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( 001 ━ THE THIRD QUARTER QUELL)

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CARMINIA WOKE WITH A START, gripped by the unsettling feeling that someone was trying to pin her down. Her limbs, twisted up in the bedsheets around her, fought to free herself from an unseen attacker, until she was able to blindly rip the material away from her body. She sat up abruptly, her breath ragged and shallow, and her hands flew to throat—half-expecting to find someone else's fingers wrapped around her windpipe, crushing it. She found nothing but smooth, sweat-soaked skin.
Her one good eye darted wildly in the shadows before she remembered where she was. Home. Not the arena. Home.

Or, at least a version of it.

The nightmare, whatever shape it had taken this time, slipped away through the cracks of her fingers as she rubbed at her eyes tiredly with the heels of her palms. She hardly ever remembered the content of the dreams themselves, but she had a decent idea. They usually ended in blood, whether hers or someone else's.

The light streaming in through the slatted blinds was warm and golden—late morning, possibly even afternoon. Too late. She was supposed to be up hours ago. She threw off the blanket, threw her legs over the side of the bed, and stood up, but perhaps to fast. The world tilted, and black spots swam at the edges of her vision. She put her hand out to steady herself and cursed under her breath when the sudden motion made her palm throb. She looked down at the twisted, pale burn scar across her right hand—white like candle wax, slick like old leather. She flexed her fingers once, twice, trying to shake the stiffness. It didn't quite hurt, but it wasn't pleasant either.

Carminia stood, more slowly this time, and took a moment to glance around her room once more, as if checking to make sure her dream hadn't followed her into the waking world. Her left eye, the blind one, scanned the room uselessly, nothing more than a milky blue marble in a porcelain doll's head.

When the search proved fruitless, she turned back to her nightstand and reached for a small strip of material that rested there. An eyepatch. She pulled her hair to the side and tied the patch into place, covering the damaged eye with practiced efficiency. The leather was worn from use but soft and non-irritating on her skin. She dressed quickly: a dark grey tunic with a high collar and black trousers tucked into scuffed work boots, her hair loose and free flowing over her shoulders.

With her red hair brushed and tamed, and her expression set into her normal neutral, albeit tired expression, Carminia made her way down the polished wooden steps that lead to the lower level. The house she lived in now was far larger than the one she'd grown up in. It still felt a little too quiet, a little too pristine, like she was a guest in someone else's life. Despite having some money growing up, she hadn't understood real luxury until she'd become a Victor. Now, she had more money than she knew what to do with, and more space than two people needed. Speaking of two people...

The smell of burnt something hit her before she even reached the kitchen.

Her pace quickened as she headed for the door, but once in the doorway, she froze. Her father was hunched over the stove in his wheelchair, his large, scarred hands trembling as he fumbled with the skillet. Grease popped angrily in the pan and he was swearing as little droplets splashed onto his skin. He hadn't noticed her yet.

"What are you doing?" Her voice came out colder than she'd meant. "You're supposed to be on bed rest like the doctor ordered."

Her father didn't turn. "I'm making breakfast. Or is that illegal now?"

His voice was gravely, thick with the bitterness he never bothered to hide anymore. The fire had stolen his work, his movement, his pride. What was left of him was half the man she remembered.

Carminia was annoyed. "You could have fallen. You should have woken me up."

"I'm not helpless, Carminia."

His tone was sharp and the way he said her name sent a shard of ice through her veins, but she knew it was his frustration speaking and not actually him.

"Didn't say you were." She strode over and gently took the spatula from him. He acquiesced, handing it over, and sat back in his chair with a grumble. Carminia looked over what used to be their breakfast. The eggs were overcooked. The toast, burnt. She stifled a sigh, knowing everything would have to be pitched. "But you don't have to do this. Not today."

"I had a nightmare," he said, surprising her. He rarely admitted things like that. "Felt better to do something."

Carminia nodded softly, not sure what to say. Question him? Tell him of her own bad dreams? Ignore it all together? The only thing she knew to do in the moment was to extinguish the flame on the stove and dump the contents of the pan into the kitchen trash.

"Alcmene will be here soon. Perhaps she can take you for a walk, get you out of the house," She said to him.

Alcmene was an older woman who Carminia paid to stay with her father when she was gone. She was nice enough, but her father didn't like the idea of a sitter. He grumbled again at her idea.

"A walk with that woman sounds worse than staying here," he complained. 

Carminia snorted softly as she put the dishes in the sink and turned to face him. He looked small in his wheelchair, a blanket draped over his lap. "I don't know, Pa, if I didn't know any better, I would say she likes you."

Her father balked at that idea. "She likes nagging me, that's what she likes."

Carminia laughed, a real laugh, and shook her head. "Then that makes two of us then."

He scowled but didn't argue. She almost felt bad for what she had planned.

"I'm going out for a while," she said finally. "I'll leave something for lunch. You should rest until then."

Her father rose a brow, looking at her in that reproachful way of his. He could always see right through her bullshit, even if she wasn't actively lying or scheming. "Out?" He questioned.

"Yes, out."

"Where are you going?" He asked, still prodding.

Carminia didn't answer right away, dancing around an answer. She busied herself by pulling things out from around the kitchen as she prepared him something to eat for later. Sausage from the pantry. Cheese and goat's milk from the ice box. A lone apple that had been rolling around sadly in a basket on the counter. Anything to avoid his gaze for just a few minutes longer.

"I don't know, yet. Just out," she replied, eventually, evasively.

"Right."

Carminia walked to the door, where a satchel was hanging, heavy with unknown contents. She checked to make sure it still had what she needed. "I'll be back soon."

He gave a grunt, neither agreement nor protest. That was as good as it got.

After assembling the food items on the counter, she shrugged a light jacket on over her shoulders, kissed her father on the cheek (he slipped the apple she'd found into her pocket and waved her off), and then she was out the door.

The air outside the doorway smelled of dust and iron—the scent of District 2 in the spring. The mountains just beyond the edge of town still clung to streaks of snow like they couldn't quite let go of winter. Carminia had once learned in school that those mountains had been called the "Rockies," and she still thought it was a foolish name. They were rocky alright, but so was every other mountain she'd encountered. Which wasn't much, considering the only other mountains she'd ever seen came in the form of pictures in books or the view from a train window. Like most other Victors, the only time she'd ever traveled was on her Victory Tour and for each year's annual games. Other than that, Carminia hadn't ever left District 2.

The Victor's Village was still and quiet as she descended the wide stone stairs, her footsteps crunching against gravel. The houses here were larger than any in the rest of the district—marble structures, sharp-angled roofs, big enough to mock the space that could have been filled by long-dead tributes. Only a few Victors lived here now. Brutus and Enobaria, a tall, thin woman named Lyme who had been living in the village longer than Carminia been alive, and a few other odd characters here and there that she had the pleasure of knowing, and the greater satisfaction of avoiding. Then, of course, there was herself.

Regardless if they were alive or dead, the rest of the houses stood like tombs, eyes shuttered, mouths sealed.

The sun had risen high above the mountain peaks, and the sky was a cloudless blue. Birds chirped from the trees that lined the main avenue of Victor's Village, but Carminia didn't hear them. Her thoughts were already shifting, turning toward the town that awaited beyond the wrought-iron gate.

District 2 buzzed even on quiet days. Peacekeepers strolled leisurely in pairs along the cobblestone streets (this was their home too after all), and the sound of quarry drills echoed from the cliffs that loomed beyond the edge of the district. Dust clung to everything here. It coated boots and buildings, lodged itself in throats, and turned sweat to mud in the creases of elbows and brows.

She passed the training compound on the hill—a fortress of stone where young men and women were shaped into weapons. Once, Carminia had stood among them. Now they stared at her with a mix of awe and unease. Victor. Monster. Girl with the eye that doesn't see.

She walked faster.

Despite the nice weather, this time of year was especially tense. In nearly two months, the Games would start up again. They were a big deal in District 2, but not for the same reason as many of the other districts. While many of the others cried and rioted at the thought of the Games, District 2 welcomed it with open arms—for the most part. Due to their loyalty and their Career status, entering the Hunger Games was more of an honor than not. They didn't even need to bother drawing names; many kids from Two would throw themselves at the chance to volunteer. Carminia had. And it had been an honor, just as much as it had been to win.

Though her nightmares could argue that point.

No matter their standpoint, the Quarter Quell always left people feeling on edge. This would be her first time witnessing one, but she'd heard the stories. The last had been 25 years ago, a year before she was born, where twice the normal number of tributes had been reaped. According to her father, there had been outrage regarding that, even in the Career districts. Worse was the one 25 years before that, where the districts had to vote for their tributes like executioners choosing their own victims.

Carminia shivered at the memory of her father's voice—low, bitter, laced with something like shame as he recounted his own parents' stories. "It was a dark time," he'd said. "People turned on each other, voted out of spite. Just made us hate each other more."

She had been too young then to understand, but now, with another Quarter Quell looming, the tension in the air felt like a fuse waiting to be lit. People smiled less. Training sessions ran later into the evening. Even the Peacekeepers, usually relaxed in their home district, had taken on a sharper edge—more patrols, more surveillance, more whispers.

Carminia turned down a narrow alley behind the market, the scent of stone dust following her between buildings. She knew she should go back—her father would be angry—but her feet hesitated at the junction, drawn instead toward the Peacekeepers' training compound.

She'd been warned not to go here before. Several times, in fact. This compound, while being one of many, was also one of the most prominent in District 2. Many of the Peacekeepers that passed through these grounds would be shipped off to lend aid the other districts, or, if they were more talented, they would be sent to the military command in the center of Two. Built into the heart of a mountain, it used to be an old mine, before it was gutted of its resources and repurposed into a base following the events of the Dark Days. Whatever went on inside was top secret and not meant for eyes such as her own. Still, the command was a source of curiosity for Carminia. It was like a giant anthill, with the Peacekeepers and guards always coming and going, but far more deadly than the insects she found beneath her feet.

The Peacekeepers—despite most being from the same district as everyone else—were not exactly friendly people. They were far more Capitol won than anyone else in Two and a lot of them took pride in that notion. The hangings and floggings that took place in other districts rarely ever happened here, but that didn't stop the Peacekeepers from turning in anyone who they had even the slightest hint of being treasonous. They would turn in their best friend if it meant they were "protecting their country". The only exception had been her mother.

As she neared the training base, she was met by a middle aged soldier with balding silver hair, who was propped up on a stack of supply crates, playing a small wooden pipe. It was a simple haunting melody that she didn't recognize. When he saw her approaching, he stopped playing. The music faded away into the sounds of the quarry mines.

"Ah, little fox. You're here," He said, standing from his perch. He put the pipe into his pocket and dusted his hands off. "What have you brought me today?"

Carminia rolled her eyes, but she reached past the flaps of her pack and withdrew a small box decorated with ornate carvings. Cigars. A luxury even in District 2. She handed them over with a slight frown. "Make them last this time, Crassus."

Crassus took the box gleefully, sliding open the front panel and inhaling the smoking scent with a sound of deep satisfaction. "You have outdone yourself again, little fox," he said with a smirk. "Truly."

"So I can play?"

The solider took out one of the cigars and rolled it between his fingers, pretending to be deep in thought. Carminia scowled until the grin returned to his face and he nodded. "Yes, you can play."

"Good." Was all Carminia said in response, satisfied.

Crassus led her past the crates and farther into the base, which was teeming with Peacekeepers. They lounged and chatted and trained. One group of soldiers were eating at the canteen: holding trays of gray porridge and boiled roots and flasks full of what she hoped was water, but what she could only imagine was some sort of spirits. Another group was huddled around a large tree, where a map of Panem was pinned to a dartboard. Carminia watched as one of them stepped up, put a hand over his eyes, and flung a knife blindly at the map. It stuck somewhere in the center, the tip of the blade piercing the paper and behind it, the soft bark of the tree.

"A game?" She asked, arching a brow. 

"Yes, and no. A few of the boys are getting shipped out to the other districts." Crassus looked up from his box of cigars and towards the group of men with their map. "They're letting fate tell them where they might end up."

"Huh."

Carminia watched as another soldier took aim, spun the knife between his fingers, and hurled it hard at the map. The blade struck with a dull thunk—right into the bottom corner. District 4. The other men laughed, clapping him on the shoulder as if congratulating him. Carminia turned away to follow Crassus, but the sounds of their laughter trailed her across the compound.

"I'm going to be honest, little fox. I didn't think you'd show today," Crassus commented, his pace slowing to let her catch up. He'd put the panel back into place and tucked the box into the inner pocket of his jacket. Carminia could see the faint outline of it against his chest.

"Why not?" She questioned, annoyed and slightly offended. "I always show."

Crassus glanced towards her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes scanned her face carefully. "You didn't hear?" He seemed shocked, like what he was about to tell her was common knowledge.

"No...what?" She wanted to tell him to spit it out, but she feared he might strike her for being mouthy. Peacekeepers didn't take that sort of thing lightly.

He hesitated, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "They say President Snow is going to make an announcement tonight."

His words sent a chill down Carminia's spine. Announcement? What sort of announcement could the president make at this time of year? However, she didn't need to wonder long—her mind had immediately sprung to the Third Quarter Quell. Would they broadcast it this earlier? Most Games didn't commence until early July, after the reaping. It was only May now. Too early. But this was a Quarter Quell they were talking about, not a typical game. The Capitol never passed up the opportunity to make a spectacle.

Crassus patted Carminia's shoulder absently, more so out of habit than comfort. "Don't look so nervous, little fox. What's the worst that could happen?" he said over his shoulder, leaving her with a tightness in her chest. 

A short distance away was another group of soldiers, both men and women, who were playing cards around a makeshift table fashioned from an overturned supply crate. They had the same flasks as she'd seen before, and she was most certain now that it was spirits by the way they were sipping from the bottles. They looked up as the pair approached.

A dark haired woman with a horrible, raspy voice, named Galena, made space for Carminia to sit down on an empty chair. "Why, if it isn't our mighty Victor," she greeted with a cough.

Carminia sat down beside her and was immediately enveloped in a blanket of cigarette smoke. She tried not to wrinkle her nose at the smell.

"What's with the face?" someone else asked, but she just shook her head.

Crassus sat down on her other side, stretching his legs out and pushing hers out of the way. He reached for another solider's flash and took a long swig. "I told her about our little rumor," he said.

"Why would you do that? You tryin' to scare the kid, Crassus?"

The voice belonged to a tall, lanky soldier named Tuecer. Carminia recognized him instantly—she'd encountered him a handful of times before, always in passing. He wasn't from District 2, that much was clear from his accent and the way he carried himself, looser and less disciplined than the local Peacekeepers. He was missing several teeth, which gave his grin a wolfish, unsettling edge, and everyone knew he had a reputation for being a terrible cheat. More times than not, he had the winning card hidden up his sleeve or was caught peeking at someone else's hand. Carminia wasn't sure how he was still allowed to play.

"Scare her?" Crassus replied with a wry grin. "Impossible. She's already paid her dues. What does she have to be scared of?"

"A lot of things," Tuecer replied with a simple shrug.

His eyes raked over her as he shuffled a deck of cards and Carminia felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle. There was something oily about his stare, or his whole demeanor, really. He palmed an ace into his shirt sleeve when he thought no one was looking.

Carminia held his gaze. "I'm not scared," she said, her tone clipped. 

Someone at the table cleared their throat awkwardly and dealt out the cards with an audible slap on the crate. "What did you bring to bet?"

Carminia reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a leather pouch. There was a soft jangle of metal on metal as she set it down in the center of the crate. "Capitol credits," she said, opening the bag. The sunlight caught the edges of the coins, making them gleam faintly.

"Well," Tuecer said, flashing his gap-toothed grin as he tucked his sleeves up. "Guess we'll have to match that."

More coins, knife charms, a pair of old Capitol earrings, and even a handful of cigarettes were tossed into the middle. It wasn't about value—it never was. These games were as much about bluffing and bravado as they were about winning.

The card game itself didn't have a name. It changed slightly every time someone new joined; Carminia herself hadn't played the same game once since she'd first come to the compound. The only consistent things were the deck, the bets, and the silent code that you didn't call someone out unless you were absolutely sure they were cheating—otherwise, you'd have to pay extra.

Hours passed like molasses—slow and sticky, thick with heat and haze. The sun climbed, then began to fall. The scent of sweat, smoke, and the bitter tang of alcohol clung to the air like fog. Soldiers came and went, some lingering to watch the game before being called to drills or patrols. Carminia won a few hands, lost others. She kept her expressions blank, her bets measured.

By late afternoon, the light had softened to a dull amber, and the compound took on a quieter tone, with the exception of the group still playing cards. The table had grown more crowded, and the pile of winnings had been swept and rebuilt more than once.

Carminia was mid-hand, just about to raise, when the sound of a distant shout broke through the lull. A quick series of voices followed, overlapping, excited.

Galena paused mid-draw, her brows furrowing. "What the hell was that?"

Carminia stood up, craning her neck toward the noise. From the western edge of the compound, several soldiers were hurrying across the yard, their boots clapping against the hard-packed dirt.

"What's going on?" she called to one as he passed.

The soldier barely slowed, shouting over his shoulder, "Snow's about to announce the Quarter Quell!"

The table erupted into motion. Chairs scraped, bottles clinked as they were hastily pocketed or knocked over. Crassus stood slowly, adjusting the collar of his uniform. "Time to see what spectacle the Capitol has cooked up this time."

Carminia followed them as they filed toward the center of the compound. Already, a crowd of Peacekeepers had gathered around the large wall-mounted screen. The Capitol seal pulsed in red and gold, waiting.

Carminia's heart thudded hard beneath her ribs as she took her place in the crowd, the last rays of sun brushing her face. The screen flickered. Panem's anthem commenced. The crowd beyond the camera cheered. Carminia thought she might be sick.

At last, President Snow's waxen face appeared on the screen. The entire audience broke into feverish applause as he stepped up to the podium with the Capitol's emblem embossed into the front of it, and stood there smiling, waving. Like all the times Carminia had seen him, he looked sinister. He was a tall, thin man with hair so white that it seemed to glow under the lights, and puffy lips stretched over a cruel smile. Just the sight of him made her stomach turn.

The camera passed over the crowd, taking the time to zoom in on several eccentrically dressed people who had been brought to tears just by the president's mere appearance. A few Peacekeepers back in Two seemed to share the same sentiment, dabbing at their faces with handkerchiefs or the sleeves of their uniforms. Carminia rolled her eyes before she could stop herself.

Only when the noise had finally died down did President Snow begin speaking.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he greeted, his voice amplified by a microphone attached to the podium. "This is the 75th year of the Hunger Games."

Once again, more applause.

Snow continued. "It was written into the charter of the Games that every 25 years, there would be a Quarter Quell. It would be a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol."

A pause—just long enough to let the weight of it settle.

"This year, the Capitol has decreed that the male and female tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors."

The compound fell silent. No gasps. No movement. Just the wind, threading through uniforms and blood rushing in Carminia's ears.

She took a step, slow and unsteady, backwards, and then another. Crassus turned and called after her, but her ears were ringing so loud that she couldn't hear him. She staggered through the crowd, pushing and knocking into people until she was able to break through the cluster of Peacekeepers. Dizzy, and with the Capitol's cheers still shrieking in the background, Carminia doubled over and promptly emptied her stomach onto the pavement.

Behind her, Snow was still speaking, but it didn't matter. The message had landed. She was going back into the arena.