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( 000 ━ DARKEST BEFORE DAWN )

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THE FIRE WAS DYING.

It's breath came in flickers, small golden tongues lapping against the blackened kindling, casting erratic shadows on the jagged cliff wall behind it. The girl from District 2 crouched above the flames, her red hair dimmed to a blood-dark bronze in the glow. Her face, bandaged on the left side with scraps of cloth, was motionless in the firelight. She didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Not yet.

The mountains around her slouched like sleeping giants, their peaks buried in cloud, their valleys drowned in shadow. Somewhere below—far below—lay the Cornucopia, the once golden horn now glowing a brilliant orange in the dark. It was the only light for miles, other than her fire, and the moon hanging low in the sky. The Cornucopia stood out menacingly against the terrain, its distant silhouette etched into the night like a scar on the earth's face. For the District 2 girl, it wasn't just a light, but rather, a warning.

It was a warning that tonight, the Games were going to end.

Outside of the arena, the Capitol was sure to be watching. They waited on baited breath, silenced by their own anticipation as they watched the broadcast of the games, waiting for something—anything—to happen. Their screens, and the screens of everyone else watching from around Panem, were bathed in green. The eerie shimmer of night vision cameras following her every move, painted the entire arena in a sickly emerald hue. No warmth, no color—only outlines and heat signatures, the ghost of a girl against the bones of the mountain.

The tribute from District 2 moved with careful precision. Her short-sword—silver and slick—lay heating on the fire, it's blade glowing a dull red near the tip. She'd done this three nights before and the results had been...decisive. Fire was one of the only luxuries in these Games, and she'd learned to bend it to her will. Even now, she could hear him—him—breaching the edge of her trap.

The boy from District 10 was climbing. His boots scraped against loose rock, sending pebbles cascading below. Too loud. Too clumsy. His breath came in huffs, harsh and panicked. She could picture his wide eyes scanning the cliff face in the dark, searching for a foothold, squinting toward the flicker of firelight. He wasn't made for mountains. Not like she was. He didn't know how feel for purchase with the tips of his fingers or toes, know how to breathe with the rock and dust in his lungs...

...but, he was almost there.

Just before District Ten could hoist himself up to her hiding place, the girl slipped back from the fire and up onto the narrow ledge above it. She hunkered down, body pressed to stone, heartbeat erratic, blade left glinting where he could see it. She became a shadow among the cliffs. Became silence. The fire hissed softly below her, her conspirator.

And then, he came.

His shape lurched into view—tall, broad-shouldered, with a cattle prod slung in his fist like a promise. He stepped closer to the fire, cautiously, eyes flickering to the flames, the bait gleaming red in the dying fire. He wasn't dumb; he had to realize that she knew he was coming. The way he scanned the terrain, tightening his grip on the prod—it told her he was expecting a fight. District Two held her breath, lest he be listening for the sound of her shaky inhale and exhale. Her muscles tensed as the District 10 male slowly prowled across the clearing. When he was close enough, she dropped.

Her weight crashed into him like falling stone. They toppled sideways, limbs grappling in the dirt, and once on the ground, the girl rolled to the side and snatched up her sword—still glowing a blazing white from the fire—and swiped. The blade arced through the air and got one clean cut in—his bicep, shallow but deep enough to bleed. The metal pierced his skin and singed on contact. District Ten howled. She didn't have much time to celebrate before his cattle prod came down, hard, against her ribs with a jolt that felt like lightning.

The girl hit the ground, muscles twitching, her scream torn away by the wind. She rolled over onto her back, groaning, just in time to watch the male tribute pick up her sword. He raised the blade in his fist—surely to deal the final blow—and District Two couldn't help but curl in on herself in preparation for death. But it never came. In one swift motion, he hurled her sword clean over the edge of the cliff and it disappeared into the darkness with a glint of silver metal.

The boy turned toward her, and for the first time since they'd entered the Games, she saw his face. Not the blur she'd glimpsed during training or the snarling profile from skirmishes days before—but truly saw it. His features were raw and wind-chapped, a jagged scar splitting one eyebrow like a bolt of lightning. His eyes, wide and wild, gleamed with something almost giddy—victory, maybe. Or vengeance. He started towards her and District Two forced herself up onto her hands in a futile attempt to escape.

"You Career types always think you've got it won," he muttered, voice rasping like gravel. "Guess what, Two? You die just the same."

He lunged and the weight of him slammed down hard. Her back struck the earth with a thud that knocked the breath from her lungs. His knees pinned her arms, and his hands—coarse, calloused things—wrapped around her throat. Her body thrashed, boots scraping rock, hands clawing for anything, anything. Above her, the boy from District 10 grinned.

"Two weeks in the dark, and this is how it ends," he said, squeezing tighter. "Bet they'll love this back home. District Ten farm boy takes down a mountain-bred killer. Hope they get my good side."

Her vision swam. The stars above blurred into fireflies. Her lungs burned. There was no sword now. No plan. No mercy.

Only fire.

Her fingers brushed ash. Then heat. Then pain. The flames beside her whispered, do it. So she did.

With one final surge of will, District Two shoved her hand straight into the coals. Agony bloomed through her palm like a star exploding—but she held on, gritted her teeth, and flung the handful of burning embers into his face.

The scream that tore from Trotter's throat was inhuman. He reeled backward, clutching his scorched face, blinded by pain. He stumbled, staggered, twisted on unsteady feet—and never saw how close he'd come to the cliff's edge.

But she did.

With a hoarse cry, she drove her boot forward—once, hard—into his knee.

He toppled and then pitched over backwards, falling straight into the abyss below. There was a moment's silence, then a sound: like cloth ripping through air, a body moving too fast, too far. A second later, the boom of a cannon cracked through the mountains, echoing across the sleeping peaks.

Silence returned.

She lay there for a moment, breath sawing in and out of her chest, her burned hand curled against her stomach, the bandages on her face already soaked through with fresh blood. She didn't move until the wind shifted and the scent of ash blew past her—then, slowly, she sat up. And as she did so, the horizon ignited.

There it was. The sun.

Rising in the east like a wound in the sky, bleeding gold and rose and firelight over the dark peaks. It painted the cliff face in color again, cast the Cornucopia in copper instead of shadow. It touched her face and she gasped—because she'd forgotten what warmth felt like. Forgotten what color was.

The tears came quietly at first. Then all at once. She sobbed, not from pain, but from the impossible beauty of it. From the horror of surviving. From the weight of two weeks lived in darkness, alone, hunted, bleeding. Her body shook as the light poured over her, and still she didn't look away. It was her first sunrise in almost fourteen days.

The Games were over. She had won.

Then, a voice, amplified overhead as if by some giant speaker, crackled to life.

"Ladies and gentlemen," rang the familiar, syrupy tone of Claudius Templesmith, "we are proud to present to you, the victor of the Sixty-Ninth Annual Hunger Games... the female tribute from District Tw—"

Her breath caught.

And just like that, the memory snapped.

Carminia Wythe blinked herself back into the present—back beneath the fluorescent light, away from silence, into the crushing weight of everything after. She hadn't even known she'd been dreaming.

It only took a moment to remember where she was. A large room, a long barrier of two-way glass, and about 20 or so Victors of past Games crowding to talk to one another and peer down to into a training area that sat below them. The observation room. That's what they called it. Cold, bright, too clean. Like it was trying to scrub out the violence being trained below.

Carminia shifted her weight against the railing and stared through the glass, her eyes—or eye, singular, as one was covered in a dark eyepatch—locking on the two figures from District 2. Liberty and Gunner—both tall, strong, sharp-eyed. Trained from birth like she had been. Raised on the promise of glory, the threat of failure. They moved like predators, pacing the perimeter of a knot of younger, weaker tributes who didn't yet know they were already prey.

She watched them with a flat expression, her arms crossed over her chest, the fingers of her burned hand twitching slightly against the sleeve of her jacket. They had the makings of Careers. The ruthlessness. The ease with which they sized up the room. But something was off—maybe in the way Liberty didn't quite match Gunner's rhythm, or the way Gunner kept glancing up toward the glass like he could feel eyes watching him. He couldn't, but she felt the burn of his gaze nonetheless.

Someone stepped up beside her her and broke her focus on the tributes. A tall boy leaned forward against the railing, his bronze hair tousled in a way that probably wasn't accidental. He was grinning, casually arrogant. She knew who he was without looking.

Finnick Odair. District 4, winner of the 65th Games. So far the youngest Victor in Panem history. Likely also the prettiest.

"Still brooding, Red?" His voice was warm, teasing, like they were old friends. Like she hadn't just been a statue since the moment she arrived.

Carminia didn't answer. Her gaze didn't even flick toward him. She'd seen the type before—cocky, charming, too used to getting attention. She'd killed boys just like him. She wasn't impressed and she wasn't about to start now.

Finnick didn't seem to mind the silence. He leaned closer, his breath nearly fogging the glass. "Your two look promising," he said. "Strong. Coordinated. A little green, but that's what we're for, isn't it? Shaping them."

"They're not mine," Carminia said quietly.

He raised an eyebrow at that, but she didn't elaborate.

Down on the training floor, Liberty had just disarmed a tribute from District 9 and stood over him with her spear pointed at his chest. No hesitation. No apology. Carminia's jaw tightened.

Finnick was quiet for a beat, following her gaze down to the floor again. "They remind me of you," he said, tilting his head toward the District 2 pair. "Focused. Dangerous. Pretty in that unapproachable kind of way."

He spoke like he knew her well and it bothered Carminia deeply. Not to mention that pretty wasn't a word she was accustomed with nowadays, unless explicitly used in a backhanded manner. However, she didn't take the bait.

Instead, she shifted slightly as one of the training stations cleared and another pair stepped in. Not her tributes. Not even close. A girl with wide eyes and a nervous air, clutching a trident awkwardly like she wasn't sure whether to wield it or drop it.

"Yours?" Carminia asked, surprising even herself.

Finnick nodded once. "The girl. Annie."

His voice changed when he said the name. It was subtle, but she caught it. A small fracture in his easy tone, like a note slightly off-key. Not fear exactly. Something softer. Sadder.

Carminia's eyes moved to Annie. She was small. Out of place. She fumbled the trident, nearly dropped it, then caught it again with a startled laugh that no one else returned. Carminia wasn't an optimist, nor was she care for sentiment. People would die whether they wanted them to or not.

"She won't last," she said flatly.

Finnick didn't answer right away. Upset or angry perhaps. But when he did, his voice was low. "She's not supposed to. Not in their eyes."

"And in yours?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He looked at her then, really looked, and there was no charm in his tone now. "In mine? She already has."

His words brought the temperature in the room down a few degrees. Carminia kept an even expression as a flicker of unease passed through her chest, though it was quickly smothered. Behind her, voices murmured—other mentors chatting, trading strategies, laughing like this was all a game that ended when the cameras turned off. She glanced at some of them briefly: a glamorous pair of siblings from 1, two wiry, intense figures from 3 who spoke in unfinished sentences, and a drunken man from 12 who kept falling into the refreshment table every time he went back for a refill. Carminia met none of their eyes—until she felt one pair on her and turned.

Brutus.

He stood near the far end of the observation room, arms crossed, eyes locked on hers. Her district partner. Her mentor last year. Now... whatever they were now. They hadn't spoken much since she returned from her Victory Tour. And they didn't speak now. Just a long, sharp look between them—a warning.

Finnick followed her gaze and smirked slightly. "Does he always look like that, or just at you?"

Carminia finally turned away. "You talk a lot."

"And you don't talk enough." His grin widened. "But that's fine. I like puzzles."

She didn't respond, just pressed her hip against the railing and watched Liberty and Gunner spar like the arena was already around them. One year ago, she had stood where they stood. Now she watched from above, one of the winners. A Victor. Now that she was watching them, she didn't feel like she had won anything.

If she wasn't already feeling uncomfortable, Finnick made sure of it by sliding closer to so he was less than a hare'a breadth away. "Hard to watch them and not start guessing how it's gonna go down, huh? The odds always look better before the blood hits the sand."

Again, Carminia didn't answer. She didn't need to. He gave her a final glance—less flirtation now, more something else. Understanding, maybe. Or caution.

Then a voice called his name from across the room—some Capitol handler in sparkling shoes—and he pushed off the railing.

"See you around, Red," he said, already walking away. "Try not to forget which side of the glass you're on."

And just like that, he was gone.

Carminia stayed where she was, watching the training floor, her reflection faint in the glass. For a moment, she thought she saw blood on her sleeve again. Smoke in her hair. The ghosts never left; they only waited for silence.

Below her, Liberty raised her spear again.

Above her, the sun had not yet risen.