I open my eyes.

It's as if my world is smothered in pitch, bar the playful lines of yellow-white light peeking through the cracked ceiling. They've been my sole concept of time. I've counted two suns and a moon since I was brought here.

I've fallen asleep in the same position as a new-born babe, curled up as small as I can make himself – my long, muscular frame doesn't allow for small enclosures such as these. My chin and knees are tucked into my chest, the edges of my feet tracing the soft stone floor.

My muscles and back ache painfully, but I dare not raise an objection to the guards that stand without. Though their faces are hidden and their attire the familiar white of the Peacekeepers, their forms are different. One is lanky and high-pitched, the other stout with a rumbling voice.

I heard a woman complain to them one night in a high, shrill voice. One of the guards had seen to her.

After that, I decided it was in my best interests to not interfere with their fun.

With some effort, I push myself up from the floor and look around.

Nothing has changed. Though my sight is limited, I've felt my way around this miserable accommodation upon arrival using nothing but my touch. It's a matchbox cell, hewed from stone and straw and dirt. Taller than it is long, it enforces on its occupant total discomfort, and I often find myself sitting straight-backed against the wall, peering out into nothing and saying less than I see.

The roof is damp and dripping, to a point where it frays my nerves. The occasional vermin nibbles at my skin, day and night. If the guards didn't keep me provisioned with water and bread, I would gladly have eaten the rats. There isn't much I can do with the earthworms.

Upon waking, the first thing that always strikes me is the smell – urine and feces, vomit and sweat, all mingled together into a hideously pervasive stench. It attacks my nostrils and I instinctively let out a retch of disgust.

I crawl towards the wall, hands fumbling for the small slit I know is in the roughly cut concrete behind me. It's a feeble excuse for a window, but it'll do.

I press my face to the cool plaster, trying desperately to breathe in a sliver of fresh air.

Next come the sounds.

It's a gross, pathetic motley of whimpering and weeping, pleading and prayers. Each of them all have their own methods of keeping the madness at bay here – from salacious words spoken through dry, cracked lips to tear-stained faces covered in grime.

I feel that I should pity them, console them even, but I feel even more strongly that they all have earned their place in this kennel.

We are being punished, turncoats and rebel-spawn and neutralists alike.

The whispers of sedition had existed for as long as I can remember.

The hateful, gaunt faces of the quarriers and masons and builders, with their broken backs and missing limbs. The hundreds of families that lost their sons and daughters to the building of another extravagant pet project funded by the Capitol. The regime that turned a blind eye to the raids and rapes committed in the small mountain villages, the disappearance of civilians who expressed criticism of their totalitarian government.

The people were being pushed around by a Capitol that had once cared for them so very much.

Until District 13 pushed back.

It didn't take long for the rest of the country to rise up, bear arms and commit countless atrocities in the name of reformation.

In District 4, rebel submarines demolished unassuming Capitol cruise boats.

The crops were set ablaze in District 11 and the district burned red and orange for weeks, the smoking fields visible from miles and miles away.

Entire buildings in District 8 were razed to the ground, crushing civilians, Peacekeepers and soldiers alike.

Hovercraft engineers and pilots of District 6 led air bombings on the Capitol, hijacking trains to sneak vanguards of soldiers beyond the district's perimeter.

And thus, the war had begun.

District 2 had been the most loyal, the most supportive, the most dedicated to maintaining the Capitol's hold on power. My family - the Folami family – mother, father, my elder brother and I – had been advocates for the Capitol yet remained confident that a compromise could be reached.

However, the Capitol did not believe in negotiating with terrorists, and the rebels had come too far to turn back now.

Marbletown, the district's largest commune, was half-city and half-barracks and the hub of all military action. It was also home to the district's impenetrable Mountain Fortress, or the Fort as the locals called her – she was the pride of the district and nigh impossible to breach externally.

It was there, on the rocky slopes of the Fort, that the rebels fought and shot and screamed and bled and died. Unable to breach the district – and in turn the Capitol – their corpses littered the mountainside, carrion for the crows and lions that flew and skulked through the skies and caves.

Their attempt to infiltrate the Mountain Fortress had failed and their people had paid the price.

Some rebels ran, with most of them caught and put to death. A handful chose to brave the barren hills and risk the unbearable thirst, razor-sharp rocks and rock-path tribes than own up to what they had done, scourge their dishonor and face the noose with their conscience cleansed.

District 2 was not cruel, they understood that even a traitor was permitted their rites, and for those who confessed their treason, an unmarked grave was the best one could hope for.

The Capitol had been less forgiving. The rebel leaders had been publicly humiliated, flogged and hanged, their bloated bodies tied up around the districts, pockets of flies gathering on the white-blue skin, purple lips parted in death.

Once I had no more home to go to and nothing to fight for, I made my way to the square in Marbletown for the reaping. I refused to be dragged there as if I was a child. I stumbled past dead bodies, half a corpse myself, unable to tear my gaze away from all the death.

The road was lined with the remains of those who had died fleeing or accessing the city. They had died of infection, dehydration, untreated wounds. They had been my friendly neighbors, boisterous classmates, encouraging teachers.

I saw my father's peers, my mother's confidantes, round-cheeked girls, ruffled-haired boys.

But that had been another time – they had all of them proven to be traitors, their flames of rebellion extinguished at long last.

District 13 was destroyed, obliterated into nothing more than a smoking husk.

The war was over, and the Capitol had won.

This sense of victory did not extend to the districts. The new regime had come for us all, its hammer of justice swift with retribution as it built the foundations of the new Panem.

In the darkness of my cell, the memories begin to flood back.

"Hello, little one," the man purred.

His face was heavily scarred with a stained eye patch and a mouth full of yellow teeth. The only visible eye was black as coal and as jarring as his scars. "Come out now. Don't be scared. We're here to recruit you."

Telemachus had been cowering under his bed in the cottage he'd called home, his knees shaking, his bottom lip quivering. He could feel his heartbeat like thunder in his ears, his ragged breathing a storm. The stranger had dragged him out from his hiding place by his hair, kicking and screaming and biting, until a swift punch to the face silenced him.

"He's old enough. Put him with the other trainees," the scarred man said.

He was thrown into a wooden cart that smelled of dung and sheep, next to three boys who stared blankly ahead of them, their eyes red, their rags – clothes – covered in filth.

Telemachus' last memories of his home were his mother screaming his name to the whoops and grunts and wolf whistles of a handful of strange men. Her cries echoed in the valley around her, bouncing back each time with a sickening clarity as Telemachus' small cottage home disappeared, the sound of pillage faded, and the summer night fell still.

A deep, gravelly voice drag me from my thoughts.

"Oi, you. On your feet."

I stare out at the short, robust human shape in front of me. It's faceless, anonymous – a shadow, and nothing more.

But the shadow has given me a command, and a good soldier obeys.

I rock back, then forth, and on to my knees. I try to stand, but my legs collapse from beneath me instantly as the blood comes rushing back into my legs. It's a strange feeling, as if I'm being pricked by sharp pins across the affected flesh.

The voice grunts. "I said stand up, properly, or you'll end up not needing those legs after all."

They don't need to threaten me. I rise, forced to stoop and arch my back in order to fit within the confines of the cell. I look up at the shadow through hooded eyes, awaiting his next order.

Another, higher voice squeaks out from further down.

"Put on your torch. I wanna get a good look at him. You know, before."

There's the sound of helmets being removed and a burst of brightness. I squint at the sudden light, raising my hand to block it out.

The men's gaze lingers on me, beginning at my feet and running all the way to my face, where the curiosity ends and gives way to judgement – and something else, something I can't put my finger on.

In the light of my torch, I can get a closer look at my captors, the shadows that have now taken physical form.

The first, Stout, has beetle-black eyes and a poor attempt at facial hair, with the result being a patchy fuzz that covers his paunchy face and both of his chins. His frown lines are etched with dust. With crow's feet and dimples, he looks older - far older - than I had initially suspected.

Squeak, the second Peacekeeper, seemed to be my age with a long neck, sharp nose and teeth too big for his mouth. His skin is red, blotchy and dotted with pimples and whiteheads. There's a desperation in his manner, an urgency, that suggests he's eager to please and impress those around him.

I continue to glare through the bars of my cell at the guards.

"Does he talk?" asks Stout, striding over to the cage and folding his arms.

Squeak shakes his head. "No. Nothing since the Games."

"Maybe he's in shock."

Stout reaches into his pocket and removes from it a square of chocolate.

I stare at it.

Even before, chocolate has been an untouchable delicacy. It existed only behind the colorful, illustrated windows of the district confectionery in the market-town of Sunfair. The only patrons it had were those who could afford to spend money on caramels and lollipops, largely relying on visiting Capitol holidaymakers.

It was now just another mound of rubble, blown to pieces in the name of Panem.

"You know what this is?" Stout asks, scoffing as he tosses the chocolate into his mouth and chews on it noisily.

He swallows, shuts his eyes in pleasure, then opens them again to leer down at me.

"Stand up straight."

I try, but as I do, the strain on my back and neck prove too much and I wince in pain.

Stout's face twists. "Are you deaf? Get up!"

"I said, get up!"

A man with a scraggly black beard swung at Telemachus, landing a blow to his right cheek.

"I – I can't." The little boy stared at the metal blade in front of him.

A wild dog laying beneath him whined piteously, its left foreleg made a bloody mess by the hidden trap it had strayed unwittingly into.

It was afraid, impossibly afraid. Telemachus understood it. He pitied it.

The older man knelt to meet him.

"You use that sword, or I'll give it to someone else to wipe your ass with."

Telemachus nodded. He dug his feet into the earth, locked his knees and lifted the steel as high as he could, his arms quivering as he held it tightly by the hilt.

The metal was heavy and unfamiliar in his twelve-year-old hands.

"Now, soldier."

He closed his eyes and brought the knife down.

As reality takes me, I'm met with the whooping guffaws and thunderstorm laughter of the guards.

It goes on and on and on, and I desperately want it to stop. It's loud, far too loud, and I want the uninterrupted silence of my cell back.

I lower my head, trying to push the noise out as far as I can.

Then comes the sound of more footsteps, many more, and a third voice. It is older, more dignified.

"What are you doing?"

I look out into the darkness. The two guards have fallen silent, one with his head bowed in embarrassment and the other stiff and twitching nervously.

The origin of the third voice is a mystery, but it has an air of authority and assurance about it. It's a voice that demands respect and does not suffer fools.

I like that. My father was that way.

"You. The keys."

There's a fumbling of padded gloves and the rattling of keys. The high-pitched voice mutters numerous apologies. After a dull metal 'clunk', the padlock to the cell's door detaches with a sharp, satisfying click. The cage swings open invitingly, teasingly.

And I don't move a muscle.

With a sigh, a middle-aged man steps into the light of the guard's torch.

He has a shaved head, crooked nose and round, icy-blue eyes. His brow is heavy, and his lower jaw sags, reminiscent of the hounds that the police force used to scent-track drugs and explosives. A tattoo of a serpent begins under his right eye, its tail winding across his cheek and down the back of his neck. He wears his Peacekeeper white, though his uniform is adorned with badges in an array of colours – plum, navy, dark green, crimson and many more.

He must be a commander. My respect for the man rises instantly.

"Hello, Telemachus. My name is Mascazel. I am here to be your escort, by order of President Tigellinus Thorn."

At the mention of the President's name, I look at Mascazel, curious.

Tigellinus Thorn is a name belonging to a man known throughout Panem, and someone of semi-iconic status in District 2.

Before the Dark Days, he had been the head of the Capitol's military, a lieutenant and a war hero. His tactics had kept the rebel forces at bay within the inner districts and his decision to reinforce and pour his defensive strategy into the Fort led to the eventual quell of the revolution. A born orator, he had succeeded his predecessor after a landslide vote among the heads of the loyalist movement in each district – or so I heard.

Mascazel pulls his lips together in a piteous expression. "Please, Mr. Folami. Do not harbour under the illusion that this is a request."

He extends his hand and I see that it's splashed with burns, the skin red and leathery, more than one fingernail missing.

I look back up into the man's eyes. They're cold and apathetic, but hide no lies.

I've been given my orders.

Slowly, I begin to move. The sensation of needles in my legs has dissipated, but they now feel like slabs of cement, separate from my own body – I see them go, one foot in front of the other, but I can't associate them as belonging to me.

Once I emerge from the cell, the older man lowers his torch and briskly steps aside to the left.

Squeak and Stout stand to his right, their fingers brushing up against the thick, clunky handguns secured tightly to their belts.

They are frightened of me, I realize.

I look at them, one after the other. The iron and threats that had once been used to restrain me have gone - and now their faces are contorted with fear, their bodies half-frozen in a sudden rush of adrenaline.

Their terror passes across the room, from them to me.

Something stirs within me, a sleeping beast, ravenous and angry.

It's not unfamiliar.

"Follow me, Telemachus," orders Mascazel, turning on his heel.

I do.

"Follow me," grunted the regiment commander, motioning his men forward with a wave of his hand.

Telemachus felt the surge of movement around him, detaching himself from the blood-curdling keening of the wounded rebels and the thick, black smoke that slithered through the street as if it were an enormous, hungry serpent.

He could feel himself sweating profusely, hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, his breath coming short and fast through the heat of his helmet. His squad, Capital-208, were charged with removing the latest influx of rebel factions within the district's largest city.

Telemachus hastily located the magazine of his assault rifle and refilled it with cartridges, his gloved fingers making the action far clumsier than it ought to have been.

"Keep moving, eyes open and stay together!"

The regiment moved inward into Marbletown, weaving through the intricate alleyways and side-streets that had made the city's design so widely renowned throughout all Panem.

Telemachus ducked under low-sweeping shopfronts, stumbled over and sidled around titanic chunks of debris, pulled himself free from the grasp of wailing women and children, and focused on his commander's voice, the sole source of rationale in the midst of the chaos.

Before long, they swept out into an open clearing near the perimeter of the city's second level. There was neither sight nor sound of another soul among them in the open marble courtyard, unlike the hellish landscape of the city's outer ring through which they had just traveled.

As his fellow men rushed forward, Telemachus' found himself hesitating, and he fell back.

His commander turned around and raised his gruff, authoritative voice to a shout.

"Folami! What are you –"

There was a flare of red and white, a wave of sound and Telemachus felt himself flying.

The blinding light of my past is swiftly replaced by the murky darkness of the present – the Capitol's catacombs.

The long, winding damp corridors were built long ago, before the metropolis had grown bloated and congested, its people ridiculed by their district brethren for their silly, airy accents. The first builders began with the halls and cells near the surface where I was imprisoned, but future generations had dug deeper, for reasons unknown. There were some who insisted that the catacombs led out of the Capitol and into the districts. A few claimed they had been made for the looting of buried treasure. Others argue that it was a practical solution to a growing problem – there was always more room required for prisoners. The more eccentric characters would insist that a great, cavernous city had been constructed beneath their own and a man-eating army was being built beneath their feet, one that would one day come back to scour them all and reclaim their own land for themselves.

Regardless of the reason behind their creation, the catacombs were a spider's web below what remained of the central Capitol, notoriously complex with numerous cross overs and false ends. Indeed, it would not be incorrect to describe them as a labyrinth more so than catacombs, for much of it is unexplored. To issue a search team would cost more money, induce more labor and take more time than any government had considered worthy. The upper levels continue to be used for the housing and containment of high-priority prisoners – malcontents, progressives, suspected rebels, outspoken personalities, any citizen who had expressed disagreement with the regime had found themselves here, with very few returning.

Most of them deserve it.

The commander's heavy breathing and grinding voice interrupts my thoughts as he attempts to fill up the silence between us.

"Your family must be proud of you."

I think of them.

My parents – mother, shy and matronly, the soothing influence in a houseful of passionate men – my father, quiet and imposing, who ran his house with an iron fist. I can almost see them, their faces swimming before my eyes - mother's doe-like eyes and gentle expression. Father's strong jaw and tight-lipped smile.

And in the space of a moment, they're gone, leaving me alone with Mascazel in the stairwell.

We continue to climb, and I continue to think.

I try not to concern myself with it, of the weakness that runs through my blood, but the more furiously I try to suppress my anger the more excruciating it becomes.

It all began with my elder brother, the firstborn Folami, Telegonus. He was a brooding, careless child whose rough-and-tumble nature led him to scraps with his peers.

I would clutch my mother's apron and watch in admiration as my father berated a bruised, beat-up Telegonus who looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

Afterwards, he would steal me into a corner and tell me the full details of the match.

Despite our wildly conflicting dispositions, Telegonus and I had one another's backs through thick and thin. If one of us fell short, the other pulled their weight to overcompensate. Had there been a lie told, the other would fabricate accordingly. We played wing-man for one another's romantic interests (though this seemed to largely be for Gon, who was in the throes of adolescence). It seemed that, for the longest time, we were the best of friends and nothing had tested their resolve.

We were a perfect picture of what a good district family ought to be.

Until.

Telegonus, in his brash, altruistic form – began to look around him and see how things could be better. It began with our father – he was older, less fit, and could not work the same hours with the same enthusiasm as he once did. He lived in a state of fear of the Capitol's reaction if he and his men did not meet their quotas.

As he ventured outside his home, Gon learned of the injustice, the sickness, the poverty, the violence that accumulated in the city by the Peacekeeper's brute force and random searches. He discovered the secret hangings and gang rapes in the Bare Forests, the arrests and illegalities in the inns of Sunfair and across all of Tyne.

My brother had begun to feel, for the first time, that the Capitol could be wrong.

This did not bode well with the Folami tradition of faultless, unshakable patriotism.

After a blaring argument and physical fallout, he was banished from our home, his name forbidden to be spoken. I found himself resenting – no, detesting – my brother and his decision to support the newly founded District 2 rebellion in favor of his family. We had fed him, loved him, supported him. Had the rebels done that?

As the other districts took up arms, all able-bodied boys and men aged twelve and above were required to join the Capitol-2 military forces. Any person who resisted would be committing treason and face imprisonment, awaiting execution.

I desperately wanted to join the war effort and prove to my family that they had a son that was loyal to them. And so I sneaked out one morning to enlist.

But, at a scrawny eight years old and not considered fit for battle, I was turned away.

Furious, I returned home, intent on seeking out another form of service, only to find my mother weeping at the table.

My father had left that morning to find me, and had not returned since.

If Telegonus had never left, I would not have tried so desperately to prove myself. My father would not have sought me out, and he would never have disappeared.

It was all his fault.

Then I was taken, and in the end, I never discovered what became of my father, mother, or brother.

The thin, claustrophobic staircases begin to widen. Mascazel leads us here and there, left and right, up and down, through archways and passages.

I don't recognize this path. I had not been brought to my old cell this way. The walls, once devoid of naught but torches, begin to sport glass-stained windows through which radiant beams of colourful light burst. I squint and growl in response to the sudden change in environment.

Mascazel chuckles derisively as he pulls up short in front of a large set of oaken doors that bear the seal of Panem, embedded into their wooden panels.

I bow my head, press my forefinger and thumb together, touch them to my lips, and make a circular motion across my forehead, mouth and heart. The foreman's cross, we call it. It's a sign to express that I am devoted to my country in my thoughts, in my words and in my soul. It has always been a sign of respect for us. And though its use has waned across the decades, the founding families of District 2 – Folami, Slade, Flint, Mason – have insisted on preserving custom by continuance.

Mascazel moves to open the door, pauses, and turns to me.

"Are you ready?"

"Are you ready?"

The soft, tired voice came from a girl, her dark hair matted with filth and lice, the lines of her face exacerbated with grime and sweat.

Telemachus could see that she had traditional District 2 features – dark hair and eyes, sallow skin, a heavy brow. She clung to the rusted bars of her cell, her lips chapped, her knuckles white.

She was the grandniece of a known district rebel and had not stopped attempting to engage with Telemachus since the Reaping.

He lifted his head. "Ready for what?"

The girl licked her lips. "For tomorrow. You're going to fight, aren't you?"

Telemachus said nothing, and the girl's tone grew more urgent.

"We could work together, you know. You and me. Make sure the winner is from Two."

A burst of hoarse, dry laughter escaped Telemachus. He leaned in the direction of the girl.

"I don't work with traitors," he told her, the anger in his voice palpable.

I nod and Mascazel pushes open the doors.

It's like nothing I've ever seen before – an airy, grand, lavish entrance hall, flooded with light and adorned with a plethora of interior decorations. A crystal candelabra swings from the ceiling, fine works of art adorn the printed walls, and a sweeping imperial staircase leads to the upper floor.

Beyond that, it sports ceramic vases of colourful, exotic plants, transparent bowls of ripe, luscious fruit, busts and gold-inlaid quotes of presidents past.

The entire room is aesthetically exceptional. I feel immediately out of place.

"Where are we?"

It's the first time I've spoken in days. Mascazel shoots me a sharp look of surprise.

"You are in the manse of President Thorn." He clears his throat. "Follow me. You have an appointment."

Mascazel takes me up the winding left-hand stair, and I run my hand along the smooth, cold maple bannister. The wood originated in the lumber district, no doubt, but District 2 has its own sugar maple trees that produce a watery, sweet sap that can be turned into syrup once boiled. I tried it once, long ago. The memory leads to an acute stinging feeling in the pit of my stomach and so I banish the thought from my mind.

Instead, I begin to wonder what President Thorn could possibly want with me.

I've done all that I can for my homeland, district and nation. Is the point of this meeting to thank me for my service? If that's the case, why me? There has been thousands of soldiers, throughout Panem – just like me – who have laid their lives on the line to protect everything that Thorn and his administration stand for.

Or, if not for reasons of gratitude, am I to be further punished for the treachery of my brother's acts? I had nothing to do with his decision.

Still, the blood of a traitor runs in my veins, and if left unchecked could be disastrous. No son or daughter of mine can replicate Gon's path, but the lingering fear of a dissident, extremist Folami on a distant branch of their family tree petrifies me more than I care to admit.

Unless…

At the top of the staircase, we pass an ornate hanging mirror.

From out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my reflection.

I'm covered in blood.

There was blood everywhere.

In his mouth and eyes, on his skin, between his fingers. It drenched his plain brown tunic.

Corpses of district children littered the amphitheatre, wide-eyed and gaping and rotting.

Telemachus couldn't hear himself think over the deafening roar of the Capitol spectators.

In the distance, trumpets blared, loud and shrill. A voice rang out across the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, your victor... Telemachus Folami!"

Telemachus' grip loosened on the hilt of his long-sword and he collapsed to his knees.

A Peacekeeper pulled him to his feet, and led him from the battle ground, half-dazed, as the crowd cheered his name, waving their hands and stamping their feet.

I'm filthy, caked in dirt and sweat and gods knows what else.

The blood on my skin and clothes has dried, some of it beginning to crust and peel. On my tunic, it's darker, splattered in almost artistic patterns.

Who did it belong to? The faces are blurred together, the names unfamiliar and lost to the past.

Mascazel takes me down one last hall to a single, white door with a brass handle.

"President Thorn is waiting for you," he says flatly.

I take a moment to myself, then open the door gently and step inside.

The President's showroom is not what I expected. It has an intimate, earthier ambiance than the rest of the pristine mansion. The colours range from deep, scorched reds to rich, woody browns, encapsulated by the roaring fire that burns on a log-fuelled hearth. Its black mantle seems to be shimmering in the dancing flames.

Next to the fireplace lies a pair of leather wing-back armchairs, one of which is empty.

In the other, sits the President of Panem, Tigellinus Thorn.

For some reason, I expected an older, moodier man. Yet despite his grey-speckled beard, forehead wrinkles and walrus moustache, Thorn has a young man's face with laugh lines and sparkling brown eyes.

It surprises me to see a war veteran so full of gusto, as Thorn proves to be spirited and animate, bursting into a wide smile as I approach him.

Thorn takes my hand in his, shaking it vigorously.

"Telemachus! It's a pleasure to meet you at last, although I daresay we've both looked better." Thorn lets out a hearty laugh at his own wit. "Please, take a seat."

He motions to the spare seat with his free hand, and I sit down promptly.

The President leans back in his own chair, surveying me with a degree of interest.

"Before we begin, I want to congratulate you on a truly spectacular victory."

I clear my throat. "I can't – I don't remember much of it."

Thorn raises his eyebrows. "Is that so? Why is that?"

"I don't know. I suppose I just… got it over with."

There's a tense silence.

Thorn shifts in his seat, cocking his head and looking at me curiously.

"You must have so many questions."

I move to speak, hesitate, and then find his voice.

"Are you going to punish me?"

Thorn looks positively quizzical, then amused, and shakes his head with great vigour.

"Punish you? Gods, no. What gave you that impression? Has Commander Mascazel been forceful?"

"I had to be taken into custody after the arena."

"For your own protection," says Thorn swiftly. "I am afraid that a small portion of the Capitol citizenry does not support rewarding the districts in any way, shape or form after everything that has happened. This, unfortunately, extends to The Hunger Games, and the duties of the position that you have recently assumed."

"My… position?"

"As victor," says Thorn.

"Victor." The word is strange on my lips. "And what are my duties, exactly?"

I feel childish as soon as I've said it.

Thorn sighs, stands up and moves to the mantle, facing away.

"That's a substantial question, one to which I fear I cannot give you a definitive answer.

I often ask myself just that – what does it mean to have influence, to be a leader? Is it the ability to defeat all your enemies until there is none left to threaten everything you hold dear? To stare fear and death in the eye so that your people don't have to? Or does it lie in the simplicity in refusing to give up, even when the odds are not in your favor?"

He turns back to me. His speech is measured, posture upright, expression serious.

For the first time, I see the man who had led the Capitol forces forward.

"I want to put that question back to you. What does Telemachus think it means?"

The speed of my answer surprises us both.

"It means making the tough choices," I say. "Having to do the right thing, no matter what."

It was what my father would have said. I know that much.

President Thorn's lips curve upward into a satisfied smile.

"Yes, Telemachus. I think so too."

He leaves the mantle and sidles over to the windowsill, surveying what is beyond.

"I will be short with you," he says, and the mood of the room changes instantly.

"Panem is on the brink of self-destruction. District 13 has been obliterated – nothing remains but a graveyard of rubble and toxic fumes. We are starting again from the ground up and a single tremor in our resolve can undo whatever progress we make. The wounds of war are still fresh in the public's mind – you couldn't possibly know this, but there are a lot of angry people out there."

I furrow my brow in confusion. "But the rebels were defeated. People aren't happy with that?"

"For the most part yes, they are. However, the next decade – goodness, decades – will be most telling. We cannot do nothing and act surprised if the districts slide back into dissent."

"That can't happen," I say instantly.

He moves over to me, retaking his seat and rubbing his temple as if it pains him.

"No, it can't. The Hunger Games are essential in this regard. Do you know why?"

I say nothing, not wanting to provide an incorrect answer.

"Don't fret – politics is complex and layered at the best of times. You see, Telemachus, the Games provide a medium to soothe the public's outrage, while simultaneously providing minimal bloodshed... and a sense of hope."

"But sir, forgive me, I can vouch for District 2, but the other districts… won't this anger them further?"

Thorn shakes his head. "I – that is to say, we – don't think so. To win The Hunger Games allows a prospect of opportunity for upstanding, talented district children such as yourself to prove their worth to the nation."

Although I do not consider myself to be a child, I know my place and do not contradict the President.

"You cannot imagine the bounties, the recognition. The kind that is now yours, Telemachus. Glories and riches eternal. Food and prosperity to a victor's district throughout the duration of their reign. It will boost morale, drive work productivity. This is a good thing."

I feel an elation in my chest.

Thorn moves in closer.

"Believe me, Telemachus, when I tell you that we do not want to unleash an endless barrage of hatred and pain upon the districts. I am not a cruel man. As a nation, we can move forward in understanding and forgiveness, enriching the lives of those who once wronged us while remembering a past never to be repeated. The Hunger Games will aid us in achieving that.

We just want to make a better world, Telemachus. A better Panem.

Do we have your support in this?" He smiles. "We could do with a victor on our side."

I don't hesitate.

"Of course, sir. You can trust me."

Thorn placed his hand on my shoulder. "I don't doubt it, soldier."

In that moment, I feel a rush of belonging and, at last, I understand my purpose.

I was born to be the champion to a cause that I know I will never lose faith in; myself, my country and my people.

I did not pass through blood and bullets and fire for nothing.

I will raze a district to the ground if it meant protecting mine, and the more that I think about, the fiercer my intent to provide a district to be proud of became.

In my eighteen years, I have been many things.

A son, a brother, a soldier.

I have been a defender of District 2.

A protector of Panem.

But now, as President Thorn leads me to the window and slides back the velvet red drapes, I understand with a jolt that I am far more than that.

As my face comes into view, the congregation of thousands of people outside of the President's Mansion erupt into an outburst of cheering and raucous applause.

"These people are all here for you," Thorn tells me.

I slowly raise my hand in acknowledgement, and the crowd goes wild.

To them, I realise, I am the personification of an era of Panem that means peace and resolution.

It seems that things have finally changed for good.

And, deep down, I know – I am not a child anymore. In fact, I am more than a man.

I am a victor.