Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wind howled through the cracked windows of the apartment, a constant reminder of the cold that was never fully chased away in District 8. The factory hums and the clatter of spinning looms echoed through the neighborhood, the only sounds that seemed to exist here. The air tasted of fabric dye and grease, thick with the constant reminder that life here had a rhythm — a relentless, suffocating rhythm that didn’t stop for anyone.

Ivory sat on the worn-out couch in their small living room, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them tightly. The room was dim, the sun barely breaking through the dust and grime that caked the glass. The only light came from the old lamp on the table next to her — its flickering bulb casting long, eerie shadows across the walls. Her mother, Dovey, sat at the weaving loom in the corner of the room, the clacking of the shuttle a monotonous backdrop to Ivory’s thoughts. The room smelled faintly of burnt cloth.

She’d lost track of time. It had become so easy to do when there was nothing else to do but think, to watch the slow, grinding passage of time while the world outside turned to static, like the endless repetition of the factory’s clamor.

Birch, her father, had died when she was six — shot by a Peacekeeper’s stray bullet, meant for a protester but caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. They had never said it like that, of course. They had said he was “caught in the crossfire,” but Ivory knew the truth. The Capitol didn’t care who died, so long as it served their purposes.

That day had been the start of a deep, unhealing crack in Ivory’s heart. That day was when the Capitol had shown her what it was capable of. Birch’s death had been senseless, arbitrary. His blood had stained the streets of District 8, and since then, Ivory had been steeped in that stain, every part of her soaked in anger.

Dovey had never been the same after her husband died. She had withdrawn into herself, retreating into her work at the loom. All she ever did was weave. The work was constant, repetitive. Woven patterns in her mind, woven threads in the air. There was no emotion, no light, just the sound of the shuttle and the silence in the house. The house that had once been full of laughter, now eerily quiet, with only the rustle of fabric and the hum of machines.

Ivory had tried to make her mother see, tried to get her to feel something. But it was like shouting into a void. Dovey’s indifference was a wall Ivory couldn’t climb. She was just… there. No warmth, no love, nothing that could hold her, that could change anything.

Ivory’s life had been mostly spent alone, running through the streets of the district or hiding out in the underground fight ring, the Dark Blades. There, Ivory could forget the suffocating weight of the world, and for once, she could feel something. She could feel strong. Her fists were the only thing that made her feel alive, the only place where her rage could pour out.

She had become something else in the ring. Not just the girl with the father shot dead by the Capitol, or the sister whose jealousy simmered beneath the surface, but Ivory Fernanedes, the girl who could kill if she needed to.

But none of that mattered, not today.

Today, the Capitol’s presence in District 8 was more obvious than ever. The Reaping was looming over them, casting a shadow that could swallow everything whole. District 8 was never peaceful, not under the Capitol’s watch. The streets were quiet, almost too quiet, as the sound of the Peacekeepers’ boots echoed through the neighborhood, a reminder of who controlled everything here. They weren’t subtle, and they made sure everyone knew who was in charge. They always made their presence known.

Ivory could feel her heart pounding, the familiar nervous energy racing through her veins. She didn’t want to go to the Reaping today. The thought of it, the looming uncertainty of it all, made her sick. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how everything seemed to depend on it, on who got picked, and how it would change things forever.

Ellenna.

Her sister.

Ivory’s fingers curled into fists at the thought of her.

She hated it. Hated how perfect Ellenna was. Ellenna, with her soft blonde curls, her clear blue eyes, her angelic smile. The perfect daughter, the perfect Capitol pawn. People adored her — the Capitol adored her. The merchants, the Peacekeepers, the people who looked at her as if she was some kind of angel sent to them. They had always looked at her that way, and Ivory had always been pushed aside in the shadows.

Her mother had always favored Ellenna. She was the good daughter, the one who made the family proud. Ivory had never been the one to live up to those expectations, the one who was always left behind. She didn’t even know why she kept trying to care, to be someone worthy of her mother’s attention.

Ellenna never noticed Ivory’s jealousy. She never noticed how Ivory seethed when their mother smiled at her, when she braided her hair, when she praised Ellenna for her grace.

But none of it mattered. The Reaping would take everything.

Ivory glanced over at Ellenna, sitting in the kitchen, brushing out her hair in front of the cracked mirror. The room smelled like fabric softener and the soft scent of soap.

The echo of the Reaping bell tolled in the distance.

Ivory squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. She had to focus. Had to block it all out. Had to stop feeling. Stop feeling anything.

The Reaping.

It had come too soon.

Ivory stood among the crowd, the sun beating down on the cracked streets, the Capitol’s face glaring down from every screen. The district’s square was packed, and the Peacekeepers stood at attention, watching everyone closely. Ivory felt her pulse racing, the sweat gathering on the back of her neck.

They were here.

The Peacekeepers were everywhere. The crowd had gone silent as the escort climbed the stage, a tall, angular woman with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Ivory’s eyes drifted over to Ellenna, standing next to her. She seemed so out of place, like an angel in a storm. Ivory looked away quickly, forcing herself to breathe steadily.

Then, the announcer’s voice rang out.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Reaping begin!”

Ivory barely heard the rest of the ceremony. She was too focused on the moment that was coming. The moment when the names were called.

Her hands clenched. She could feel the anger rising again — the anger at the system, at the Capitol, at everything they had ever taken from her.

The first name was called. Some boy. Not her concern. Then came the second name, and Ivory’s heart skipped a beat.

“Ellenna Fernanedes.”

It was like a trapdoor snapping shut.

Ivory didn’t move, not at first. Ellenna froze for a moment, eyes wide, before she was dragged onto the stage. The crowd roared, and Ivory stood still, her throat closing. She couldn’t move.

She was frozen.

She didn’t call out for her. Didn’t run up to the stage. She didn’t volunteer. She couldn’t.

The guilt hit her in waves. But it was too late now. Ellenna was already there, shaking with fear as they forced her to stand in front of everyone. Ivory didn’t meet her sister’s gaze. She couldn’t. Her insides twisted, torn between guilt and rage.

The crowd roared, and the world blurred around her. She wasn’t fast enough. She hadn’t moved in time.
Ivory turned away from the square, her heart pounding in her chest. The noise was deafening. The world felt so small, and yet, so vast. She couldn’t breathe.

Ellenna was gone.

 

Ivory stumbled back from the crowd, hands shaking at her sides. The air felt too thick, too suffocating. The noise of the Capitol’s celebration was deafening. The faces around her blurred into a single, distorted mass of anticipation, their excited murmurs blending together like the buzz of flies. Everything felt wrong. The weight of silence had settled on her chest. It was suffocating her.

She couldn’t look at Ellenna, not now. Not with the whole world watching. She wanted to scream, but the words were locked inside her throat, heavy and unspoken. Her sister’s name had been called, and she hadn’t moved. Ivory felt like she was drowning in her own skin.

The Peacekeepers were watching, eyes sharp and unwavering. They were there, always there, waiting for any excuse, any reason to strike. Ivory clenched her jaw and turned away, weaving through the crowd in a blur, ignoring the whispers that followed her like shadows.

The weight of everyone’s eyes was too much. She had to leave.

The streets of District 8 felt even quieter than before, as if the very air had been sucked out of the world. Ivory’s steps were quick, too quick, her breathing ragged. She didn’t want to be here anymore. Didn’t want to be part of any of this.

The familiar sounds of the factory in the distance—the rhythmic clatter of the looms, the hum of machines churning out fabric—felt distant now. Nothing mattered. Nothing except what she had just witnessed.

Ivory’s thoughts twisted, each one a sharp edge she couldn’t outrun.

Ellenna’s name… called. She should’ve stopped it. She could’ve stopped it.

But she didn’t. She hadn’t moved.

Was it because she didn’t care? Or was it something else? The realization hit her harder than the blow of a fist: she hadn’t moved because she was scared. Scared that if she volunteered, if she became the center of attention, everything she had built in the shadows—the strength, the anger, the fury—would break. She couldn’t be her sister’s savior. She couldn’t be the hero.

It would be too much. She would break. She would break into pieces just like their father had.

Ivory’s boots hit the pavement with a sharp clack, echoing through the quiet street. She turned into an alley, the narrow space closing in around her. The shadows felt like an old friend, something she could hide in, something familiar. The coolness of the brick walls offered no comfort, just a place to hide.

She leaned back against the wall, trying to breathe, but the air was thick. Thick with guilt. Thick with shame.

Ellenna was going to die. That was all that mattered.

Ivory let her head fall back, pressing it against the cool wall, eyes closed. She could still see it—the moment when Ellenna’s name was called. The shock on her sister’s face. The fear. She’d never seen Ellenna so afraid. She’d been the perfect Capitol tribute, the one they all loved, the one who never made a mistake, the one who was always the right choice. But not anymore. Not after today.

Ivory’s hands balled into fists at her sides.

“Why didn’t I do anything?” she muttered aloud, the question sounding foreign even to her own ears. The words felt too weak, too small, to capture the weight of the moment.

She was drowning in the noise, in the faces, in the expectations.

What if it had been me? The thought shot through her, harsh and ugly. But that wasn’t the truth. It was Ellenna’s turn. The Capitol had made their choice. And now, Ivory had no choice but to watch her sister die.

The Dark Blades.

Ivory’s fists tightened as her thoughts shifted. The fight ring, the one place she felt in control. The one place where she wasn’t Ivory Fernanedes, the unwanted daughter of a dead man, the second-best sister. The one place where she wasn’t suffocating. It was the one place she could pretend to be something else—something stronger. Something real.

She could feel the adrenaline beginning to surge again, familiar and comforting, filling her veins with the same fire she had trained with in the Dark Blades. Ivory didn’t need to be the hero. She didn’t need to save anyone.

She was a killer. That’s all she ever needed to be.

Later that day, after the ceremony, Ivory went home, but it wasn’t really home anymore. It hadn’t been for years. Her mother was silent at the loom, her face still, as always, lost in the rhythm of the weave. She didn’t even look up when Ivory entered the room. There was no reproach, no love, no anger. Just the cold hum of the shuttle moving back and forth. The same as always.

Ivory stared at her mother for a moment, feeling a rush of something bitter rising in her chest. But she didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.

She turned and left the room, heading toward the small closet in the corner where she kept her gear—the whip, the batons, the knives. It was her sanctuary. The one place she didn’t have to hide. Where she didn’t have to pretend to be the good daughter. The good sister.

Night fell, and the darkness swallowed District 8 whole. Ivory didn’t sleep. She hadn’t slept in days, not really. Her eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling. The sounds of the factory, the clatter of looms and machines, drifted in from outside, but inside, it was quiet. A kind of stillness that threatened to smother her. She could hear the whispers of the streets, the occasional shout of a Peacekeeper that cut through the silence, the distant call of another district tribute preparing for the Games.

And then, she heard the sound she had been waiting for. The distant roar of the Capitol’s audience.

They had already moved on. They had already forgotten.

The thought made her sick.

Ellenna would never come back. She would be erased, just like everything else the Capitol touched. Ivory closed her eyes and let the anger boil up again. She could feel it simmering deep within her.

Tomorrow, they would take her sister into the Games. And Ivory Fernanedes would never let that go. The Capitol would never let her forget what they had done.

Chapter Text

The Capitol’s broadcast of Ellenna’s death was the sharpest thing Ivory had ever witnessed. It was worse than the agony of her father’s sudden death, worse than the silent brutality of the Capitol’s soldiers marching through District 8. At least with her father’s death, there was no audience to watch his life slip away. Ellenna, her perfect sister, had been torn apart for everyone’s entertainment.

The screen was a constant reminder of what had been done to her. Ivory couldn’t escape it, no matter how far she ran, no matter how much she tried to drown it out. The faces of Ellenna’s tormentors were always there — cold, indifferent, perfect in their cruelty. Ellenna’s pain, her screams, became a spectacle to be consumed by the Capitol’s rich, twisted citizens. They had stolen her, twisted her beauty into a game. And Ivory had done nothing to stop it.

Each day, the broadcast continued, each replay of Ellenna’s last moments more excruciating than the last. There was nothing left of the sweet, perfect sister. All that was left was the body they used as entertainment, the face that had been loved by the Capitol, now stained with brutality.

It would never be enough. The guilt gnawed at her insides. Ivory had been too late. Too afraid. And now, Ellenna was gone, erased by the Capitol like everyone else they broke.

She didn’t know how long she had stood there in front of the broadcast, staring at the screen, before her mother’s voice broke through. “Ivory, turn it off.”

Ivory couldn’t. Not yet. She couldn’t turn away from the final image — Ellenna’s body, limp and lifeless, displayed to the world like a broken doll. The humiliation. The agony. The helplessness.

“Turn it off, Ivory.” Her mother’s voice, once calm and soothing, was now empty. She had no fight left in her. She hadn’t since Birch died. And now, with Ellenna’s death, she was hollow. The mother who had once smiled when Ivory walked into the room, who had called her ‘daughter,’ was a shell.

Ivory clicked the screen off, the sudden silence in the room deafening. That was it. Ellenna was gone, and there was no going back. There was nothing left but this hollow rage that had taken root in her chest.

 

The first time Ivory stepped into the Dark Blades, she was shaking. Not from fear, but from something else. Something darker. The anger that had swelled inside her over the past few days was like a beast that could not be caged. It pulsed in her veins, hot and burning, demanding release.

Her hands clenched into fists as she stepped onto the gritty, makeshift floor of the ring. The faint smell of sweat and blood hung in the air, and the dim light from the overhead lamps barely illuminated the battered fighters sparring around her. The Dark Blades was a place where people went to forget their lives — where the pain didn’t matter because all that mattered was survival. Ivory’s only goal was survival, but not just that. She wanted revenge.

She had always been fast, but speed wasn’t enough anymore. She had to become something else. Something powerful. Something stronger than the girl who had stood by, helpless, as her sister was torn apart. The Dark Blades would teach her that. They would show her how to fight without hesitation, without mercy.

She found herself drawn to the bag first. She needed to feel the pounding of her fists against something solid, something that would offer no resistance. Ivory’s knuckles cracked against the leather bag, the pain sharp, but oddly satisfying. It felt like the only thing in the world that mattered. Every hit made her feel like she was chiseling away the pain that had lodged itself inside her. She needed the pain. Needed it to make her feel alive again.

The first few sessions were grueling. The men and women in the ring didn’t pull their punches, didn’t care who she was or why she was there. They taught her how to fight with everything she had, how to destroy her opponent without second-guessing herself.

Ivory’s body became a battlefield. Every bruise, every sore muscle was another victory. She pushed herself harder than ever before, not just to win, but to obliterate. It wasn’t about defending herself anymore. It was about making everyone pay.

She became an animal in the ring, ruthless and unrelenting. The once-distant feeling of inadequacy that had always clung to her — the feeling of not being good enough, the feeling of being second-best to Ellenna — slowly melted away, replaced by something darker, something more destructive.

The Dark Blades taught her not to care about anything. Not about her past. Not about the people who had betrayed her. Not about the Capitol. Not even about herself. They taught her to fight and to forget everything else.

 

The weeks passed, but nothing felt real anymore. The Capitol’s reaping of her sister’s life was still fresh in her mind, but the training, the endless cycles of bruises and blood, kept her moving forward. There was nothing left to do but fight.

At home, the silence was crushing. The sound of the loom, always present, now felt like a mockery of life. Ivory’s mother, Dovey, was a shell. She had stopped speaking to Ivory, stopped reacting to anything. She was always at the loom, weaving the same patterns over and over again, lost in some world that Ivory couldn’t reach.

It felt like Dovey’s grief had consumed her entirely. She no longer even noticed when Ivory came and went. The woman who had once been her mother, the one who had told her stories, made her laugh, and held her when she cried, was gone. In her place was a ghost, sitting at the loom, pulling threads that seemed to go nowhere.

Ivory hated the silence. But she hated the empty look in her mother’s eyes more.

One evening, Ivory came home to find the room colder than usual. She walked in, expecting the usual routine, expecting to see her mother sitting at the loom, but instead, she found the living room empty.

Her heart sank.

The loom was still running, the shuttle clicking back and forth, weaving its never-ending patterns, but there was no one there to guide it.

Ivory froze.

And then she saw it.

Her mother’s body was hanging from the beam above. The sight was grotesque, a twisted, final act of surrender. Ivory’s mind short-circuited, her world spinning out of control. Her hands went numb as she reached for her mother, but she knew it was too late. Dovey had already slipped away. There was no saving her.

The numbness settled in again, colder than before. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She stood there, staring at the lifeless form of the woman who had once been her only connection to something real.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Ivory’s body trembled, but not from grief. Not anymore. She was beyond that. She was beyond feeling anything.

Her mind snapped back to her training, to the Dark Blades, and the raw need for survival. She had no one left. No one at all.

 

The days after her mother’s death passed in a blur of exhaustion and hollow routine. Ivory went through the motions of life, but it felt like she was living in someone else’s body, someone who had already given up. She could feel the weight of her mother’s absence like a void that couldn’t be filled. But the numbness inside her didn’t let her mourn. Instead, it locked her away in a cage of silence.

The Dark Blades became her only solace, the one place where she could release the anger and the grief that threatened to overwhelm her. Every time she stepped into the ring, it was like an anchor to reality. The pain of bruises, the sting of sweat, the harsh breath of exhaustion—it was real. It was something she could touch.

At home, the room felt colder every time she came back. Dovey’s absence was a ghost that lingered, creeping into every corner of the house. The loom remained in the same place where it had always been, but without Dovey to guide it, it had become a mockery of life, its endless cycle of thread and pattern meaningless. The house was quiet in a way that made Ivory feel as though it was closing in on her. The emptiness became unbearable, like a suffocating cloud hanging above her head.

She stopped going home altogether.

Ivory buried herself in her training. The Dark Blades became a blur of adrenaline and rage, and Ivory fed that rage like a fire, stoking it with every painful blow, every bruise that bloomed across her skin. The training was brutal, but that was the point. She was beyond caring about the consequences of pushing her body past its limits. It was the only way to feel alive. Every punch she threw, every fight she won, was a small victory against a world that had stolen everything from her.

She spent hours in the ring, until the pain became a part of her, like an old friend she had learned to live with. She didn’t care if she won or lost anymore—it was about release. Her opponents became faceless bodies that she tore through without hesitation. The fighters, much older and more experienced, had once taken pleasure in watching her struggle. But soon, they learned that there was no struggling in Ivory anymore. There was only rage, and determination.

The fight ring had become Ivory’s sanctuary, the only place where the world didn’t feel like it was spinning out of control. Outside, the Capitol’s stranglehold on District 8 had only tightened since Ellenna’s death. The Peacekeepers patrolled more, the Capitol’s presence felt at every corner. But in the ring, there was only power. There was only strength. And Ivory was becoming stronger by the day.

Her body hardened. She had long since stopped caring about the bruises and cuts that marred her skin. She could feel the muscles in her arms grow, the tightness in her core as she trained for hours, endlessly improving, pushing herself further and further. She could feel her stamina increase, the speed of her strikes, the quickness of her mind. It was as if the physical pain was washing away the emotional pain, turning her into something cold. Something that didn’t feel.

She would wake up each morning with a pit in her stomach—a reminder of the hollow ache where her family had once been—but then she would throw herself into her training, and that ache would fade into the background. It was a vicious cycle. But as long as she was fighting, she didn’t have to think about anything else.

The people who had known her before didn’t recognize her anymore. They whispered behind her back as she walked through the streets, eyes following her, as though they could sense the change in her. The girl they had known, the girl who had been Ellenna’s shadow, was gone. She was something else now. Ivory Fernanedes, a name that now meant something more than it had ever meant before. It meant strength, and it meant vengeance.

Nights were the worst. When the noise of the ring and the exhaustion of the day faded, the silence crept in. It was during those quiet moments that Ivory would lie in her small room, staring at the ceiling, feeling the emptiness spread through her. There was no one left to talk to. No one who cared. No family, no friends. Just the dull ache of loss.

The world outside was still spinning, but Ivory had checked out. She felt disconnected from it all. The Capitol was a place far away, a place that had taken everything from her, but it didn’t matter anymore. They had turned her sister’s death into a public spectacle. They had turned Dovey’s death into something equally meaningless. And now, they were watching her, too.

But they would see her. They would feel her rage.

The Dark Blades became her obsession. Each day, each fight, she honed her body into a weapon, a tool of survival. The trainers there pushed her, tested her limits, made her fight not only with her body, but with her mind. They taught her to be merciless, to hit first, hit hard, and not to feel. And so, she stopped feeling.

She used to care about things—about the loom her mother had woven on, about her sister’s smile, about the small, delicate things that made life seem worth living. But now, those things seemed like distant memories, like a life that belonged to someone else. She was no longer Ivory Fernanedes, the girl who used to cry at night when the weight of her father’s death was too much to bear. She was Ivory, a weapon. A machine.

Her emotions were buried beneath the surface, so deep that she couldn’t reach them even if she wanted to. Every time she fought, every time she killed, the numbness inside her deepened.

She had stopped going home. The house, the broken loom, her mother’s absence—they didn’t matter anymore. It was a place she didn’t belong. So she stopped coming back. She stopped acknowledging that she even had a home.

The Capitol’s control over District 8 grew tighter. Ivory noticed the increased presence of the Peacekeepers, the way the streets seemed to shrink under the weight of their boots. But it didn’t matter to her.

Ivory didn’t care about the Capitol anymore. She had no allegiance to them, no allegiance to anything except the people who had taken from her. The only thing that mattered now was survival, and revenge.

Ivory wasn’t sure how long it had been since her mother’s death. It felt like weeks. Maybe months. But it didn’t matter. Time didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was the Dark Blades, and the fire that burned inside her. Every fight, every opponent she took down, was a step closer to the person she needed to be.

She was a machine now. Nothing would stop her.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low in the sky over District 8, casting long shadows across the square. There was a certain oppressive stillness in the air, as if the world was holding its breath. The people had gathered early, filling every corner of the town square in tight, anxious rows, their faces set in that same grim expression they all wore every year — a mix of fear, dread, and reluctant acceptance.

The Reaping was the most anticipated event of the year in the districts, but it was also the most despised. It was the event that reminded everyone — with cruel certainty — of their powerlessness. The Capitol was always watching, always waiting to take their children, to turn them into playthings, to turn them into victims of the Games. And no one had any control. Not over the names, not over the fate of their children. It didn’t matter if they were good or bad, strong or weak, rich or poor — everyone was equally vulnerable in the face of the Capitol’s iron grip.

Ivory stood in the back of the crowd, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She barely noticed the voices of the people around her — their quiet mutterings, their whispered prayers. She couldn’t focus on them, couldn’t let them drag her into their nervous energy. Her eyes remained fixed on the stage, where Mabel, the district escort, stood with her usual, overly bright smile, but this year it was tinged with something else.

There was a change in the air, something that even the Capitol couldn’t mask with their usual pageantry and flair. A new rule had been announced earlier that morning, and it had sent ripples of unease through the districts. The Capitol had made it clear this year that only volunteers would be allowed to participate in the Hunger Games.

And if no one volunteered, if no one stepped forward willingly to face the Games — the Peacekeepers would simply pick someone from the crowd. Randomly. No choice. No warning. No hope.

The announcement had stunned the districts, creating a palpable fear that hung over them like a cloud of smoke. The idea that the Capitol would now require children to volunteer, to willingly choose death, felt like a final twist of the knife. It was the Capitol’s way of turning the Games into something more personal, something more sinister.

They weren’t just taking lives anymore; they were forcing children to hand over their futures, to give themselves to the Capitol without even the comfort of a moment’s reprieve. It felt as if the Capitol was testing the limits of their control, seeing just how far they could push before the districts broke entirely.

Ivory’s stomach twisted at the thought. The bitter reality was that volunteering for the Games had become a form of survival. If you didn’t volunteer, if you didn’t step forward and take responsibility, the Capitol would simply pick someone — someone younger, someone weaker, someone with no preparation or training. And they would become the target, the sacrificial lamb.

But no one said it out loud. No one dared. The Reaping was meant to be a spectacle, a forced ritual, not a conversation. A way of reminding everyone that they had no choice in the matter. Ivory had always known that there was no escape from the Capitol’s rule, but the new rules seemed even more cruel than anything before. There would be no honor in the Games now, no dignity. Just the sickening feeling of being chosen to die.

As Mabel began her usual speech, Ivory barely heard the words. The woman’s voice echoed across the square, but it felt hollow, like the words were falling into a deep pit that went on forever, never reaching the bottom. The crowd shifted uncomfortably as they listened, but Ivory felt a rising tension within her. How many people were willing to volunteer? Would someone, anyone, step forward voluntarily? Or would the Capitol get to pick someone from the crowd, pulling out some poor child, just like they had with her sister?

Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her worn jacket as the escort finished her speech. The crowd went silent in anticipation as Mabel reached for the first name in the glass bowl.

Ivory’s gaze locked onto the reaping bowl, that cursed glass container that held the fate of every child in the district. The small, shiny slips of paper inside it felt like mournful promises waiting to be read aloud. A deep knot formed in her stomach as Mabel’s fingers brushed against the slips, pulling one free.

Ivory forced herself to breathe evenly, though her heart was already pounding in her chest. She couldn’t let herself think about what might happen next. No, not again. She had already lost everything — her father, her sister, her mother. She couldn’t lose anyone else.

And yet, that familiar, twisted feeling crept back into her mind: the sick sense of inevitability. The Capitol had already taken so much from her. It had destroyed her family, and now, it was coming back for the rest.

Mabel opened the slip of paper, holding it high in the air. The crowd held its breath, the final moment of anticipation thick in the air.

“Cynthia Casi”

The name echoed through the square like a death knell, sharp and final. Ivory’s heart stopped in her chest. The world seemed to freeze for a moment, as if the earth itself had paused, waiting for her to react.
A random girl’s name, pulled from the bowl like a curse. But this time, it wasn’t really Ellenna. It couldn’t be. Ellenna had already been taken. She had already been broken by the Capitol. But the girl who stepped forward — the one with wide eyes, blonde hair, and a terrified expression — looked just like her.

Ivory’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the child standing there, shaking in front of the Peacekeepers, too young to fully understand what was happening to her. Her face was pale, her lips trembling, and Ivory could see the terror in her eyes — the same terror that had haunted Ellenna when she had been chosen.

It wasn’t her sister, but the resemblance was undeniable. The girl’s face, so soft and innocent, looked like a twisted version of the one Ivory had loved. A painful mirror image of everything Ivory had lost.

“No,” Ivory whispered under her breath.

She couldn’t look away. She couldn’t tear her eyes off the girl who looked so much like Ellenna. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.

The crowd around her had gone still. It was as if the entire district was holding its collective breath, afraid to breathe, afraid to speak. No one dared move. No one dared intervene.

The Capitol had taken her sister, had twisted her into something grotesque for their entertainment. And now, they were doing it again, with a child who bore a striking resemblance to her.

“Cynthis Casi,” Mabel called again, her voice shaking slightly.

The girl stepped forward, barely able to stand, her hands wringing at her sides. She was no older than twelve, too young to be forced into a deathmatch. Too young to understand what was really at stake.

And yet here she was, about to be sacrificed, like Ellenna, like the hundreds of other children who had already died in the Capitol’s Games. Ellenna’s face flashed through Ivory’s mind. The pain, the horror, the endless screams. And the guilt. The guilt that had eaten her alive for years.

“I volunteer.”

The words came out before Ivory could even stop herself. She didn’t know if she was ready to say them. She didn’t know if she even had the right to volunteer, to step into the arena once again.

But it was too late. The moment the words left her mouth, the crowd’s silence enveloped her, suffocating her. Ivory knew what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop herself. The moment had passed.

She had volunteered. And now, she was locked in.

 

“You,” Mabel finally said, her voice weak with surprise, “you volunteer?”

For a long, suspended moment, the words seemed to hang in the air, echoing across the silent square like a crack of thunder that hadn’t yet reached the ground.

Ivory nodded once, sharply. Her jaw was set, her gaze fixed straight ahead. She could feel her pulse pounding behind her ears, but her expression didn’t change. She didn’t trust herself to speak again—not here, not in front of them. The words she’d already said were enough. I volunteer. They had power. They had weight.

Her hands stayed clenched into fists at her sides, the nails biting into her palms. She could feel the small, painful crescents forming against her skin, and she welcomed the sting. It kept her focused. It kept her from shaking.

She didn’t look at the crowd. She couldn’t. She didn’t want to see the faces—didn’t want to see the flickers of pity, or confusion, or horror that she knew were there. District 8 wasn’t known for bravery. They were a district of workers, of weavers and factory hands, not heroes. Volunteers were rare here. They always had been.

And so Ivory knew exactly how this moment would look. To them, she wasn’t a savior. She was a fool.

Her boots felt heavy as she took a single step forward. The sound of it—just one soft thud against the wooden platform—felt like it echoed through the entire square.

Mabel blinked rapidly, her Capitol-painted smile faltering for the first time in years. Even she didn’t know what to do. Her cue cards were useless now, her rehearsed lines suddenly meaningless.

“Well…” Mabel stammered, trying to recover her cheerful tone. “Our… our volunteer!” She gestured weakly, as if she expected applause.

But there was none.

The crowd didn’t cheer. They didn’t even flinch.

No one moved. The silence that followed was louder than any scream could have been. It pressed down on Ivory like a physical thing—heavy, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

Ivory stood there, her chin lifted, her shoulders stiff, trying not to let it crush her.

She could feel every pair of eyes on her—hundreds of them, staring, analyzing, judging. Some of the younger children looked terrified. The older ones looked away. And somewhere in the crowd, she knew her mother was standing.

She didn’t dare search for her.

Because if she did—if she saw her mother’s face, the grief, the fear—she might break.

And she couldn’t break. Not now.

The realization of what she’d done began to sink in slowly, like frost spreading over glass.

She had just signed her death warrant.

The words replayed in her head, sharp and clear, but her mind felt distant, fogged, as if this were all happening to someone else. The Capitol escort was saying something—something about honor, courage, District 8’s pride—but the words barely reached her. They were meaningless sounds, swallowed by the hollow ringing in her ears.

She tried to breathe. In. Out.

Her chest felt tight, her lungs refusing to cooperate. Every breath was shallow, burning. The edges of her vision blurred slightly as she looked toward the stage stairs. She needed to move, needed to stand where the tributes stood—but her legs didn’t want to obey.

She forced them to.

Step by step, she climbed the stairs, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides. She stood next to the 12-year-old girl—the one who had been chosen, the one who looked so painfully like Ellenna. The girl stared up at her, tears brimming in her wide blue eyes.

Ivory forced herself to meet her gaze.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, barely audible. “Go home.”

The girl shook her head, as if she didn’t understand, but a Peacekeeper was already guiding her gently away. Ivory didn’t watch her go. She didn’t need to. She could already picture her disappearing into the crowd, clinging to her mother, sobbing with relief.

A relief Ivory would never feel again.

The air on the stage felt colder than it had in the crowd, the wind sharp against her skin. From up here, she could see everyone—faces packed together, a sea of muted gray clothing and blank expressions. No color, no life. Just exhaustion and fear.

District 8 had lost too many of its children already. And now, it would lose another.

No one clapped. No one shouted her name.

They just stared.

Some with pity. Some with anger. Some with that same hollow detachment that came from years of loss and hunger and hopelessness. Ivory knew what they were thinking: Why her? Why now? Why throw yourself away?

But they didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

She wasn’t throwing herself away. She was finishing something that had already started two years ago.

The Games had claimed her sister. They had destroyed her family. They had left her mother broken, her home silent, her nights sleepless. The Capitol had already taken everything from her, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but this—this hollow body standing on a stage, too proud to bow, too angry to cry.

And now, finally, they would take the last thing she had to give.

Herself.

Mabel recovered enough to announce her name to the cameras, her voice shrill again. “District Eight’s female volunteer—Ivory Fernanedes!”

The sound of it echoed against the factory walls and brick buildings that lined the square, carried away by the wind.

Ivory didn’t react.

The name felt foreign in her ears now, as if it no longer belonged to her. She wasn’t Ivory Fernanedes anymore. That girl had died a long time ago—back when Ellenna’s cannon fired.

What stood here now was something else. Something harder, quieter, colder.

She lifted her chin slightly as the cameras zoomed in on her face.

Let them see me, she thought. Let them see what they made.

And as the Peacekeepers moved to escort her from the stage, she didn’t resist.

Because there was no turning back now.

The Games had claimed her. They had taken her sister.
And now, they would take her too.

 

The train to the Capitol felt like a dream — a sharp-edged, sleepless kind of dream that didn’t fade when you blinked.

Ivory sat stiffly in her seat, her shoulders pressed against the velvet upholstery, her eyes trained on nothing. The carriage smelled faintly of sugar and polish, the air too clean, too sweet. Around her, gold trimmings caught the overhead light, glass decanters shimmered, and the food—platters stacked with roasted meat, glossy fruit, and pastries too pretty to eat—covered the tables like a feast from another world.

But she didn’t touch any of it.

She didn’t care about the luxury of the train, the Capitol citizens on the platform who had watched her board, their eyes filled with that familiar mix of curiosity and condescension. She didn’t care about the endless food, the soft music drifting through the car, or the way the walls gleamed like polished teeth.

It was all meaningless.

She kept her hands clasped together in her lap, thumbs tracing small, soundless circles over her knuckles. The motion kept her focused, kept her from feeling too much.

Across from her sat her mentor—a man whose face she barely remembered from Ellenna’s Games. He looked older now, thinner, as if the Capitol had hollowed him out from the inside. His eyes darted toward her occasionally, but he didn’t speak. He must have known better.

Ivory didn’t want comfort. She didn’t need strategy lessons or pep talks. None of that mattered. Not yet.

What mattered was control.

And she didn’t have it. Not yet.

She could feel the Capitol’s eyes already on her—the cameras, the watchers, the audiences who would dissect her every movement. Every blink, every twitch, every crack in her expression would be broadcast across Panem. She could not give them what they wanted.

Her mind raced, fast but focused. She needed a plan.

Not to survive. Survival had never been the goal.

She needed a plan to win—on her own terms.

Not the way they wanted her to.

The train jolted slightly as it sped over the rails, and the world outside the window smeared into color.

District 8 had already vanished behind her—a blur of gray smoke and factory stacks fading into distance. The next districts flickered by: farmlands, rivers, small towns she didn’t recognize.

She barely looked at them.

Her reflection stared back at her in the glass, pale and tired, her light blond hair catching the faint glow of the passing lights. She looked like Ellenna when she tilted her head a certain way. The thought made her stomach twist.

She dropped her gaze.

She wouldn’t think about Ellenna. Not here. Not now.

Her fingers twitched restlessly, and that’s when the plan began to form. Slowly, piece by piece, like a blueprint unrolling in her head.

She would play weak.

It had worked before—in the fight rings, when she’d lured bigger opponents into lowering their guard. She’d let them think she was harmless, delicate. Then, when they turned their backs, she struck.

That was what she’d do again.

She would make them all believe she was the girl they wanted to see—the fragile, frightened tribute with wide eyes and trembling hands. The one the Capitol would pity, not fear. The one no Career would see as a threat.

And then, when it mattered most, she’d show them what they’d created.

Her mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

No one would see her coming.

Hours passed. The train hummed, the tracks droned, the landscape blurred.

At some point, Mabel floated into the carriage, all glitter and perfume, her voice high and sharp as ever.

“Sweetheart, you must eat something,” she said, gesturing to the food like it was a gift. “You’ll need your strength, you know. For training. For the cameras.”

Ivory didn’t answer.

Mabel hesitated, then plastered on another Capitol smile, bright and empty. “Well, I suppose nerves are normal, yes? You poor thing.”

Ivory looked up at her finally, just once. The look was enough. Mabel flinched and backed out of the carriage, muttering something about needing to “check with the prep team.”

The door hissed shut behind her. Silence returned.

Ivory’s mentor exhaled softly, a sound somewhere between pity and resignation. “You remind me of someone,” he said finally, his voice low.

Ivory didn’t ask who.

She didn’t need to.

Night fell. The sky outside the window deepened into navy, the stars faint pinpricks above the darkened land. The reflection in the glass sharpened again—Ivory’s face overlaid against the distant Capitol lights that grew larger with every mile.

Her chest tightened, but not from fear.

Just pressure.

The Capitol’s skyline rose ahead, glowing like a mirage. Towers of glass and steel, every surface shining, every light too bright to look at directly. It was beautiful in the way a venomous snake was beautiful—deadly, deliberate, hypnotic.

Ivory watched it draw closer and closer until it swallowed the horizon.

The train began to slow. The hum of the tracks shifted to a steady, low vibration beneath her boots. Her mentor stood, smoothing his jacket. Mabel’s voice echoed faintly from the next carriage, high and excited again.

Ivory didn’t move.

She stared out at the city—their city—the one that had sent Peacekeepers to her home, that had killed her sister, that had turned pain into a performance.

And she felt nothing.

Not hate. Not fear. Not even grief.

Just numbness.

Because hate was heavy, and fear was distracting. Numbness was clean. Efficient.

She would need that in the days ahead.

When the train doors opened, the sound hit her first—cheers, laughter, music. The Capitol’s welcome.

Ivory blinked against the light spilling in through the doorway. The platform beyond gleamed like glass, packed with people in shimmering clothes, their faces painted, their smiles too wide. Cameras flashed like lightning.

Mabel’s hand hovered at her elbow, guiding her forward. “Smile, darling,” she whispered. “They love a good story.”

Ivory didn’t smile.

She stepped onto the platform, the noise swelling around her, and looked straight into the cameras.

Her expression didn’t waver. Cold. Distant. Controlled.

The crowd didn’t notice. To them, she was just another tribute—one more piece on the board, one more spectacle for their screens.

They didn’t see the calculation behind her eyes.

They didn’t see the plan.

And that was exactly how she wanted it.

Chapter Text

The train rattled along the tracks, each jolt of motion deepening the unease that had settled in Ivory’s chest since the moment she stepped onto the Capitol platform. She had barely slept, the soft hum of the train lulling her into a light, restless doze, only to wake every few minutes with the same harsh reality sinking in. She was in the Capitol. She had volunteered for the Hunger Games. Her sister’s death had been a prelude to this—the destruction of her family, the destruction of everything she had known—and now, she was a pawn in a game she had no choice but to play.

But even as the Capitol loomed ahead, glittering and loud with its bright lights and sickening display of wealth, Ivory felt… nothing. No fear, no excitement, no desire for revenge. Only a strange numbness, as though everything had already been decided for her, and all she had to do was walk through the motions.

 

The Capitol gleamed in the distance, a sickly glow against the night sky. Ivory felt the press of its overwhelming, suffocating brilliance before she even stepped off the train. The streets, the buildings, the air itself seemed to breathe Capitol opulence. She had been warned about it, told to expect it — but nothing had prepared her for this.

The moment she stepped onto the platform, the sheer scale of it all hit her. People. Everywhere. The bright, exaggerated smiles of Capitol citizens, their eyes wide with curiosity and malice, darting over her like scavengers. The faint clinking of pearls, the shimmering fabrics — everything felt garish. Everything felt fake. But to them, it was all real. It was a performance. A show.

Ivory didn’t care.

She looked at the faces around her — the laughter, the applause, the cameras flashing in her direction — and she felt nothing.

She could do this. She had to.

The Capitol’s chariot was an oversized, glittering monstrosity, drawn by horses whose coats shone as brightly as their gilded harnesses. Ivory barely glanced at it, her eyes darting across the sea of Capitol faces that lined the streets. Some stared at her curiously, others with pity, but all were eager for the show, eager for the next piece of entertainment. Ivory kept her head down, her chin tucked into her chest, her posture slouched and weak. She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, her fingers trembling slightly, making sure the cameras caught every moment.

The chariot began its slow journey through the Capitol streets, and Ivory let the fear wash over her—let them see it. Her eyes stayed fixed on the wood beneath her feet, the cold, smooth surface of the cart offering some small comfort as the crowd cheered, their voices rising like a wave. She felt every gaze on her, every set of eyes dissecting her every move, eager for her to crack. To tremble. To show weakness.

And that was exactly what they would get.

Her shoulders hunched further, her breath shallow, her hands trembling. She looked small. Fragile. Scared. A broken little girl thrown into the fire. She didn’t let her gaze flicker to the crowds around her, not even when the Capitol cameras zoomed in, taking shots of her trembling hands and the way her body seemed to sink lower and lower into the velvet cushions. She could hear the gasps of the crowd—she’s so scared. It was exactly what they wanted to see.

The chariot moved slowly, gliding past the rows of Capitol citizens, their faces painted with joy, their expressions exaggerated, like clowns at a circus. Ivory swallowed back the lump in her throat, her heart beating louder and louder in her chest. She needed to stay calm. To stay focused.

They wanted her to be weak. They wanted her to be the tragic, innocent girl—the one who would be picked off easily. The one who would die with dignity, a victim of their twisted game. They wanted to make a hero out of her death. But Ivory wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Not yet. Not until the time was right.

The chariot ride passed in a blur of color, flashing lights, and noise. But Ivory felt detached. The entire performance felt distant, like she was watching someone else do it. She kept her face down, her eyes glistening with feigned fear, not letting the smile that tugged at her lips break through. The Capitol didn’t know. They couldn’t.

They were feeding her a script, and she would play it perfectly.

The Interviews came next. Ivory was guided into the gleaming, mirrored room where the Capitol’s cameras were waiting to document her every move. She was ushered in with exaggerated gentleness, as though they feared she might break under the pressure.

She kept her head down as she sat, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The audience could see how nervous she was. They could hear the slight tremor in her voice when she introduced herself.

“Oh, my name is Ivory Fernanedes, and I… I’m from District 8. I’m not very good at this sort of thing…” She let the sentence trail off, as though she was struggling to even speak the words. She let the vulnerability show.

The audience ate it up. The Capitol loved a good story — they loved the weak, the pitiful, the ones who didn’t stand a chance. They wanted the girl who could barely get through a sentence without breaking down, the one who was too scared to even think about the Games. The Capitol wanted her to look broken, but still beautiful in her misery.

And Ivory knew she could play that part perfectly.

She wiped away a tear, letting it fall dramatically as she pressed the back of her hand against her cheek. The audience gasped. The cameras caught the exact moment, and she saw the flash of delight in the Capitol’s eyes. They wanted to see a girl who could barely hold herself together, whose fate seemed sealed the moment she was called.

It was all a performance. And Ivory was the star.

The chariot ride finally came to a halt, and Ivory was swiftly ushered into the Capitol’s towering, sterile interview room. It was everything the Capitol stood for—shiny, polished, and loud. The mirrors reflected her pale face in a thousand directions, and the chair they guided her to felt too comfortable, too plush, as though the Capitol wanted her to settle into it, to become part of their grand spectacle.

But she wasn’t fooled.

The cameras were already trained on her, the lights blinding and intrusive, waiting for her to speak. To cry. To show them everything they wanted. Ivory took a steadying breath, her hands still trembling slightly, but she forced herself to look at the interviewer. He was tall, a Capitol man whose features were sharp and perfect in the way only Capitol citizens could be. His face was expressionless, professionally detached—until he smiled, which was practiced, a little too wide, too fake.

Ivory swallowed.

The interviewer leaned in, flashing a smile that showed too many teeth. “Ivory Fernanedes,” he said, as though the name itself was a piece of entertainment. “So good to see you. You’re looking… so delicate. So fragile. You’re from District 8, I believe?”

Ivory nodded, her throat tight. She felt the weight of the audience’s eyes on her, their expectations heavy, suffocating. She couldn’t let them see the truth. Not yet.

“Y-yes, from District 8,” she stammered, her voice soft, trembling. Her hands gripped the armrests, her fingers curling so tightly she thought they might snap. She made sure to glance up at him through wet lashes, blinking away the imagined tears. “I—I never thought I’d be here. I didn’t think I’d be… chosen.”

The words came out of her mouth in a hesitant whisper, like a frightened child who didn’t know where to turn next. Good. It was perfect. She didn’t want them to hear anything else. The Capitol didn’t need to know how much hatred burned inside of her. They didn’t need to know that the moment she’d volunteered, she had been locked into a plan. She had a purpose, a goal. She would play the innocent girl who didn’t belong here. Let them think she was fragile. Let them think she would crumble.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, letting the tear fall deliberately, just a touch of vulnerability, enough to keep the cameras rolling. She let the audience feel for her. They would. They always did.

The interviewer’s eyes softened, and he reached out a hand, placing it on her shoulder with exaggerated compassion. “You are brave, Ivory. You’re brave for doing this. For coming here, in the face of all this.”

Ivory choked back a sob. She let it linger for a moment, her chest heaving, her face crumpling as though the weight of her emotions had finally broken her. But the truth was, she was barely holding herself together, barely keeping up the façade.

She couldn’t let him see her disgust, though. No one could. She let the tears fall. She let them see what they wanted to see.

The audience gasped. The camera zoomed in. Perfect.

Later, as the Capitol’s lights dimmed and the interviews ended, Ivory was escorted back to her quarters, her body stiff with the strain of keeping up her performance. The false fragility that had come so easily at first now made her muscles ache, the constant trembling of her hands too much to maintain for long.

But it was working. The Capitol had bought her story. They believed the narrative. She was the tragic girl from District 8, the one who had no chance in the Games. They wanted to see her cower, to see her break. They wanted to build her up into a helpless victim, a weakling who would be picked off first.

And so Ivory kept her head down, eyes cast to the floor as she moved through the Capitol’s halls, hiding behind a mask of terror.

Every room was brighter than the last. Every face a reminder of just how deeply the Capitol wanted to twist everything to their own ends. But Ivory kept moving forward, calculating. Watching.

She knew what they wanted. She knew what they expected. They wanted the story, the tragedy. They wanted her to be a doll, a fragile thing that would crumple and die.

Let them think that.

She would use their expectations against them.

The next few days were a blur of preparation. Makeovers, fittings, and the Capitol’s relentless need to keep her in the public eye. Every moment was a performance. Every word was rehearsed, every gesture calculated.

In private moments, Ivory had to remind herself of her goal.

She was playing a part. And that part would get her one thing. Time.

When she arrived at the training center, she immediately saw how the other tributes were sizing her up. The Careers sneered, dismissing her as nothing but a weak, unskilled child. Her eyes flickered toward them, and then she let her gaze drop again, her posture weak, her shoulders rounded. The tribute from District 1—his eyes glinting with the arrogance of someone who believed he was invincible—looked right through her.

Good.

She didn’t want them to see her as a threat. She wanted them to underestimate her. She wanted them to think she was just another naive tribute, a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. Let them laugh. Let them look away.

She gripped the short blade they had handed her, her fingers too clumsy to hold it properly at first, her hand shaking as though it were too heavy for her to lift. She let it fall from her grasp once, then picked it up again, letting the Capitol see her struggle.

They wanted her to be weak. They wanted to see her fall apart, to break. But they wouldn’t. She would play the part until the moment came. Then she would strike.

They wouldn’t see it coming.

But behind the mask, she was calculating. She was watching. She was waiting. She knew exactly what she had to do.

When the moment came — when the arena was just beyond the horizon — they would regret underestimating her.

They want me to be weak. Let them. I’ll kill them when they least expect it.

The plan was simple: deception. Let them think she was the fragile, helpless girl they expected. She would be the one they dismissed, the one who didn’t even seem capable of walking without tripping. The Capitol’s sweet little puppet.

But in the arena, when the blood started to spill, when the carnage began, when the moment was right, Ivory would strike.

No one would see her coming. Not the Careers, not the Capitol, not the other tributes.

They would never see it coming.

Chapter Text

The world snapped open in a blast of white light.

For a breathless moment, Ivory stood on her metal plate, staring across a landscape that didn’t look real. A vast lake spread out before her, stretching farther than she could see. The entire thing was frozen, a sheet of pale blue glass fractured by jagged, black cracks. The Cornucopia rose from the shattered center of the lake like a metal beast bursting through the ice. It sat on the only truly stable ground — a circle of reinforced ice plates drilled deep into the bedrock.

Around that safe zone, everything else was unstable. Beautiful, but treacherous.

Ivory exhaled, watching her breath turn to white vapor. The cold bit into her lungs.

So this was the arena.

A tribute coughed on the plate beside hers. Another whimpered. Everyone was shivering already — and the Games hadn’t even begun.

The timer ticked down.

Sixty… fifty-nine…

Ivory tightened her grip on her sleeves, keeping the trembling in her fingers slightly exaggerated. She let her shoulders shake just enough for Capitol cameras to gleefully zoom in. She ducked her head, as if she were overwhelmed by fear.

But under the thin layer of performance, her mind sharpened. Her eyes darted across the ice, scanning the terrain, studying the cracks. Some were thin — safe enough to step over. Others were wide, nearly black holes spidering under the surface. Step wrong, and a tribute would disappear into the dark water beneath.

Forty seconds.

She spotted the shock batons first. They sat to the right side of the Cornucopia, lying on the ice where the Gamemakers had tossed them intentionally away from the main pile of weapons. As if inviting someone careless to sprint for them and crash through the thin ice.

Her cold-numbed skin prickled. She wouldn’t fall for that.

She’d go wide. Step only where she saw thick white frost, not where the ice gleamed dark and smooth.

Thirty seconds.

A boy from District 4 bent forward, poised like a predator ready to spring. Of all the tributes, Ivory knew he’d reach the Cornucopia first. Careers always did. They trained for this.

Twenty seconds.

Ivory forced her chin to wobble. She blinked rapidly, letting tears gather at the corners of her eyes. A perfect Capitol image: fragile, terrified, hopeless.

Ten seconds.

The fear-mask vanished inside her. Her breathing steadied. Her muscles coiled.

Five.

The lake was silent except for the wind scraping across the surface.

Four.

The cracks in the ice beneath her feet shifted, creaking.

Three.

The sun glinted harshly on the Cornucopia’s metal frame.

Two.

She found her opening.

One—

The world exploded into motion.

Ivory surged forward, her boots sliding across the ice for the first two steps before she regained her balance. Tributes scattered around her — some stumbling, some sprinting toward the Cornucopia, some immediately slipping on invisible frost.

She ignored them all.

The ice moaned deeply beneath the sudden weight of twenty-four bodies moving at once. Cracks widened. A girl screamed as a chunk of ice caved beneath her right foot, sending her crashing knee-deep into icy water before she clawed her way back onto the surface.

Ivory veered left. Everyone else charged straight toward the Cornucopia or the cluster of weapons behind it. She stayed low, skimming over patches of white-ridged ice while avoiding any surface that looked too smooth. Her breath burned cold in her throat.

A Career barreled past her — too fast — and his right foot smashed through a fault line. He plunged waist-deep into the freezing water with a deafening crack. Panic shattered his composure instantly.

The cameras loved him; his scream echoed across the arena.

Ivory didn’t spare him a glance.

The shock batons were ten meters ahead, lying on a patch of cracked ice that shifted with every gust of wind. Two tributes were lunging toward them already — a boy from Ten and a girl from Six.

The girl reached low to grab one.

A web of new cracks exploded under her palm.

She froze. Wrong move.

Ivory slid past both of them, stepping on the thickest frost-coated ridges, using their hesitation to her advantage. With a quick, precise movement, she snatched both shock batons into her hands and pushed herself backward, gliding across the ice.

Behind her, the girl from Six grabbed for Ivory’s ankle.

Ivory slammed the end of a baton down.

A jolt of blue-white electricity snapped across the ice, sending the girl collapsing with a strangled cry that fogged the air. The boy from Ten scrambled away from both of them, slipping on a sheet of invisible frost and falling clumsily.

Ivory didn’t stop. She backed away from the unstable zone until her boots found firm resistance. Her lungs hurt, burning with cold air, but she kept her expression weak and panicked — just in case the cameras were watching.

They were always watching.

Chaos erupted at the Cornucopia. Careers fought savagely for the axes and swords. One tribute was thrown into the air by another, landing hard on an unstable patch of ice that shattered beneath him; he disappeared in a breath, swallowed whole by black water.

Another tribute scrambled up the Cornucopia’s ramp, only to get dragged down by a girl wielding a hatchet. The ice around the metal structure cracked like a thunderclap.

Ivory felt the fractures shift beneath her boots.

Not safe.

She shoved the shock batons under her arm, snatched a short blade from a dying tribute’s belt as she passed, and sprinted toward the trees at the arena’s edge.

Every step was a test. Every step hummed with danger.

The ice groaned, deep and echoing. A burst of steam shot up from beneath the surface — a heat vent opening — and a section of ice melted into slush right behind her.

One more second, and she would’ve been dead.

Ivory didn’t look back.

She kept her movements quick and controlled, crouching low to avoid slipping. Her path zigzagged across safe ridges until the first line of pines came into view, their frost-covered branches quivering in the cold wind.

Another scream tore across the lake — loud, short, then instantly cut off.

The cannons began.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Ivory’s breath trembled, not from fear but from exertion. She crossed the final stretch of ice and ran into the shelter of the trees, letting the shadows swallow her.

Behind her, the lake continued cracking under the weight of the tributes still fighting.

She clutched the batons tighter.

She had survived the Bloodbath.

But the Games had only just begun.
The shadow of the pines swallowed her whole.

For the first time since the gong, Ivory let herself stop. Not to rest — she didn’t dare — but to listen.

Her breath came fast. She pressed her back against a tree trunk, the bark freezing against her spine. Frost drifted from the branches above in thin, sharp flakes.

The lake behind her crackled with distant groans. The Cornucopia fight was dying down. Whoever survived would regroup soon, and Careers would start sweeping the perimeter.

Ivory tightened her grip on the shock batons. Her fingers were stiff from the cold, but she forced them to move. She needed circulation. She needed speed.

A cannon boomed in the distance.

Then another.

Ten dead already.

Her jaw clenched.

She stayed hidden, crouched behind a ridge of exposed rock where the pine roots twisted downward. Her breath made pale fog clouds that drifted between branches. The cold gnawed at her bones.

Six hours of daylight.
She had maybe four left.

She had to use them wisely.

⸻

Ivory scanned the forest floor. There wasn’t much cover — pines spaced wide, sparse undergrowth, patches of snow where the wind hadn’t swept it away. The ground wasn’t solid either; frost-slick roots made the earth uneven and dangerous.

But the trees broke the worst of the wind. And the pine needles made the faintest, driest whisper when stepped on.

Good.

She needed silence.

Ivory crouched low and began to move.

She kept parallel to the lake’s edge, watching the surface through cracks between trees. Steam rose in occasional white bursts where heat vents opened. Every few minutes the ice would shift, groaning like some huge animal trapped beneath it.

The Gamemakers had designed this place to kill carelessly — not slowly.

Fine. She could play careful.

Her footsteps left almost no mark; her breath fogged lightly enough to fade quickly. She moved like she had in the Dark Blades — low, controlled, dangerous.

But weak on the outside. Always weak. Always fragile.

If someone caught sight of her, she’d let her knees buckle a little. She’d widen her eyes. She’d fumble the blade at her belt.

A trembling mess, easy prey.

Then she’d put a baton to their throat when they least expected it.

⸻

She reached a cluster of thick pines near a rocky outcrop. The shelter wasn’t much, but it was something.

Movement flickered across the lake.

Ivory froze.

A tribute — boy from District 9 — was inching across the ice, dragging a metal pot behind him. He was shaking violently, either from fear or cold. Probably both.

He stepped wrong.

The ice snapped inward like a mouth closing. His scream spun across the arena as he plunged into the dark water, hands flailing. He scrambled, desperate, but the hole swallowed him whole.

The cannon fired before his scream finished echoing.

Ivory didn’t blink.

She couldn’t afford to.

She crouched deeper behind the pine roots. The shock batons hummed softly in her grip, still charged.

She needed more distance. The Careers would clear the Cornucopia soon.

She pushed forward, weaving between trees. Every branch overhead creaked like old bones. Every gust of wind sounded like footsteps.

She heard real footsteps next.

Soft. Quick. Direction changing constantly.

Hunted or hunting — she wasn’t sure.

Ivory slid silently behind a fallen trunk and waited.

A girl emerged between the trees — District 3. Small. Fast. Eyes sharp and jumpy. A stolen knife clutched in her hand. Her breath shook in white puffs as she scanned the pines.

She wasn’t looking for a fight. Just shelter.

Her foot hit a patch of thin frost.

It shattered like glass.

The girl stumbled with a yelp, catching herself on a branch. The noise echoed far too loudly.

Ivory stiffened.

Because she heard another sound — fast approaching.

Two tributes.

Careers.

A boy from District 2, dragging a heavy spiked club.

And behind him, a tall girl with an axe slung over her shoulder.

Ivory’s muscles locked. She stayed perfectly still, hidden in shadow.

The District 3 girl froze too.

The boy’s face split into a grin.

He lifted the club.

The girl ran.

Straight toward Ivory’s hiding place.

Ivory swore silently. If the girl reached her, if she crashed into her hiding spot, Ivory’s cover would blow. The Careers would take them both.

Ivory moved.

Quick. Silent. Deadly.

She darted out from behind the trunk, grabbed the girl’s wrist, and pulled her behind the rocks just as the Careers burst through the pines.

The girl gasped, but Ivory slapped a hand over her mouth, dragging her down low. The girl trembled so hard Ivory felt it through her sleeve.

Footsteps thundered past their hiding place.

The District 2 boy cursed.
“She went this way!”

The girl with the axe snarled.
“If she’s smart, she’ll freeze before nightfall.”

They kept moving, their slow, heavy boots crushing pine cones and snow. Ivory didn’t breathe until the crunching faded into silence.

Only then did she remove her hand from the girl’s mouth.

The girl staggered back, wide-eyed. Her lips parted—probably to thank Ivory, maybe to apologize.

Wrong move.

Ivory spun the shock baton upward, stopping it a breath from the girl’s throat.

The girl’s face drained of color.

“Go,” Ivory whispered. Her voice was low, cold. “Before they come back.”

The girl nodded frantically and bolted deeper into the woods.

Ivory watched her go. She wasn’t a threat. Not yet.

The cold wind burned her eyes. The batons trembled faintly with charge.

She would kill when it mattered.

Not before.

⸻

Ivory continued east, skirting the treeline until she found a narrow hollow between two boulders where snow had piled only lightly. The spot was sheltered enough to hide in, but open enough to see approaching movement.

She crouched low inside the hollow, listening to the forest breathe.

She had weapons.
She had shelter.
She had distance from the Cornucopia.

She had survived the first hour.

But the cold was a danger she couldn’t fight. Frost bit the edges of her sleeves, and her fingers were losing feeling again.

Daylight was thinning — a sickly winter glare slipping behind clouds.

She pulled her thin jacket tighter around her shoulders. It wasn’t enough. Nothing in the arena was meant to be.

A crack split the silence.

Not ice — a branch.

Ivory whipped her head up.

A tribute was stepping between trees. Sloppy. Shivering. Alone.

District 11 boy. Too tall to move quietly. His hands were shaking around a hatchet that looked too heavy for him.

He hadn’t seen her.

Ivory slid the whip from her belt. The leather uncoiled like a shadow.

She rose silently from the hollow.

The boy paused.
Turned slowly.

Saw her.

His eyes widened.

Too late.

Ivory flicked her wrist.

The whip snapped across the cold air with a crack that echoed through the trees. It wrapped around the boy’s forearm before he could lift the hatchet.

His scream cut the air.

Ivory yanked him forward. Hard.

He stumbled, lost his footing, crashed to his knees.

She didn’t hesitate.

The short blade flashed — a clean, practiced movement — and the boy’s eyes went dull before his body slumped sideways onto the frost-hardened ground.

The cannon fired.

Ivory exhaled, slow.

First kill.

Not enough.
Not nearly enough.

But she felt it — the arena shifting.
The Capitol leaning closer.

Not the weak little girl anymore.

Not to them.
Not anymore.

Ivory crouched there, breathing like she’d forgotten how lungs were supposed to work. In. Out. Don’t shake. Don’t fall apart. Not now. Not when the cameras were probably close enough to count her eyelashes.

She expected guilt to hit her like a hammer. Or shame. Or horror.

Instead, the only thing she felt was… alive.

Painfully, terrifyingly, electrically alive.

Her whole body throbbed with adrenaline, like every vein had turned into its own lightning rod. Her senses were too sharp, too loud, as if the world had been blurry and muted until the moment the whip struck flesh.

But she didn’t smile. She wouldn’t give the Capitol that. She wouldn’t grin like the Careers. She wouldn’t celebrate.

She steadied her breathing, lifted her eyes to the sky where the invisible cameras hummed, and murmured under her breath:

“I’m not your monster. I’m my own.”

Then she moved.

She wiped the blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. It smeared, warm and sticky, but she didn’t flinch. The boy beside her lay still, arms twisted under him, face buried in the pine needles.

Ivory closed his eyes.

It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t respect.

It was habit. Something she’d done many times as a Peacekeeper’s daughter, when bodies lay in the streets of District 12 and no one bothered covering them. Something about closing eyes made the world feel less cruel, even if only by an inch.

A hovercraft was coming. She heard the distant hum. She had maybe minutes — maybe seconds — before the claws descended and took the body.

She pressed her fingers into the dirt. It was cold, cold enough to numb her trembling hands. She welcomed the chill.

Because she was trembling, even if she tried to hide it.

Not from horror — from the realization of what she’d become capable of.

And from something far scarier:

What if she wasn’t ashamed?

Ivory forced herself to get up. Her knees shook. Her hair clung to her sweat-damp cheeks. But she walked away from the body with long, steady strides, like she had somewhere important to be.

She didn’t.

She only needed distance.

She needed to disappear again. Let the panic fade. Let her heartbeat settle into something less jagged.

She climbed the incline behind her — a moss-covered ridge leading up into a sharp cluster of boulders. Perfect cover. Perfect shadows.

The arena was built like a hunting ground: tall pines, thick underbrush, stone ridges, streams cutting through valleys. Cliffs rose at the edges, too steep to climb except where the Gamemakers deliberately carved footholds. Waterfalls glittered at the north side. The Cornucopia sat at its heart like a metallic sun.

A paradise, if one ignored the part where children died in it.

Ivory reached a narrow crevice between two rocks — barely wide enough for her shoulders — and slid inside. It was dark, dry, and protected.

Safe.

For now.

She sank down, resting her forehead against the cool stone. Her whip lay coiled in her lap like a living thing, waiting, hungry.

She stared at it.

“You make this too easy,” she whispered.

But the truth was simple:

The Games didn’t turn her into a killer today.
They revealed one.

Ivory didn’t know what the Capitol was seeing, but she could guess.

They would replay the kill again and again — in slow motion, from four different angles. Commentators would gasp. Gamemakers would smirk. Sponsors would lean forward in their velvet seats and murmur things like promising or vicious or unexpected.

They’d talk about how her stance had been precise, controlled.

About how the whip cracked with such elegant violence.

About how the girl from District 8 — the starved rat, the background extra — had shown teeth.

She could practically hear Caesar Flickerman already:

“A surprising ferocity from our quietest tribute yet!”

And the audience would lap it up. They always did. They adored a surprise. They adored transformation.

And right now, Ivory Fernanedes was transforming.

The sky dimmed into bruised purples and cold blues.

Ivory finally let herself breathe normally. Her pulse slowed. The trembling stopped. Hours had passed, though she wasn’t sure how many — time had stretched and bled together like a smear of paint.

She drank sparingly from her canteen. Ate a strip of dried meat from a pack she’d stolen off a dead girl. Every few minutes, she listened — for footsteps, for twigs snapping, for breathing that wasn’t her own.

Nothing.

Her shadows kept her safe, and she kept her shadows fed with silence.

But as the anthem began, her spine stiffened.

The sky darkened fully, turning into a massive screen. One by one, faces of the dead tributes flickered into view.

The boy she killed was the third to appear.

His picture shone for a moment. His eyes were bright. He was smiling.

Then he was gone.

Ivory closed her eyes.

She didn’t cry.

But she didn’t look away either.

Minutes later, while the anthem faded, the forest erupted with a faint echo — a metallic scraping sound, artificial, mechanical.

A projector drone.

Ivory stiffened.

This was new. The Capitol sometimes sent drones to deliver gifts or deliver messages. But this sound… it was the one she’d heard in past Games:

A drone replaying a kill.

Sponsors, they said, loved “exclusive angles.”

Ivory pressed deeper into the crevice as the buzzing grew louder. A bright light spilled across the rocks. A holograph flickered to life on the ridge outside her hiding place.

Her own kill played in the air.

The whip flashed. The scream cut off. The boy fell.

Ivory’s stomach clenched — not with regret, but with the feeling of being watched.

Like vultures circling.

She kept perfectly still.

Let them watch. Let them see what she was capable of.

Let them fear her. Let them admire her. She didn’t care which.

When the footage ended, the drone floated away, hum fading into the trees.

Ivory finally exhaled.

“They want a show,” she whispered to the rocks. “Fine. I’ll give them one.”

Sleep didn’t come easily.

Ivory waited until the forest was fully asleep — until the distant screams had stopped echoing, until even the insects quieted. Only then did she crawl from her hiding place.

She moved silently, keeping her body low, her whip ready.

This was the real reason she’d chosen a shadowed strategy.

Not to hide.

Not to survive.

But because night was when she became something else entirely.

The Capitol had never seen a tribute like her. Not one who attacked in the dark. Not one who struck without warning, without sound.

A ghost.

A shadow hardened into a blade.

She didn’t pick her targets randomly. She chose tributes who were cruel. Who hunted others for sport. Who laughed during the bloodbath.

Tonight’s target was a girl from District 3 with a long-range shock spear and a habit of torturing weaker tributes before killing them.

Ivory trailed her silently for an hour.

The girl made a mistake.

She fell asleep with her back against a tree.

Ivory didn’t hesitate.

The whip wrapped around the girl’s throat before she even woke up fully. A single yank. A single cut of the blade edge tied into the handle.

No scream.

Clean.

Precise.

Ivory stepped back.

For the first time, she whispered:

“I’m winning.”

And the forest whispered it back.

Chapter Text

The arena had changed.

Ivory could feel it in the air. Every crack in the ice, every creaking branch, every gust of the bitter wind seemed louder now. The Shattered Lake was no longer just a stage — it was alive, a predator circling her and the remaining tributes.

The frozen expanse behind her stretched endlessly, glimmering with brittle ice. The dark cracks that spidered outward from the shattered center were like scars across the pale surface, warning and lethal. Beneath, the black water yawned, silent and patient. Every step on the ice was a gamble. Every move had to be precise.

Ivory didn’t move unless she had to. She didn’t rush. The Games had taught her patience — lethal, unyielding patience. She had survived the bloodbath, the early hunts, the mistakes of other tributes. Now, the numbers were thinning. The weak were gone, the careless were gone, and the clever were left. The ones who still survived were dangerous. But Ivory was more dangerous.

The sun hung low in the sky, a pale disk swallowed by icy clouds. Six hours of daylight had shrunk to two, and Ivory could feel the cold biting through her thin layers. Frost gathered on her hair, her eyelashes. Her fingers, stiff from the chill, were moving with the precision of a surgeon as she loaded a small makeshift sling with frozen rocks — a trick she’d picked up from her Dark Blades training. She could kill with her hands, with the whip, with the batons, or even without weapons if she needed to. Tonight, she wanted to see fear. She wanted to play with it.

She stalked through the trees at the edge of the ice, the needles underfoot whispering like ghosts. Her breath puffed out in short bursts, a pale fog that hid her from distant cameras and scouting eyes alike. She crouched behind a boulder and watched two tributes moving along the frozen lake — a boy from District 6 and a girl from District 10. Both were armed, both alert, both proud. Ivory smiled faintly under the shadow of her hood. She could see the tension in their shoulders, the twitching in their hands. Fear had begun to crack them.

The boy stopped suddenly, his boots slipping on a thin, brittle layer of ice. His eyes widened as he balanced, hands flailing. Ivory’s whip lashed silently through the air, wrapping around his ankle before he could stabilize. He yelped, stumbled, and went down hard, chest slamming against the ice. The girl gasped, glancing back. Ivory used the distraction. Two baton jabs later, the boy twitched once and lay still. She withdrew, silent as the snow drifting down from the pines.

The girl didn’t know what hit her. Ivory circled, calm, calculating. “You shouldn’t run,” she whispered, just above the sound of the wind. “Not when I’m patient.”

Ivory’s patience had teeth. Her hands moved with lethal efficiency, combining baton jabs, knife strikes, and brutal, controlled force. She wasn’t just surviving — she was performing. Every kill, every controlled strike, was a message: Ivory was not weak. Ivory was a storm.

She let the girl flee — just far enough to panic. The Capitol cameras would see her running, see her fear, and they’d underestimate her again. That was the point. Ivory thrived in deception. She had spent weeks mastering it in the Capitol — playing the sniveling, fragile girl, winning sponsor attention while hiding her lethal strength. Now, in the arena, the deception had evolved. The sniveling girl was dead. Ivory was a shadow that waited, that struck, that vanished.

The girl disappeared into a grove of pines, thinking herself safe. Ivory didn’t chase. She could wait. She would always wait. She let the sound of her heartbeat slow, let the forest quiet around her. She was learning every pattern, every movement, every weakness. The arena had become her classroom, and she was its only student.

The next encounter came by dusk. A group of three tributes — a boy and two girls — had gathered near the shattered center of the lake, probing the ice, testing for weak points. Ivory watched from a ridge of jagged rocks. The ice beneath their feet was treacherous, the cracks shifting silently under their weight. One wrong step could be fatal, but Ivory wasn’t leaving that to chance. Not with their arrogance.

She studied them, noting positions, distances, weaknesses. One girl was glancing nervously at the sky, not noticing a subtle fracture forming beneath her boot. Ivory pulled her whip taut, the leather singing with promise. A flick of the wrist and the whip wrapped around the girl’s ankle. The ice fractured instantly, sending her tumbling into the freezing water below. The boy lunged forward to help, but Ivory was faster — baton to the back of his knees, then another strike to the chest. He collapsed, coughing, sputtering, and she didn’t hesitate to finish him. Only one remained, a tall girl with a spear, who fled into the pines screaming.

Ivory didn’t chase immediately. She let the sound echo across the ice — the Capitol loved fear. Let them hear it. Let them know who dominated the arena.

Her shadow stretched over the cracked ice, her body coiled and tense. Every sense sharpened. Every muscle remembered the Dark Blades’ training. Every strike from now on would be precise, swift, merciless.

She moved again, keeping low, scanning the frozen expanse. The heat vents hissed, fog curling over the ice like ghostly serpents. Each step she took was calculated — one misstep and the black water would take her, or the ice would shatter beneath a careless tribute. She was the predator now, not the prey. Every cannon that boomed at a kill merely reinforced her control, a reminder that she was surviving while others fell.

Ivory’s tactics evolved. She began to leave traps — simple, cruel, psychological. Rocks tied to branches, ropes laid over thin ice. Tributes thought they were alone, careful, clever — until Ivory struck. She used fear itself as a weapon, whispering her presence from the shadows, letting screams echo, watching as panic scattered the remaining tributes. Her first kill had been necessary; the rest were performance. Every fear she created, every hesitation she instilled, gave her more control.

Her kills were fast, brutal, precise. No mercy, no hesitation. The audience in the Capitol would see a girl too afraid to hold a blade, then witness a shadow tearing through the remaining tributes, leaving chaos and silence in her wake. They would never see her coming. Ivory would make sure of it.

Night had fallen completely. The Shattered Lake Arena was a vast black canvas, broken only by the occasional glimmer of moonlight on the ice or the faint orange glow of a distant fire set by a careless tribute. The temperature had dropped even lower, and the wind carried a howl that sounded like screaming children — or maybe that was just Ivory imagining it. It didn’t matter. Fear was everywhere. And Ivory knew how to use it.

She moved silently across the ice, boots carefully placed on thick patches, whip coiled at her side, batons ready. Her eyes caught every shimmer, every shadow. Every sound told her a story. She knew where they were. She knew what they were thinking. And they had no idea she was coming.

A boy from District 11 crept along the edge of the forest, spear in hand. He thought he was clever, using the pines as cover. Ivory smiled under the darkness. Cleverness would not save him. She circled silently behind the trees, listening to his heavy breaths, the crunch of snow underfoot. Then, with a swift motion, she threw a small rock over a branch. It clattered against another tree, a deliberate, innocuous sound. The boy froze, scanning the shadows. Ivory’s whip flicked out, wrapping around the spear. It yanked it violently from his hands. He stumbled back, lost balance on thin ice, and fell through a newly-formed fracture. The water swallowed him instantly.

Ivory didn’t even pause. She adjusted her hood, wiped frost from her lashes, and kept moving. Each kill had become a rhythm now — her breath, her steps, her strike. Fast, clean, controlled. No panic. No hesitation.
The remaining tributes were beginning to realize something. Ivory wasn’t just a fighter — she was a presence. The flicker of movement in the shadows, the sudden scream echoing over the ice, the feeling that someone was always just behind you, watching — Ivory had become the nightmare.

She didn’t just kill. She manipulated. She set traps that weren’t purely physical. Thin ice that would crack under heavy steps. Branches tied to rocks that would send a painful fall when triggered. A careful arrangement of snow to make footsteps seem to come from a different direction. Every time a tribute thought they were alone, Ivory was already three steps ahead.

She whispered sometimes, softly, letting the wind carry it across the ice:

“Step wrong… one wrong move… and it’s over.”

The Capitol cameras would catch these moments, and she knew it. Ivory didn’t care about being a symbol. She cared about control. And right now, control was intoxicating.
By the third night, only seven tributes remained. The landscape had changed under the pressure of their survival. Ice shattered, thin sheets of snow drifted across the forest floor, and the deep black water of the lake lapped hungrily at the edges. Every movement had consequences. And Ivory had become a master at using them.

A trio of tributes — one boy and two girls — were grouped near a cracked stretch of ice. They didn’t know Ivory was watching from above, perched on a ridge of boulders like a shadowed hawk. Her eyes followed every twitch of muscle, every glance, every slight step on the ice. They were cocky, sure of themselves. They thought they could corner someone, manipulate the ice, control their fate. They had not considered her.

Ivory’s whip lashed out, silently, catching one of the girls by the ankle and yanking her violently. The ice beneath her fractured. She fell through, screaming, arms flailing, and vanished into the icy water. The boy tried to react, but Ivory struck with one baton, hitting him squarely in the chest. He staggered, fell to his knees, and then she moved again, baton in hand, and ended him quickly before he could recover. Only one remained — a tall girl from District 2, the strongest of the bunch.

The girl froze, spear raised. Ivory didn’t move. She waited. Calm. Silent. The girl’s eyes darted around, panic growing. Ivory stepped forward, letting her shadow stretch across the ice.

“You can’t hide,” she said softly, voice carrying across the frozen lake. “Not from me.”

The girl made a desperate lunge. Ivory sidestepped, letting her momentum carry her onto thinner ice. The crack spread instantly. Ivory didn’t even touch her. Gravity and ice did the work. The girl screamed as the ice gave way, plunging into the cold abyss.

Ivory exhaled, her breath steaming in the cold night air. Six were gone. Seven, counting herself, but she didn’t care. The numbers didn’t matter anymore. Fear did.

The Shattered Lake had become more than a stage. It was a weapon, and Ivory was learning to wield it. Cracks spread unpredictably, some collapsing under a footstep, others creating near-invisible traps. The heat vents occasionally hissed, sending fog that disoriented her prey. And the snow — falling gently at first — began drifting into thick flurries that erased tracks and silenced movement.

Ivory used every hazard, every flaw in the environment, every misstep, to her advantage. Each kill became a calculated event, a precise combination of strategy, patience, and brutal force. She wasn’t hunting blindly — she was teaching a lesson, showing the remaining tributes what it meant to face her.
Ivory’s tactics became crueler. She left traces of herself in places — shadows that disappeared when approached, whispers that floated through the ice, rocks arranged to mimic footsteps. She created illusions. Tributes believed they were being hunted by multiple opponents. They panicked, misstepped, fell into traps of ice and water.

One night, she stalked a boy and girl duo who had been whispering together near the edge of the frozen lake. Ivory circled them silently, letting the ice creak ominously under her weight. Then she raised a frozen branch above her head and hurled it. It clattered a few feet away — enough to startle them. They bolted, and the ice beneath them betrayed their desperation. The boy vanished first, swallowed by a hidden fracture. The girl screamed, eyes wide, as Ivory stepped silently from the shadows and struck her with the baton. She fell into the snow, unconscious, not dead. Fear had done half the work.

The remaining tributes were learning quickly: Ivory was everywhere and nowhere. They started to hesitate, second-guess every step. And that hesitation was fatal.
By sunrise, only three tributes remained.

Ivory didn’t need the Capitol announcer to tell her. She could feel it — the arena had gone too quiet, too still. The Shattered Lake was empty in a way it hadn’t been before. No scattered movements on the horizon, no clatter of weapons, no muffled curses drifting through the forest. The wind howled across the ice, carrying only cold and silence.

Ivory adjusted the straps on her shock batons and stepped onto a stable patch of ice, testing its thickness with the toe of her boot. Even now, she didn’t trust the lake. The Gamemakers had designed it too well — every footstep was a decision, every move a risk.

But she walked like she had nothing left to lose.

Her breath puffed out in front of her, a small cloud of white. Her muscles ached, her hands were scraped raw, and she could feel the chill of the ice through the soles of her boots — but none of it mattered. She couldn’t feel pain the way she used to. Not after Ellenna. Not after watching tribute after tribute fall through the ice or collapse beneath her whip.

This was what she was built for now.

She scanned the lake.

The boy from District 4 lay dead near the treeline, frozen half into the snow, spear still clutched in rigor mortis. Ivory had handled him last night — quick strike, one baton to the throat, clean.

Which meant there were only two others alive.

Her.

And the girl.

The Capitol had given no official name for her in the broadcasts — just “the youngest tribute.” A small twelve-year-old from District 6 with wide eyes, a sunken chest, and trembling hands during the chariot parade. Ivory had dismissed her instantly, deciding the girl wouldn’t last a day.

But she’d lasted six.

And not by accident.

Ivory had seen her yesterday, just briefly — the girl had slipped between two birch trees, moving with a speed that wasn’t accidental. Ivory had clocked the girl’s stance, the way she held her tiny knife in a backward grip, the way her feet shifted lightly on the snow, barely making sound.

The girl was trained.

Not well. But trained.

And she was the only tribute who hadn’t run from Ivory.

That made her dangerous.

Ivory’s steps were silent as she entered the pine forest. Branches crackled softly under her boots. Snow fell in powdery sheets through the gaps in the canopy, catching in her hair and melting on her cheeks.

A twig snapped ahead.

Ivory froze.

Not an animal. Too light.

Then — a breath. Quick, shallow.

Ivory moved toward the sound, weaving between the trees, batons at the ready. Her heart beat steadily. No nerves. No fear. Just calculation. She stepped over a fallen trunk, scanned the ground for footprints—

There.

A small print. Too small for any older tribute. Light, barely sinking into the snow. The girl moved like someone who understood terrain. Someone who’d learned to walk without leaving traces.

Ivory followed the prints, eyes narrowed. Her breath fogged and vanished. The cold bit her arms, her fingertips, her throat, but she pushed through it.

The footprints led to a narrow clearing, a place where the pines thinned and the lake was visible through the branches. The ice was cracked in jagged spiderwebs, reflecting pale sunlight.

And on the far side of the clearing stood the 12-year-old girl.

She was smaller than Ivory remembered. Her coat was ripped; one sleeve was missing entirely. Her cheeks were flushed from cold. In one hand, she held a knife no longer than Ivory’s palm. The other hand was clenched tightly, trembling.

But her stance did not tremble.

Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees bent just slightly. Shoulders angled. Knife held low and close to her body.

Ivory’s jaw clenched.

This was no scared little girl.

This was someone who’d practiced.

Someone who’d watched others die and had decided she wouldn’t.

The girl didn’t flinch when Ivory stepped into the clearing. The two locked eyes across the snow. The forest was too quiet; even the wind seemed to pause.

Ivory studied her.

Too calm.

Too still.

Someone had taught her not to show fear.

Ivory felt a flicker — not pity, not sympathy, but recognition. A younger version of herself, maybe. Fragile-looking. Wrongly underestimated. Dangerous.

Ivory tightened her grip on the batons.

“Put the knife down,” she said. Her voice didn’t echo; it was low, controlled, steady. “You’re done.”

The girl shook her head once, jaw stiff.
“No.”

Her voice was surprisingly level. Small, but steady. And it carried.

Ivory exhaled slowly, steam curling from her lips.
“You don’t want to do this.”

The girl blinked, and something in her eyes shifted.
“You killed my brother.”

Ivory frowned. That wasn’t possible. District 6’s boy tribute had died near the heat vents — she hadn’t touched him.

But the girl continued, grip tightening:
“He followed your footprints. We saw you. You led him onto thin ice.”

Ivory remembered that moment. The slight boy from 6, creeping behind her, desperate and foolish. She had stepped across a fragile patch just lightly enough not to break it. He hadn’t known how to read the ice. He stepped where she stepped — but heavier.

Ivory had heard the crack.

She hadn’t looked back.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” Ivory said simply.

The girl’s breathing sharpened.
“He was twelve.”

Ivory’s jaw tightened. “And so are you.”

The girl didn’t back away.

Ivory stepped onto the snow. The girl stepped backward onto the ice.

A terrible mistake.

“No,” Ivory said instantly, raising a hand. “Don’t—”

A cracking sound sliced through the air. The girl froze — not from fear, but because she felt it too.

The ice beneath her foot shifted. A hairline fracture spread outward like lightning.

Ivory lunged forward without thinking —

And the girl moved.

Not backward.
Forward.

Straight at Ivory.

With speed Ivory hadn’t anticipated.

The girl dropped low, sweeping her knife upward in a sharp arc. Ivory twisted aside, barely avoiding the blade. She struck downward with a baton, but the girl rolled across the snow, coming up fast, faster than she should’ve been able to.

What the hell?

Ivory didn’t even have time to think before the girl lunged again.

They collided at the edge of the ice, snow spraying beneath them. The girl’s knife scraped Ivory’s forearm — a shallow cut, but real. Pain flared. Ivory’s instinct took over. She swung the baton hard.

But the girl ducked under it and dove backward—

Straight onto the fractured ice.

“Stop!” Ivory barked, stepping forward, hand out. “The ice— it won’t—”

CRACK.

The girl froze mid-step as a jagged fracture spread under her boots.

Ivory swore under her breath and moved, fast, boots slipping across the snow. The girl’s eyes widened — not with fear, Ivory realized — but with focus. As if she’d been expecting this moment.

What are you planning? Ivory’s mind snapped.

The girl shifted her weight onto her toes, testing the thin ice… calculating something Ivory couldn’t see.

Then she whispered, almost too quiet to hear:

“You should’ve looked back.”

Ivory lunged—

And the ice beneath both of them gave way.

A deafening, splintering crack split the air—

The world dropped out from under Ivory’s feet—

And the frozen lake swallowed them.

Chapter Text

Firefly should not have been able to fight like that.

She was twelve — small, thin, her wrists narrow as reeds — a girl who looked like a stiff breeze could snap her in half. But Ivory knew the arena better by now: looks were another weapon. And Firefly had been sharpening hers since the second the Games began.

They faced each other on the slippery rocks beside the lake, both drenched in sweat and blood. The forest around them buzzed with drone cameras. The air hummed with the Capitol’s anticipation.

Ivory’s chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.
Firefly’s didn’t. She stood silent, composed, deadly, her feet angled in a stance far too trained for a tribute her age.

“She taught herself,” Ivory whispered under her breath. “Or someone taught her.”

Firefly blinked once — slow, deliberate — like a predator assessing prey.

Ivory moved first.

She lunged, swinging the shock baton in a downward arc.

Firefly slid aside with inhuman speed, grabbed Ivory’s wrist, twisted — hard — and forced Ivory to drop the baton. It clattered across the rock and tumbled toward the water.

Ivory hissed in pain.
Firefly said nothing.

She spun and delivered a clean, sharp kick to Ivory’s ribcage. Something cracked. The impact sent Ivory stumbling backward, her heel catching on a wet stone. Her vision flashed white.

“She’s twelve,” Ivory thought, dizzy. “Twelve.”

Another kick came, aimed at Ivory’s throat this time.

Ivory blocked it at the last second, catching Firefly’s ankle and yanking her off balance. The girl went down — but she rolled with the fall like she’d practiced it a thousand times. She sprang back up, knife already in hand.

Ivory didn’t even see where she’d pulled it from.

They circled each other.

Two animals.

One full-grown.

One impossibly young.

The knife gleamed.
Ivory’s whip dangled from her belt, but she knew she wouldn’t have enough time to uncoil it before Firefly attacked.

So she waited.

Firefly darted forward, weaving low like a shadow. Ivory barely managed to sidestep the slash aimed at her stomach. The blade grazed her shirt, slicing clean through the fabric but missing skin by centimeters.

Firefly pivoted and struck again — a blur of movement — and Ivory finally saw it:

She wasn’t just fast.

She was precise.

Every strike was meant to kill.

Ivory grabbed Firefly’s wrist mid-attack. Firefly twisted, contorted, slipped free like smoke, and punched Ivory’s throat with her other hand. Ivory choked, staggered. Firefly rammed her shoulder into Ivory’s gut, pushing her toward the edge of the rocks.

The lake behind them churned.

The Capitol roared.

Ivory tasted blood.

She backhanded Firefly across the face. The blow snapped the girl’s head sideways, but she still didn’t make a sound. Not a cry, not a gasp.

Just a small twitch of her jaw before she countered.

She dropped low, swept Ivory’s legs out from under her, and Ivory fell backward into the lake.

Cold.
Sharp.
Blinding.

The water swallowed her whole.

Above the surface, Firefly dove in without hesitation.

Underwater, she moved even faster.

Ivory kicked upward, but Firefly grabbed her ankle and yanked her deeper. Bubbles exploded from Ivory’s mouth. Firefly’s knife flashed silver in the blue-green dark.

Ivory twisted, kicked, grabbed the girl’s wrist — pushing the knife away inches from her stomach.

Firefly’s eyes were wide and unblinking.
Cold.
Unshaken.

Ivory’s lungs screamed for air, but she clamped her mouth shut. She pushed Firefly back with every ounce of strength she had left, trying to swim upward.

Firefly latched onto her waist and dragged her down again.

Ivory’s chest burned. The world narrowed into a tunnel.

She elbowed Firefly in the face once.
Twice.
Three times.

The knife slipped from Firefly’s fingers and spiraled downward.

But Firefly kept fighting.

Her small hands clawed at Ivory’s neck, desperate, relentless. Ivory grabbed Firefly’s arms, pushing her away — but Firefly clung like a drowning creature, refusing to let Ivory escape to the surface.

“LET GO—!”

Ivory couldn’t speak underwater. But she could act.

She grabbed the back of Firefly’s head and shoved her downward. Firefly wriggled, twisting, trying to break free. Ivory forced her deeper, deeper, until the girl’s kicks weakened.

Air.
She needed air.

She kicked upward again — but Firefly’s hand shot up, closing around Ivory’s ankle one last time.

“No,” Ivory thought, panic singing in her skull. “Don’t make me—”

Firefly pulled.

Ivory reacted on instinct.

She spun and wrapped her arm around Firefly’s throat. The girl struggled, nails digging into Ivory’s skin. Ivory squeezed harder. Firefly thrashed, kicking, clawing.

Bubbles streamed from her mouth in a frantic burst.

Ivory felt the girl’s heartbeat against her forearm, fast as a trapped bird.

Then slower.

Then—

Firefly went still.

Ivory held her another second.
Another.
Another.

To be sure.

When she finally let go, Firefly drifted downward, her body sinking like a pale, fragile leaf.

Ivory burst upward through the surface, gasping like she’d been reborn into pain. Air tore into her lungs. Her vision blurred. She swam to the rocks, dragging herself out with trembling arms.

The cannon fired.

Firefly. Age twelve.
Killed by Ivory of District 8.

The arena went silent.

Ivory lay on the stones, soaked, shaking, staring up at the sky.

She had survived the final fight.

She had won the Hunger Games.

And she did not want to.

Ivory lay on the cold wet stone, chest rising in uneven, trembling breaths, water dripping from her hair in quiet rivulets that traced the curve of her jaw. Every muscle spasmed with exhaustion. Every joint shook from cold and adrenaline. Her lungs still burned from the lake water she’d nearly inhaled.

She had won.

She did not feel like a victor.

She felt like a corpse waiting to lie still.

Far across the lake, a distant camera drone hummed, its red recording light glowing like a heartbeat in the fog.

The Capitol was watching.

Of course they were.
They always watched. They watched every gasp, every flicker of weakness, every drop of blood like it was spilled for their amusement.

Ivory slowly, painfully rolled onto her stomach, pushing herself upright on shaking arms. Her fingers curled against the stone, slipping, leaving streaks of water, dirt, and someone else’s blood.

Firefly’s.

She forced that thought down. She had to move.

With effort, Ivory rose to her feet. The cold air bit at her wet clothes, tearing warmth from her skin. Her breath came out in visible bursts, white clouds in the winter dusk.

Only one tribute left.
Her.

The arena seemed to sense it. Everything was too still. The forest held its breath. The fractured lake glimmered with lethal beauty under the pale light.

Ivory’s footsteps echoed across the rocks as she began walking.

Not toward shelter.
Not toward warmth.
Not toward survival.

Toward the center.
Toward the Cornucopia.

Toward the place all victors stood for the Capitol’s final triumph.

Her legs were stiff, heavy. Each step felt like dragging chains. The cold tightened around her ribs, a slow, crushing pressure that made it hard to breathe.

I shouldn’t feel this calm, she thought. I shouldn’t feel anything.

But she did feel something.

A strange, still quiet inside her chest — not peace, not exactly.

Resolve.

She walked the lake’s jagged shore, boots crunching over thin sheets of ice that had refrozen since the last heat vent eruption. Dark cracks curled beneath her feet like veins.

One misstep could send her plunging into black water.

She almost welcomed the idea.

But no.
That was too easy.
Too quick.
Too quiet.

The Capitol needed to see her.

Needed to watch her choose.

Ivory pressed her hand to her ribs, wincing as her fingers brushed the bruises from Firefly’s kicks. Pain radiated through her torso — sharp, hot, blooming.

She deserved that pain.

She welcomed it.

Her fingers closed around the short blade strapped to her thigh. She had grabbed it during the bloodbath days ago — small enough to hide, sharp enough to kill. It glinted now as she lifted it in the twilight.

But she didn’t raise it to threaten anything.

Just to feel the weight.

Metal was honest.
Metal didn’t lie.
Metal split truth open.

Ivory reached the icy plain that stretched toward the Cornucopia — a massive metal structure planted like a gleaming fanged trophy in the middle of the frozen lake. Its golden sides shone in the dying light, reflecting the fractured horizon.

The cold wind whipped across the open ground, stinging Ivory’s wet skin. Her hair snapped against her neck. Her breathing deepened as she stepped onto the glassy ice.

Crack.

A thin line split beneath her boot.

She froze — breath held — waiting.

The crack spread sideways, spider-webbing. But it held.

Ivory took another step.

And another.

Fine tremors shook her arms and legs — the cold tightening its grip — but she kept walking. She didn’t look down anymore. She looked ahead, toward the place where victors stood to accept applause.

Tonight, she wouldn’t be accepting anything.

By the time she reached the Cornucopia, darkness had fallen fully. The arena’s artificial lights flickered on, illuminating the lake in a cold white glow.

She stopped at the base of the metal structure.

She could almost hear them — the Capitol audience — holding their breath, expecting her to laugh or cry or collapse in relief.

A victor returning home.

She knew what they needed.

A performance.
One last show.

So she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and stared straight into the hovering camera drone above her.

Her voice was soft, barely audible.

But the drone carried every syllable.

“I do not belong to you.”

The Capitol fell silent.

Ivory climbed the Cornucopia slowly, hand over hand, gripping the icy metal rungs. Her fingers went numb halfway up. Her arms trembled. Frost coated the surface where her palms pressed.

She ascended anyway.

At the top, she stood on the golden platform that crowned the metal horn, the place every victor was supposed to stand when their name was announced.

Wind tore at her clothes, flinging droplets of lake water into the air. Her shadow stretched long and rail-thin across the glistening ice.

Ivory faced the arena.

Faced the cameras.

Faced everything the Capitol had turned her into.

Her breathing steadied.
Her pulse slowed.

She tightened her hand around the blade.

Her lips parted.

“Mum. Dad.”
“Ellenna.”

A pause.

Then:

“I won.”

She lifted the blade.

And stepped off the edge—

But the moment froze, hanging between heartbeats, balanced on a knife’s edge—

A cliffhanger as sharp as the blade she held.
Ivory did not fall.

Not yet.

She stood on the edge of the Cornucopia, the blade glinting in her hand, the wind rolling across her like a cold breath. The entire arena seemed to hold still — the ice, the trees, the distant cracked lake surface — everything waiting for her next movement.

For a heartbeat, she let the silence stretch.

Let them feel it.

The Capitol.
The audience.
Every district forced to watch.
Every screen tuned in.

She let them feel the terror of not knowing.

A drone hovered closer, its fans humming, its lens zooming in with a soft mechanical click. Ivory turned her face toward the camera, letting them see her expression clearly.

Not grief.
Not rage.
Not fear.

Certainty.

The Games had built her, weaponized her, stripped her of everything human — and now they would watch as she destroyed the only thing they had left to claim.

Her life.

Ivory crouched slightly, lowering her center of gravity, knees bent against the slick metal. The wind bit at her ears, her fingers numb, but her grip on the blade was steady.

The Capitol announcer’s voice suddenly crackled across the arena speakers — strained, panicked.

“STOP— STOP! TRIBUTE EIGHT, STOP IMMEDIATELY!”

Ivory smiled.
A tiny, sharp thing.

She dragged the blade’s cold point lightly across her sternum, feeling where it would slide cleanly between ribs.

Just deep enough. Just right.

The drone’s red light flickered wildly, algorithms confused, trying to predict her motion. A second drone swooped in, then a third. The air filled with metallic buzzes, panic spiraling through their formation.

The announcer’s voice cracked.

“IVORY FERNANEDES OF DISTRICT EIGHT— YOU ARE THE WINNER OF THE NINTY SEVEN HUNGER GAMES! DO YOU HEAR US? YOU HAVE WON! STOP!”

Ivory rolled her shoulders back.

Then she answered — clearly, audibly — letting every district hear it.

“I’m not your winner.”

With one motion, she brought the blade up.

A Peacekeeper’s voice echoed through the speakers—someone screaming orders that no one could follow in time.

“CUT THE FEED— CUT THE—”

Too late.

Ivory inhaled once, long and steady, as if clearing out the last of the arena’s cold from her lungs.

Then she plunged the blade into her chest.

Straight through her heart.

The world cracked.

She gasped — a sharp, breathless sound — her body jolting from the impact. Blood welled instantly, dark and warm against the ice-wind chill, sliding down the front of her shirt in slow, glistening streaks.

The drones spasmed, cameras jerking wildly, attempting to stabilize. The Capitol announcer shrieked something unintelligible. Static choked the speakers.

Ivory sagged to one knee.

Her fingers convulsed around the handle.

Her vision flickered — Cornucopia gold, frozen lake, the black sky blur— then steadied again.

She forced herself upright, shaking, and lifted her head so the cameras could see her face.

See her victory.

Her lips curved in a faint, blood-tinged smile.

“Now… it’s over.”

Her legs buckled.

Ivory collapsed sideways, sliding limply down the curved metal of the Cornucopia roof. She fell the last two feet onto the ice below, landing with a hollow, ringing thud.

Her blood spread slowly across the white frost — a blooming red flower.

Someone in the Capitol broadcast booth screamed.

A siren blared.
Screens flickered.
The feed cut out.

—

DISTRICT 8 — seconds later

In a dim, crowded living room, dozens of neighbors watching at once gasped as Ivory’s image vanished mid-fall, replaced by the Capitol seal.

A little girl cried.
An old man fell to his knees.
Someone shouted her name.

People stood motionless, hands covering their mouth, shaking.

The seal remained frozen on-screen for thirty full seconds before the emergency announcement finally appeared:

THE VICTOR OF THE NINTY SEVEN GAMES—
IVORY FERNANEDES OF DISTRICT EIGHT—
IS DECEASED.

Pandemonium erupted.

Not celebration.
Not relief.

Rage.
A thunderous collective roar from District 8 that shook the windows.

People stormed outside, spilling into the streets. Voices rose in a furious, chaotic wave.

Ivory’s final act had ignited something raw and dangerous.

Something the Capitol had never intended.

—

THE ARENA — moments later

Capitol medics sprinted across the ice, slipping and sliding in panic. The Gamemakers shouted over one another, issuing orders that contradicted and clashed. A hovercraft descended, spotlights cutting through the blizzard of chaos.

They reached Ivory’s body.

Too late.

Her eyes were half-closed, lashes frosted, her skin pale as the lake around her. One hand still rested near the hilt of the blade she had driven into herself.

The head medic pressed two fingers to her throat, then her ribs.

He swallowed.

“Time of death—”

“DON’T SAY IT!” a Gamemaker shrieked.

But the medic finished anyway, the words muffled by wind.

Ivory Baylor had died on her own terms.

The Capitol had won nothing.
President Snow’s Office — Ten Minutes After Ivory’s Death

The silence in Snow’s private viewing room was unnerving. Normally, after a Victory scene, there would be applause, cameras flashing, sponsors celebrating. But now —

Nothing.

Just a blank emergency Capitol seal where Ivory Fernanedes’s body should have been.

Snow lifted a glass of red wine, hand steady, but anyone who knew her well would recognize the tension in her jaw.

She replayed the last two seconds of Ivory’s broadcast:
Her face lifting.
That small, deliberate smile.

And then the blade.

Snow hit pause.

The room held its breath.

“She planned it,” she said quietly.

Her advisers stood frozen behind him. No one dared speak.

“She planned it from the moment she volunteered.”
She didn’t raise his voice. That was the worst sign. When Snow was calm, people died.

A young Gamemaker swallowed.
“Sir, we can spin it. Frame it as a— a psychological break—”

“Silence.”

The Gamemaker shut up so fast his teeth clicked.

Snow leaned back, exhaling once through her nose.
“Find every frame of tribute eight. Scrub it. Remove it. Wipe interviews, training footage, anything the audience recorded.”

She set the wine down with a soft clink.

“And issue a notice to all districts:
Speaking her name is treason.”

The advisers nodded rapidly.

“She thought she could embarrass me,” Snow said, almost conversational. “She thinks the districts will remember her as a symbol.”

Her tone sharpened.
“They will not. I decide who becomes a symbol.”

She pressed a button on his desk.
“Call the Head Gamemaker. Now.”

A voice crackled back:
“Y-yes, sir.”

Snow’s smile was thin as paper.
“The next Games will be gentler. Softer. No martyrs. No theatrics they control.”
She paused.
“And send flowers to District Eight’s mayor.
White ones.”

Everyone in the room knew what white meant.

THE CAPITOL BROADCAST ROOM — The Cover-Up Begins

Producers screamed over one another, the entire room in chaos.

Screens showed the same emergency image on repeat:
“VICTOR DECEASED — TECHNICAL DIFFICULTY.”

“Cut her interviews!”
“Wipe her name from the tribute roster!”
“We need a new narrative!”

“No— the footage of her stabbing herself— that cannot get out— delete it from the replay servers— NOW!”

Dozens of technicians hammered at keyboards, deleting, corrupting, overwriting.

The Capitol had never lost control of a broadcast like this. Not once.

The trembling head producer finally yelled, “Replace everything with a memorial montage. Make it tragic. Make it seem noble. But don’t show how she died.”

“What music?”

“Something soft. Something manipulative. Something that makes the districts think she was broken, not brave.”

A junior editor whispered, “Sir… what if people already recorded the moment she—”

“Delete their accounts,” the producer snapped.
“If they repost, arrest them.”

The Capitol worked like a machine — fast, brutal, efficient.

Within thirty minutes, Ivory Baylor no longer existed.

DISTRICT EIGHT — The Riot

The moment the emergency seal appeared, District 8 detonated.

Not with bombs.
With people.

Hundreds poured into the streets before the Peacekeepers even got there. Mothers screamed Ivory’s name, men threw punches at armored vests, and someone set fire to the textile warehouse near the Justice Building.

Peacekeepers tried to shut it down — tear gas, batons, gunshots in the air — but it barely slowed the crowd.

Ivory had not just died.
She had defied.

A teenage boy shouted, “She stabbed herself to spite them! She died to show the Capitol we’re not theirs!”

A Peacekeeper clubbed him across the face.
The boy didn’t fall.

“IVORY!” someone screamed.
“IVORY FERNANEDES!”
“IVORY!”

The name echoed, louder each time.

It would be the last day they were allowed to say it.

CAPITOL ORDER: TOTAL ERASURE

By midnight, Peacekeepers launched sieges across District 8.

Every house was searched.
Every recording of Ivory’s death seized or destroyed.

Everyone who said her name loudly enough to be heard was dragged into trucks.

At dawn, a Capitol bulletin played across every screen in Panem:

“THE 97ND HUNGER GAMES ENDED IN TRAGEDY.
TRIBUTE EIGHT DIED OF MEDICAL TRAUMA.
HER NAME WILL BE WITHHELD TO PROTECT HER FAMILY’S PRIVACY.”

Ivory Fernanedes disappeared from all official documentation.

Training center footage: gone.
Reaping list: altered.
Interviews: deleted.
Mentor notes: burned.

Even the footage of the arena modified itself — drones reprogrammed the bloodbath to cut out her kills, replacing them with alternate angles or crowd shots.

By noon the next day, children in District 8 were already being told:

“There was no volunteer this year.
A girl died early.
That’s all.”

Dovey’s old colleagues whispered in terror,
“They’ll kill us if we say her name again.”

By evening, no one dared speak it.

Not because they forgot —
but because they were forced to pretend they had.

THE GAMEMAKER BOARDROOM — Backlash

The Head Gamemaker stood stiffly as Snow entered, white roses in her hand.

“Sir— we can fix the—”

Snow held up a rose.
It silenced the entire room.

She set it on the table, petals brushing the surface.

“It is not the girl’s death that bothers me,” Snow said evenly. “Death is the purpose of the Games.”

She looked around the room, cold and analytical.

“It is the message she delivered.”

Silence.

Snow continued.
“She chose her own ending. She denied us our Victor. She made us look… powerless.”

No one breathed.

“So,” Snow said, “we will never allow that again.”

A new decree was issued:

All tributes must be monitored at all times during the finale.
Self-inflicted death is grounds for immediate intervention.
A Victor must be alive when declared.

The Gamemakers nodded.

Snow added, “Erase the arena, too. The Shattered Lake will never be used again.”

Another nod.

“And,” Snow finished quietly, “no one ever mentions District Eight’s girl again.
Not in Capitol schools.
Not in the archives.
Not anywhere.”

The Gamemakers bowed their heads.

“We understand, sir.”

Of course they did.

Because Snow did not make threats.
Snow made promises.

EPILOGUE — WHAT REMAINS

Her body was cremated.
No funeral.
No ceremony.
No announcement.

The ashes were scattered in an unknown location — probably dumped by fatigued Capitol interns into a generic disposal chute.

District 8 never learned where she went.

The only trace left behind was a scorch mark on the Cornucopia roof where her blood had hit the metal before freezing over.

A week later, even that was scrubbed clean.

The 97nd Hunger Games became known as:

“The Games With No Victor.”
Or
“The Tragedy Games.”

Not one official record mentioned the girl from District 8.

Not her face.
Not her name.
Not her death.

But in the dark corners of District 8 — in the alleys where the Dark Blades used to train, in the whispered stories older sisters told their siblings — a rumor survived:

“There was a girl once.
She died on purpose.
She died to spite them.
And her name was Ivory.”

And sometimes, late at night, when the Peacekeepers weren’t listening, someone would carve three letters into a wall, a table, a worn factory desk:

IVY

Not forgotten.
Just hidden.
Waiting.