Hazel rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The moon’s shadow danced over the knotted boards. Rest was the farthest thing from her mind. A continuous replay of the events of the Capitol's broadcast swirled behind her eyes. The images of the old arena being demolished, the towers of aerosolized stone, and then, of course, that daunting blue stare.

  A new era.

  Snow's voice reverberated against her skull. She scoffed in an imaginary response.

  It was just a creative way to market the Capitol’s slaughter of district children.

  The room was stuffy, almost suffocating in its stillness. Pulling the blankets over her nose, she listened as the twins snored softly in their bunk. After another hour of chasing sleep but only running in place, she couldn't take it anymore.

  Maybe a glass of water would help.

  Quietly sliding out of bed, she tiptoed over the creaking floorboards. Once out of her room, she entered the darkened hallway, but something made her freeze.

  Voices, low, tense and coming from the living room.

  Slithering toward the noise, she recognized Fern and Orens’ voices. As she peaked around the corner, she could make out her parents hunched near the dying fire in their hearth.

  Fern shifted uncomfortably on the worn loveseat, her fingers intertwined in her lap. Her blue eyes held a guttural concern. Seated beside her, Oren was rigid but more composed.

  "It was a message," Fern's voice faded in.

  “Complacency isn't an option, Fern.”

  "But they are showing us what they can do, Ore. They want us to know they can and will change the rules whenever it suits them."

  Oren, his gaze locked on the flickering flames, nodded slowly. "Even so. We can't let fear paralyze us. We must be wise, but we can't cease fighting for what's just."

  Fern's voice trembled. "And what of Hazel?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Fern shivered, “What happened with the peacekeepers? You think it was an accident?”

  “I know it wasn’t.”

  “And yet you persist.” Fern shook her head, wringing her hands tighter.

  "What kind of example would I be setting for her or any of them if I didn't stand up for what's right? I can't, in good conscience, not use my position for the betterment of our people and our country."

  "You're risking too much," Fern insisted.

  "Protecting our district, our home... isn't that a fight worth fighting?"

  Fern's voice softened, carrying a note of vulnerability that was rare for her. "And what about Garth? Have you thought about the consequences of that?"

  Garth... Garth...It sounded vaguely familiar.

  The curiosity itched at her, a puzzle piece that refused to fit anywhere in the mental picture she had of her world. She sifted through her memories, associating them with the faces and names she knew in District Seven, but nothing clicked.

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  Oren sighed, "I have. But it's not just about us. Others suffer more. So much more, my love.”

  Fern's eyes glistened. "It won’t be the other districts that pay the price.”

  Oren's expression hardened. "I know the risks. But doing nothing... that's not an option. We have a chance to make a difference." Their hands met, Fern's trembling fingers seeking Oren's. "I'll be careful, love. But I can't promise to stop. Not when life and death are on the line."

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Fern breathed.

  A flicker of movement at the edge of Hazel’s vision snapped her attention away. Twisting her head, she recognized Silus partially hidden in the shadows of the hallway. His eyes met hers, signaling her to follow. She complied, trailing behind him towards the back of the house.

  Silus eased the patio door open, the hinges groaning in protest. Hazel slipped outside, exhaling in relief as the cool night air wrapped around her. Between the fireplace and summer sun baking the house all day, it retained a sauna-like heat that Fern loved but Hazel found suffocating.

  The back of the house was bathed in a silvery moonlight that filtered down from the swaying forest. The night hummed with life. There was the distant hooting of an owl, the rustle of leaves, and an occasional bantering of nocturnal crickets.

  Hazel and Silus moved to the edge of the porch, leaning against the railing, their faces soaking in the pale lunar light. They exchanged a look, a silent agreement to speak in hushed tones.

  "Told you to come straight home,” he whispered.

  Hazel’s heart sank. The disappointment in his voice was unmistakable. She didn’t bother denying it. Instead, she bit the inside of her cheek, avoiding his probing gaze.

  "I know you love him, and you are just trying to help, but he's not worth getting killed over." His gentleness made Hazel glance up, finally meeting his gaze.

  "Dad issues, right?" Hazel forced a weak chuckle that didn’t pierce Silus’s intensity in the least. "I just... I can't live with the idea of him starving in that place." Her words trailed off. The image of her father in his rundown shack haunted her. “Keep thinking someday…things will change. That he’ll change.”

  "I think there’s a better chance of a snowstorm in July." He paused, running a hand over his face. For a moment, he appeared to weigh his words before continuing. "Honestly, I think you care about him more than he does you."

  Silus was as honest as he was observant. Arguing was pointless. Studying her toes, a knot of truth-tinged sadness tightened in her chest.

  “I’m sorry, Haze.” His voice was softer, "Not trying to hurt you."

  She shook her head slowly, her eyes still averted, fixated on the intricate patterns of the wooden porch floor. "No, you didn't," her voice a mere whisper. "I know you're right, but I just keep hoping." The idea of a different reality, where her father was the man she wanted him to be, who he used to be, was an elusive dream she couldn't relinquish.

  What a treacherous thing hope was.

  Silus didn't press her on this any further.

  It was quiet for a while, and neither said anything as if they were soaking in the day's events.

  "You hear them talking?" she murmured, picking at her axe-handle callouses.

  Silus's nod was heavy. "Mmmhmm."

  "Any idea what he's doing?" Hazel questioned, searching his face for any sign of understanding.

  Silus exhaled slowly, his gaze fixated on a distant point. "Don't know all the details, Haze, but I've overheard… things," he admitted. "There's talk around the mill... that Dad's been pushing back on the Capitol's demands. He's also been refusing to assign logging crews to certain parts of the forest and disagreeing with quotas."

  “Why would he do that?" Hazel asked.

  Silus leaned against the railing, digging at it with his nails. "Best guess is that he has issues with increasing the lumberjack’s hours.”

  “We're already working longer shifts, five days a week.”

  “Exactly. The rumor is the quotas they're demanding now... aren’t sustainable."

  Hazel's eyes followed Silus's stare, looking up at the stars twinkling indifferently. “How long will they put up with that?”

  Silus shook his head. “No clue.”

  “And what do you think of the Gamemakers blowing up the arena?” Hazel’s nails dug deeper into her palm.

  Silus swatted at her hands. “I think it's been a long day, and I, for one, am ready for it to be over.”

  Just as they were about to sneak back into the house and pray they weren’t caught, Silus paused, turning back to her.

  “No matter what happens, Haze. We’ll figure it out, and we'll stick together.” Silus murmured, straightening his spine. His chocolate brown irises burned with quiet resolve. "Always."

  It was a phrase they had told each other as children. A promise they’d kept. A vow that had never been broken. Something all their own.

  Hazel squeezed his shoulder, a whisper on her lips. "Always."