Chapter Text
Part One: The Ember
Katniss Everdeen awoke to the shrill cry of her alarm. She stirred beneath the soft sheets of her queen-sized bed, stretching out with a quiet groan. The room was dim, the early morning light only just beginning to seep through the curtains. With a sigh, she swung her legs over the edge of the mattress and silenced the alarm clock, the numbers blinking at her in quiet accusation. Too early.
She stood, arms lifting in a long, slow stretch, then reached for the towel and robe draped neatly on the chair. The master bathroom was just a few steps away, connected to the bedroom in the spacious home the Capitol had gifted her long ago—a prize for surviving the arena. Even in Victor's Village, the hot water still took its time, especially now that she was the only one left to use it.
She turned the shower on and waited, steam slowly curling around the edges of the mirror. When the water finally warmed, she undressed and stepped under the stream. For several minutes, she stood there without moving, letting the heat drum against her skin, rinse the fog from her thoughts, and drag her fully into the present.
And then, it hit her.
Reaping Day.
"Shit," she muttered under her breath.
The words echoed in the tiled room, empty except for her and the weight of memory. Reaping Day—the day. The day her life had been torn apart, a day that had never stopped haunting her. It wasn't just the day she had volunteered. It was the day everything changed. The day the Games started—and never truly ended.
Ten years. A decade of ghosts.
Prim was the only one she had left, safe now in the Capitol with her husband—a Gamemaker. Katniss hadn't liked it at first, not entirely. But Prim had never looked happier than the day he proposed, and there was something comforting in knowing no one would dare harm a Gamemaker's wife.
The rest… they were gone.
Her mother had died of FACS—Fast Acting Cancer Syndrome. A brutal mutation that even Capitol medicine couldn't touch. Gale had died in a mining accident just a few years after her Games. They hadn't spoken in a long time anyway—not after he refused to believe the romance with Peeta had been staged. Maybe that was for the best. She'd never really loved him.
Haymitch had overdosed on the ride back from the Games three years ago. Two sixteen-year-olds from District 12 had been reaped. Their deaths were too gruesome, too much for the old mentor to take. She hadn't blamed him.
And Peeta...
Peeta had died in the arena. Snapped like a twig in Cato's hands before Katniss could raise her bow. She still saw it sometimes—his eyes, wide with fear, and then nothing. She still blamed herself. Only after he was gone did she truly understand how deeply she had loved him.
And today, she would have to watch two more tributes step forward—knowing only one might return.
Katniss shut off the water and stepped out. She dried off and slipped into the soft, earth-toned dress that Cinna had once made for her. Somehow, it still fit.
Cinna. She'd nearly forgotten.
He was doing well—better than anyone else from that time. The Capitol adored him, showered him with riches and attention. And Effie. The two had fallen in love, a strange but somehow perfect pairing. They'd left the Games behind and built a life together, raising three children in a quiet part of the Capitol. Effie had retired after Katniss's Games, citing a desire to leave on a high note. But Katniss knew better. No one wanted to be part of the next Quarter Quell.
That third Quell had been a nightmare. The reaped tribute had to select two others to join them. In District 12, that choice had fallen to a terrified thirteen-year-old girl with dark braids and haunted eyes. Natalie—Katniss still remembered her name. Natalie had been one of the first to die.
Katniss wrapped her arms around herself, standing alone in the stillness of her home. The dread curled in her stomach like smoke. Another Reaping Day had come, and with it, the familiar ache of guilt, fear, and memory.
And soon, two more names would be called.
Kessa Pryor shot up from bed with a giddy burst of energy, her thoughts still tangled in the whirlwind of the night before. Her heart pounded—not with fear, but anticipation.
Today was the day that everything changed. Not because it was Reaping Day—though that carried its own weight—but because last night, under the stars by the old miner's bridge, Rowan Tebb had dropped to one knee and proposed.
Her best friend. Her partner. Her ridiculous, big-hearted, forever-loyal Rowan.
They were getting married. Today. Right after the Reaping.
Kessa practically danced into the bathroom, beginning her usual Reaping Day routine. But this year, it was different. This was her final year—her last time in the Reaping pool. With the odds finally tipping out of danger, her heart felt lighter than it had in years.
My last Reaping Day. This day couldn't get any better.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and groaned. Her fiery red hair had exploded into a chaotic halo overnight, full of knots and rebellion. With practiced fingers, she smoothed it out and began weaving it into a single braid down her back—the Katniss braid. A good luck charm passed down through District 12's girls ever since the Girl on Fire had won her Games. Braids had become more than a fashion trend—they were a symbol. Of survival. Of defiance.
She slipped into the silver dress her mother had once worn for her final Reaping. It shimmered softly in the light, a bit tight at the waist now, but it would do. After rounding up her two younger brothers—one still tugging on a boot—Kessa led them out the door and toward the Tebb household. No Reaping Day felt right without meeting Rowan first. They'd walked to every one together, and she wasn't about to break that streak now.
The door creaked open, revealing Rowan's father with a warm smile.
"Rowan," he called over his shoulder, "there's a very beautiful young lady here for you."
Kessa smiled and ushered her brothers inside. But before Rowan could descend the stairs, his voice floated down from above.
"Uh, Kess? Can you come here for a second?"
She raised an eyebrow and turned to her brothers. "Stay here. Don't break anything. I'll be right back—he probably needs help with his bow tie again."
Upstairs, she found exactly what she expected.
Rowan stood in the middle of his room looking like he'd lost a fight with a constrictor snake. Somehow, the bow tie had twisted into an impossible knot, one end looped under his arm, the other dangling from his elbow.
"Having trouble?" Kessa asked, her tone teasing as she leaned against the doorframe.
"Me? Noooo," Rowan grinned sheepishly, his freckled face lighting up. "Just wanted a moment alone with my beautiful fiancée."
She laughed and crossed the room. "You don't even know how bow ties work, do you?"
"I swear this thing grew overnight," he muttered. "I'm pretty sure it's alive."
"You named it yet?"
"Bowtie of Death," he replied solemnly. "It tried to strangle me twice."
Kessa gently unwound the mess, smoothing it out and tying it properly before brushing a kiss to his cheek. "There. Saved your life. Again."
He beamed.
They made their way downstairs together, her brothers bouncing impatiently by the door. It was nearly time. The square would be filling up already, the tension of the day pressing down like summer heat.
As they stepped outside, Kessa's fingers found Rowan's. They squeezed once, wordlessly.
Later, after the Reaping, they would meet again—beneath the old hollow tree by the seam—to perform the toasting, a quiet District 12 tradition, sacred amongst the people. Bread would be broken, salt shared, and vows spoken beneath the low-hanging branches. No Capital fanfare. No photographers. Just two souls promising what the world had tried so many times to steal.
But for now, they walked toward the square, hearts pounding for very different reasons.
Katniss scanned the crowd, her eyes moving over the sea of faces—wide-eyed children standing stiff in their best clothes, some holding hands, others trembling as they stared straight ahead. Two of them would be plucked from their homes today. Two would be thrown into the Capitol's favorite nightmare.
Her stomach twisted.
She'd stood here too many times. Watched too many lives destroyed before they'd ever really begun.
But it was last year's Games that haunted her the most.
The arena had been a barren, sun-scorched wasteland—an unforgiving desert of jagged rocks and shifting sand dunes. The Gamemakers had modeled it after a place called the Mojave Desert, a stretch of land from the old world, long gone with the fall of America. It was a brutal choice. No shade. No water. No mercy.
Her tributes had surprised her. Both had lasted longer than anyone expected. The boy had been a quiet fighter, calculating and quick, and the girl—Tara—had been a flash of speed and grit, nimble on her feet, with a sharp eye and even sharper instincts.
They had made it to the final eight. And for a moment, Katniss had allowed herself to hope.
That hope shattered when the boy was killed by a spear to the chest, thrown with casual precision by a tribute from District Four. Tara had arrived only seconds later. She saw her district partner die—saw the spear still quivering in his chest—and her scream had echoed across the arena.
She didn't hesitate. A quick, brutal knife to the temple, and the boy from Four collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.
Tara didn't celebrate. She didn't even breathe. She just dropped to her knees and wept.
Katniss had seen that same grief before. In herself, when Rue died.
Still, Tara pressed on. She made it to the final four. Until the moment everything unraveled.
It happened near dusk, when Tara was following a narrow canyon path toward a glimmer of water she'd found earlier. She didn't see the tribute hiding behind the rocks—a massive boy from District Two with arms like steel cables. He lunged, caught her by the braid she wore—like so many girls from District 12, the Katniss braid—and tried to drag her back.
She sliced the braid off with her knife and broke free. But as she ran, her foot caught a loose stone, and she tumbled into a pit hidden beneath a false layer of sand.
At first, Katniss thought the fall had killed her.
Then the sound came.
A thousand rattles, sharp and steady, like bones clattering in warning. The cameras zoomed in, and Katniss saw them. Dozens—maybe hundreds—of snakes slithering over one another, each marked with a diamond pattern, each ending in a trembling rattle. They coiled, hissed, struck.
Caesar's voice had broken in on the broadcast, his tone almost reverent. "A den of Mojave Diamondbacks, modeled after one of the deadliest snakes of the old world..."
Katniss had immediately pulled up the Capitol's database. Crotalus scutulatus, venomous, highly aggressive, fatal within minutes without antivenom.
She and Haymitch had scrambled to send it. She remembered him hunched over his console, hands shaking, eyes bloodshot. "There's still time," he said. "She's still alive. We can save her."
He found the antivenom. He keyed it in. His finger hovered over the SEND button.
And then his screen went black.
When a tribute is deemed beyond saving—mere seconds from death—the Capitol disables all sponsor transmissions.
Tara lay at the bottom of the pit, her small body twitching as venom overtook her nervous system. Her face turned upward to the star-filled sky. Her lips moved.
"Help me," she rasped.
And then she was gone.
Haymitch hadn't spoken for the rest of the Games.
On the train ride home, he drank silently, staring out the window, not even bothering to fake a toast. Katniss found him the next morning. The bottle was still in his hand. The last one he'd ever need.
After thirty-four years of mentoring, Haymitch Abernathy had seen sixty-eight tributes die. He had brought home only one. And the weight of that final loss, of Tara's eyes looking up from the dark, had been too much for him.
Katniss didn't blame him.
There was only so much one person could take.
A hush fell over the square as the mayor climbed the steps to the podium. The microphones crackled, the screen behind him flickered to life.
The glorious celebration of the Reaping was about to begin.
The mayor of District 12 stood at the podium, his voice droning through the dusty square, reciting the same speech he gave every year. His words painted the familiar picture—of a war long past, of the Capitol's victory, of the obliteration of District 13, and the creation of the Hunger Games to remind the people of Panem where they stood.
Katniss barely heard him.
She stood off to the side, watching the crowd. Watching the children.
They lined up in rigid rows, grouped by age, most of them trembling despite the heat. She scanned their faces—faces too young for fear this deep. She saw eyes darting around, hands clasped tight. Some were twelve, attending their first Reaping. Others were seventeen or eighteen, praying they could dodge the odds just once more.
One girl. One boy. That's all it takes to rip a family apart.
The mayor cleared his throat.
"Ladies first," he said. There was no enthusiasm in his voice. No smile. The weight of District 12 pressed on him just as it did everyone else. He reached into the bowl and pulled out a single slip of paper.
He squinted at the name. Then read it aloud.
"Jennifer Rockwaller."
A hush fell over the crowd, followed by a low, collective gasp. Katniss felt her stomach twist.
Jennifer. The name pierced through her like a knife. She knew that name—Jennifer had just turned twelve today. A sister to a girl Katniss used to trade with at the Hob. The youngest of four. Thin as a reed, barely four feet tall, her limbs like sticks beneath her faded dress.
She won't last a day.
Jennifer stood frozen, her pale face stunned. And then—
"I VOLUNTEER!"
The voice rang out, cracking through the silence like a whip.
Gasps followed as everyone turned. A girl pushed through the rows, moving quickly, her red braid bouncing behind her.
Kessa Pryor.
Katniss blinked, surprised.
Kessa climbed the stage slowly, her face tight, controlled. Jennifer ran to her and wrapped her arms around her waist, tears already pouring down her cheeks.
"Why?" she whispered.
Kessa knelt and gently brushed the girl's hair away from her face. "Because," she said softly, "everyone deserves someone in the end."
Jennifer was pulled back by a Peacekeeper, and Kessa stood. Her spine was straight, her expression fierce. Katniss studied her. About her own height, lean and strong. The kind of girl who looked like she chose her path. Not a fame-seeker. Not a Capitol-chaser.
A protector.
Katniss felt something stir inside her she hadn't felt in years—hope. She has potential.
The mayor moved on.
"And now for the gentlemen."
Katniss barely heard him. Her eyes were still on Kessa when the name was read:
"Wade Load."
A pause.
And then another voice called out, strong and clear:
"I volunteer!"
All heads turned as a tall boy from the front row broke from the line. Sandy hair, wide shoulders, and a spark in his eye that reminded Katniss of Peeta—not in appearance, but in loyalty. Purpose.
Rowan Tebb.
He climbed the steps quickly, brushing past Wade without a glance. Katniss noticed how his eyes were locked—not on the Capitol officials, not on the cameras—but on Kessa.
She saw Kessa's face crumple. Tears welled in her eyes and began to fall freely as Rowan took his place beside her. She leaned into him, and he wrapped an arm around her without hesitation.
Katniss exhaled sharply. A couple. They didn't need to say it. Their body language said everything. It hit her like a blow to the chest. A couple. Engaged. In love. And both about to be sent to the arena.
For the first time in Hunger Games history, both tributes from district 12 had volunteered—and they were going to die together. Unless...
The mayor stepped back from the microphone, clearing his throat awkwardly.
"We have… one more announcement," he said. "Before the anthem, President Snow has sent us all a special message."
A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. Then the screens flickered to life.
President Snow's face appeared, pale and smiling.
"Congratulations, tributes," he said, voice slick and slow. "What an honor it is to represent your district in the 84th annual Hunger Games."
He folded his hands in front of him.
"I imagine some of you are feeling nervous. Perhaps even frightened. Let me ease your minds—with a story."
His smile widened.
"Ten years ago, a girl from District 12 won these very Games. Katniss Everdeen. A symbol of fire. She pledged herself to one cause: protecting Peeta Mellark. Her love for him captured the heart of Panem. But love… love is a dangerous thing."
His voice dropped.
"Peeta Mellark died in those final moments. And despite her strength, her cunning, her fire—Katniss Everdeen could not save him."
Snow's eyes narrowed, glittering cold.
"So this year, in memory of that sacrifice, the rules will change—just this once. If both tributes from a district are still alive at the end… they may both be crowned victors."
The crowd gasped.
"No catch. No tricks."
He paused.
"Let this be the year love has its chance to burn again. Happy Hunger Games—and may the odds be ever in your favor."
The screen cut out. Katniss stared at the two on the stage, now holding each other more tightly. Two volunteers. Two lovers. And now, maybe… two victors. She swallowed hard, but in her gut, she knew the truth.
Nothing the Capitol gives comes without a price.
The white-walled room was too clean. Too quiet.
Kessa sat alone on the velvet-cushioned bench, her silver dress wrinkled from hours of wear, her hands clenched in her lap. The Peacekeepers had led her here minutes after the Reaping ended, offering no words—just a cold nod and the quiet click of the door shutting behind her.
This was the place where goodbyes happened.
Her head still spun. She could barely remember Jennifer's name being called, seeing the young girl all alone and probably about to die, and her voice calling out her volunteer, let alone how she'd gotten up the stairs. All she could focus on now was that she was now a tribute, going into her games with her fiance.
Her mother, Mara, was the first inside. She rushed to Kessa, dropping to her knees and gathering her into a tight, shaking embrace. Behind her came Kessa's father, Jonas, a tall man with the broad shoulders of a miner, his eyes shining but jaw tight. Her two younger brothers, Emmett and Dax, stood uncertainly behind them, both looking like they might break in half.
"Oh, Kessa," Mara whispered, pressing her face into her daughter's shoulder. "My brave girl… my beautiful girl."
"I'm okay, Mama," Kessa murmured, even though she wasn't. "It's okay."
"No, it's not," her father said, voice strained. "You should've stayed quiet. You should've looked away."
"I couldn't," she said softly. "She's just a kid."
Jonas looked at her like he wanted to yell, but there was only pain in his eyes. He sank into a nearby chair and held his head in his hands. Mara continued to cling to her, whispering blessings and broken words.
Emmett, barely fourteen, stepped forward first. "You're gonna win," he said fiercely, though his voice wobbled. "You're stronger than anyone in the Seam."
Dax, only nine, handed her a folded piece of paper. "It's my favorite sketch," he said. "It's of you and Rowan. I drew it at school."
Kessa opened it. It was crude, drawn with stubby charcoal, but unmistakably them—sitting under the oak tree where Rowan had proposed the night before.
She choked back a sob. "It's perfect."
There wasn't enough time. Never was. The Peacekeeper rapped once on the doorframe. Mara kissed her daughter's cheeks over and over. Jonas whispered, "We love you," and her brothers clung to her legs.
Then they were gone.
The next to enter were Rowan's parents, Calen and Tira Tebb. Calen looked like an older, wearier version of his son, and Tira's eyes were already swollen from crying.
"The second you volunteered, we knew he would," Tira said as she approached, grasping Kessa's hands. "He's too much like his father."
"He's too much like you," Calen added, offering a tired smile. "Brave. Stubborn. Loyal to a fault."
Kessa tried to return the smile, but her lips quivered.
"Thank you," Tira whispered. "For loving him. He won't be alone, and you two are the best pair I've ever known.."
Kessa shook her head. "Thank you, for not blaming me for this. It means the world to have your support."
They didn't try to offer hope and she didn't offer a promise to win so they'd both come back, they just held her close, sharing the grief of two families now tied together for life, or what little life she had left..
After they left, three more visitors were allowed in—Marli, Teo, and Brynn, her closest friends from school. Marli, always the outspoken one, had tears streaking her face but offered a crooked smile.
"I knew you'd do something like this one day," she said. "I just hoped it would be running for mayor or something. Not the Games."
Kessa laughed, just once, before her chest tightened. Teo and Brynn didn't speak much—Teo clasped her shoulder, Brynn wrapped her in a hug so tight it hurt.
"We'll take care of your family," Teo said. "All of us."
The last goodbye was quiet. The Peacekeepers lingered. Kessa looked around the room, committing every detail to memory. She didn't know if she'd ever see it again. And then the door opened for the final time.
"It's time."
She stood, her legs shaking slightly as she walked out. The train waited at the edge of town, gleaming like a Capitol dagger in the dull light. Across the platform, she saw Rowan being escorted from his own room. He looked up, eyes locking with hers.
He didn't smile, but he nodded. She reached him, and he took her hand. No words were exchanged. There was nothing left to say.
Together, they stepped onto the train—District 12's tributes, volunteers, and fiancés.
Bound for the Capitol.
Bound for the Games.