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( 002 ━ REAP THE REWARDS )

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"YOU WILL NOT VOLUNTEER FOR THESE GAMES."

The words hit her like a cold wind, cutting through the stale warmth of the Victor's Village hallway. Carminia paused on the threshold, one boot still outside, the other just inside the door. The night pressed in behind her, heavy and black, smelling of coal dust and bitter liquor. It clung to her jacket and the edges of her hair, and permeated the hallway she stood in. 

Her father was already at the door in his chair, a wool blanket thrown hastily over his lap, the bright hallway light casting sharp shadows across the ruined stretch of his face and arms. The wheels creaked as he shifted toward her. If she looked close enough, she could see his hands trembling, clutching the chair's worn leather in an iron grip.

Carminia hadn't even had time to close the door.

"I forbid it," he said again, louder now, the rasp in his voice rising to something like panic. "Do you hear me?"

She blinked, the burn of Peacekeeper-grade liquor still fogging her thoughts, dulling her reflexes. The cold, the dark, the memory of the announcement—all of it threatened to slip behind her eyes again.

"You forbid it?" she echoed, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft thud. Her voice came out low, rough. "Since when has that ever worked on me?"

Her father stared at her, jaw clenched tight enough to twitch. She could see the sweat along his hairline, despite the cool night air that had slipped into the foyer.

Then, Alcmene appeared from the sitting room, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Carminia pursed her lips, averting her gaze as the older woman got her things ready to go. She didn't say anything, not about the President's announcement or her father's words, just gathered her belongings and put on her shoes. She gave Carminia's father a pat on the shoulder and bid him goodnight as she stepped towards the door.

But just before Alcmene left, she reached out, hesitated, then took Carminia's hand in both of hers. The sitter's touch was firm, warm, not lingering—but not quick, either. It wasn't the handshake of a goodbye, or congratulations, or comfort. It was something in between.

Carminia stared at her, uncertain.

"Get some rest," Alcmene murmured. "Both of you."

Then she slipped out into the night, the door shutting behind her with a soft finality.

Finally, it was just the two of them. Carminia turned away, peeling off her jacket and hanging it up carelessly on the rack. When she stepped away, it fell down behind her in a heap, but she didn't care. She couldn't. There were far more pressing things for her to worry about. The lights were too bright. Her scarred palm ached. Worse, the Peacekeeper liquor that began to unpleasantly in her stomach.

"I'm going to bed," she muttered.

"I'm speaking to you, Carminia." His voice came sharp again, wheeled closer behind her. He was following her, but even drunk, she was still faster. "You will not volunteer for these games."

She didn't turn around. "When did I say I was going to?"

Her tone was icy and deliberate, like frost creeping across glass. She started for the stairs.

"Don't walk away from me," he snapped, trying to pivot the chair to follow. "You think I want to lose you? I almost did once. I won't go through that again."

She paused, fingers curling around the banister. "You think I wanted that?" Her voice was quiet, but the words landed hard.

Her father said nothing, stunned to silence.

"I did it for you," she said, swallowing back the tremor in her voice. I did it for you, and I'll do it again. Don't try to change my mind."

And with that, Carminia scaled the stairs on unsteady feet and left her father sitting alone in the hallway, with only the sting of her words to keep him company. The silence behind her was thick enough to drown in. She didn't wait to hear his answer. She didn't want to.

That had been months ago.

Carminia hadn't much slept since then. Every time she tried, she would jolt awake, breathing fast and heavy, and searching her room for an attacker who couldn't be found. Some nights she woke up screaming. On others, she found herself holding a knife or squeezed into some hidden space, waiting for unsuspecting prey to wander into her grasp. It only got worse as the weeks went on. She tried distracting herself during the day, spending her time training and watching tapes of former Games, but by nightfall, it didn't matter how tired or preoccupied her mind was. The closer the reaping got, the more vivid the nightmares became.

They were like a flood of raw memories and hallucinations, churning together in grotesque, fractured images. Her father's voice, a low hiss of fear, would echo in the back of her mind as she struggled across rocky surfaces, the Capitol's hovercrafts cutting through the sky like predatory birds, their searchlights stabbing into her chest. During the worst of it all, she dreamed of the boy from District 10 with his cattle prod and hateful gaze, stalking her across the arena until she ended up on that ledge again, the sheer drop illuminated only by the light of the fire. In these dreams, it wasn't the boy, but rather herself who plummeted to their death, free falling until she was woken up by the sturdy oak flooring of her bedroom.

Ten was always the first to torment her, but sometimes, he morphed into monstrous versions of past Victors. A pair of vicious, blonde siblings speared her body into the golden metal of the Cornucopia, a girl from Seven chucked axe after axe at her head—she even dreamed of tributes who suspiciously resembled those of her own district, killing her in new and terrible ways.

Tonight was no different.

She had woken up to a pair of haunting sea-green eyes searing into her mind and the phantom sensation of a trident piercing her chest. She hadn't been able to go back to bed, so she sat motionless in her chair by the window, her back stiff, staring out into the shadows of the Victor's Village. The houses across the street were dark, empty—at least, that's what she told herself. The moon cast a pale light across the street, illuminating the neat rows of Victors' homes like tombstones in a graveyard.

Her hand, the right one, was resting on her knee, fingers splayed, the scar on her palm a throbbed faintly, almost mockingly, as if in advance for the others she was sure to endure. Her eyes, both the stormy gray and the milky blue, remained open, reflecting nothing but the blank expanse of the night. She had tried for a while that night to ignore it, but the longer she stared, the longer she thought, the more the reality set in. And then, the decision was clear.

Carminia just didn't want to say it out loud. Not to her father. Not to anyone. The words felt like poison on her tongue, and yet, they were the only thing that would keep them both safe. If she won, if she survived the Quarter Quell, they would leave her father alone. They would have to. She would be a hero again, a symbol. The Capitol adored their champions, and if she could prove herself again, they would have no reason to touch her or him.

She stared at the house across the street. The façade was grand, too—like her own, but with gold trim and marble stairs that gleamed faintly in the dim light. It looked like victory, or at least the version the Capitol sold them. But it didn't matter how nice the houses were. Tomorrow was the reaping. The following morning, all the Victors would be marched out onto a stage before all of District 2, and two people would be chosen to possibly never come home.

She couldn't do this alone. Not again.

A sudden pull in her chest urged her forward. She stood up, her legs stiff from hours of sitting, and moved toward the door. Each step felt like a march toward her fate. She didn't even bother to change out of her night clothes, but rather shucked on her coat and boats in place for something more fashionable. She left the house in silence, the crisp night air biting at her skin as she crossed the street, her feet scraping softly against the cobblestones.

The door to Enobaria's house was dark, but Carminia knew she'd be awake. She was always awake. Carminia raised her fist and knocked, the sound sharp in the quiet night. Silence. There was no answer at first, but Carminia waited. And she waited some more. After only a few minutes of waiting however, her impatience had grown into doubt, and she began to wonder if this was such a good idea after all. But before she could convince herself to leave, she decided to knock again. Just as her hand was about to strike the door again, it swung open, revealing Enobaria, standing in the threshold.

The older woman was dressed in a silk robe, her dark hair a mess, and her sharp, angular features bathed in the soft, diffused light from the hallway behind her. Her eyes were far darker than Carminia's—nearly black, but piercing—but there was no warmth in them. Only the cold, calculating look of someone who had lived through the Games, who had survived, and who had no intentions of losing this time either.

Enobaria's mouth didn't move from her resolute frown, but Carminia could still imagine her teeth, razor-sharp, flashing like knives in the dim light. Each one had been cosmetically sharpened to points and inlaid with a shiny, gold filling. Despite the fact that Enobaria had once been her mentor, Carminia sometimes felt chills whenever she did smile, because she often felt like she was face to face with a shark. Enobaria said nothing, only raised an eyebrow, studying Carminia with her predatory gaze.

"What are you doing here?" she questioned, folding her arms over her chest.

Carminia swallowed, then asked, "Can I come inside?"

Enobaria's gaze lingered for a moment before she stepped back, silently ushering Carminia in. The door shut softly behind her, and Carminia looked around, eyes briefly scanning the space.

The inside of Enobaria's house was very similar to her own—luxurious, but almost too some. The furniture was elegant, built for show, not comfort. Velvet couches lined the sitting room, each draped with gold-trimmed cushions, and the walls were adorned with useless things that likely no one had touched other than to dust them. But there was something extra in Enobaria's house—more space, more wealth. Rich colors, marble countertops, and enough gold to fill a treasury. The gilded picture frames that bordered the walls held portraits of past Victors, none of them looking as haunted as the woman who now lived in this place.

Without a word, Carminia followed Enobaria toward the sitting room. They took separate seats, Carminia sinking into the plush velvet, the fabric soft but too rich for her taste. She crossed her legs, arms folded tightly over her chest, her eyes never leaving the woman across from her.

Enobaria was studying her, her eyes flicking briefly to her scarred face, then back up to her good eye. Carminia realized in that moment she had forgotten her eyepatch. The lack of it made her feel bare and unprotected; she shifted a lock of red hair over her face in an attempt to cover herself.

Finally, after a long pause, Enobaria spoke again. "What are you doing here, Carminia?"

Carminia pursed her lips together, unsure of what to say. The silence stretched between them like a drawn wire. She opened her mouth, but the words felt like they'd been burning in her throat for far too long.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her scarred palm. "I think you know."

Enobaria'a eyes narrowed slightly and Carminia skin prickled with that "prey-caught-in-the-open" feeling again. "Let's pretend that I don't for the moment," she replied.

Carminia caught and held her gaze, her mouth curving down into a frown. Despite how frightening she came across, Enobaria didn't scare her as much as she intimidated her, and she had no reason to feel either way right now. In fact, the pair understand each other well enough to know what the other was planning. Enobaria knew what she was going to say. She only wanted to hear it for herself.

"I'm going to volunteer for the Quarter Quell," she said, ignoring the look of unimpressed boredom that passed over Enobaria's face.

"Good," she interrupted. "You'd be stupid not to."

Irritated, but not deterred, Carminia continued, her voice clipped. "I'm not stupid, and I'm not scared, if that's what you're thinking. I'm going to volunteer, and I'm going to win."

Enobaria sat back, watching the red-haired Victor with an expression she could only describe as judgmental. "And now, you're here to ask me to step down. So you can go back in."

"No!" Carminia said quickly, angrily. In those few moments, her face had easily turned the same shade as her hair. "I came to ask, that if it came down to it, and I make it back into the arena, that you'd be my mentor."

There was a pregnant pause, a beat of silent apprehension, before Enobaria's lips curved into a sharp-toothed smile. "Your mentor?"

"Yes, my mentor," Carminia answered. She didn't enjoy the smirk that was playing on Enobaria's lips, but it was a much better alternative than her anger. "Look, I don't know what kind of promises you've made to other people, but if I'm going back in, I need you. I wouldn't trust anyone else."

The sharp smile on Enobaria's face grew wider, prouder. "You're braver than I thought, Carminia," she said. "Or perhaps more foolish. Either way, the answer is yes—if i comes down to it, I will be your mentor."

The relief Carminia felt was sweet. The anticipation of the reaping still laid heavy on her shoulders, but this helped lift some of the weight.

"Thank you."

Enobaria nodded, but the smile soon disappeared from her face. "Don't thank me. Our deal only works if you make it back in," she told her. Her voice wasn't cruel, but rather firm. "I still fully intend on volunteering myself."

As harsh as her words were, Carminia didn't feel threatened. She knew exactly what Enobaria meant—and she respected her for it. "I understand," she murmured.

"Good," Enobaria replied, simply. "Was there anything else? Any other deep, dark secrets or revelations?"

Carminia shook her head. "No, just the one," she replied.

"Good. If that's all, then I think it's time for you to leave," Enobaria said, standing and dusting herself off. She began to usher Carminia off the velvet couch and towards the hall, much to her own chagrin. "Go home, Carminia. The sun is going to rise soon and I would like to spend my time alone. I would think you would like to do the opposite."

They stopped at the grand wooden doors in the foyer, and Carminia turned to face Enobaria, unable to hide the confusion on her face. Enobaria simply smiled, the gold in her teeth glinting.

"Go home and be with him, Carminia," she said quietly, her gaze sharper than her tone. "While you still can."

Carminia hesitated, her breath caught halfway between denial and acceptance. The moment stretched—too heavy to hold, too fragile to break. For a heartbeat, she wanted to argue, to say that she *was* doing this for her father. That this was the only way to protect him. But there was something in Enobaria's eyes that silenced her. Something rare. Almost... mournful.

So instead, she nodded.

"Alright," Carminia said, and this time her voice didn't waver.

Enobaria opened the heavy doors with a groan of old hinges, the sound echoing off the marble floor of the Victor's Hall. Carminia stepped through, and the door shut with a thud behind her, final as a heartbeat.

Outside, the streets of Victor's Village were cloaked in a soft hush, that strange stillness that clings to the cusp of dawn. The early gray light crept slowly through the jagged shadows of the surrounding mountains, casting long lines of silver across the cobblestones. Carminia stood there for a moment, breathing in the cold mountain air, letting it sting the inside of her lungs.

She crossed the narrow lane, the heels of her boots tapping a steady rhythm on the stone road. The fog hung low, clinging to the ground and wrapping her in a thick shawl. Her house, stately and silent, rose just ahead. Its stone structure looked darker in the dim light, almost austere, but it was familiar. Safe. Still, she dreaded going inside.

And yet, she stepped up to the door, unlocked it quietly, and slipped inside.

The house was still. Dark. The air held a chill, untouched by the morning sun. She hung her coat by the door with deliberate slowness, the fabric brushing over the burn-scarred palm of her right hand. A sigh escaped her lips, low and tired.

There was a small movement from further in the house, so soft that Carminia thought she might have imagines it. She paused, listening, before she made her way down the hall, to the kitchen, her footsteps barely making a sound on the tile.

He was there—her father. Sitting at the table, just as he always did before the sun rose, hunched forward in his wheelchair to lean on the table. The dull silver and black of his hair was haloed by the faintest slant of light creeping in through the window. He didn't turn to look at her.

Carminia hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to speak or retreat. The silence between them had grown thick since the announcement of the Quarter Quell—two months of half-formed sentences and abandoned conversations. But this one stretched heavier than the others, filled with the weight of what was coming.

"Where were you?" he asked, finally, voice quiet and rough.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorframe. "Out."

He didn't move, only let out a breath. "Talking to Enobaria?"

"Yes."

Another silence followed.

"You've made up your mind then," he said, still not looking at her.

"I have."

A long pause. Then—"Sit down, Carminia."

She did, slowly, dragging the chair back and sitting across from him. The wood was cool against her legs. Her arms remained crossed, a half-shield.

"I should be proud," he said. "I know that. But all I feel is dread."

"You should be grateful," Carminia countered, not cruelly, but adamantly, as if she had to convince both herself and him in the same breath. "We've been given the opportunity to honor District Two. The Capitol. It's what Ma wanted—"

"Don't talk about your mother that way," he said warningly.

"I don't care—it's true," Carminia snapped.  She couldn't help herself. "It's what she, what you always taught me to believe in."

He turned to face her then, and his scarred features were cast into full view—weak, ravaged skin, and his eyes clouded by something deeper than grief. His expression was startling enough that she let the words die on her tongue.

"How can I be grateful?" he said sharply. "Look at what they've done to you. Look at what they've done to me."

Carminia glanced at her father across the table, at the mottled scars creeping up from beneath his sleep shirt. They twisted the skin of his neck and hands, turning the familiar shape of him into something half-broken, half-healed. She didn't understand his words. The injuries that he endured had always been, a result of an accident—a terrible accident, but an accident no less. How could it have been anything else?

He shook his head, slowly, almost tearfully. "There is so much I haven't told you."

Carminia's heart lurched. Her father never cried, ever. It was alarming in a way she couldn't comprehend. She reached across the table and put her own burned hand gently over his.

"Don't tell me," she said. "Not now. Tell me when I come back. Because I will."

His eyes dropped to their joined hands. He didn't pull away. But his voice was quiet, almost broken, when he replied, "I thought I raised you to be wiser than this."

Her throat tightened, but she didn't flinch.

"This is exactly who you raised me to be," she said. "I can't change that any more than you can."

Her father didn't didn't argue. Just sat there, watching her with that same quiet sadness, as the first golden edge of sunlight slipped through the kitchen window and cut across the table like a blade.

Then, he let go of Carminia's hands, pushed his wheelchair away from the table, and rolled himself out of the kitchen without a word. Carminia sat there, silently, bathing in the golden light of the morning. In the light of the reaping.

. . .

It would still be several hours before the reaping commenced, but it didn't matter how much she tried to put it out of her mind, it would still linger there, heavy and unavoidable. It would be the only thing she would think about until two o'clock that afternoon, when everyone would gather in the Forum, the primary square in District 2. Though, instead of lining up the children as they usually did, it would be the Victors who would be divided and displayed on stage. Vespera Noire, the assigned escort for District 2, would flounce about on stage, no doubt in some terrible, neon recreation of a military uniform, and people would cheer and sometimes cry as the standard Capitol message would play.

Perhaps the anticipation would kill her before the arena did.

Unfortunately, it didn't. Carminia sat in the stillness of the kitchen, the weight of her father's words pressing down on her chest like a stone. She exhaled slowly, allowing the golden light to bathe her in a warmth she didn't feel. Then, after a moment, she stood and begrudgingly left the kitchen, heading back up the stairs to her bedroom.

Carminia took her sweet time getting ready. She bathed herself, reclined in the soapy, fragranced water until it had gone cold, in which she was left shivering and had to force herself out of the tub. She wrapped herself in a large, fluffy towels and once back in her room, laid prone in the warmth of her bed for a while. There was no rush—just the slow, creeping dread that settled deeper with each passing minute.

The day passed despite her best efforts. Eventually, her hair dried and the sun rose higher in the sky, and it was only them that Carminia reached for the dress she had set out the night before. Despite having an army of people to assist her, it had been a while since she had enlisted the help of other people to style and dress herself. She had what she was given by her stylist, but she dismissed the idea of people deciding what she wore after some of the outrageous Capitol designs forced on her during her own Victory Tour years ago. Besides, her prep team was more than happy to focus on the younger, more handsome tributes instead of the scarred recluse she'd become.

She clothed herself in something pretty—a soft, green thing that differed nicely from the red of her hair. She matched the dress to a pair of heeled shoes and an eyepatch of a darker hue, a subtle detail, but nice nonetheless. When she was done, she stood in front of a full length mirror in her bedroom and stared at herself. Her hair was done in neat waves that subtly covered a portion of her damaged face, and her lips were painted a nice shade of pink, despite the scar that pulled at the corner of her mouth. It was both the prettiest and worst she had ever felt.

The reflection staring back at her in the mirror was an unfamiliar one—beautiful, yes, but brittle. As if every inch of her had been groomed for a purpose she hadn't chosen. The beauty felt forced, insincere, and yet the harsh truth was that it would be the only thing the Capitol would see. The only thing anyone would see today.

Carminia finally pulled her gaze away from the mirror. It didn't matter what she looked like. Not really. Not to the Capitol. Not to the people who would watch the reaping and whisper to each other as names were drawn. They didn't care what shade of green her dress was or how she parted her hair to shadow the ridged scarring across her cheekbone. They only cared about the spectacle—about whether Carminia Wythe, Victor of the 69th Hunger Games, would dare volunteer again.

She descended the stairs slowly and deliberately, the hem of her dress and her feet dragging the entire way down. Her father was already waiting for her, dressed in a crisp, dark suit. The lapel had been pinned with a bronze district badge, the symbol of a hammer and chisel shining softly in the light of the afternoon. His wheelchair was angled toward the front windows, but as she approached, he turned slightly, his tired blue eyes scanning her face. He said nothing at first, and neither did she.

Alcmene was beside him, her hands folded calmly in front of her. She smiled softly at Carminia, but even that smile was tinged with pity. Carminia hated it.

"You look like your mother," her father said finally, wistfully. "She would have been proud of you."

Carminia didn't respond. She just nodded once and looked at the floor. There was a lot to be said that she didn't know how to put into words. Instead, a sharp silence passed between them. Alcmene busied herself checking the brakes on the wheelchair.

Carminia knelt beside her father and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, more to keep her hands occupied than anything else. "Everything will be fine," she whispered. A blatant lie, but the only thing she could muster up in the moment.

He didn't answer. Not directly. "Let's go. We shouldn't be late."

The walk to the Forum was solemn. Most of District 2 would arrive separately, but the escort had sent word that all eligible participants should be present before the ceremony began. Their district prided itself on order. Precision. Carminia had lived with that pride in her bones since childhood, and it carried into every step she took along the stone-paved road. She held her father's wheelchair steady as they moved through the crowd—people parted quickly for her, some nodding, others staring too long.

The Forum rose before them, a large, square plaza ringed by tall granite structures. It was the main square of Two, built into the shadow of the mountain that centered the district—the same one that housed all of the military activity. There were multiple quarries and towns assembled into the mountain and those that surrounded it, but the Forum was the forefront of all of District 2. Everyone from all over the district would gather here twice a year: once for the reaping and once for the Victory Tour, whether or not their tributes came home.

The Forum was always a very patriotic place, but it had been trussed up even more for the occasion. The banners of Panem hung from every corner, the seal of the Capitol shimmering in the sunlight. Marble statues stood sentinel at the entrance—past Victors, fallen Peacekeepers, some that weren't even local to Two. It was supposed to be a great honor to have a statue made of yourself. Perhaps if she won, she might see herself erected among them. However, as she passed, the most prominent one at the forefront, caught her eye: President Snow. She avoided contact with his stony stare and thought otherwise about how she might like to be immortalized.

The stage seemed to have been raised even higher this year, if at all possible. Carminia noted the two transparent bowls on podiums—one for the women, one for the men. There would be less slips than normal in both bowls this year, which was given as each Victor's name had been entered only once. Due to reasons such as population size, the number of volunteers, and the fact that District 2 didn't collect very much tesserae, there usually weren't as many names entered as compared some of the other districts. Still, it was jarring to see only a few folds of paper at the bottom of each bowl.

The Capitol seal loomed behind the stage, displayed across a massive screen that occasionally flickered with images from past Games. As she got closer, she could see familiar figures already on the stage: Enobaria, arms crossed and expression unreadable, flanked by uniformed Peacekeepers. Brutus, chest puffed and teeth bared like he was already in the Games. And Crassus, who stood nearby, rifle slung across his back. He met Carminia's eyes briefly as she neared the stage, and gave her a curt nod. She didn't bother to return it.

She relinquished her hold on her father's wheelchair, although reluctantly, lingering at the edge of the crowd longer than she should have. Her father, sensing her apprehension, took her hand. "I will see you soon," he said. His voice was stronger now, but it still held some strain, like it took effort to even say that much. "You're strong enough for this, Carminia. Remember that."

Her jaw clenched in the effort not to immediately cry and all she could manage was a quick squeeze of his hand, before she let go and ascended the steps of the stage.

Carminia joined the other female Victors and took her place, the stone beneath her feet already warm from the sun. The seating for district officials stretched before them, thrones carved of white marble and lion-headed armrests gleaming. The officials, draped in military dress, watched with blank expressions.

The Forum filled steadily with the citizens of District 2—orderly rows, all facing the stage, all silent.

Then the microphone screeched.

Carminia flinched slightly, as did several others on the stage. A new escort stepped forward, tall and glittering beneath the lights. Carminia blinked, startled—where was Vespera?

"I apologize for the delay," the new escort said, tapping the microphone once more. "A very special day indeed." His voice was smooth and dramatic. "District 2, I am Silvanus Darling, and I will be your escort for this year's very exciting Third Quarter Quell."

He beamed. Now that he was closer, Carminia could see him more clearly. He was young, likely not much older than herself, with dark hair and an impressive amount of eye makeup. The lights caught the glitter coating his meticulously curled hair, and when he smiled wide, Carminia caught sight of his fangs—actual fangs—each inlaid with tiny gemstones that sparkled viciously.

The sight turned her stomach.

Silvanus turned theatrically, gesturing to the Victors. "As you know, this reaping is unlike any before. Today, we do not call the names of children, but champions. Heroes. Survivors. And today, two of them will be chosen again."

His words echoed across the Forum. Many people cheered, some of which being the Victors on stage alongside her. Carminia's heartbeat pounded louder than the amplified voice. Every moment felt stretched thin, about to snap.

"Now, usually we would have a long and somewhat tedious message to play from the Capitol, but I would hate to bore you, so instead, we will cut straight to the excitement," he said with a wink.

Silvanus lifted his hand over the first bowl.

"As always, ladies first."

His fingers dipped lightly into the crystal container, swirling among the folded slips of paper as if he were choosing a prize at a lavish party rather than selecting someone for death. The crowd hushed. Even the Victors behind her seemed to tense, the bravado slipping from their painted faces. Carminia swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on his hand.

Beside her, Enobaria's voice was low and flat. It sent a chill up Carminia's spine.

"May the odds be ever in our favor."

He pulled one slip free, unfolding it slowly, deliberately, savoring the tension like it was wine. His breath echoed into the microphone, soft and wavering, almost as if the suspense was too much. Carminia could see his lips moving, slowly, forming the syllables of a name.

A name that wasn't hers.