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The council room in the Royal Palace of Panem was a cold, cavernous space. Towering windows lined the walls, their stained glass refracting the pale winter sunlight into fractured rainbows across the marble floors.
Mary scanned the room with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing her specimens, her gloved fingers drumming idly against the arm of her throne-like chair. Here they were: her advisors, her supposed confidants, all of them so eager to present their findings, to persuade her to their cause. She allowed them their little displays of ambition because it amused her—and because, when it suited her, their desperation could be molded into something useful.
One of them, a thin, balding man with a nervous tic in his left eye, cleared his throat.
“Your Majesty,” he began, holding up a tablet that projected a web of charts and graphs into the air. “The data we’ve gathered from the districts over the past three years is… troubling.”
Mary tilted her head, a gesture that made the light catch the diamond-studded pins in her coiled blonde hair. “Troubling,” she repeated, her voice as smooth and cold as glass.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the man stammered. “Public sentiment toward the Crown has been… eroding.”
Another advisor, a woman with sharp cheekbones and a voice like a razor blade, cut in. “The numbers show a marked decline in compliance with mandatory viewing of the Games. Even in the Capitol itself, engagement has dropped nearly 40%. Conversations among citizens—both in person and on digital platforms—suggest a growing dissatisfaction with the necessity of the Games.”
Mary’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile, though it held no warmth. She glanced at the glowing holograms, absorbing the jagged lines and percentages with quick precision. “Go on,” she said, leaning back in her chair.
The woman hesitated, but another advisor, bolder this time, picked up the thread. “Your Majesty, the numbers paint a clear picture. The Games, while effective for decades, have… stagnated. The entertainment value has waned. People no longer see the spectacle; they see the blood. Even within the Capitol, citizens bristle at the mandatory viewing requirements. They see it as a relic of control, one they’d rather not be subject to.”
A murmur rippled through the room, low and uneasy.
“The problem is compounded,” the bold advisor continued, emboldened by Mary’s silence. “This disengagement has created a window—an opportunity for… unwelcome ideas. With the Games failing to keep the populace subdued, resistance movements have gained traction in the districts.”
“And I the districts,” the sharp-cheekboned woman interrupted coldly, “there has been an uptick in collective action. Strikes, community gatherings, mostly quiet forms of rebellion—though none of it violent. It seems the people of Panem as a whole have grown bolder, stronger. There are conversations about a more humane leadership—one tied to Princess Catherine’s accession.” Her voice dropped slightly, as though wary of uttering Catherine’s name too loudly in the Queen’s presence.
A man at the far end of the table—a traditionalist whose name Mary had long since stopped caring to remember—slammed his hand down on the table. “Then we must crack down on the districts. Public floggings, executions if necessary. Show them what dissent earns.”
“No,” another advisor said cautiously, her eyes flicking toward the Queen. “That will only escalate the situation. We’ve seen what happens when fear is overplayed—it turns resentment into action. The resistance has already gained traction in unexpected places, even here in the Capitol. Harsh measures could alienate our most loyal base.”
“Fear.” Mary repeated the word slowly, savoring it. She turned her gaze to the windows, where the muted winter light cast faint shadows across her face. The murmuring voices around her blurred into background noise as she watched the colors shifting in the stained glass, her mind already moving far ahead of the conversation.
“Your Majesty, there is a way forward. The people say the chant regime is too cruel, too rigid. They want change—concessions that suggest progress, that will allow them to cling to the illusion of hope. If we were to eliminate the Games—”
“Eliminate the Games? Are you mad?” The staunch traditionalist advisor spat, his face red with indignation. “The Games are the foundation of our power. Without them, the districts will forget their place. They will forget fear. And the Capitol—”
“The Capitol,” the sharp-cheekboned woman interrupted coldly, “is already forgetting. The data is clear. We must adapt, or we risk collapse.”
The Queen allowed a faint sigh to escape her lips. “Enough,” she said, the single word slicing through the debate like a guillotine. The room fell silent.
These advisors—these fools—thought survival meant softness. They thought change meant compromise. But Mary knew better. What they needed wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t hope, or fraternity, or whatever pathetic sentiment the resistance whispered about in their quiet little meetings.
No. What they needed was fear.
Mary turned back to the table, her ice-blue eyes landing on each of her advisors in turn. They flinched under her gaze, as they always did. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction before speaking.
“They think they want kindness,” she said, her voice low and venomous. “They think they want fraternity, unity, a hand to hold. How… quaint.” Her lips pulled into a smile, slow and deliberate, as though she were savoring the taste of the words. “What they need is not concession, but correction.”
The room remained still, save for the faint crackle of the holograms still glowing above the table.
“I will not coddle them any longer,” Mary continued, her voice growing sharper. “I will not hand them what they think they want. They have grown complacent. Weak. And weakness is a disease that must be excised before it spreads.”
The silence was heavy, oppressive. Then Mary leaned forward, her gloved hands resting lightly on the table.
“We will remind them of the cost of disobedience,” she said. “We will remind them that no one—not a singular citizen of Panem—is beyond the reach of the Crown.” Her gaze flicked to the charts still floating in the air. “The Games have lost their edge. Their power. We will sharpen it. We will show them that no one is safe—not even here, in the Capitol.”
The bold advisor’s voice wavered as he ventured a question. “Your Majesty, what exactly are you proposing?”
Mary straightened, her gloved hands clasped neatly in front of her. “A Jubilee,” she said, the word rolling off her tongue like poison. “A celebration of fifty years of my reign. And in honor of this occasion, a special Game.”
Her gaze swept the room, daring anyone to challenge her. “Two tributes from each district. And two tributes from the Capitol.”
A sharp intake of breath rippled around the table.
“But, Your Majesty,” one advisor ventured, her voice trembling, “that could alienate the Capitol even further—”
Mary’s gaze snapped to her, and the woman fell silent.
“They want to act like the people from the districts? Then that is what happen.” Mary said. “Let them weep and wail and clutch their pearls. In the end, they will do as they are told. If they think themselves above the blood, above the sacrifice, then we will make them kneel. They always do.”
She rose from her chair, the folds of her dark gown whispering against the marble floor. “Prepare the necessary paperwork. I will make the announcement come may,” she said, her voice as sharp as broken glass. “Let them all see what happens when they forget their place.”
As she swept from the room, her advisors remained frozen in their seats, their faces pale.
“And tell the Head Gamemaker I will be in touch. I have some ideas.”
Queen Mary did not look back.