Morrel Dehorn, 22, Capital.
It wasn't like Morrel had never been to the game-making centre before, but he had never been to the Tribute Centre. He was getting a tour now, led by some underling from the planning department, and trying not to look like a tourist. It wasn't easy. Everything here seemed more real, more vivid, than the glossy presentations and sterile offices he was used to. There were rooms lined with racks of weapons—swords, maces, spears, and more modern creations too, all lined up in deadly symmetry. Screens displayed training schedules, the Capitol's finest sponsors, and a parade of statistics detailing the lives of the tributes they would soon receive.
Morrel paused beside the wide observation window, pressing a palm against the cool surface. He could almost imagine them there: desperate, angry, terrified—waiting.
'Quite something, isn't it?' Mase's voice cut through his thoughts, smooth and heavy like a weighted blade. Morrel startled, turning sharply. His uncle stood behind him, hands clasped behind his back, his uniform a severe shade of black, accented in deep gold. He looked at home here, as if the hollow, glacial corridors of the Tribute Centre were built for him alone.
'It's… impressive,' Morrel replied carefully, the word tasting sour in his mouth. He turned back to the empty cells. Was 'impressive' the right word? This was where the Capitol would strip them of their last illusions of dignity before tossing them into the arena like wild animals. 'I can see why… they don't let people come here.'
'No, they don't.' Mase stepped forward, his reflection a dark blur against the glass. 'Can't have anyone getting too attached. It's bad enough that half of the staff on your team don't understand it yet.' He glanced sideways at Morrel, his smile thin. 'Not something you'll struggle with, I hope?'
Morrel forced himself to hold his uncle's gaze, even though he wanted to look away. 'Of course not.' His voice was steady, even, but he wasn't sure if Mase believed him.
'Good.' Mase nodded approvingly, but the praise felt empty. Morrel knew what he really meant:Remember why you're here. As if he could ever forget. Everyone knew why he was here. Because his uncle was Head Gamemaker. Because Mase had pulled the strings and made sure Morrel had a role on the design team, despite the sneers and sideways looks. He might as well have been branded withnepotismin bold, flashing lights.
They moved on, passing more empty rooms, more reminders of the place he now occupied. Here, he would oversee every detail of the tributes' last moments before they were set loose to die. Every insult they swallowed, every inch of their pride they tried to cling to, would happen within these walls. He could almost picture it—kids from the districts, mouths twisted in anger or fear, eyes flashing in a futile bid to hold on to their humanity. And what would he do? Stand on the other side of the glass and judge them like a merchant inspecting livestock.
Morrel rubbed at the back of his neck, resisting the urge to shiver. He had wanted this—had fought for it, back when he thought he'd have to prove himself on merit. But being handed the position had only made it feel cheap, and now he was here, and the bloodshed felt uncomfortably close.
'I've decided what you'll start on,' Mase announced, the abruptness of it snapping Morrel back to the present.
'What?' Morrel asked, hating how eager he sounded, how much he craved the approval buried in Mase's words.
'Mutts,' Mase said simply, watching him closely. 'We're looking for something new this year. Something… vicious. A real statement piece.'
Morrel blinked.Mutts. His first assignment. He was supposed to be grateful, he knew that. He was supposed to smile and thank Mase for giving him a chance to prove himself. But he could only nod, the word ringing in his head like an accusation. Mutts. Unthinking beasts twisted by Capitol ingenuity, programmed for pain and destruction.
'Of course,' he said finally, his voice almost mechanical. 'I'd like that.'
'Would you?' Mase's gaze was sharp, assessing. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed, a quick burst of sound that echoed off the glass. 'You know, you don't have to lie to me, Morrel. Not here. I know exactly what you're thinking.' He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. 'You think this is beneath you.'
'I—no,' Morrel stammered, but Mase waved him off.
'Spare me the protest.' His uncle's smile was cold. 'You're right. This assignmentisbeneath you. But you're new here, and there are those on the team who'll need convincing. Do well on this, and I'll consider letting you move on to something with more finesse. Show them you're more than just my nephew, understand?'
The words stung more than they should have. Morrel clenched his fists, resisting the urge to glance at his reflection in the glass.More than just his nephew.That's all he'd ever been, to the team, to Mase, to the world outside these walls.
'I understand,' he managed.
Mase's smile softened slightly, the closest thing to warmth Morrel had ever seen from him. 'Good. Start by reviewing what we have. I expect a proposal on my desk by the end of the week. Nothing predictable. I want something that will have the Capitol gasping.'
He clapped Morrel on the shoulder, the gesture so practiced it felt almost comforting. Almost. And then Mase was gone, striding down the hall, leaving Morrel standing there in front of the glass, staring at his own reflection.
Mutts, he thought again, the word hollow and heavy. His first assignment: to create something that would rip tributes apart, reduce them to blood and bones for the Capitol's entertainment.Nothing predictable.
Morrel's eyes flicked to the cells beyond the glass. He could see them now, could almost hear the cries and curses of tributes not yet chosen, not yet trapped. A real statement piece. He'd deliver, of course. He had to.
The air changed as he descended underground, the smooth elegance of the upper floors giving way to something colder, darker. Each step felt like a descent into another world, one where all the Capitol's pristine polish faded and only its raw, unchecked hunger remained. Morrel had never been to the lower levels—few of the Gamemakers ventured here unless they had to. He could see why. The corridors were narrower, concrete replacing marble, the chill biting through his thin suit. The hum of machinery and muffled roars echoed around corners, and the fluorescent lights above cast harsh shadows that seemed to twist and warp the edges of the space.
He paused as he reached a pair of thick metal doors marked simply:Biological Warfare Unit. A shiver ran down his spine. The name was an understatement. This was where nightmares were born.
Taking a breath, he pushed through. The room beyond was cavernous, dimly lit, with rows of cages stretching out in every direction, each one holding shapes that shifted and snarled in the dark. The air reeked of chemicals and musk and something metallic that stung his nostrils. His footsteps echoed sharply, and the creatures closest to him stirred, low growls rumbling like an electrical current, eyes gleaming through the bars.
'New meat?' a soft, lilting voice called out.
Morrel looked up sharply, his gaze catching on a figure leaning casually against a workstation at the far end of the room. A woman, tall and striking, her dark hair swept back in a loose knot, eyes the colour of fresh honey. Her smile was cool, distant, the kind of smile that made you want to trust her even as something told you not to.
'I'm—' he began, but she laughed lightly, cutting him off.
'I know who you are, Morrel Dehorn. The new boy from upstairs. Head Gamemaker's nephew, right?' She said it with just enough emphasis that he could hear the layers beneath the words:The one who's only here because of who he knows. It stung more than it should have. He forced a tight smile.
'Yes. And you are?'
'You don't know?' She arched a brow, pushing off from the desk and striding toward him. Her movements were fluid, almost predatory. 'You're starting inmydepartment and didn't even bother to learn my name?'
Morrel flushed, wishing desperately he had. 'I—uh, no, I didn't—'
'Lyria Kesko,' she said lightly, her gaze sweeping over him with casual disdain. 'Head of Muttation Development. Which means, for as long as you're down here, I'm your boss.'
'Right,' Morrel murmured. He had been expecting someone grizzled, scarred—someone who looked the part of a Capitol scientist. Lyria was nothing like that. She was stunning, elegant, her features too refined for a place like this. He couldn't place her at all.
'Now, why don't we start with a little introduction to what we do down here?' She gestured to the room with a graceful sweep of her hand, the smile never leaving her face. 'Welcome to the monster's den, Morrel. Everything in these cages is my work. Mutts, hybrids, bio-engineered predators designed to kill in the most creative ways imaginable. We refine them, test them, see which ones make the cut for the arena. It's quite the process.'
He nodded slowly, trying to take it all in, feeling out of his depth. 'And I'm… helping with that?'
'Helping,' she repeated, a wry smile tugging at her lips. 'Yes, let's go with that for now.' She stepped closer, until she was barely a foot away, her eyes flicking up and down his form as if she could see right through him. 'Tell me, Morrel, are you squeamish?'
'No,' he lied, keeping his gaze steady.
'Good,' she murmured. Then she turned sharply and started down the row of cages, her heels clicking against the concrete. 'Come. Let me show you one of our latest prototypes.'
He followed her, his heart pounding. He didn't like this—didn't like the way she looked at him, or the way the creatures stirred in their cages as they passed. There was something almost hungry in their eyes, something that made the hairs on his arms stand up.
Finally, she stopped in front of a smaller cage. Morrel squinted into the darkness, trying to make out what was inside. It looked harmless enough at first—small, almost rabbit-like creatures, with sleek grey fur and soft, rounded ears. They shifted restlessly, their tiny paws scrabbling at the bars.
'Don't let them fool you,' Lyria said softly, resting a hand lightly on the bars. 'These little things are deceptively vicious. Go on, put your finger in. Just a quick touch.'
Morrel blinked. 'What?'
'A quick touch,' she repeated patiently. Her smile didn't waver, but something in her eyes gleamed. 'Go on. They look harmless, don't they? Just like little rodents.'
A warning bell rang in his head, but he hesitated only a moment.Prove yourself. He had to show her he wasn't some weak, useless appendage of his uncle. He had to start acting like he belonged here.
So he reached forward slowly, the tips of his fingers just brushing against the bars. One of the creatures inside darted forward, sniffing cautiously. And then, before he could react, it lunged.
Morrel jerked back instinctively, but not fast enough. The creature's jaws snapped shut, catching the edge of his fingertip, and pain exploded through his hand. He cried out, stumbling back, cradling his hand to his chest. Blood welled up from a shallow gash, bright red and vivid against his pale skin.
'Careful now,' Lyria purred. She crouched beside the cage, her eyes glinting with amusement as the creatures inside hissed and snapped, their tiny faces twisted with a feral hunger. 'They've got three rows of teeth, see?' She gestured toward one of the creatures as it bared its jaws wide.
Morrel stared, heart pounding, as the tiny mouth stretched impossibly wide, revealing rows upon rows of needle-sharp teeth that glistened wetly in the dim light.
'One bite, and they can tear through flesh like it's paper. Fascinating, isn't it?' Lyria stood, her gaze flicking to Morrel's bleeding finger. 'Don't worry, they won't kill you. Not yet, anyway.'
He swallowed hard, the pain throbbing through his hand. 'You—' He broke off, staring at her incredulously. 'Youknewthey'd bite me!'
'Of course I did.' She shrugged lightly, her smile calm, composed. 'Consider it your first lesson, Morrel. Down here, you don't trust anyone. Not even me.'
Morrel stared at her, his heart hammering. For a moment, all the anger, the fear, the resentment boiled up inside him, and he wanted to shout, to accuse her of setting him up, of treating him like a fool.
But he didn't. Because she was right.
He looked down at the creatures again, his blood staining the bars, their beady eyes watching him hungrily.
'Lesson learned,' he said softly.
'Good.' Lyria's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. 'Welcome to Muttation Development, Morrel. Let's see if you survive.'