Chapter Text
The axe splits the log clean in two with a satisfying thunk and sends wood chips scattering across the dirt. I set another piece on the stump and raise the blade again, feeling the familiar weight of it in my hands. The motion is automatic now—lift, aim, swing. The rhythm matches my heartbeat, steady and sure. Lift. Aim. Swing.
Forty-seven. That's how many logs I've split since dawn, and I could do forty-seven more without breaking a sweat. My muscles know this dance by heart, from years of lumber work that started when I was barely tall enough to lift a hatchet.
The sun climbs higher and, somewhere in the distance, I can hear the town square being prepared—chairs scraping against stone, microphones crackling to life. The sound makes my stomach clench, but I force myself to split another log. And another.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
"Johanna!" My mother's voice cuts through the morning air. "Come inside and get ready!"
Ready. As if anyone could ever be ready for this.
I drive the axe into the stump with more force than necessary and wipe the sweat from my brow. My palms are raw with callus, my fingers thick and scarred from years of handling blades and bark and splinters. Working hands. Fighting hands. I flex them once, watching the tendons shift. Good enough.
The walk back to the house feels like a funeral march. Every step takes me closer to the square, closer to the glass bowls filled with names, closer to whatever fate the Capitol has picked for District 7 this year.
Inside, my mother has laid out my best dress on the bed. It's nothing fancy, just a simple blue thing with a collar that itches, but it's clean and mended. She's trying to pretend this is just another day, humming softly as she moves around the room, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands shake just slightly when she thinks I'm not looking.
"Your hair—" she starts.
"I can do it myself." The words come out sharper than I intended, but I can't stomach the idea of sitting still while she fusses over me. Not today.
She nods and steps back, wringing her hands. "Johanna, I—"
"Don't." I pull the dress over my head. It smells like soap and sun-dried cotton. In the mirror, I look like a child playing dress-up in someone else’s grief. Sixteen going on fragile . "Just... don't."
The town square is already filling when we arrive, families clustering together like they can protect each other through proximity. The stage looms at the front, decorated with the Capitol's gaudy banners and flanked by Peacekeepers whose white uniforms gleam in the sunlight.
I take my place in the section for sixteen-year-old girls, surrounded by faces I've known my whole life. Some are pale with terror, others are trying to look brave. A few are crying already, though the escort hasn't even taken the stage yet.
I close my eyes and think of the axe. The weight of it. The way it moves through the air like an extension of my arm. The clean sound it makes when it finds its mark.
I don’t need to be brave. I need to be angry. That’s always been more useful.
The Capitol escort takes the stage in a swirl of neon pink fabric and artificial enthusiasm. Her name is Marcelline. She's all false eyelashes and painted smiles, chattering about the "honor" and "privilege" of the Games like she's announcing a school play instead of a death sentence.
"Ladies first!" she trills, her voice so artificially sweet it makes my teeth ache.
Her hand hovers over the glass bowl with fingers like dying butterflies. The silence in the square is absolute—even the wind seems to hold its breath. She plucks a slip of paper, unfolds it with theatrical precision, and clears her throat.
"Johanna Mason."
I almost laugh, but I bite the sound back. Instead, I make a decision. Maybe the wrong one, maybe a deadly one, but a decision nonetheless.
I refuse to flinch. Instead, I fold.
All at once, I feel my face crumple, my shoulders hunch inward. My knees wobble—just slightly, just enough. A sob catches in my throat, high and desperate.
"No," I whisper, and the sound carries in the silence. "Please, no."
The girls around me step back instinctively, creating a clear path to the stage. Some of them look relieved. Others look sick with sympathy. I stumble forward, one hand pressed to my mouth, the other wrapped around my stomach.
But as I walk that endless path between the crowd and the stage, I catch sight of familiar faces in the adult section. Mrs. Hartwell from the lumber mill, whose eyes narrow as she watches me "fall apart." She's seen me swing an axe for three years running, watched me outwork men twice my size without breaking a sweat.
Her expression is confused, then knowing, then carefully blank.
Old Henrik from the hardware store tilts his head, studying me with the same look he gets when he's trying to figure out why a saw blade is cutting crooked. He taught me to sharpen axes when I was twelve, praised my steady hands and keen eye. Now those same hands are shaking as I climb the stage steps.
My mother is crying in the crowd, but even through her tears, I see the moment she realizes what I'm doing. Her sobs falter for just a heartbeat, her eyes widening with something that might be pride or terror or both.
I reach the stage and stand where the escort directs me, keeping my head down, shoulders curved inward. My hair falls across my face like a curtain, hiding my expression. Let them all see what they expect to see—a terrified girl who's as good as dead already.
"Wonderful!" the escort gushes, as if my selection is cause for celebration. "And now for our young gentleman!"
She prances to the boys' bowl with the same nauseating enthusiasm. I risk a glance at the crowd while her back is turned, cataloging faces, reading expressions.
Perfect.
The escort unfolds another slip of paper. "Withy Pollard!"
A strangled cry comes from the fifteen-year-old section, and a tall, lanky boy staggers forward. His face is white as birch bark—fitting, really—and his hands shake so violently I can hear his sleeves rustling from here. Unlike me, his terror is completely genuine.
He's dead weight. I can tell from the way he walks, all knees and elbows and panic. He'll either die in the bloodbath or spend the Games cowering somewhere until another tribute finds him. Either way, he won't last long enough to be a threat to anyone.
Good. One less variable to worry about.
Withy stumbles up the steps and takes his place beside me. Up close, he smells like pine sap and fear-sweat. He's taller than me by almost a foot, but he might as well be made of tissue paper for all the good it'll do him.
"Shake hands, you two!" the escort commands, still beaming like this is all some delightful game.
Withy extends his hand, and I take it with both of mine, squeezing gently like I'm trying to comfort him. His palm is clammy and cold, and I can feel the tremor running through his whole body.
"It'll be okay," I whisper, just loud enough for the cameras to catch. My voice breaks on the words, tears spilling down my cheeks. "We'll... we'll look out for each other."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but the crowd eats it up. I can hear the collective "aww" rippling through the square, see the Peacekeepers relaxing slightly. Just two scared kids, they're thinking. No trouble here.
If only they knew.
The train is nothing like I expected. Everything gleams and Marcelline flutters around like a demented butterfly, showing us to our rooms with the same enthusiasm she'd use to display a prize hunting kill.
"Isn't it marvelous?" she gushes, running her hand along the velvet curtains. "The Capitol spares no expense for our tributes! You'll want for nothing during your journey."
Except our lives , I think, but I keep my face carefully blank. Withy hasn't stopped shaking since we left the square. He's pressed against the window like he's trying to melt through the glass and escape back to District 7. Fat chance of that.
"Now, you'll meet your mentor shortly," Marcelline continues, adjusting a flower arrangement that didn't need adjusting. "He's... well, he's had a difficult few years, but I'm sure he'll do his absolute best for you both!"
The way she says it tells me everything I need to know. Our mentor is a drunk, a burnout, or both. Probably gave up hope years ago when tribute after tribute from District 7 came home in wooden boxes. Can't say I blame him.
"When will we meet him?" I ask, making my voice small and scared. It's not hard—the train is moving faster than anything I've ever been on, and the landscape outside is a blur of green and brown.
"Oh, any moment now! He's just... freshening up." Marcelline's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Why don't you two get settled? Dinner will be served in an hour, and we'll have plenty of time to discuss strategy!"
Strategy. Right. What strategy is there for a couple of dead kids walking?
She finally leaves us alone. Withy collapses into one of the plush chairs like his strings have been cut. His face is gray, and I can see the pulse hammering in his throat.
"This is it," he whispers. "We're really going to die."
"Probably," I agree, because there's no point in lying to him.
The door opens, and a man stumbles in. He's maybe forty, with graying hair and clothes that look like he slept in them. His eyes are bloodshot, and he reeks of alcohol even from across the room. This must be our mentor.
"Well," he says, his voice rough as sandpaper. "Another year, another pair of lambs for the slaughter." His gaze sweeps over us dismissively. "I'm Blight. I'll be your mentor, for whatever good it'll do you."
Withy makes a sound like a wounded animal. I duck my head and let my hair fall forward to hide my face, but I'm watching Blight carefully through the curtain of brown strands. His eyes linger on me for a moment longer than necessary, and I see something flicker there—recognition, maybe, or just resignation.
"The girl's young," he says finally. "Sixteen?"
"Yes, sir," I whisper.
"And you?" He turns to Withy, who's gone completely white.
"F-fifteen."
Blight closes his eyes and rubs his temples. "Jesus. Fifteen. They just keep getting younger." He opens his eyes and looks at us again, and this time there's something like pain there. "All right. Here's how this works. I'll do what I can to keep you alive, but I'm not going to lie to you. Your odds are shit. District 7 hasn't had a victor in..." He trails off, counting. "Twelve years. Twelve goddamn years."
"What happened to them?" Withy asks, his voice barely audible.
"They’re all dead,” says Blight like it should be obvious—and in his defense, it should have been.
The silence stretches between us. Finally, Blight breaks it by noisily pouring himself a drink.
"Dinner's in an hour. Try to eat something, you both look like you need it. After that, we'll watch the reaping footage and see what we're up against." He takes a long sip. "Don't expect miracles."
With that cheerful thought, he leaves us alone again. Withy immediately starts crying—not the loud, messy sobs of a child, but the quiet, hopeless tears of someone who knows they're already dead.
I sit beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, playing the part of the comforting friend. But inside, my mind is racing. Twelve years without a victor. That means Blight has watched dozens of kids go into the arena and never come home. No wonder he's given up.
But I haven't. And in a few hours, when we're alone and the cameras aren't watching, I'm going to tell him exactly why he shouldn't give up on me.
Dinner is surreal. The dining car is all polished mahogany and gleaming silver, with enough food to feed half of District 7 spread across the table. Withy picks at his plate like the food might bite him back, while Marcelline chatters endlessly about Capitol fashion and the "exciting developments" in arena design this year.
Blight drinks more than he eats, which isn't saying much since he barely touches his food. He answers Marcelline's questions with grunts and single syllables, his eyes fixed on something far beyond the train windows.
"Now, I know this must all seem overwhelming," Marcelline says, cutting her meat into precise little squares. "But you must try to see this as an opportunity! The exposure alone—"
"To die on national television," Blight interrupts, his voice flat. "What an opportunity."
Marcelline's smile falters for just a moment before snapping back into place. "Well, I prefer to think positively! After all, someone has to win, don't they?"
"Yeah," Blight says, refilling his glass. "Someone from One or Two, probably. Maybe Four if we're lucky."
The conversation dies after that. Withy excuses himself early, claiming he feels sick, which is probably true. Marcelline follows shortly after, muttering something about "preparing materials for tomorrow's orientation."
That leaves just me and Blight in the dining car. The steady clack of the tracks underneath us, the occasional clink of his glass when it taps the table. He hasn’t spoken in ten minutes, and I haven’t pushed. Not until now.
“You should get some sleep,” he says finally, not bothering to look up. “Tomorrow starts early. You’ll need—”
“How many?” I ask.
He pauses. Mid-sip. “What?”
“In twelve years. How many kids have you watched die?”
His jaw tightens. “Twenty-four. Twelve pairs of tributes who thought I could save them.” He drains the rest of his glass. “I couldn’t.”
“How?”
He looks at me this time. Not confused—annoyed. “How what?”
“How did you fail them?” I ask, calm as anything. “Bad advice? Weak sponsorships? Or maybe they just weren’t built to win.”
Blight sets his glass down with a soft thunk and really sees me for the first time since we boarded this train. His eyes are bloodshot, but sharp.
“What kind of question is that?”
“An honest one.” I lean back, and for a second, I let him see it. The calculation. The spine. The girl underneath the trembling act. “I want to know if you’re going to fail me too.”
Silence stretches between us like wire pulled tight. Blight stares, and I watch him come to attention—like whatever fog he’s been living in just cleared.
“Interesting,” he says, voice low. “For a second there, you almost looked like you had a spine.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Funny. I saw you sobbing on stage this afternoon.”
I meet his gaze. Don’t blink. “That’s what they expected to see.”
He lets out a laugh—dry, cracked, bitter as ash. “Son of a bitch. You’re working an angle.”
“I’m working to survive.”
“Bullshit.” But the edge in his voice has changed. Less dismissal, more... curiosity. “You’re sixteen. Maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Career pack sees you, they’ll crush you like kindling.”
“Not if they don’t see me coming.”
I stand and move to the window, watching the trees flicker by like ghosts. When I speak, my voice is quieter. Not soft—sharp things don’t need to shout.
“I’ve been watching the Games since I was a kid. It’s always the same. Big tributes team up, tear through the weak, then tear through each other. But every year, a few nobodies slip through the cracks. Stay small. Stay invisible. Survive.”
Blight doesn’t answer, so I turn. Let him see the smirk that’s been waiting behind my teeth.
“I figure a girl who cries at her own reaping’s not worth keeping an eye on. The Careers won’t look twice. And when they’re tired and bleeding and full of themselves, that’s when I bury an axe in their skulls.”
Blight’s face doesn’t move for a beat. Then, slowly, he sets his glass down. “You know how to use an axe?”
“I’ve been splitting logs since I was ten. I can hit whatever I want from twenty feet.”
“The training center’ll have axes.”
“And I’ll treat them like they’re radioactive. Last thing I need is someone figuring out I know which end is which.”
I walk back to the table and sit down. We’re playing a different game now.
Blight studies me. Really studies me. His hands are still, his eyes clearer than they’ve been all day.
“Sponsors’ll need something,” he says at last. “Eventually.”
“Eventually.”
“You play deadweight too long, you won’t get help when it counts.”
“Better that than painting a target on my back.”
He’s quiet. Thinking. Running the numbers in his head, replaying old mistakes and seeing where I might fit differently.
“The other mentors know me,” he says slowly. “They’ll assume I’ve already written you off.”
“Have you?”
He shrugs. “Depends. How long can you keep this up?”
I think of the axe, of the square, of the look on my mother’s face when she realized what I was doing.
“As long as it takes.”
Blight nods once and stands. He’s steadier than before. Sober, or close enough. Like maybe—for the first time in a decade—he’s got skin in the game again.
“Get some rest,” he says. “Tomorrow we see how helpless you can look without actually getting killed.”
At the door, he stops. Doesn’t turn around.
“Twenty-four kids,” he says. “All of them went in hoping. You’re the first one with a plan.”