V: May: District One.
The future is the most expensive luxury in the world.
It takes her a grand total of eleven seconds to find an axe for each hand.
The only reason it wasn't a lesser number is because Sterling fell dead in her path, a knife in the nape of his neck. Sterling fucking Sarcozan and his perfect twelve, dead at his allies hands. That twelve likely wasn't so smart to earn after all.
Not that Tova really cares.
The streets are glittering in silvers and golds, almost enough to draw Tova's attention as she watches Ives scoop up a large bundle of knives some twenty yards away. Morgan is skirting around the far edge of the Cornucopia with a healthy liveliness in his step, swinging a large bow in the direction of whoever gets a hair too close for his liking.
He looks much too enthused for Tova, personally, but at least he's alive. That's more than she can say for some people.
Ives started calling them the Behemoth—the mega-alliance of eight that began to form before training had even begun. They were the best of the best, the ones that always excelled in the Academies, whose motivations and efforts were never questioned. They're the ones with the kills now; all everyone else can do is simply run and pray they do it fast enough.
Tova has been waiting for this moment, the one in which he looks up at her and realizes her proximity. He probably thinks her an easy target, made more comfortable by the fact that he drives a machete into Isolde's neck and she falls, dead at his feet. To him, Tova deserves to be just another number.
But she's done playing Orellan's games.
Too fucking long she's let him walk all over her, taunt her, make digs at her size and her ability. Tova had never held any animosity towards not being the apple of the Academy's eye, but Orellan had almost made her hate it. She was doing this for her father, though, for Aviya… what did it matter if she was no one's favorite, the black sheep in a yet to be culled herd?
It was his time to die, possibly—someone's, at least. But not hers.
Before Isolde's body has even stilled Orellan is charging towards her, stomping about like some massive beast. He could crush her between his bare hands, but he brandishes the machete like he's been imagining killing her for years. If he does this, he wipes away the not-so-perfect stain she's made on the Academy. He brings honor to himself, even if he never quite had any to begin with.
All Tova can do is smile as he gets closer and closer, her lips curling into a smile that no doubt makes her look manic, borderline insane as she lets a monster close in on her.
In her peripherals, Morgan locks an arrow into place.
It's almost too easy to smile.
The arrow arcs way in a near-straight line and sinks deep into Orellan's shoulder. So focused on her as he had been he stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet as his momentum is suddenly stopped. Two of his allies, hot on his heels, trip over themselves to stop in time—if that was an option, it would have been almost commendable. Dazzle shrieks as Morgan raises the bow again, the noise blissfully cut off as his next arrow tears her throat and silences her for good.
As is his own fault for turning to watch her fall, Pellitor's shock at Dazzle's death does nothing good for him. Exposing his back to Tova of all people doesn't sound so dangerous, perhaps, if she was empty-handed.
She has no trouble losing an axe for this.
She raises it with a smile. Orellan shouts something at him, words garbled, but it's not fast enough. The axe tumbles over and over until the blade cracks into his spine, so loud that she hears it as something is severed and Pellitor collapses not unlike a house of cards, finally overtaken by a great gust of wind.
As expected, Orellan doesn't seem to care about his fallen allies framing him more than he does his own life as his gaze shifts away, forging a mental path away from the carnage.
His time is coming. But it's not now.
"Don't worry," she calls out to him, finding that the rage simmering in his eyes makes her all the more determined. "I'll be back for you."
He lunges up with a yell. Morgan doesn't even have to fire an arrow, this time, as one of Ives' knives plants itself in the dirt just before his feet, stopping him in his tracks. He lingers behind them all, one foot planted on the plate Tova had previously occupied, passing another knife from hand to hand. While she can't find it in her to trust Morgan, it's Ives that she has unfailing faith in—he'll protect her unconditionally, when it comes down to it. That was the commitment they made to each-other, two misfits lost in a sea of perfection.
Tova waves Morgan off, making sure that he's crossed back over the ring of pedestals before beginning to back-pedal herself, trying to take in her surroundings for what feels like the first time. The elegant streets. The splendid store-fronts. Each intentional line in the cobblestone, the perfect archways of the lamp-posts that line the sidewalks.
It's everything One is supposed to be; everything Tova has never properly had.
"I'll see you later," she says to Orellan. A monster forms in the streets as his lips curl back, teeth bared like he wants to tear her limb from limb. He's done enough damage to her, though.
It's about time for Tova to return the favor.
For a long while after Dazzle and Pellitor fall, the area around the horn is silent.
At least it feels that way to Maderia.
She can still hear footsteps, voices in the distance. An awkward hush falls over them as Orellan hauls himself back to his feet, spitting into the grass with unreserved savagery. He pulls the arrow from his shoulder without thinking twice about it, blood spurting down the front of his neatly pressed shirt.
"Shouldn't have done that," Catelaya comments behind her. "Going to bleed a lot."
"Fuck you," Orellan snaps. He tosses the remains of the broken arrow at her feet and begins his search for what she can only assume is a first-aid kit. Catelaya only smirks, apparently unfazed by his antics as she twirls her bloodied spear and tucks it back along her side.
"Hey!" Aleric's voice calls out, sounding a hair too eager. "Look what we found!"
There's a wild shriek, each rise and fall echoing along the metal walls of the Cornucopia, as Valor rips someone free from the shadows beyond a crate. He pulls Lyra Clemson free from her hiding place by a hand in her hair, fingers locked throughout the pale blonde strands before he throws her into the middle of the cobblestone street, surrounded on all sides.
She's crying, already, letting nonsense pleas spill out that seem to fall on deaf ears. Not one of them seems keen on letting her go. "You want it, Mads?" Isarrel asks. "You're the only one without…"
Without a kill. She nods before Isarrel can finish; Maderia straightens her shoulders, plucks a long knife from her belt.
This is the opportunity she had been waiting for. It had just made more sense for her allies, with their larger and long-ranged weapons, to take care of business during the bloodbath. Now she has a clean opportunity in front of her—nobody else is rushing forward to claim it. Perhaps they aren't overly invested in the idea of killing a sobbing fifteen year old.
It doesn't bug her, truly, as she steps forward to Lyra's side, bending down. This is everything she trained for, the strength she was meant to show. Giving Lyra a quick death is more than the girl would have gotten from anyone else.
"Please, Maderia," she sobs, fingernails catching on the cobblestone. "Please, please, I'll do anything…"
She didn't think this girl would know her name, but then again, doesn't everyone? They know Elvario and the fortunes attached to it, the money her mother has funneled into the Academy. Her mother, who is so overwhelmingly proud of the daughter she has raised into something akin to a warrior. This is the strength she was always meant to show.
"Please," Lyra begs again, but she leans towards her all the same. Her struggles are futile as Maderia locks onto her the same way Valor did—fingers against her skull, holding her still.
And she draws the knife across her throat. Quick. Easy. Almost painless.
But not clean in the slightest.
Blood washes out over her hands and Maderia startles, despite herself, taking a hurried step back as Lyra's body drops to the ground. She gives them a harsh shake, but only succeeds in splattering blood down her front, drops landing thick on her slim white shoes.
A warm hand lands on her back as she moves, still, from the body. Catelaya's voice is gentle in her ear. "Nice one, sweetheart," she says easily—less affected by the blood, as if already used to it.
Until now, there was never a beating heart behind her actions. When she stabbed with her knife, it was nothing more than cotton stuffing. Now a girl lies dead in the street in front of her, a job well done. The same as her allies. A part of her can only feel relief that there's nothing separating them now—they've all done their parts. They've all proved themselves.
She knows her mother is still proud. She knows Ceziah is watching with that same sparkle in his eyes as always, still watching his big sister like she's the hero of his story.
And Catelaya's hand, still gentle on her back. Comfort radiates out from the girl in waves and Maderia can't help but stare back at her, though Catelaya is too busy letting her eyes wander over the streets, an energetic sparkle in them that makes her feel more alive. Quickly, it brings back some of the vigor that this small moment has taken away from her as if it was never gone to begin with.
Catelaya shakes herself, though, and removes her hand from Maderia's back only to dig an elbow into her ribs instead, grinning. "Should we get'ta cleaning these up, or what?" she asks, striking a foot out in the direction of the bodies.
Right. They still have work to do.
And somehow, it feels easier to get through now.
Morgan's been pacing since before dawn.
It felt like a simple dream at first, hearing his wandering footsteps breaking into her consciousness. Upon realizing it was only him walking wall to wall along the front of the clothing shop they had set up in for the night, it was easy to relax herself once more.
Tova is growing increasingly irritated though—he just won't fucking stop.
Ives hasn't been asleep for some time, either. She knows him well enough to know that he's the type to wake at the slightest noise; his closed eyes and relaxed demeanor don't fool her one bit. No doubt her rolling back and forth along the plush carpet hasn't done him any favors, but she wasn't to blame in the first place.
The two of them, they understood each-other. You could have as many differences as you damn well liked, but when you started to bond over being the two outcasts, the ones who didn't quite fit in, growing thick as thieves wasn't difficult to do. Morgan was supposed to be their insurance policy against a few sleepless nights—he could hold his own, too. Yesterday was proof of that.
But by God, if he wasn't annoying.
"I'm going to kill him," she mutters into the floor, sensing a smile on Ives' face as she keeps her eyes trained on the wall in front of her, listening to Morgan's footsteps one after the other.
"Counter-productive."
"Stop being the logical voice in my head," she bemoans. That's the reason she respected him in the first place, though—Ives was smart. Always logical. What he lacked in spoken words he made up for inside his mind.
He was right. Killing Morgan wasn't going to help them out any.
"Oh, good," Morgan says suddenly, taking a few quick steps towards them before Tova can begin to feign sleep. "You're both awake. We should get going."
Tova lifts her head. Ives cracks an eye open. "Get going?" he questions.
"Get going," Morgan confirms.
"Get… going?" Tova asks flatly. "Where?"
"Anywhere that hunting takes us. We need to get on this, before we're spurred into action by something else. Why waste time sitting around, y'know?"
It's hardly nine in the morning on their second day in the arena, and yet Morgan is acting like they've been sitting around for two weeks on their asses, doing nothing at all. Has this motherfucker forgotten how to keep track of time, or does he simply not care?
"We're not—"
"We have to," Morgan interrupts.
"Tova's right," Ives insists. Bless his soul. "You both got kills yesterday. We've got a good set-up here. If we want to take a look around, that's fine, but there's no use in going out hunting. Who is left as prey?"
"Annora and Alaban got out together. The twins are still out there, too, and Nephrine—"
"Nephrine and the twins will get themselves killed on their own time, and the other two aren't people we need to worry about right now," Ives says. He's not wrong—three ill-prepared sixteen year olds, one of whom has no training, are unlikely to make it out of here alive. "That leaves the Behemoth. Six of them, three of us. If you want to head back that way and get yourself killed, be my guest. I'll be here."
He never speaks so much, not in all the years she's known and cultivated a friendship with him. Ives only says anything at all in this vein when he means business. He's her rational when Tova only wants to swing; it's why she left Orellan at the bloodbath. Ives told her before they even launched that it would only end in bloodshed for them both.
And he was right.
"I'm not going," Tova says firmly. She gets up, finally, bones creaking in protest from their night on the floor despite the fluffy carpeting. "We're not going."
In the back of her mind, she only means her and Ives. Visibly, though, Morgan caves. That doesn't stop his simmering, though his anger inches away from that of a boil. He turns back to the door, fingers white-knuckled around his bow. Starts to pace again.
Ives pulls her back down to the floor after a few insistent tugs. "Try and get some more sleep," he says.
"I don't fucking trust him," she hisses. It should have just been the two of them. Tova knew it all along.
Why didn't she trust her gut while she still had the chance to?
"I'll stay awake," Ives tells her. "If he leaves, he leaves. Nothing we can do about it. If he does anything else… well, we'll figure it out."
But what, is the question. What could Morgan possibly do? Can his anger morph into something more threatening for the two of them, or will he squash it back down and wait for something more?
Tova doesn't want to know—she figures she's going to find out, regardless.
She's the first one to her feet at Orellan's request.
Hunting seems like the natural path of progression for this group, one of the only ones they have left to fulfill.
Maderia has been taught every hunting tactic in the book. She's been tested, gone through the trials; everyone here has. No doubt they should be able to find some success out there in the well-taken care of streets, a picture-perfect recreation of their wealthiest shopping areas back home.
Naturally, it's Orellan who calls for volunteers to leave the Cornucopia, and she stands in less than three seconds. Aleric is quick to follow, reaching for the pack abandoned at his feet.
"Anyone else?" he asks, stretching out his arm without effort, as if the injury from yesterday is no longer bothering him. The medicine they found within the crates has already caused the wound to seal over, returning Orellan to his golden boy persona within a few hours.
"Why not," Isarrel says, hopping down to her feet from a nearby crate. "I wouldn't mind a good fight."
"I'm good," Catelaya says from the ground, shielding her eyes from the sun as she squints at their de-facto leader with a cheeky grin on her face. "Me and Val will hold down the fort, don't you worry boss."
Orellan doesn't like her—he doesn't like anyone, really, but he seems to have a particular distaste for Catelaya. Something about her irks him, her halfway insolence towards his supposed authority an immediate mark of disrespect. It's clear in the way that he stares her down, though she appears unfazed.
It's a good thing to hold onto in here, but Maderia doesn't want strife amongst this group. There's a time and place for it, and neither of those things are now. If they want to go after each-other later, once the others are gone, they'll be welcome to it. For now, holding them together is the best option.
She retrieves her knives and organizes them in her belt, pausing by Catelaya's side. "Hey," she says, looking down at the other girl, appearing lax as she leans back against the horn, spear draped over her lap.
"Hey yourself, sweetheart."
Her curiosity finally gets the best of her. "Why do you call me that?"
"'Cause you look like one," Catelaya says, easy and simple. She feels the tips of her ears burn in response. "That's it."
It's simplicity is not all that, she knows. Whatever she wanted to say is gone. "They're leaving without you," Catelaya continues, unperturbed by her silence. "Watch out for that one. I think he bites."
She jabs the tip of her spear towards Orellan's retreating back, uncaring for if Valor can hear them, only five feet away. Maderia can't help but frown. Everyone knows that Orellan is quick to fight—why wouldn't he be, when he has the capability and power to back it up? She can handle him, though. She's been in that Academy since she could walk, years before Orellan Solheim even walked through the front doors.
Maderia can handle him. "I was going to say the same to you. He doesn't like you."
"Well, I don't like him either," Catelaya announces. "More shit comes out of his top end than his bottom, and let me tell you, that is an impressive feat."
And despite herself, Maderia smiles. It's wrong, but she at least manages to smother her giggle. Catelaya only looks awfully proud of herself in return, folding her hands behind her back after she gestures Maderia away, after their retreating allies.
There's no reason for it beyond the smile, but obligation has always led her down paths she never could have imagined. "Thanks, Catelaya," she says, backpedaling as fast as her feet will take care.
"Cat's good, y'know."
She smiles again, ducking her head this time. "Mads is good too."
"Mads it is."
She needs to go. That's what everyone is waiting for. Valor has already rolled his eyes one too many times at their unwillingness to let go of such a quick interaction, but he's disappearing into the horn now.
Maderia is losing a bit of that grasp on how to properly conduct herself.
"Hey, Cat?" she asks. "Why did I not know you back home?"
"'Cause you were too busy hanging out with the best sort of people," Cat calls out to her.
"What does that make you, then?"
She's nearly to the very edge of the square, turning every other second to make sure she can still see her allies down the nearest street, peering into storefronts. That doesn't stop her from turning back to their base, waiting anxiously for a response
Cat stands, as if to make herself more visible, but her grin is bright enough that Maderia thinks it would be possible to see a mile away. "Better."
She can hear them arguing from the back room.
It was one last sweep, that was all. One last, quick sweep to ensure they weren't leaving anything behind before they moved on for the night. Tova knew it wasn't smart to get complacent, not after the cannon they had heard earlier in the day, but that didn't mean she was going to admit Morgan was right.
He still wasn't, in her eyes. His hastiness was overkill. Now it was making the two of them argue the second she left—Ives didn't argue. He would wait until the other person had let out their grievances, absorb them, and then move on.
Tova pressed closer to the wall, straining to hear, but it all sounded like nonsense. Complaints about directions, and plans. No doubt Morgan's fault, then. Ives rarely got involved in fights, and he certainly didn't start them. Having a moral compass as a best friend always worked out that way.
Now, though, he sounds aggravated. Regardless of Morgan's presence, it's still the two of them. They've committed to one another. She has her father to get back to, and Aviya. He has Maelle.
Morgan isn't just a thorn in her side—he's the whole damn rose bush, at this point, and he's growing out of control.
There's nothing intelligent about this move, but Ives isn't standing beside her telling her not to. Once she goes through with it, there's no bowing out.
Tova grips her axe tighter in both hands and strides out into the storefront. "What the hell are you two doing?" she asks. Ives glances in her direction, as composed as he's able to be. Morgan looks more wild, throwing his blissfully empty hands up as he rounds on her.
Whatever's going to come out of his mouth is only going to piss her off.
Better to stop it before she has to hear it.
Tova lifts the handle of the axe up and sends it crashing forward, the blunt end of the handle colliding directly with the space between Morgan's eyes. He howls—something crunches, and blood spews from his nose like someone's turned the faucet on full-blast. Morgan stumbles back to the window, bracing his hands against his face as he splutters around his new mouthful of blood.
"What the fuck?" he shouts, though one of his hands finally fumbles for an arrow, shoulders twisting as he tries to pull the bow free.
Ives only looks mildly put-off when he raises a foot and kicks him square in the gut, sending him crashing back against the window.
"I wish I could say it wasn't personal," Tova says. "But it sort of is."
Morgan holds out a hand—a last plea, perhaps telling her to wait. In response, she buries the axe's blade in the center of his chest.
He falls. Worryingly, or not, there's still a bit of surprise in his eyes as he gasps, clinging to life until Ives bends down with a knife, plunging a knife into the side of his neck. Only then does Morgan finally go still, emitting one last gurgle. For once in his life, he's finally, blissfully, quiet.
Ives stands tall, rolling his shoulders out. "What was that for?" he asks.
"For my dad, and Aviya," Tova says. "And Maelle."
"Don't get all righteous on me, T."
"Fine. He was pissing me off."
Ives snorts, wiping his bloodied knife down on the leg of his pants. "Unsurprisingly. 'sides, not like it matters, though. If we don't both get out, I'll check on yours, and you'll check on mine. That's how it works."
"Don't talk like that," she insists. "We'll both be there to check on them ourselves."
Ives nods. Again, agreeable. He's not going to bother arguing with her. They made their pact—through disagreements, dead allies, and any amount of chaos, they stick with each-other. That's how it works.
Tova only gets a few moments with that thought settling comfortably in her head, though, before the door comes crashing in.
Orellan doesn't hesitate for even a second before he puts his foot to the door.
Isarrel ducks under his arm and into the store; the boys are both right on her heels. In a matter of a single moment, Maderia is left standing like an idiot in the street as chaos erupts just inside the door.
She can hardly tell who's friend or foe in the heavy darkness—the lamps outside do nothing to illuminate just inside the windows. There are several different screams, and it's all she can do to try and pinpoint them, make sense of who they belong to.
They couldn't tell who the shouts were coming from a few blocks over, but they hadn't cared. As soon as they had heard signs of life, it was game over. The arena wasn't that large, the streets not that long. It was almost pathetically easy to find whoever was hiding out in here.
At her next step into the darkness, knives held out, Maderia nearly trips over a corpse sprawled out on the ground. A few blinks confirms the sight, as hard as it is to believe—Morgan's chest split open by a wide gash, his throat neatly cut open. And it appears, as one would find, that his allies are the culprits.
Orellan sends Ives flying back, both him and several racks of clothes crashing to the ground in such a cacophony that nearly everything else is drowned out. To her left, Aleric is steadily driving Tova back towards the hall. Her eyes search for Isarrel three times over before she finds her, sprawled out on the ground, still screaming—
Only emptiness remains where her right arm had previously been, the stump remaining at her shoulder spurting blood several inches into the air. Her stomach rolls. The tang of copper floods her senses, Tova's axe flashes with a bright crimson, even in the dark, and finally she finds the initiative to move.
Even then, Ives is quicker than her. He scrambles away from Orellan's persistent gate and attempts to bundle Tova back, aiming for a clean getaway down the hall. Aleric's sword is knocked away as the two of them begin to alternate swings, giving them what appears to be ample enough opportunity to either cut their way out the front, or retreat through the back.
Neither are options she can allow. These are the moments she trained for. The critical decisions, the crucial blows.
Maderia raises a knife, waiting until a gap emerges between her allies, and finally lets it fly.
Ives doesn't even make a sound when it lodges in his gut—he doesn't have to. Before he crumples to the ground Tova is shouting in his place, something unusually frantic and high-pitched to her voice. She knows what fear sounds like.
Orellan falls with them both on his sword. Somewhere in the middle, whether they're forced apart or they let go, Tova and Ives are no longer hanging onto one another. The girl is a blur as she takes off, bloodied axe still in hand.
If Orellan wasn't still there, she might be more considered with giving chase. If he has his way, though, he'll spend his fair share of time cutting into Ives, making patterns all over his skin. She steps forward behind them, Ives pinned under Orellan's heavier weight, and her presence is enough. When Orellan looks back at her, he knows. She had a hand in this death. If he doesn't finish Ives off now, Maderia will do it for him.
He plunges the sword into Ives' chest. "Will you fucking shut her up?" Orellan snaps, too busy wedging the blade further through his muscle to do any other job himself.
Isarrel isn't screaming any longer, but she's sobbing, curled around the stump of her arm. The limb lies in its own bloody pool some ten feet away, already forgotten about.
"Breathe slow," Maderia suggests, crouching down carefully by her side. They don't have nearly the first-aid supplies here, but there's more than enough back at the horn. She begins to pull apart a nearby shirt, the thickest one she can find, and bends forward to tie it around Isarrel's shoulder, ignoring the blood that continues to soak into the carpet.
"Not what I meant," Orellan says under his breath, an irritated hiss escaping his lips as he crouches down by their sides. He pushes Maderia's arm away, gives her a light shove back.
And by the time she rights herself he's jerked Isarrel's head back, and is plunging the knife that had been in Ives' stomach into the soft skin under her jaw.
Her gasp is quiet. Maderia can't stop the noise from slipping out no matter how she tries, eyes fixated helplessly as Orellan removes the knife and Isarrel's body goes slack, fingers flexing uselessly for a few moments before she stills.
Aleric swallows so hard she hears it, somehow, as if nothing has ever been louder.
She can barely do so around the lump in her throat. "Why did you—"
"Not carrying dead weight," Orellan interrupts, standing without preamble. "You're not either. Don't pretend that's not what they taught us."
She would have, though. She would have taken Isarrel back to the Cornucopia and bandaged her up, let her rest. She wouldn't be the first person to continue on in the arena missing a limb—she wouldn't even be the first to win, if she got that far. In the back of her mind, she knows Orellan is right. A personal game means there's no prioritizing anyone else.
Perhaps that's what she was taught, but Maderia has always coached herself into being a person worthy of existing. She would be efficient, but not brutal. Courageous, but not arrogant.
There's no chance Isarrel even saw it coming. Is that mercy, or is it just more cruelty, one bit after the other?
This whole place is filled with it. Morgan's fast-cooling corpse, Ives' chest soaked with blood, Isarrel's wide-open, trusting eyes. Three dead in the matter of a few minutes. With the cannon they heard earlier, it feels almost like the numbers are dwindling too fast for her to keep track of.
She heard that earlier cannon, though. It was distant. She was uninvolved. Someone out there killed, and she was none the wiser. These ones, though… these are impossible to ignore. When they're staring you in the face, all you can do is look back and hope you can learn to live with it.
The cannons must have blasted, but Maderia hasn't heard them. The roaring in her ears has taken over.
Running feels like forever when there's nothing to run towards.
Tova learns that lesson the hard way.
There was always a finish line at the Academy; didn't matter how far away it was, as long as you knew it was there. You could run as long as the day was long because it would end, eventually. It always did.
For her it was that, but Ives, too. He was always faster than her. Tova made it her mission to beat him one day.
She never did, but she finally caught up to him, two weeks before the reaping. Tova thinks he may have let her, but they never talked about it, and Ives didn't admit it either. Whatever it was, it just felt good to cross that line together.
Something they wouldn't be doing now no matter how fast she ran.
Tova doesn't cry. She doesn't allow herself to. Ives would smack her silly if he caught her sniveling over him—not that he will, now, but that thought isn't comforting enough to linger on. In a span of twelve hours, she went from comfortably sandwiched on either side, to woefully alone. The alley she's parked herself in has done wonders in terms of company.
She lost herself in these streets, letting fear run her through the maze, head constantly whipping back to make sure she wasn't followed. She had cut her arms open pulling herself through one of the shop's back windows, but none of the gashes had ever hurt beyond a mere sting. It was somewhere in her chest that hurt, an ever-present ache that eventually made it so hard to breathe she had been forced to stop.
And since then, she had been here, tucked away at the back of a dead-end alley. She wasn't going to run anymore—there was no use in finding a better spot. If someone showed up now and blocked her in, she would fight tooth and nail. Take another limb off. Spit blood over their corpse.
In the dead of night, grief had captured her. It had made every step painful. They had talked about dying two dozen times before they stepped foot in this arena, but the reality of it never fully sunk in. Not until he pushed her.
Because that was what had happened. Ives hadn't simply let go, dragged away by their enemies, or faltered because of the pain. He had shoved her, a knife buried in his torso, as hard as he could. And although he hadn't said it, she could see it in his eyes.
Run.
It was simple to do in the dark, but now dawn was coming, and Tova had monsters to face. Herself, lunging so fast at Isarrel that she hadn't even had time to regret the action as she severed the girl's arm off. Morgan, laughing at her from the great beyond for such a foolish decision. Orellan and Maderia and Aleric and the few other people left in this arena.
It didn't so much matter who got out with her now—that's what everyone would want to believe, anyway; the only person she truly wanted was gone, and she hadn't even bothered to witness his face in the sky one last time when she had been running.
To Tova, though, it mattered. It was never going to stop mattering. She saw Orellan put that sword in his chest before she bolted, saw the manic glee in his eyes when he kicked open the door and realized she was there. Her tormentor, always thinking of her, and her of him.
She'd rather take one of the destitute twins. The reaped girl, Nephrine. Anyone but Orellan fucking Solheim.
When grief turned to rage, Tova knew what she had to do.
And that was a hell of a lot of work.
Unsurprisingly, it's Cat who comes to keep her company when night falls yet again.
The only thing to signal her arrival is the blanket she drapes delicately over Maderia's bowed shoulders—other than that, she's silent, letting out not even a sigh when she sits down beside her.
It doesn't feel much like keeping watch when she's doing nothing more than staring into the distance, one direction only, but having Cat there makes her feel better about her purpose; even if she is more distracting than not.
"You're not cold?" Maderia asks, wishing that she could imitate Cat's easy shrug.
"Never, sweetheart. I run warm."
"Jealous."
Without asking twice Cat opens her arm, and Maderia leans into her side, pressing against the warm curve of her body. Guilt grabs hold of her lungs—this isn't keeping watch, and this definitely isn't helping anyone besides her. All it's doing is keeping her a tad bit warmer, chasing away the slight chill of the cobblestone beneath her. The temperature hasn't changed, but with the moon blotted out, the stars gone, it somehow feels that way.
"You haven't talked much since you've been back," Cat notices. She's much more vigilant despite her untroubled gaze, checking all of the streets before she looks down.
"No use in it. No one cares."
"Hey, I care," Cat chastises, nudging her gently in the ribs. "If it's about Isarrel…"
She's the only one that knows. The only one that cares. Orellan was the one that delivered the final blow, and Aleric has been equally silent about it ever since. Valor hadn't even blinked twice when they had returned without her, like it was just another day on the job.
To everyone else, it was. But to Maderia it only felt wrong.
"He shouldn't have done it."
"If she was as injured as Orellan said…"
"She was," Maderia emphasizes. "But we could have helped her. Or given her the choice. She didn't deserve to die knowing that her allies betrayed her, that one killed her and the others did nothing to stop it."
Cat's arm tucked around her back is impossibly warm, hand drifting gently down her side and over her ribcage until it rests over her hip, fingers fidgeting about. "Sometimes," she starts. "Sometimes to be the best, you have to do your worst."
"That's not how I want to do things."
"'Cause you're special, Mads. Not many people are. Not like you."
She's always been told that—as soon as she was old enough to understand the words, her mother would tell her that as often as she could afford to. Her teachers said it. Her trainers knew it. Her little brother would look up at her like she could hang all of the stars in the sky without a smidgen of effort.
It's easy to hear it. Accepting it, feeling it… that's a different story.
"Do you want to get out of here?" Cat questions suddenly.
"Huh?"
"Me and you, you and me. Maybe when one or two more of the boys drops dead, just in case. We can run, or kill whoever's left, if you want. And then we'll take off and make sure we win. Just us two."
It was always going to come down to her and someone else—a few weeks ago, she had no idea who Catelaya March even was. Separated by an entire District, different Academies. The two of them just weren't meant to be back in One.
But here… could they do it, here?
"What happens after?" she murmurs. "The Games, next year…"
"By my calculations, it's about mid-May. Which means we have seven or eight odd months before then."
"And one of us still has to die," Maderia insists, sitting straighter. Cat's arm only tightens around her further, refusing to ease up. "It doesn't matter how far away it is, because—"
Cat flattens a single finger against her lips. "It matters," she whispers. "Because we'll make those seven or eight months count."
"How?"
"However you want." Cat shrugs, again, as if it's becoming something of a trademark move. She doesn't have a doubt in her mind that Cat is serious—they could make every single day before then worth living, wake up and enjoy it before someone inevitably gets lost in the fray. In the end, would that time be worth it, if only one of them walks out alive?
It's hard not to imagine that it wouldn't be, with Cat by her side. At least for as long as she can be.
"We'll run," she says softly. "But not yet."
"Soon," Cat agrees. Her hand drifts down Maderia's jaw and she wants more, can't possibly ask it of her. For once in her life, the hero she's molded herself to be crumbles. In its place, the shell cracked wide open, is a teenage girl who loses her courage when a girl she likes so very much is staring at her, eyes somehow warmer than all the rest of her.
Maderia wants more, but she settles. She lays her head down on Cat's shoulder, face tucked into the crook of her neck. She's blanketed in warmth, safe at long last.
She wants more. There's a list in her head, growing larger by the second.
But they'll have time for all of that.
It's almost pathetic how oblivious the two of them are.
Tova's been lingering at the back end of the square for the better part of twenty minutes, now, just observing. The lamplight doesn't stretch far enough to reveal her, but they haven't even looked this way. They haven't looked any way but each-other for, at least, forty seconds now.
What she does know, unreservedly, is that Ives never held onto her like that. He wouldn't have dared.
For as long as she waits, she keeps expecting something to change. The other two boys must be safely tucked away inside the horn; only the girls are in view, their backs turned, and Aleric, sleeping soundly where the Cornucopia curls in on itself, head pillowed on a backpack. Perhaps he prefers the fresh air. Maybe one of his allies talks in their sleep.
Regardless, it's the stupidest possible decision he could have made on tonight of all nights.
It's a shame, really. Aleric isn't the one she wants. Even Valor, had he been there instead, would have been excused from her all-consuming anger. It's Orellan that she wants to chop into pieces, and she has no clear shot at it. To get into the horn itself will mean passing within feet of the two girls, and there's no chance in hell they're so absorbed in one another that they won't notice her strolling about.
But it's one by one, here. Person by person. Every death weakens him, putting him closer and closer to having to fight Tova—for real this time.
It all feels like a set-up; when Tova steps gingerly out into the flood of an overhead streetlight and gets no response, a laugh nearly bubbles its way out of her throat. She takes each further step calmly, no rush whatsoever as she nears closer and closer to Aleric's sleeping form.
Being a heavy sleeper is such an unfortunate thing.
She crouches down by his side, carefully picking up the knife lying within an inch of his limp fingers. There's hardly any light in these pristinely crafted streets to reflect off of it, but it's beautiful nonetheless.
It looks leagues better in his throat.
With her hand flattened over his mouth, Aleric doesn't even make a sound. His eyes fly open, hand flailing out, but it only collides, muffled, with her stomach.
He's dead in less than ten seconds.
Tova tucks the knife into her belt with a smile. Waits. A heartbeat later, a cannon fires.
It would have been easier to take off with him gasping for breath, before they could even see her, but Tova needs them to know. She tears the backpack from beneath Aleric's head, sending his skull thudding into the ground, and takes off back for the street, not sparing a glance behind her. There's a shout—one of the girls, she knows, and they both have good enough aim that she can't bother trying to stick around for more. Whether it's a knife or a spear, neither are appealing things to have sticking out of your spine.
They've seen her, though. Within the minute they'll find Aleric's body, if they haven't already. Putting two and two together after that will be easier than taking candy from a baby.
Easier than killing Aleric, even.
Orellan will know it was her, and that's all Tova wants. She wants him to be angry. She wants him in such a blind rage that his own hatred for her gets in the way of him delivering the final blow.
If nothing else, he knows justice is coming for him, now.
There's no avoiding that.
They've been looking for her for the better part of the day.
Maderia has never sat for so long in her life—she expected someone to be back by now, but the sun is beginning to set and she hasn't seen hide nor hair of her allies since mid-afternoon.
Her only comfort is that she knows Cat wouldn't abandon her; if nothing else, Cat will come back by nightfall.
She has no idea what to think on the matter of the boys; Orellan, no doubt fantasizing about how he can string Tova up from the Cornucopia's entrance, and eager Valor, nearly as mean-spirited in his own eliminations. She can still hear both of their scathing voices from the dead of night, feeling so long ago now.
How did she sneak up on you? Were two pairs of eyes not enough? You can't be fucking trusted, you're not good enough, what is the fucking point of having you here—
Cat had been up and screaming right back in their faces while Maderia had stared down at Aleric, as silent in death as he was dying. A victim of a practical blood-feud he had never asked to be part of. They were all intertwined in hatred and misery, but Aleric had simply been going through the motions towards the path of victory.
So had Maderia, she thought. Until the night before.
The worst part was, they were right, the both of them. Tova should have never been able to get close enough to kill someone without being undetected. It was an intrinsic failure, a part of her insides going wrong as if they had forgotten how to operate. For years she had worked the same way; she was vigilant, not unaware of her surroundings. Or at least she was supposed to be.
As much as they had distracted her, pulled apart the fiber that made her work right, she wanted Cat's arms back around her. She wanted her back at all.
It's the two cannons, perfectly simultaneously, that make fear and panic claw their way up Maderia's throat. It's the following scream, echoing down the streets from a distance that seems not so far away, that makes her leap to her feet.
It's something unknown in her that makes her start running.
There's no telling who the scream has come from, but Maderia knows all the signs of it. It's the same scream that erupted from Ceziah's mouth when he fell off the swings in the backyard when they were little and broke his arm. Pain before the shock can fully register, before you can chastise yourself and be more appropriately quiet. She remembers screaming for her mom, trying to cradle her little brother in her lap but him pushing away as pain erupted in his arm.
Her mother isn't here now. There's no one to fix this but Maderia, racing through the streets at random, ears straining for any signs of noise. When she finally does, it's only in the form of stumbling feet, an uneven gait that must mean the scream was worse than she thought.
Upon rounding the next corner, Maderia sees the figure at a slight distance, but her heart knows them immediately. "Cat!" she shouts, stomach twisting uncomfortably as she takes in her odd, lurching footsteps, hands pressed feebly to the blood-flow she has been unable to stem from her chest.
Cat only takes a second to look up at her before she pitches forward into Maderia's front; she struggles to keep them both upright, wrapping her arms tight around the other girl's trembling frame. "Cat," she says again, trying to rid her voice of its current stammer. "Hey, hey, just stay on your feet. I've got you."
"Mads," she says in response, nothing else, moaning in pain as Maderia pulls them both upright, turning them back in the direction of the Cornucopia. "I—"
"Talk to me," she presses. Maderia doesn't stop to take note of the damage. Whatever it is, it's bad. She didn't pick up any supplies other than her weapons when she took off, and Cat's bag is missing. "Talk to me. What happened?"
"Alaban," Cat gasps, feet catching on the uneven cobblestones as Maderia pulls her forward. "Him and Valor, they're both—they're dead."
The cannons, explained. That still isn't enough. "What about Orellan?"
"S-Searching through his supplies."
Rage overtakes her panic, an unusual feeling inside her normally calm self. She can see it so easily—Orellan on the ground, rooting through what's left of their supplies while Cat bleeds and stumbles off, looking for help. He never cared. He was never going to.
She pulls Cat tighter to her side, ignoring the blood that begins to stick between them. "We're almost there. We'll fix you up."
There's no choice. This isn't like Isarrel, and Orellan's not here right now to finish the job. This is Cat, the girl she's chosen to get out of here with, the only one that she wants. So what if she's getting heavier in Maderia's arms, struggling to put one foot in front of the other… she can fix this. That's what she's been taught to do.
"Mads—"
"We're almost there," she urges.
She doesn't even think Cat means to trip, her feet so tangled up in one another, but suddenly she's stumbling forward, unable to keep her balance. Only at the last second does Maderia manage to catch them both so that Cat doesn't slam into the pavement, twisting her body beneath the other girls.
Cat is dead weight in her lap, legs sprawled out. At least Ceziah had been fighting her.
This… this is worse than she could have ever imagined.
Her hands are no longer applying any sort of viable pressure to the deep gash in her chest; Maderia flattens her hands over it, eyes watering at the pained gasp that escape's Cat's mouth. This is the only way to save her. If hurting her for a few short hours means they get out of this together, then it will be worth it.
Cat looks up at her as she allows her arms to fall to the side; her eyes are dazed, squinting against the sun as she looks up and finds Maderia's own, but she smiles. "Hey, sweetheart."
"Hey yourself," she says back. Her voice is shaking again. "You're gonna be okay."
"Oh, I know. I've got you, right?"
"Right," Maderia agrees.
Cat is still smiling, almost lazily. She tips her head until it's resting against Maderia's stomach, the bloody strands of her hair sticking warm against her skin. "Thanks, sweetheart," she murmurs, letting out a breath as she goes lax.
Her slight smile remains pressed against the thin cotton of Maderia's shirt the whole while; blood continues to pump through her hands no matter the pressure she forces down on the wound, washing out over her hands until she can hardly distinguish what's happening beneath them.
She's cold, now, this girl who had been so warm twelve or so hours ago. Cat no longer has any warmth to offer her, and Maderia can't conjure any up herself.
"You're going to be okay," she whispers, hunching down low over Cat's still form. Maderia allows her lips to brush over Cat's forehead, and for a moment she swears she can taste blood in the back of her throat. "We're both going to be okay."
She doesn't realize Cat's gone until minutes later.
She can't help but wonder if Aleric's death… did something to the Behemoth.
Sure, Alaban was the third face in the sky last night, but the other two belonged to none other than Catelaya and Valor. If Tova is the reason for their implosion, she'll relish in it until the day she dies.
That's the exact type of thing the Academy would call overkill, but she's never had any spared love for that place. Orellan made sure of it years ago.
It's a damn shame he's not the one in the building she's been lingering outside of.
Tova has circled the block countless times just waiting for them to emerge, refusing to fall into a trap, but it doesn't appear they're too keen on the idea. Still, unless he was helplessly stuck somewhere else, Orellan would be camping out nowhere else but the Cornucopia, and he certainly wouldn't be this quiet about it.
It could be Maderia, but it doesn't seem likely. Nephrine, perhaps, or whichever one of the twins is still alive. Tova can't be fucked to remember. They both looked the same anyway.
Whichever one of them it is, they could be helpful.
Regardless, she's about to find out.
Tova throws open the front door of the jewelry store with a flourish, eyeing several broken display cases with a quick glance. "I don't want to kill you!" she calls, though the axe held tightly in her grip says otherwise. Hopefully they're willing to listen.
A shuffle from the back catches her attention and she crunches her way through the broken glass, easing towards the shut door in the back hall. Surely they're not hiding out in the bathroom of all places—that's one way to get caught with no easy way out.
Tova leans forward and raps on the door, the picture of politeness. "Can we talk?" she asks.
In response, the door comes flying outward and catches her in the chest, sending her sprawling to the ground.
Fucking figures.
Within seconds a figure is leaping on top of her brandishing a large chunk of glass; unless one of the twins suddenly sprouted a massive amount of hair within the arena, a sixteen year old reaped girl is threatening to kill her. Well, not on Tova's watch. It would be so much easier if she didn't have her back on the floor, if the axe wasn't lying just out of reach.
Nephrine comes down on top of her shrieking like a banshee and drives the glass shard into her bicep—Tova doesn't even bother screaming because it takes up too much energy, too much air. Tingling numbness spreads down to her elbow, but she ignores it in favor of wiggling free, bringing her legs up until she can kick Nephrine square in the chest, sending her flying back into the closet-sized bathroom. She thuds into the wall with a cry, immediately reaching for another length of glass stored at the base of the pedestal sink.
No wonder she looks so good, if she's been hiding out like this, biding her time. Nephrine probably hasn't even left this damn building.
And now she's never going to.
Tova lunges to her feet, not even bothering with the axe. "I said I didn't want to kill you," she hisses. "And now I sort of have to."
Nephrine dives towards her yet again, but this time Tova doesn't even let her through the doorway. She practically catches the younger girl's smaller frame as she leaps forward, hands wrapping around her shoulders and skull until she can pitch them both sideways. Nephrine's face smashes into the mirror hanging above the sink with great force, glass splintering over both of their feet. Pieces of it stick in her temple and forehead, blood streaming down her face as she tries to tear herself free from Tova's grip, shrieking like the noise will eventually drive her away.
It's always the people that don't know how to fight that eventually come out swinging; Tova will give her credit for that, if nothing else.
Even with her arm refusing its greatest acts of service, Tova still has more than enough strength to bring the younger girl's head down against the lip of the sink. Nephrine wails as her skull cracks into the porcelain, once, and then over and over again. Tova doesn't let up until her whimpers finally stop—though her legs have long since gone limp, there's no taking any chances with a girl who has already injured her.
Finally, she drops Nephrine to the ground. Halfway there, the cannon sounds. Tova grimaces as pain ricochets up her arm; though she can still hold onto her axe, she quickly discovers, it's not with the same strength or grip that she once possessed. Nerve damage, she suspects, but it's workable. At the end of the day, it's still leagues better than what she did to Isarrel.
Tova would rather have an arm at half capacity than a missing one entirely.
She nudges Nephrine's body up against the far wall, shaking her head as she bends down to tug off the girls jacket, tying it around her bloodied arm. "Your fault," she accuses, though it doesn't ring so victorious when she's saying it to a dead girl. When there's no one around to make a quick quip back, it never does.
Ives would have rolled his eyes. Hell, even Morgan would have laughed. Anyone at all would be able to pull something more from this situation.
Tova is at a loss, though—at least in that respect.
All she has left is this prelude to her grand finale.
"Get up."
She doesn't move. It feels as if her legs have ceased to work.
"Get up."
Maderia doesn't remember returning to the Cornucopia. Hell, she doesn't even remember getting out of the street. She doesn't remember Orellan's return—all she knows is that he had left again, soon after.
But when she looks up, now, he's there again. Face bloodied, unlike before, a towering golden statue raised up before her.
"Get," he says slowly, voice a low and dangerous snarl. "The fuck up."
"Or what?" Maderia is alarmed at how flat her voice sounds, the inherent lack of life within it. It appears as if it was taken away into the sky along with Catelaya. How had she even gotten out of the street and returned here, after that?
Orellan draws his sword, flaked with crimson, and lowers it to her throat. Maderia doesn't flinch as the tip of blade presses to her jugular, following its shimmering length back up to Orellan's face.
"Nephrine's dead," he explains. "And I killed Civet."
"So?"
"So there's three of us left, now. Get up."
And Maderia laughs. She can't help it. It bubbles from her throat, strangled and halfway manic. The stiffness in her cheeks from her long overdue cry finally loosens as she shakes her head, uncaring for how he readjusts his weapon across the column of her throat.
"And what if I don't?" she questions again. "You won't kill me. You and I both know you'd rather die than get out of here with her."
His mouth twists into an ugly grimace, as if there mere thought is enough to disturb him. His hatred for Tova will not allow him to kill Maderia—Orellan Solheim is not built to spend all that time with her until next January. Both of them will end up dead long before it.
That's why it was supposed to be Cat, the two of them. Easy and simple.
"You won't do it," Maderia challenges. Her mother would be furious with her for this, watching her daughter bare her throat to someone who could slit it so easily, but she doesn't care. The world has robbed her. She is going to listen to its whims no longer.
Orellan backs off with a barely concealed growl. He doesn't once turn his head as he stalks off, pace determined as he heads for the streets. The impending dark doesn't matter—him and Tova will have their fight regardless of if the sun is watching.
Maderia gets to her feet, finally, legs creaking ominously beneath her as she stands, stretching out her sore joints. Each knife feels foreign in her hand, but she's been sitting here for so long that she can't imagine any other outcome. There's no one to pull her up, prod her into walking. Cat would, if she was here.
She stares after Orellan's retreating back with a heavy, overdue sigh, and starts after him.
There was something odd about the way they walked, a pair broken apart by twenty or so yards.
It had taken ages for Tova to climb up here, crouched down low against the well-manicured shingles of a boutique on the main road. She couldn't stay up here forever, but it allowed her to see them—allies through convenience, together from the start. Not friends. Not even necessarily agreeable to getting out of here together.
But against her all the same.
She watches them stalk through the dark for only another moment or so before she shimmies back to the roof's edge, careful to hold onto the drainpipe with her good arm as she slides back down. At least Tova knows that she doesn't need two good arms to swing an axe; sure, it would be thrilling to chop Orellan's head off, but there are other ways.
They've passed her, now, but Tova strides into the street with a smile. "Hey!" she shouts, pleased in the way that Maderia jumps, Orellan's quick whirl betraying his shock at his sudden appearance.
"Long time no see!" she calls, but Orellan is already racing towards her. Not a fan of conversation, this one, unless it's one-sided. He never did like hearing her talk.
Tova braces both feet against the cobblestone as he charges, raising his sword with such a stereotypical battle cry that she only barely resists rolling her eyes. She blocks his first hit, shoving him back as best she can with the handle of her axe. He's got a knife in his other hand, long and curved, leaving her no room to duck in on the other side to try for a hit. Not unless she wants a knife to the ribs, that is.
Maderia doesn't appear to be in any rush to intervene. She lingers in the road as Orellan swipes at her again, striking at her legs so that she's forced to jump back, edging closer to the shopfront. Tova can't have her back against a wall; she needs room to run.
Instead of stopping his next blow she simply ducks under it, throwing herself low to the cobblestone so that she rolls away, giving herself enough momentum to turn them sideways. If anyone is going to end up pinned, it's going to be him. Although she wants nothing more than to scream, to get enraged, Tova forces herself to be calm. That's what Ives would tell her to do.
Besides, Orellan is angry enough for the both of them, and his rage is making him sloppy. At his next swing, she lets the blunt edge of her axe collide with his forearm, knocking his knife to the ground. Tova plants her shoe on it for good measure, unwilling to let him have it back. All she can do is stand her ground.
"You're not gonna win this," she pants. Get him angrier. "When they lower you down, they're going to laugh at your corpse. Couldn't even beat little old me, huh?"
He practically roars. His next blow makes her arms quake, the sword inching dangerously close to her face as she grits her teeth, pushing back with everything in here. "Little old me," she repeats. "Never belonged in the Academy. And yet I'm going to kill you anyway."
Orellan tries to sweep her legs out from beneath her, and she backs up just in time. He stumbles forward, nearly into her arms, but she shoves him back again.
He's never going to stop, and she's never going to get close enough to wound him. It's all going to come down to one thing.
Tova is not dying today. Especially not to him.
She casts a quick glance at Maderia again—closer, now, knives in both hands, eyes watchful. Tova sees the shift, though, the uneven drag of her feet on the cobblestone. She wants to do something.
She doesn't know what.
So Tova lets Orellan push her back, letting him think he's gained the upper-hand. His arms are beginning to shake with exertion, his frantic pace finally catching up to him. Her back once again inches closer and closer to the storefront. Tova begins to count each of his swings, measuring the seconds in her head. Each one slower than the last.
He swings. Misses her head, whistling past her ear. He swings. The tip of the blade drags across her forearm, but she barely feels it. He swings again, the blade cutting towards her face—
Tova ducks, prepared to leap out of the way once again. To pin him, finally.
She doesn't get the chance.
Orellan stumbles, a choked gasp fighting its way past his lips. Maderia's shadow behind him seems impossibly small, hidden behind such a giant, but larger than life is the knife she's planted between his shoulder blades, all the way to the hilt. She leaves it there, taking a few steps back as her eyes flash with uncertainty.
"Such a shame, isn't it?" Tova asks him, if he can hear her at all, and then steps forward, sinking her axe into his neck.
She barely has the strength left to hold it there, but she forces the blade in further, sweat dripping from her temples. Orellan falls, crumpling to the ground as the last of his energy is sapped. "You," he manages, voice a wreck. "You fucking bitch—"
"That's me," Tova interrupts. "And those are some delightful final words."
She tears the axe out. Blood spews from his neck, bubbles up out of his mouth until it coats his lips, until he's unable to gurgle out any further words. Orellan Solheim, forever immortalized in his hatred and nothing more.
The adrenaline does not fade even as the cannon fires. Tova's veins thrum with it, energizing her as she turns, finding Maderia still standing before her. Standing there like she was that night, too, when she raised her arm and let the knife fly. When she sealed Ives' fate.
"May I present to you your Victors of District One—Tova Revelis and Maderia El—"
Tova dives forward and plants the axe squarely in Maderia's chest.
The other girl screams, shrill and terrified, as the blade cracks into her sternum. "That," Tova says, tipping her head back to Orellan's body. "That was for me. But this is for Ives."
Tova kicks her to the ground, sparing not even a second for kindness as she pulls the axe free, letting blood soak Maderia's shirt. She twitches, spasms, gasping for air as her fingers find the wound, as if trying to coax the torn skin there back together. There's a buzz in the distance, a disturbance in the air as a hovercraft races towards them, but that doesn't stop the cannon from firing.
Tova stands there for a moment before she lets herself sink to the ground, finding rest at long last. "You better hurry up," she calls to the sky. "Before she stays dead for good."
She lets herself lay back, right there in the road, and Tova smiles again.
"—she's still unstable, we can't—"
"—done everything we can. She'll wake up. It's only a matter of time."
"This shouldn't have happened, Vermeil."
"Well, it did. What do you suggest we—"
"—move her to recovery. There's nothing more we can do."
"Miss Elvario? If you can hear me, we need you to—"
"Wake up, Miss Elvario."
"It's time to wake up, sweetheart."
There's a hum above her, the artificialness of the stark white ceiling lights assaulting her eyes as soon as Maderia dares to open them.
She feels stiff, like a corpse in rigor mortis. Stiff, like she died.
And something in her did.
"Oh, there you are, sweetheart."
She's helpless but to flinch at the nickname, uncaring for the nurse that leans down over her. The woman's face is soft, cotton candy hair pulled back into a neat bun as she takes Maderia's hand, fingers strikingly warm.
She tries to pull away, but can't.
"We were worried about you," the nurse says. "It was touch and go, for a moment there."
Touch and go…
Maderia raises her free hand to the center of her chest, pressing her fingers in. There's no pain, but she can feel raised skin, scar tissue from patching her back together. Tova's axe, splitting her open in the midst of her name being hailed across the sky. She had died, nothing more than a moment's notice before Tova was turning on her, seeing the job through. This is for Ives.
She shouldn't have died. Maderia should have seen it coming. She should have known.
This was not the fate she was meant to have.
Shouting erupts from somewhere outside the room and she goes still, the nurse's thumb still rubbing gently over her knuckles. "What is that?" she asks, throat horse. The nurse's eyebrows pinch together as she glances towards the door, but by the time she returns her gaze to Maderia's face she's wiped it clean, ever the picture of calm.
And it's all a farce.
"Nothing to worry about," she says, plastering on a sweet smile. "Just get some rest."
But there's still shouting—insistent, enraged screaming. "You can't," someone screeches. "You can't do this! You have to let me go home, this isn't fucking fair!"
The caterwaul is almost unfamiliar, but as each syllable rolls over through her brain, she recognizes it more intimately. Tova. "What's happening?" she presses. Something is, all whilst Maderia lies trapped in this room.
"Nothing," the nurse says again. "You—"
"Tell me," she insists, tearing her hand free from the nurse's grasp. "Now."
The nurse swallows. Tries to smile, but fails. "There's been an incident in Four, sweetheart. I'm afraid you won't be allowed to go home."
And that last little part of her left alive, nestled somewhere deep inside, dies too.
THE VICTORS OF DISTRICT ONE… TOVA REVELIS (18) AND MADERIA ELVARIO (18).
thecentennialcelebration . tumblr . com
Thank you to Z and Dawn for Tova and Mads. ❤
But also no, I did not name one of Tova's allies after me. Thanks Z.
So clearly something has happened behind the scenes in some capacity, but what exactly? Never despair, you'll find out next week. You probably won't be very happy about it, but that's none of my business.
Until next time.