𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀 | 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

𝟎𝟓. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬'𝐬 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞

— 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐱 —

━━━━━━ ☽【❖】☾ ━━━━━━

It hadn't taken much to stir the crowd. Cypress—my stylist—had given me very specific instructions about when to tug the string attached to my skirts. He'd said count twenty second then put on my best face of elegance. Honestly, I wasn't even sure it was my face beneath the layers of gold makeup. I'd hardly recognized myself when I looked in the mirror before we stepped into the chariots.

Nineteen. Twenty. I pulled the string and that's when the rest of my skirt was revealed, flying back into the wind behind me like a cape. From beside me, Harlan's eyes had widened and his lips had cracked open with a wide smile as his toga opened up into a pair of wings matching my skirt. And for the first time in my life, I felt regal. I'd been introduced into the elite world, and Cypress had ensured that I would take charge of it.

The crowd gasped, then oohed and ahhed with great pleasure. The clapping of their hands and whistled cheers echoed around the arena, drawing the attention of the other tributes. Normally, I would have tried to hide and blend in—ashamed at the attention. I felt the opposite now. I was thriving, for if I was to die—I would die on top of the world.

The chariots slowed and finally stopped, lining up beside one another. And even though I had stolen the moment, the crowd was silenced as President Snow stood and approached the podium marked with the capitol sigil. Gently, I took Harlan's hand, reminding him that I was still at his side.

The president cleared his throat then looked out with eyes colder than his own name. "Welcome... Welcome! Tributes, we welcome you. We salute your courage and your sacrifice. And we wish you Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor."

And that was it. He took his seat without another word, without another explanation for our death sentence or another second about what we might experience or how we were meant to survive. Which is when the cold reality returned that we weren't meant to survive. No longer did I feel like I was the one in control, it was simply an illusion to keep us in line. But there was also no chance for rebellion. I was only a child from district nine. What could I do against peacekeepers and the mob of people surrounding us... much less my own fellow tributes who all stared at our chariot, making their intentions to kill us quite clear with their eyes.

The chariots returned to their point of origin where we were unloaded and sent on our merry way to the rooms that the Capitol had assigned to each of us. At dinner that evening, Esmé was elated. Every word that exited her lips was about how beautiful I had looked or how graceful or regal or decadent or blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, Caius had hardly glanced away from the television set in the corner of the room. He'd been watching the opening ceremony on repeat, whiskey in hand as if that's all he needed for sustenance.

"Mr. Sokolov..." Harlan's voice quivered as he tried to get the man's attention. "We start training tomorrow... any suggestions?"

"That's a great question," I agreed, turning my head toward Caius expectantly.

Caius sighed, tilted his glass to inhale the rest of its contents, then turned toward us with a look of thought. He cleared his throat, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then set the glass back down at the table while he continued to pace around the room.

"Alright, the two of you made a pretty big deal at the opening ceremony today. I told Cypress nothing too extravagant. But I guess he doesn't know the meaning of the word because that—" Caius paused the program at the moment where the trail of my dress was revealed. "That is not subtle. But it's too late for that now."

"You said to make a good impression with the people," I replied as if trying to turn his own words back against him.

"I didn't say paint a target on your backs," he countered. He played through the rest of the opening ceremony, and at one moment or another, each tribute had looked at us with wrinkled noses and expressions of distaste. The look of daggers from the girl of district two was particularly concerning. "So now we need to moderate the balance of your training."

"How do we do that?" Harlan asked.

"You're gonna want decent scores," Caius answered. "Nothing above an eight, but nothing below a four."

"And why's that?" I asked.

"Anything too high and you make yourself a bigger threat," Caius explained. "Anything too low and they'll think you're easy pickings. We need them to underestimate enough that they'll leave you alone and focus on tributes like district twelve."

Harlan paled, and I understood why. Both the tributes from district twelve were no older than he was. All reaped at the youngest possible age with no chance for survival on their own. Because what was a twelve-year-old meant to do when an eighteen-year-old with developed muscle tried to strangle the life out of them.

"Well isn't that a ghastly picture," Esmé cleared her throat, but from the sound of it the comment wasn't very sincere. "How about we focus on the games later. Your food is getting cold, Caius."

"They need every second they can get," Caius contradicted. "It's my job to keep them alive."

"And what a marvelous job you're doing, darling." Esmé rolled her eyes. "But it's a game. What can you do in three days that's enough to counter a lifetime of preparation?"

Caius's jaw set and he slammed his refilled glass against the table. Esmé frowned, likely about to make a comment about the mahogany or the new dent, but Caius didn't give her the air to speak. His voice was a low growl as he spat between his teeth, "This is their lives that we are talking about. And I know you have no way of understanding what it feels like to have your name even considered for that piece of paper you draw each year, but it's not just a game!"

Esmé pursed her lips. "I thought better of you, Caius. I put up with the brooding and the drinking habits, but how dare you. I have been at your side and dealt with the loss of each tribute same as you—"

"No!" Caius interrupted, holding out a hand to silence her before taking a breath. "Once you draw that name, you no longer consider them a person. They just become a pawn in a very dangerous game. You may watch, but I relive it every year."

"How... how did you win, sir?" Harlan asked, as if that might really make a difference in our fates.

Caius's gaze softened as he looked at the boy. A tired sigh escaped his lips as he shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "That's another story for another time... Let's focus on the two of you. What are your strengths? Weaknesses?"

"I don't see why knowing how to plant seeds or when they're ripe for picking is going to keep us alive," I retorted, crossing my arms.

"Alright." Caius nodded his head as if he were agreeing that his question had been ridiculous, but quickly switched tactics to show I'd misjudged his intentions. "Let's look at it this way then. You'll know which plants are safe to eat and which are poisonous. You understand how to operate in the outdoors with extreme temperatures. You may even know how to use some of the weapons placed in the arena, you're just used to calling them 'tools'. We just need to train your mind to make adjustments. So again... what are your strengths and weaknesses?"

Harlan and I were silent, but glanced at one another as if we didn't really know how to answer the question.

"You're too modest," Caius continued the conversation himself. "So take the night to think it over, and we'll talk again after your first training session tomorrow. For now you should get some rest, your days are about to get much longer and sleepless."

And with his parting words, Caius lifted his glass from the table then left the room for his own quarters. Esmé looked as if she were about to continue the conversation, so I took Harlan's hand while I excused us from the table before returning to our own quarters.

We had our own rooms, but one of them went unused. It was the only way either of us could sleep really, knowing we weren't alone. We didn't feel as vulnerable nor was the ache of fear as great. The bed was certainly large enough. While Harlan—laying on his side—clutched one of the smaller pillows like a child with a teddy bear, I faced the ceiling until my eyelids drowsily drooped. Tonight we would begrudgingly rest, starting tomorrow sleep wouldn't be an option.