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שורשים
shoh⬩rah⬩sheem
roots
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A tree casts a gnarled shadow on the front of the house. The door creaks open, distorting the shadow for a moment before a shaking hand closes it once more.
Cenric Chai closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and sets off into the dead of night.
Cenric shouldn't feel nervous. He knows the layout of the Gardens like the back of his hand; the boy was born and raised here, after all. But unlike his br- Celestin, Cenric has never volunteered for a night shift here.
Nobody in their right mind should want to be in a graveyard after dark.
He doesn't dare stray from the cobblestone path that leads away from their house. Without any electric lights on the premises, not even in the Chai family residence, the gray stones are the only thing that stand out against the inky blackness. Who knows what may lie in wait should he step beyond the path?
(The night has a way of making the familiar seem unfamiliar, the known unknown. It should not surprise Cenric as much as it does just how out of place he feels in this moment.)
He's not sure if it's the chilly March air or the rustling of the branches that sends a shiver through his body. Neither answer feels particularly comforting. If Cenric had the option, he'd take this as an omen to turn around, to stay home tonight and deal with the fallout tomorrow.
But he doesn't have that option. Choosing to stay home would only make all of this worse.
Slowly, methodically, Cenric pushes on. He makes it about halfway down the lane before he freezes, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up.
There's something moving in the distance.
No—someone.
For a brief moment, all reason vanishes from Cenric's mind. It's a ghost – no, a zombie, some reanimated version of a person long dead. It's almost a relief when his eyes carve out a familiar figure against the dark of night.
Almost a relief. Because that figure must be one of his family members. Whoever it is will certainly try to stop him, and Cenric can't afford that. He's already doubted himself too much, wasted too much time.
But whichever relative that is can't leave the property while on night shift. All Cenric has to do is make it through the gate.
Ducking his head, Cenric picks up his pace. He feels the murky blackness push against him, but he wills himself forward anyway, one foot after the other. Finally, the wrought iron gate emerges from the dark; it looks over Cenric, a reminder of the boundary between where he is now and where he has to go.
Before he can cross it, the figure blocks his path.
And for a moment, Cenric forgets that it's impossible to see your reflection without a mirror.
(They got their piercings together. Cenric in his left ear, Celestin in his right. Always the mirror image of each other.)
(Their mother always said that when they shared a crib, Celestin and Cenric would even sleep face to face.)
Cenric's breath catches in his throat. Celestin is the last person he wants to talk to right now. Not… not after last time. All he wants to do is get out of here, but the burning of Celestin's gaze keeps him locked in place.
He can't even bear to raise his head to look at Celestin. Cenric knows all too well what emotion will be painted across his face.
Disappointment.
"Cen…"
"No."
His arms lash out, shoving Celestin out of the way; his legs carry him forward, shattering a barrier he'll never be able to repair. Yet even as his body runs far, far away from everyone he's been told he has to love, his mind still lingers on the too-clear mirror that would never dare to cross through that gate.
(How desperately Cenric wishes he could look like anyone else tonight.)
~.~.~
He knows Magnolia's been waiting for him.
It doesn't matter how early he arrives at their meeting spots; Magnolia always gets there first, early enough to scout the area twice over. Cenric has always admired just how meticulous she is, just how much she manages to keep under her control.
(He chooses to ignore the possibility that she intentionally tells Cenric a time far later than she intends so that, even if Cenric is early, she can still arrive before him.)
(Though perhaps it would explain why she still yells at him for being late.)
(Every time. No matter Cenric's explanation. Every single time.)
But as he arrives at the knoll near the edge of the field, apologies and platitudes on the tip of his tongue, he realizes he can't find Magnolia Keaton anywhere.
That is, until a gloved hand latches onto his shirt and pulls.
"Hi, Magnolia, I-"
"Keep your mouth shut."
"Sorry."
"I said, keep your mouth shut."
She peeks over the edge of the knoll. Cenric turns and pops his head up too, but he can't get a glimpse of anything before he's shoved back down. "I will tell you when he gets here. Stop fucking prying."
"Sorry."
He's rewarded with a smack upside the head.
That's not the first time Magnolia's hit him. But something about this time feels… different. Like her hand is tenser.
And yet, her face is as calm as ever.
~.~.~
The waiting is the hardest part.
He has no idea how much time has passed. At first, Cenric tried to count his breaths, an attempt to keep his breathing slow even as nerves threatened to overtake his body. But as his heartbeat quickened, it got louder, drowning out his thoughts to the point that he lost track. He's not sure now how many times he's had to start over from one.
It's taking all of Cenric's willpower not to pop his head over the knoll again. In fact, the only things holding him back are his own arms wrapped tightly around his legs. With every gale of chilly March wind that whips through, he pulls them tighter, but their protection is only superficial. Cenric wishes he'd thought to wear gloves. Magnolia definitely had the right idea.
He steals a glance at his girlfriend, who sits facing the hill, her eyes just barely peeking over it. Magnolia still seems as cool and calm as she was when he got there, but there's something different about her energy. Steelier. Perhaps it's something she knows that Cenric doesn't – or something she can see that Cenric can't.
Cenric barely looks away from Magnolia before he feels a firm hand on his forearm. "Get ready."
Cenric suddenly realizes that he has absolutely no idea what is about to happen. She's let him in on some of her business dealings before, but nothing that seemed significant or serious. All he knows is that Magnolia asked him to meet her here – and there was no world in which he would even dream of saying no.
(No matter how much he wishes he could.)
"Keaton!"
The hand drags Cenric to his feet, swinging him around to face the source of the voice. Immediately, Cenric's taken aback by just how large this man is. Cenric might top six feet himself, but the brick wall across from him is easily six inches taller. And that's not even taking into consideration what's probably a hundred extra pounds – all muscle.
Cenric steals another glance at Magnolia, who probably doesn't top five foot four in heels. How the fuck did she get herself mixed up with him?
"Mister Matheny. So kind of you to stop by."
"Cut it with the pleasantries, Keaton," he spits. "I'm done."
"As if you have any control over that." Magnolia steps up closer to the man, resting her hand on her hip. "You are done when I say you're done. You work for me, remember?"
"Funny you should say that."
And slowly, slyly, without a care for how long he takes, the man slides his hand into his jacket and pulls out a gun.
Cenric realizes he's never seen a gun before.
"Oh, Matheny, Matheny," sings Magnolia, a glimmer of a grin on her face. "Surely you don't think I was unaware of your true allegiances?"
"I don't doubt you knew. So I'm sure you understand in turn that I'm just doing my part to get in good graces with the president."
"I'm sure Xandrie Atteneri has absolutely no concern for what one double agent is doing in District Eleven. She's far too focused on the Games she'll be running in just a few months' time; your allegiance means nothing to her right now."
"But it might a week from now."
Cenric's head is spinning. He understands the words they're saying, but they don't seem to make sense together. How does Magnolia have connections to someone who's working with the government? Are they friends, or enemies? And if they're enemies… what does that mean for her?
(And for him?)
Magnolia begins to encircle Matheny, one finger planted firmly on his shoulder. "You silly, silly boy," she croons, a leopard ensnaring her prey. "You are far safer with me than you could ever be with her. Xandrie Atteneri does not care about you. Or me. Or any of us. We are nothing more than little worker bees, feeding information to the queen of the hive. And as soon as we have outlived our usefulness to her, she will have no qualms about squashing us."
She leans in closer, until her mouth is just a few inches from his ear. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
For a moment, Cenric thinks he sees the man's hands quiver. But there is no hint of nervousness in his voice as he responds; no, instead it's filled with more vitriol than Cenric has ever heard.
"I've never been surer of anything in my life."
In the weeks that followed, Cenric would do everything in his power to recall what happened next. He knows that someone attacked someone else, that Magnolia and Matheny's shadows quickly became one in the darkness. He knows that they struggled for some time, Magnolia's small frame holding up shockingly well against Matheny's far larger one. He knows that, at some point, they broke apart, both hands holding the gun.
He doesn't know how the gun came to face Matheny's chest. He doesn't know who pulled the trigger. And he certainly doesn't know what to do with Matheny's dead body.
(He never thought he'd say this, but Cenric wishes he'd spent more time involved with the family business. Maybe then he'd be more used to seeing dead bodies.)
(At least Magnolia will know what to do.)
"Cenric… what do we do?"
"M-m-magnolia?" Cenric stammers. "What do you mean what do we do?"
"I… I don't know what happens now."
The gun tumbles out of Magnolia's hands as she stumbles forward into Cenric's arms. He can feel her whole body shaking, can hear the pulse of her heartbeat as she presses her chest against his. "It's OK," he lies, rubbing her back gently. "We're gonna figure this out."
"A-alright. I guess… I think I know a place where we could take it. But I think I have to scout it out first. But we can't leave the body alone… who knows who'll find it and who they'll trace it back to?"
She slips out of Cenric's embrace, beginning to pace in front of the body. Cenric can't help but be concerned; he has never seen Magnolia not have some sort of a plan. It's almost a relief when, after a moment, she turns to him again, her trademark confidence back in her eyes.
(It doesn't register for Cenric that she should still look scared.)
"We can't leave Matheny here alone, but we also can't take him with us unless we know for sure that the place I want to take him to is safe. I think what we have to do is this: you stay with the body, but we'll cover it up with the coat and drag it behind that knoll so people don't see. I'll run over to the safe spot and make sure it's all clear, and then I'll come back and we'll move the body. This… this seems like the only plan that'll work."
Cenric takes a deep breath of his own. "You sure?"
"As sure as I can be."
(There's still no hint of nervousness in her voice.)
"OK, then. I trust you."
"Good. You take the hands and I'll take the feet."
Without hesitation, Cenric grabs onto the hands, immediately recoiling at the slick feeling of fresh blood; Matheny probably tried to stop his wound from bleeding. He tries his best not to think about that fact as he and Magnolia lift Matheny's body, carrying it around to the other side of the knoll. "I'll be back soon," Magnolia says, placing a kiss on Cenric's cheek.
And then she disappears into the night.
Another gust of wind blows through the field. Cenric shivers, wrapping his arms around his torso; he'd curl up into a ball again, but he's far too restless to sit. He has no idea how far Magnolia has to go, nor how long it'll take her to scout, but every second that passes feels like one more than he can handle. It was hard to wait earlier – now, it's impossible.
All Cenric can think to do is pace back and forth, doing his best not to look at the corpse. And yet, his eyes are continually drawn to the wound. He can't help but wonder just how a small metal projectile can cause a wound so-
Holy shit. The gun.
Did we leave the gun there?
What happens if they find her fingerprints on the gun?
Cenric doesn't think. He leaves the cover of the hill, searching as quickly as he can for where the gun tumbled from Magnolia's hands. As soon as he catches sight of the gun, he grabs it, then turns around-
Only to spot three bright white suits headed directly towards him.
(And he's not sure, but somehow, he swears he can see a small figure behind them, her bloodless glove pointing in his direction.)
She sits, curled up in a ball on the couch of the nurse's office, waiting for her parents to pick her up.
It's no fun being sick. She's already gone through three boxes of tissues, her nose is running so fast; Zeryn's whole body shakes with shivers, and just keeping her eyes open is a battle she's barely winning. At all of five years old, this is the closest to death the girl has ever felt.
(Or, at least, the closest to what her little mind can imagine death to be.)
She has no idea how much time she's spent here. Zeryn knows that her teacher guided her to the nurse after noticing that she was strangely subdued during circle time. She knows that the nurse put one finger on Zeryn's head and that was more than enough to gauge her temperature. But beyond that…
Zeryn's eyes flutter open at the sound of the door's hinges creaking. Slowly, she lifts her head, relief flooding through her as her eyes land on her father's sturdy frame. With the last mote of strength she has, Zeryn reaches a little hand out for her father, silently screaming for him to pick her up and carry her to her bed.
He does not. He doesn't even pick up her backpack.
Instead, he stands Zeryn up, places her backpack on her shoulders, and forces the girl to walk the whole way home.
…
Zeryn meanders behind her father as they walk through Eleven's densest forest, towards Mrs. Tiller's house. She's never been to this part of Eleven before - her home and school are within a few blocks of each other – but her parents insist that one cannot truly learn to play the contrabassoon if they do not first learn how to play the recorder. And, apparently, Mrs. Tiller is the best teacher in Eleven for both.
The recorder. Even at seven, Zeryn knows that this is the least cool instrument she could learn to play. Granted, she has no interest in learning to play any instrument - well, maybe except drums, but her parents would never allow her to play something so unladylike - but at least most other instruments have elegant names or do cool things like slide back and forth. She even would have settled for a tuba, as goofy as it looks, because Cherry Maynard is cool and she plays the tuba.
Nobody cool plays the recorder.
(She can already hear her classmates teasing her when her father inevitably forces her to play in the talent show. Zeryn is about to turn eight, for crying out loud, and all the other recorder players are gonna be babies!
But there's nothing Zeryn can do about any of this now. She learned that lesson long ago.)
Zeryn finally reaches the front porch as Mrs. Tiller's door opens. The woman standing behind it is tall and thin, with a pair of glasses perched on the edge of her nose, which Zeryn notices is unnaturally pointy. Her gray hair is styled in an elaborate updo, and her plaid pencil skirt is starched within an inch of its life. "Ah, you must be Zeryn," she croaks, beckoning the girl forward with a gnarled finger and a too-long nail.
Zeryn freezes. There is nothing more that she wants to do than get as far away from this house as possible. But her father pushes her forward until she's stepped over Mrs. Tiller's threshold.
No turning back now… not this deep into the troll's cave…
"Yes, yes. Her hands will do just fine. Her fingers should grow to the perfect length for proper finger placement."
"Excellent. I'll be back in two hours."
"Two hours?" Zeryn exclaims, whipping around to beg her father to get her out of here.
Instead, she's met with a door that closes in her face.
…
"You can't make me go."
"Zeryn, we are going to be late for your lesson."
"No! I don't want to!"
Zeryn digs her heels into the dirt as her father strides towards her, a look on his face that she can't quite read. He grabs hold of her hand - relatively gently, for a mark on her wrist would be disastrous for his standing - and begins to pull her towards Mrs. Tiller's, but she holds firm.
"What has gotten into you, Zeryn?"
"I don't like the recorder! And I don't like Mrs. Tiller! And all of my classmates make fun of me. I don't want to go and you can't make me."
"Zeryn. You've made such progress with your recorder; it would be a shame to give it up now. Learning to play the xylophone from scratch at this age would set you far behind."
Far behind what? Zeryn thinks. Knowing full well that she won't like the answer, she keeps her mouth shut, putting all of her energy into staying as still as a statue.
But statue-still nine-year-olds are still only nine years old. They're more than small enough to be picked up by their fathers and carried, kicking and screaming, all the way to their recorder lesson.
…
Two days before she turns eleven, Zeryn earns the right to walk to her lessons by herself.
She knows it's a hollow victory. Her father is only letting her walk alone today because he has some big business meeting in District Nine or something. He's always told her that she'd someday be the one to inherit his business, but Zeryn knows nothing about what exactly he does beyond "help bring fruit to Nine to make fruit bars."
She also knows that work has always been more important to him than she is. He's on the phone almost every time he ever has to take her anywhere, and there's rarely a night where her parents stay home, preferring to leave their only child with a nanny or butler so they can attend some high society party or another.
While Zeryn's grown used to their absence, there's still a certain thrill that Zeryn gets from stepping out of the school building on her own, without a grown-up telling her to stand up straight or to walk quicker or to stop kicking rocks at carts as they pass. She even sneaks off of the road a little bit, taking a shortcut through the underbrush that her father has never let her set foot in. The thorns and brambles pierce her ankles, tearing up the hem of her pants, but Zeryn could not care less.
This is the most alive – the most like herself – that she's ever felt.
She can't help but notice the way her stomach drops as she reaches the edge of the forest, as she spots Mrs. Tiller's house on the horizon. Zeryn has never liked going to Mrs. Tiller's, but this is the first time that the thought of stepping onto that porch has filled her with such intense vitriol. There is nothing in the world that she would rather do less.
So she doesn't. She turns and runs away.
(Zeryn can feel her father's shadow watching her as she weaves through the forest, as far away as she can from Mrs. Tiller's house. She knows that he will be disappointed when he finds out that she skipped a lesson. He's sure to read her the riot act once he hears from Mrs. Tiller that Zeryn never showed.
The thought of him doing so almost makes Zeryn excited. Maybe it'll force her father to pay attention to her and to what she has to say for once in his gosh darn life.)
When she arrives home that night, Zeryn sneaks not-so-stealthily through the back door. She knows that she's making enough noise that her parents, who are almost certainly talking business at the kitchen table, can hear her. Zeryn even takes the path to the stairs that passes by the kitchen – if only to confirm her hypothesis.
She sees them sitting there. She knows they can hear her. Neither turns to acknowledge her presence.
But she knows they sense her, if only because of the way her father raises his voice just as she passes the doorframe.
"If we give in to her behavior, she'll learn that throwing tantrums and being a quitter is the only way to get what she wants in life. Zeryn is going to have to learn to work for what she wants. And if that means that, when she decides to stop being a lazy child, she'll have to do twice the work of her peers, so be it. She will be losing out on her own valuable time."
Zeryn scoffs. If he truly wanted her to know that, he'd tell her to her face. That's how he can show her he actually cares about her success.
Until then, Zeryn is determined to use her time the way she wants.
…
She rarely sees her father anymore.
From the little Zeryn chooses to listen to, she gets the sense that his work is getting busier. Some sort of deal was brokered between her father's clients and one of the companies that provides provisions for the Games that's led to concerns about calorie counts and reformulations and all sorts of things that Zeryn could not give less of a damn about.
From what she knows, her father has never been this invested in the nutrition side of his products. Zeryn can't help but wonder if there's something else motivating the extra time he's spending in the office.
Does he truly need to work more, or does he just want to see his only child less? The question nags at the back of Zeryn's mind more than she wants to admit.
(She'd never ask it to him, though. Not when she doesn't know which answer she'd prefer.)
(Not when the true answer could be both.)
It's easier in a sense, to make the choice for him, to wake up and leave the house before anyone else is awake, and to fix her own dinner and go right to her room when she gets home.
Initially, Zeryn loved her near-forced independence. She could never have imagined how much she craved it before she got it – for a time, it's everything. But that novelty wore off almost too quickly, replaced by a void that Zeryn can't seem to fill, a hole in her heart shaped like the daughter she knows her parents wish they had.
Since she stopped going to her music lessons – and her etiquette lessons and her business briefings and her tutoring sessions – her parents have acted like a wall of ice separates her from them. There are no reminder notes on the table or gentle conversations expressing their concern; they never even bother to give their daughter a stern talking-to. if it weren't for the money Zeryn knows they're spending on her, she'd be hard-pressed to think that they even remember she exists.
There's a brief spell where Zeryn tries to force the hole in her heart back together, to mold herself into something that her mother and father might choose to acknowledge. They don't, of course, either too preoccupied with their own commitments or too convinced that their daughter will remain frozen in the state of defiance that they've unwittingly inflicted upon her.
It's a vicious cycle, really. The longer the hole sits unfilled, the blacker the ice becomes; the more frozen the ice, the harder for the hole to close.
Until one day, the cold becomes too much for the girl to bear.
She's not sure why she buys the spray paint. She's not sure what drives her to sneak out of her room in the dead of night, or to spray paint her name, of all things, on the side of her house. But Zeryn is pretty freakin' sure her parents noticed what she did.
Three days later, a man comes to their house and scrubs the spray paint off.
The incident is never mentioned again.
(Zeryn is baffled. Surely, she figured, this would be the straw that broke the camel's back, the incident that might actually force them to discipline her like real parents would. Instead, they just keep doing the same thing: pretending like ignoring the problem will make it go away.)
(That's not how it works. Zeryn knows that, and she's sure her parents know that. But for as long as they continue to ignore her, Zeryn will pretend that they're giving her permission to continue down this path.
They've never explicitly told her not to, after all.)
…
There are a lot of choices Zeryn has made that her parents do not acknowledge.
So why the hell is it that this is the one they do?
"You should be happy I have friends now!" Zeryn exclaims. "Isn't that what every parent wants their child to have? And besides, more friends now means more connections for the family business. Isn't that why you go to so many parties without me?"
"You had many opportunities and options to make friends when you were in primary schooling," her father responds, voice far too level. "To meet peers who will benefit us- you as you grow. This… delinquent cannot possibly benefit you."
"All I care about is if a friend will make me happy! And Tala makes me happier than–"
"The company of this Tala is not fit for-"
Zeryn stands up and slams her hands on the table. "You have no right-"
"I have every right, as long as you live under my roof, eat my food, and use my drivers to go to school. If I see you with her again, I will instruct every staff member personally not to allow you out of the house."
"You can't do that! Not when I–"
"I can, and I will. Now sit down before I-"
"You're going to have to catch me first," Zeryn snarls, shoving the chair back so hard it clatters to the ground. She doesn't even look back to see if her father stands up before throwing the door open, sending it careening into the picture that some dumbass put right in the door's way. The impact is strong enough for the door to ricochet back into its place in the frame – but not before one last comment from her father shoots through the doorway.
"…an embarrassment to my name."
She feels her blood run cold. Her heart pounds against her ribcage. For months now, Zeryn's noticed a change in the energy of her parents, one she hasn't quite been able to put into words. But hearing her father say out loud what everyone's been too afraid to admit doesn't make the girl upset or angry, or even remorseful. Instead, it just makes her more determined.
If she truly is an embarrassment to her father, she might as well own it.
~.~.~
The first time Zeryn gets arrested, all she can feel is thrilled.
It's not like she was trying to get arrested. But something about the ring was just calling to her, and the shop had so many rings that she doubted they'd notice a single missing one.
Evidently, she was wrong. But Zeryn has never been happier to be wrong in her life.
Now, she gets to listen from this dinky old holding cell as her father practically pleads with the Peacekeepers to let her go.
"My company's reputation will be tarnished if this charge is allowed to stand," he insists. "We may even lose our contract with the Capitol, which will impact the lives of all of the workers who grow crops for us."
"The Capitol needs a contract with someone in Eleven," counters the Peacekeeper; "if they break theirs with you, they'll write one up for someone else. And if you have to fire your workers, I'm sure they'll find another job."
Zeryn can almost hear her father's mind whirring as it hunts for any way it can to get out of this jam. She's almost surprised at how long it takes him to land on, "Name your price."
"Hm?"
"Name your price. However much it would cost to erase the incident from the record."
Zeryn can't stop an astonished smile from spreading across her face. Not once did she think that a single ring going missing would lead to her father actually spending money on her! He hasn't done that in years! And even better, he's setting her free because he's actually acknowledging that he has a daughter? Zeryn can't help but peek out the window of her cell to see if a pig is flying out over the fields.
It doesn't take long for her mind to start working. Not only will her father feel more and more embarrassed the more trouble she gets into, but he'll someday have to confront the fact that his oversight is the most direct catalyst for Zeryn's transformation into the person she's become. By the time the warden rounds the corner, her father's furious face not far behind, Zeryn already knows exactly what she's supposed to be going to school the next day.
Zeryn Alliston has the power now. And her father will have to pry it from her cold, dead hands.
…
She sits, curled up against the wall of the holding cell, wondering when her father will pick her up.
He'll get here eventually. He always comes. Zeryn knows there's nothing that makes her father squirm more – and nothing that makes him shell out more cash – than the risk of his name being tarnished. And given that most of Zeryn's arrests are for minor offenses like vandalism and petty theft, It's getting to the point where she seriously wonders if the PKs are booking her in just so they can weasel more money out of him.
(There was a stretch where Zeryn would intentionally get herself arrested for that reason. But she's beyond the point of caring about how her actions affect her father, whether for better or for worse.
He lost the privilege of Zeryn's care a long, long time ago.)
Zeryn can't stop from turning her head at the sound of the warden's keys jingling. "Father's here, Alliston," he drones, rusty hinges creaking as he pushes the cell door open. "He really doesn't look happy this time."
"He'll get over it."
But as Zeryn turns the corner and catches her father's eye, a sinking feeling settles into her stomach.
As thunder rolls in the distance, he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her into the street. For a moment, Zeryn wonders if she'll finally get a talking to - if her father will finally act the part of the forceful parent he never seemed to want to be. But the vitriol that spills from his mouth feels so much worse than she ever imagined. She feels her body shaking as he uses harsher words than she's ever heard, as she sobs and pleads like the child he never allowed her to be.
But the damage was done long, long ago. And no matter how hard she begs, nothing Zeryn does can change her father's mind.
And as the heavens open up, and a torrent of rain crashes down on Zeryn, he turns his back on her for good.
The girl is left in the rain, shivering, scared, and alone, with no home to go back to.
Happy International Fanworks Day! For those of you who haven't heard of it, the day is admittedly more of an initiative of AO3, which celebrates the millions of fanworks posted all over the internet, and the communities created by those works! There's lots of ways to celebrate, but I wanted to celebrate the best way I know: by posting a chapter! Which led to my fastest turnaround time on this fic by far. Pretty good, huh?
A huge thank you to timesphobic for Cenric and itzbirdie for Zeryn! Cenric's intro is practically identical to the original version I posted last year, but Zerry's is brand new, and I had a ton of fun writing it! I'm really happy I got the chance to pair these guys together because I think there are some super neat parallels between them. But sometimes the inter-district parallels are more interesting...
As always, a small plug for the SYOT Verses Discord server! SYOT Verses is the current hub for SYOT authors and submitters, as well as for those who are writing fics with their own THG OCs. It's my baby and I am always so happy to welcome new members in! You can check it out through this link, just delete the spaces: discord . gg / mUXHvTzxq6
Once again, I only have one intro to write next chapter, so hopefully, that'll get up at a decent pace. After that, though, I have two chapters to write in a row with two intros each, so bear with me as I might choose to hold back the next intros so that I can keep updating on a semi-regular basis. Which means that I'll see you by the middle of March, if not sooner!
xoxo, xxxi