it's going to be warm today, though not unbearably so. Knight smiles to himself. Warm Reapings were always a good sign for District One—Atticus volunteered on a warm day, and the past four victors all volunteered under similar conditions. It's a sign.

But the lingering shame from Father's training tugs at him. No one wins the Hunger Games with luck and a sign; it takes patience and skill, strength and speed. All things that Knight has honed to the best of his ability. But his ability isn't enough. Knight needs more than just an adequate defense. He needs to be the Fourth Quell's predator.

He wipes the sweat from his brow and is quick to inspect the ground. Neatly trimmed grass, white hash marks just faintly visible from the last training lesson his school had held. Knight knows there's a good spot around him for extra training, somewhere he can fit more improvement before he returns home. The group jogs past his line of sight, still chatting amongst themselves. He settles for where he is now, reminding himself that he has no time to waste just thinking on things.

Father had ordered him to do his laps until breakfast, but Knight feels he needs more. Situps, pushups, squats and the like. He can't just run. He can't just put one foot in front of the other and pray for success. Knight needs to do more.

He doesn't notice how much time passes with each stretch and exercise. His joints ache in a good way, waking him up better than cold wind in his face and hard blows to the stomach ever will. Though Father never saw to keeping up with Knight's flexibility, Knight still takes it upon himself to keep his body agile and at its peak—after all, no one wins with just brute strength alone. Flexibility is just as important as strength and speed, and Knight can't help the smug smirk that makes its way onto his face as he reaches for his toes. If he wins thanks to his flexibility rather than his strength, Father will have to admit that Knight was ready this year.

Grass crunches under sneakers, a pebble kicked out near him as someone approaches. He has no doubt that it's the Clarke girl, taking advantage of Knight's stretches to talk with him. The smirk is quickly replaced with a neutral expression, his concentration back on the ache in his legs.

Clarke moves in front of him, towering over him more than she usually does. It's not hard for people to tower over Knight, he thinks with disdain. Taking after Mother had been unfortunate, though he supposes being five-four in total height can have its advantages. Easier to fit in small spaces, easier to avoid being grabbed at.

But that's about it. He can't hold someone in a strong neck hold without jumping on them; he can't reach as high or far as others with a weapon; his strides certainly aren't as long as someone like Clarke's.

She lines her feet up with his carefully before she starts to sink to the ground. Her jersey is unzipped, water bottle in one hand as she looks down at Knight curiously. Knight takes his time with sitting back up, allowing himself a chance to exhale calmly before he looks over at her.

Clarke furrows her brows at him as she taps the toes of her shoes against his own. Knight can't help glancing between their feet and her face, expecting her to make some kind of remark about how much longer her legs are compared to his. Instead, though, Clarke just pops the cap of her bottle and chugs half of it in one go. Her eyes don't leave his as she does it, wide and searching as they watch his expression slowly drop.

"You're going to make yourself sick," he comments. Clarke grins at him. "Yes, fine. You got me to acknowledge you. Just don't hurt yourself."

She's quick to set aside her water bottle. Knight watches with a frown as it tips over and rolls along the ground.

"Want a stretch partner?" she blurts out. Her grin grows to a near cheek-splitting width.

Knight sighs at her. "Sure. Why not."

For the first few (admittedly awkward) minutes of their stretches, neither of them says anything. They'll pull at each other's arms and time their positions to an adequate length, but neither of them will say anything other than the occasional, "That's far enough," and, "It's been one minute."

But it all soon melts away into comfortable, formal conversation. Clarke mentions that her father has taken the liberty of being District One's mentor this year, while Knight declares that he looks forward to working with Atticus. Most others would comment on how cocky and self-assured Knight sounds, but not Clarke. She takes his confidence in stride and builds on it, compares it to her own and takes it more as a joke than an unintended challenge. Her easygoing reception of others is probably why people have such a hard time staying away from her, he thinks. If it weren't set to hurt him before he turned nineteen, Knight knows for a fact that he would've responded to her attempts at friendship positively.

They're up on their feet again once the conversation shifts to how prepared they are for the Quell. Clarke stands a good six feet, an entire head taller than Knight, but she still insists that they link arms and stretch. Whether its for her benefit or his, he can't tell—but he won't deny that testing his strength by lifting her isn't a bad idea.

Back to back, arms linked at the elbows, Clarke and Knight wait for a few seconds before they decide who will go first. It's awkward having to hold his arms higher than usual, having himself be lifted so high off of the ground as Clarke leans forward. His gaze rests on the clouds and the warm glow of the sun cast against them, patiently counting from sixty as Clarke holds her position.

At the thirty second mark, she manages to squeak out, "Dad made a prediction for the Quell."

"Hm?" Knight knows she'll explain it away, just as she does every year. Atticus seems to have a need to predict how a Game will end—Father has suspected that the man gambles once a year, always at the time of the Hunger Games—and his daughter is more than happy to share it and see what others think. More often than not, Atticus comes out right.

"He says that since we'll be having Capitol kids, someone from District Two has the highest chances of winning through sponsorship alone," she reports. "Kinda why I'm skipping this year."

Knight scoffs. She lowers him slowly, waiting for him to place his feet firmly on the ground. As soon as they are, he signals for her to let him lift her. Clarke isn't as heavy as the weights he's carried in the past, but Knight certainly isn't the kind of beefy, broad-shouldered giant that could walk around with Clarke's slack weight in their arms.

"All the more reason to compete, don't you think?" he growls.

Clarke hums with interest—though he can't help but feel it sounds half-hearted. "Your family hates District Two, yeah?"

"Yes."

"And your parents don't like my dad too much, either."

He doesn't answer. It's not as though she phrased it as a question, anyway. Clarke knows the answer just as much as Knight does.

"He probably said it to get on their nerves," she giggles. Knight doesn't see the humour in it. "His predictions go around fast by the time the Reaping starts. No doubt your folks'll hear it by the time you get ready—"

"With all due respect," he cuts her off, raising his voice a little. A few heads turn in their direction—did he say it louder than he'd intended? "Atticus Clarke competed as a twelve-year-old with an advantage of being a Career that garnered sympathy. Sponsorship alone is what saved him, and he believes that that's all it takes to win—but he's wrong. He's implanted those beliefs onto you, and it's honestly abhorrent that he believes victory will be handed to competitors on a silver platter."

He lowers her back to the ground with the same patience and ease Clarke had offered him. He's agitated by her prodding—by Atticus's prediction—but Knight is still a gentleman. It'd be rude just to drop her because of his family's own dislike of District Two, especially when she doesn't know any better.

Or maybe she knows exactly what she's dealing with, he reasons as they separate. She was raised in the Victors' Village—a place filled to the brim with winners who all have their own strategies—and each and every one of them knows how to play to a crowd by now. It'd be no surprise if their own methods were passed to her during visits and training sessions.

Knight regards her with a neutral expression. Clarke does the same, her openly friendly demeanour wiped clean from her face.

"What do you think of the Capitol, Knight?" she asks him slowly. Knight quirks a brow at her. What a peculiar question.

With practiced ease, Knight says, "I'm thankful for their support of our District, and for the hospitality they've provided our victors."

Clarke clicks her tongue. It's a loud, sudden sound that makes Knight flinch.

"That's not an opinion, Altan." She nods to him as she picks up her water bottle. "That's why Dad thinks they'll win through sponsorship."

She turns on her heel and jogs back over to the group. All of them wave her over, Knight forgotten as he stares after her with furrowed brows. Clarke shows no signs of struggling to jump into their conversation, waving her hands animatedly as she starts to babble about something.

Knight frowns. Checks his watch. He shouldn't let Clarke's words get to him—not when there's only a matter of hours until the escort introduces herself onstage.

7AM. Two hours until the Reaping.

No one bothers him as he makes his way home and goes through the processes of getting ready. Mother doesn't even greet him when he walks in through the door, focusing on the newspaper as she sips her coffee. Father breezes past him with a stern expression, suit jacket slung over his arm and an array of coloured ties in his hand.

Knight's essentially been left to his devices. A last-minute grant of freedom.

He wastes no time putting his exercise clothes in the laundry. There's a towel folded neatly atop the washing machine, the initials "AK" embroidered in a corner with blue thread. It'd been a birthday gift from an old lady who used to live next door. How she'd found out about his birthday, he isn't sure he'll ever find out; the woman had taken many of her secrets to the grave, but at least he got something useful out of her kind-heartedness.

Knight spends a good portion of his shower reflecting on Clarke's words. The way she'd shut him down after he dodged her question—it was almost like she wanted him to say something other than what she expected. Clarke knows for a fact that Knight and his family dislikes winning without hard work, how much they dislike the way District Two comes out on top thanks to such a method. Why expect him to say something definite? About the Capitol, no less?

He scrubs at his hair, flicking water against the shower curtain before he steps back out and switches the faucet off. Knight inhales the steam rising to the ceiling deeply, and then sets to work drying himself off. It's roughly seven-twenty by the time he's dry, towel wrapped around his waist as he exits the bathroom. Father passes him again—only one orange tie in his hand this time—and grunts out that breakfast will be Knight's choice of fruit. Any other day he'd be told what he should grab, but it seems that Father wants to give him just a little bit more freedom this morning.

Knight's bedroom is one of the smaller rooms of the house, but certainly not small in any sense of the word. He used to sit on his bed and wonder just how many people he could fit in his room at a time, wonder how many cabinets it would take to fill up every bit of space. It's no surprise that a wealthy family like his has enough money to afford the home they have, but he still can't help but feel a little proud of his status every time he sees the average size of other people's homes. Along the back wall is an array of wide panel mirrors, each one hiding a portion of his clothing behind it. He doesn't have the same walk-in wardrobe his parents do; instead, Knight takes advantage of the already large space his room alone provides.

The mirrors reflect everything in the room near-perfectly. Everything but his door is captured in the glass, nothing hidden from his view once he enters the room. He slides open one panel and grabs for an old shirt and a pair of pants—there really isn't much need to get dressed in his Reaping clothes an hour and a half ahead of time—before he delicately slides it shut and chucks the clothing onto a nearby chair.

He takes his time studying his appearance. The way his short hair gleams thanks to its damp state. The gap in his left eyebrow, where he'd been struck and marked by the hilt of Father's sword a few years back. The long, thin scars lining his back and standing out on his fair skin, each one a moment in time Knight can proudly say he's improved from. Most people here try to get rid of their scars and look presentable—look pretty; but Knight's family will always wear theirs proudly, leaving them as a reminder to others just how strong they are.

The shirt is soft and free of stains, giving off the warm feeling of still being wrapped in the blankets of your bed in the morning. Knight quite likes the feeling, enjoys the comfort that comes with it after a morning of training. It reminds of him the free days where he would curl up on the couch and read, listening idly to the sounds of the TV.

It's quarter to eight by the time he's picked up an almost finished book and made his way to the living room. The large screen of their television encompasses the entire wall, the images looking almost hollow and lifeless as they portray the scenery of a blooming meadow of lupines alongside Lola Amos's giddy report. He pays her no mind—just as he has every other year—as she prattles on about the potential mentors that will be assisting this year's Tributes.

His books are one of the few things he gets a complete choice in. Mother and Father don't see any particular kind of genre as a path that could derail his training—just as long as he never got distracted by them too often, of course. Aside from the occasional weapon and desired meal for his birthdays, they'd even humour him and get new fantasy or adventure books for him to read. Up until he'd truly immersed himself in fictional worlds during his downtime, Knight spent most of his time reading about nature. Nothing too complicated, at least compared to the Districts that thrive in nature from birth, but still enough that he can tell the differences between aloe vera and a deformed cactus.

Knight places the thin bookmark beside himself and curls up into a tight ball, chin resting on his knees as he balances the spine of the book on his toes. Lola's giggling, reporting the weather in each District and what time each Reaping will occur. As far as Knight knows, he won't need to pay much attention. District One always goes first, always at 9AM. Making room for practical deadweights won't impact his morning routine.

Mother places a small bowl of strawberries in front of him by the time he reaches the final stretch of his book. He's been reading it for a while now, pacing himself as he witnesses the journey of a chivalrous paladin in search of glory. True to his expectations, the paladin has come out victorious in his quest—but the cost had been great enough to leave the final parting paragraphs with a bittersweet feeling in the back of Knight's mind. He wonders if there's another by the same author. He wonders if being a victor would give him easier access to meeting the woman.

It's twenty-past once he finishes the strawberries and confirms that the day will be ideal for a Reaping; Mother paces behind him, frequently raising and lowering the volume every time Lola screeches and whispers excitedly to her viewers. Altan had seen clips of the previous host of the Hunger Games in old videos his parents had saved, and he can say that without a single doubt in his mind he'd prefer the colourful, loud man to this shrill, immature woman onscreen.

"Jacket is ironed?" Mother suddenly asks. Knight doesn't even look back at her as he replies, instead picking up his empty bowl and carrying it into the kitchen.

"Ironed and on the hanger," he reports. He leaves the bowl in the sink. Not even a moment later, Mother makes another inquiry.

"Badge?"

He breezes past her, and he can't help feeling the small stab of pride in his chest when he looks down at her. Knight took after Mother in height and appearance, but he's still grown to be taller than her five-one stature. Given his poor habit of standing on things to be taller than others, it's a guilty relief he feels on a daily basis.

"In my drawer, still in its case. And I have polished it recently," he adds just as she opens her mouth again. Mother looks at him with a satisfied expression.

"Then hurry up and get changed," she orders. "Your father and I want you there at least five minutes early."

Getting to the Justice Building early won't be hard for them. The Knight family has lived close to the place for as long as the Hunger Games have been around, and not once have they ever been late to being early for a Reaping. Knight's following the same routine he's had to follow every year, and he knows for a fact that he'll arrive seven minutes early instead of five.

True to his word, the jacket of his suit is hanging in his closet. On the hanger behind it is the clean white dress shirt he always wears with it, the black necktie wrapped loosely around the hanger's neck. Knight plucks them from the closet and places them on his best with careful movements, putting in the extra effort to keep from wrinkling them before he even puts them on. He fetches the trousers from his drawer and is quick to change into the suit; collar flipped up around his jaw, the wrists of his shirt falling loosely down his arms as they wait to be buttoned.

He turns back to the mirrors and surveys his appearance with mild scrutiny. No hair sticking out, no buttons mismatched. He tucks the shirt into his trousers and slides the tie under the collar. He does it up loosely before shrugging on his jacket and lowering the collar again, and then he's tightening it to a neater height as he once again surveys his appearance. Nothing crooked about the tie, no bits of the collar sticking up.

Knight exhales softly. The only thing that's left is the badge.

Most would think it's a heavy burden to carry an entire family's expectations on their shoulders. Most would even feel the pressure sinking in as they lay their eyes on the emblem of their family. Most wouldn't feel the confidence and pride Knight does as he pins it on the middle of his tie. Most wouldn't even think such a responsibility grand the way Knight does. He was born to compete, raised to win. Why should he have to feel like the world will close in on him over the possibility of failure?

He's the best of his generation. Just like his father, and his grandfather before him.

(And yet—)

He buttons his jacket and turns to the mirror once more. His brow raises at his neat appearance, a hint of pride over how well he's filled out his suit this year. Knight looks every part the victor he's destined to become, every part the future of his family that's destined to turn the tides of Games to come.

(—it's not enough.)

It's the first time he's been ten minutes early to a Reaping. It's the first time he's been the first in line for the boys his age. It's the first time he's bothered to learn the name of someone in his age group, if only to humour himself while he waits.

Claus has always been standing next to Knight during Reapings. There aren't a lot of people with a surname starting with K, and it's hard to find someone that comes after a "Lysandre". But Knight never paid him much attention—not that Claus ever did the same to him. But the spare time allowed for them today gives him a sense of ease, like he has time to himself before the Reaping really begins.

The other boy stands behind him in line as one of the nervous twelve-year-olds has their identity checked by the staff ahead of them. His shadow looms over Knight, reminding him just how many people in District One stand around six feet.

A hand clamps on his shoulder and presses down. His heels touch the ground, to his surprise—had he been leaning on his toes?

"Don't get your trousers in a twist," Claus says. The hand disappears as soon as the twelve-year-old moves to his place near the back of the carefully measured out sections in front of the Justice Building. Knight takes a few steps forward, holds out his hand. The light jab to his finger barely even makes him jump anymore, and he watches with a bored expression as his name is read out and he's pointed over to the section directly in front of the stage.

Claus joins him within minutes, and the two are quick to jump into a light conversation. As much as Knight struggles with small talk with people like Clarke, Claus is different; he was raised under the same principals as Knight, but unlike Mr. and Mrs Lysandre Claus chose to take a step back from volunteering every year. Knight doesn't know the full story—after all, that would require them to go beyond a business-level relationship—but he has heard from their teachers that Claus would rather go on to become a vintner than a victor. Less competition to keep Knight from the Games, he supposes, but it's still a shame that someone who'd undergone a similar upbringing to Knight has his goals aimed elsewhere. Their similar childhoods makes it easier for Knight to converse with him, if only because Claus won't try to make it personal like Clarke does.

The children are filling each section by the minute as they look over their shoulders to check the lines. Father and Mother are waiting patiently along the sidelines, observing the crowd with scrutinous stares. Sizing up Knight's competition, trying to intimidate children into keeping their hands by their sides and their lips sealed shut. It seems to work on some, but a good portion at the front are used to it by this point.

Claus can only sigh as more boys their age join them, lining up in alphabetical order. "Still set on doing it this year?" he asks Knight. It's a dubious tone, though not in a way that suggests Knight will back down. It's a doubt of Claus's own hopes, more like; as if Claus wants someone else to deal with a Quell with such a scandalous theme.

Knight nods. "With all the nervous faces," he mumbles, "it should be easy to be noticed and chosen."

"Wouldn't that make it feel less like a true victory, then?" Claus says. "Sounds to me like you're gunning to be chosen by default."

He glares up at Claus—just for a second—before he returns his gaze to the stage again. He doesn't reply or argue with his point, refusing to be dragged into a debate so close to the Reaping.

The stage is slowly lined with Peacekeepers and District One officials. The Mayor sits closest to the microphone onstage, a proud look on his face as he looks down at the crowd of children before him. The hands of the clock tick agonisingly slowly, until all at once a loud ding chimes through the street.

9AM. Time for the Reaping.

Right on time, the escort scuttles her way onto the stage with two assistants tailing her. Both of them hold the handles of the oversized Reaping Ball with obvious difficulty, stumbling after the green-haired woman as they try not to drop the glass ball.

Knight inhales deeply. "I won't give anyone a chance to get in before me," he mutters. Claus glances down at him, expression neutral as his gaze lingers for a plotting second. And then the boy's attention rests on the escort once more.

The woman taps the microphone twice. "Good morning, District One!" she cheers. "You may not recognise me, but I'm going to be your new escort for this year's Quarter Quell!" She claps excitedly. The assistants still struggle to keep up with her. "My name is Vera and it's a pleasure to meet you all. I can tell that any of you will make this Quell a memorable one."

Offense hits Knight like a cold chill. To say something like that to a District of children pitted against each other from birth to be dubbed the best of their generation? Absolutely pride-shattering.

Vera doesn't seem to pay any notice to the glares from the crowd, to the offended expressions of the parents who'd spent so long training their children to reach this point. "It's come to the attention of the Gamemakers that some Districts may be a little reluctant to participate this year," she goes on to explain. The Reaping Ball is dropped beside her with an audible clunk, the microphone swaying back and forth before she grasps it firmly in her clawed hands. "So, as a precaution, we've placed the names of everyone in District One of Reaping age into the Ball—just in case no one volunteers like usual, you see?"

The crowd is silent. Glances fly left and right, from the parents and the children; do they volunteer or don't they? If no one does, will it be okay to let fate do its work? Knight's certain these questions are running through their heads, the gears clicking away as they try to figure out the best way to go about the Reaping.

As silence reigns over the children, Vera continues, "But before we get into that, let me introduce to you this year's mentor!" She gestures wildly towards one side of the stage, beyond the officials seated behind her. Heavy footsteps ascend the stairs of the stage, a broad form making its way over to Vera with a swagger in their step. The suit he dons is almost too tight on him, making him look stiff and uncomfortable as he smiles down at the children.

Atticus Clarke—he should be thirty-seven this year, Knight thinks, which would make him roughly the same age as most mentors that take on Tributes. But this is the first time he's seen Atticus wanting to partake in the duty, especially given the sheer amount of victors that could do it anyway. He supposes Clarke had been telling the truth about her father taking it upon himself this year.

"As you all know, Mr. Clarke won the last Quell," Vera explains, "which I personally believe makes him the perfect candidate for mentorship. Now, then, is there anything you want to say to the children, Mr. Clarke?"

With a single, fluid movement, Atticus presses his lips to an uncomfortably close distance from the microphone. "I predict that District Two will win this year," he says in a confident tone. "Whoever volunteers, I suggest you make peace with your family during your farewells."

Knight doesn't even waste any time with an objection. Rage flares in his gut, his teeth gritted painfully as his arm rises and he stands on the tips of his toes. A pair of hands clamp tightly on either side of his waist, the sensation of the earth beneath his feet vanishing within an instant. He barely lets the surprise show in his expression as he glares up at Atticus, at the knowing smile the man shoots him as Claus raises Knight high above the heads of his peers.

"I volunteer to prove you wrong!" Knight yells at the top of his voice. The booming sound brings forth a wave of shock from the others; Altan Knight, so mysterious and quiet, suddenly shouting with the tenacity and authority of an enraged teacher. "I will win, and I will make you regret your words!"

Murmurs break out through the rows of children. He can feel Claus's grip begin to falter, but the taller boy doesn't make a sound of complaint as he continues to hold Knight up for all to see. Mother and Father watch with unreadable expressions; Vera's eyes slowly bulge to the size of saucers as she realises just what Knight has said; Atticus's knowing smile turns into a proud, satisfied smirk.

"Well," Atticus says, mostly to Vera, "I suppose we don't need to follow the usual tirade. We've got our Tribute right in front of us."

The Peacekeepers jump into action. They advance on the boys' group to collect Knight, waiting patiently for Claus to lower him to the ground once more.

The view from the stage is spectacular, he thinks. All he sees is an ocean of bright eyes and shocked expressions, neat clothing and expectant parents. One of Vera's clawed hands lands on his shoulder reassuringly—almost as though to apologise for the circumstance he had to volunteer under—before she returns her attention to the microphone and motions for her assistants to remove the Reaping Ball.

"S—So," she chokes out. This must be the first time she's had to skip an entire Reaping process; no explanation of the Games, no rundown of the rules, no need to even move for the Reaping Ball to goad someone into volunteering. An event that was supposed to end at nine-twenty-five is effectively over at five-past. "Care to tell us your name, young man?"

She moves the microphone over to him, only to adjust it so that it doesn't reach higher than his face. Knight can barely hide the annoyed twitch of his nose. He's essentially the smallest person on the stage. "Altan Knight," he reports.

"Well, then." She doesn't bother to adjust the microphone again; instead, Vera simply lifts it off the ground and lets her long, curved nails ding into her skin as she tries to keep her grip steady. "There we have it. Our Tribute for the One-Hundredth Hunger Games—and Fourth Quarter Quell—is Mr. Altan Knight! May the odds be ever in your favour, Altan," she adds in his direction.

They'd don't need to be in his favour, he thinks as Atticus wraps an arm around him and leads him offstage. Knight will come back a victor, and he will make sure everyone will remember him.

The proceedings end just like that. He's led inside the Justice Building, the children disperse, and Vera chats animatedly with her assistants over how dramatic the first Reaping of the day was. He sits patiently in the chair by the window, gaze lingering on the slowly clouding sky as he waits for his parents to send him off.

The sunlight hadn't lasted long, it seems. Up until the point where he'd volunteered, the sun had been out on display and ready to cast its rays upon him like a champion chosen by fate—just as it had the Paladin at the beginning of his quest. But now that he's in the running, a Tribute, a storm looks to be brewing. He can barely see the sun anymore, barely feel its warmth through the window. Maybe he'd been wrong about it being a sign; maybe, all along, he would've been destined to volunteer on a gloomy day that would bear him no luck in his Game.

Knight shakes his head. Luck isn't necessary to win the Hunger Games, he reminds himself. Relying on superstition won't get him anywhere, either.

The door opens—Knight almost bursts out of his seat as his head whips around to greet his parents. Barely a second passes before his expression falls and his body lowers itself back into the chair, though. Instead of his parents, Atticus Clarke stands before him with a smirk on his face.

"Your folks gave me a message for you," he tells him. "Something along the lines of, 'Come home a victor, or become a statistic like the rest of them.' Brutal stuff."

"Given my declaration," Knight growls, "I'd expect no less from myself, as well."

Atticus chuckles. It's deep and throaty, sounding almost like a muffled cough at first. "Velvet was right; your old man's pride really did pass on to you."

Velvet… Is that Clarke's first name? Knight can't think of anyone else Atticus would associate with that has approached him over the years.

"Anyway, don't go expecting any visitors to see you off." Atticus lets out a loud yawn as he moves away from the door. He leans against the desk closest to Knight, gaze trained on the doorknob. "It's not like you ever made any friends who'd miss you, anyway."