With the first light of dawn piercing through the curtains, Hazel found herself wide awake—an unusual victory in her ongoing battle with insomnia. Today, however, her internal alarm had triumphed over exhaustion.

  But this was no ordinary day. No run-of-the-mill routine awaited her.

  It was July Fourth.

  Reaping Day.

  She lay in bed for what felt like too long, yet absolutely not long enough. Sleep had been out of reach, replaced by the relentless thud of her pulse in her ears. Her fingers worried at her cuticles, and every muscle in her body ached to move.

  To run, more likely.

  The twins' bunk creaked and moaned as their restlessness shifted in their sleep. When she couldn't tolerate it any longer, she broke free from the comfort of her bed, making her way to their shared bathroom.

  The mirror exposed a harrowing sight. A girl with a bedraggled crimson mane, wide, jittery green eyes, and finally, a mask of marrow-deep fear. She splashed her face with cold water as she futilely attempted to wash away the sleeplessness and dread that had become a part of her very being.

  At breakfast, the atmosphere in the kitchen was oppressive, funeral-like. Fern flitted around the kitchen, setting out plates of simple fare for breakfast. Oren sat at the head of the table, his usually strong features etched with lines of discomfort. The twins, Lily and Linden, ate silently, their usual bickering absent. Rowan kept glancing at Hazel and Silus, his expression an amalgamation of worry and stoic resolve.

  It was like every reaping day before it, with one exception. A new, thick gauze bandage wrapped around Silus's hand. The tan wrapping obscured the majority of his palm. He adjusted his utensil grip, holding it in a wholly awkward, unnatural way.

  "What happened?" Hazel murmured as she pushed around a spoon full of grits.

  Silus glanced at his hand as if he'd forgotten about the injury. "Nothing. Just a scratch from work yesterday." His tone was short and filled with finality.

  She didn't remember him getting hurt at work in the clearing.

  Maybe it happened at the paper mill? She wanted to press further, but the tightness in her mother's jaw and Silus's avoidant gaze told her this was not the time.

  As the family ate in strained silence, Hazel's stomach churned. She hardly touched her food, but when she did, it tasted like cardboard and dread.

  An hour later, and a trash full of uneaten grits, they began their journey to the Townsquare.

  Stepping out into the bright sunlight of the summer day, the air was crisp but beginning to boil with the heat of the day. The sky above was a brilliant crystal-clear blue, and the trees of District Seven waved to them as they passed. It was too beautiful of a day for such a heinous holiday.

  It would've been better spent taking lunch in the woods and cooling off in the crisp waters of the Alpine after work.

  Hazel sighed. Anything would be better than the yearly death march. Even her clothes felt foreign, too delicate and ill-fitting. She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, trying to find comfort in the unfamiliar fabric.

  As they walked, the distant hum of a solemn tune threaded through the trees, a wordless variation of their ancestors' funeral songs.

  Fern moved beside her, draped in a simple yet elegant dress that sharpened the blue of her eyes. Oren strode ahead, crisp in a pressed shirt and trousers, his jaw set tight.

  Silus's dark suit, once a perfect fit, was now strained at the seams, making him look older and yet smaller all at once. Rowan kept his eyes glued to his shoes as they walked. He looked so grown up, his shirt neatly tucked and his curls combed back.

  Beside him, the twins were silent. Lily's maroon dress, usually as bright as her spirit, barely held its usual warmth. Linden's red shirt and dark pants hung stiff on his frame, his carefree air nowhere in sight.

  Sage clung to Hazel's hand, his chestnut eyes saucer-like and shaded by trepidation. His buttoned shirt and trousers framed a boy forced to grow up before his time.

  Her heart ached for the innocence they all had to forgo on this day, squeezing his hand and offering him a smile that bordered on a grimace, trying her best to hide her suffocating apprehension.

  Tension sizzled in the air, as did the haunting tune hummed by Seven's people as they closed in on the town square. The streets were overflowing with the melancholy procession. Neighbors and friends exchanged solemn nods and tight-lipped smiles as they walked. Some were unknowingly leading their children to slaughter.

  Inching closer to Silus, her attention fell to his injured hand once again. It was bothering her, and she welcomed at least a bit of distraction.

  "You really not going to tell me what happened?" she prodded.

  Silus glanced at her, a hint of annoyance flashing in his eyes before he looked away. "I told you, it's nothing, just a scratch."

  "Doesn't look like just a scratch," Hazel persisted, her eyes still locked on the bandaged hand.

  Silus's expression tightened. "And you didn't look like you had been crying when you came home last night."

  Hazel turned sharply towards him. But Silus avoided her eyes, though he murmured, "Heath's doing, I'm sure."

  Hazel opened her mouth to respond but then closed it.

  As they neared the town square, Sage's grip on Hazel's hand turned vise-like. His small fingers dug into hers, unwilling to let go. When it was time to separate, Fern had to pry him away gently.

  "Come with me, dear," she murmured, her voice softer than usual, as if afraid it might crack.

  Fern's embrace was brief but warm, the kind of hug meant to be reassuring but left too much unsaid. Hazel's throat contracted as she watched her mother try to mask her fear with a fragile facade. Oren patted Hazel's cheek before pulling both of his sons into a firm hug. Then, without a word, he took Lily and Linden's hands and guided them toward the waiting area for the youngest children, still too young for the reaping.

  Hazel, Silus, and Rowan hesitated. For a moment, the three of them lingered, reluctant to let go of the last few seconds before they had to separate. Their eyes met in a silent exchange, heavy with unspoken words.

  "See you on the other side," Rowan whispered, his voice steady, though Hazel wasn't sure if it was courage or denial holding it there.

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Then, with a final glance, they pulled apart, each heading toward their designated areas as the Peacekeepers patrolled the square.

  The officers stood at rigid attention, their hands clasped behind their backs, stationed at every street entrance and along the edges of the square. Others moved through the crowd, ensuring everyone took their places.

  Hazel wove through the lines of girls, finding her place among the eighteen-year-olds.

  Her last reaping.

  A bitter taste settled on her tongue at the thought. After today, it would be over. No more white-knuckled anticipation, no more breathless waiting as names were drawn.

  She swallowed, willing herself to believe that making it to eighteen meant something—that she had survived the worst of it. But the weight in her chest told her otherwise.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs as she stood shoulder to shoulder with the others, forced into stiff, sweaty rows by the Peacekeepers. Her palms were slick, and she wiped them against her skirt.

  The square buzzed with hushed voices, a dissonant murmur of fear and quiet resignation. Parents clustered together, their faces drawn tight with worry. Mrs. Larkin, the district nurse, stood with her colleagues, her kind eyes dulled by the grim purpose of the day.

  Foreman Pilner, usually an imposing force at the lumberyard, had shrunk into himself, his usual bravado stripped away as he exchanged hushed words with fellow workers. Even Holt—loud, obnoxious Holt—stood subdued, his bulky frame seeming less significant in the vast sea of anxious bodies.

  Hazel exhaled shakily, her gaze shifting to the stage where the Capitol escort would soon appear. She knew what came next. The anthem. The speech. The names.

  For the last time.

  Everything in her screamed to run.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Instead, she stood, waiting.

  Amidst the throng, Hazel's eyes landed on a flash of red hair. There, on the periphery, stood her father. His posture was slack, an empty bottle dangling from his fingers, and his expression was difficult to discern. Her stomach knotted at the sight of him.

  Just get this over with.

  Around her, the murmurs grew quieter as the officials began their solemn ritual. Hazel's hands felt icy, her fingers tingling with a nervous energy. She clasped them together, trying to find some warmth, some semblance of control over her jittery nerves. Her breathing quickened, each inhale shallow, as she tried to steady her racing heart. The warmth of the July sun did little to ease the chill that had settled in her bones. Her eyes darted to the peacekeepers circling the perimeter.

  They must be boiling in those ridiculous uniforms.

  She glanced around, noticing the nervous fidgets of her peers, the wringing of hands, the shifting of feet. Some stared at the ground, lost in their thoughts, while others gazed blankly ahead, their eyes reflecting a resigned acceptance.

  Hazel tried to focus on the blue sky above, a patch of serenity in an otherwise turbulent day, but her thoughts were relentlessly pulled back to the stage, to the glass bowl that held her fate.

  Her gaze shifted across the divide to where the boys were corralled. Silus was stiff, his eyes locked onto the stage. A few rows behind him, Hazel caught a glimpse of Rowan. He might have appeared calm to an outsider, but Hazel noticed the slight quiver in his shoulders. A wave of protective instinct washed over her; she yearned to bridge the distance.

  It hadn't always been easy; blending families never was. The early days had been a jumble of awkward adjustments and silent meals, each child wrestling with the new dynamics that Fern and Oren's marriage had brought into their lives. They were just kids then, trying to make sense of a world that had suddenly shifted beneath their feet. She pitied the boys as their mother had gone missing in the District Seven woods when Rowan was an infant and Silus barely a toddler.

  They had never even found Dahlia's body. She was declared dead a year later, and they buried an empty casket beside the Alpine.

  The mysterious disappearance of Dahlia had left a gaping hole in their lives, an unspoken grief that had, in a strange way, drawn Hazel and them closer together.

  With the loss of Cedar, she could relate to the boys.

  As the years passed, the distance melted away. The arrival of the twins and, later, Sage further cemented their bond. They had become a unit, a team.

  As Hazel stood amidst the sea of anxious faces, she realized just how deep their connection ran. They were her brothers in every sense of the word. Her world wouldn't be whole if they weren't a part of it.

  She imagined, just for a moment, grabbing their hands and fleeing this madness, running until the Capitol and its twisted games were nothing but a distant memory. But the reality of the situation anchored her back to the present.

  The abrupt blare of the Capitol anthem shattered the restlessness, its triumphant, grating melody swelling through the square. Hazel clenched her jaw as the music rang out.

  As the final strains faded into an eerie silence, the square fell into a tense hush as the sharp sound of heels clinking against the stage seized their attention. All eyes turned towards the figure gliding into the spotlight.

  Indira Lovegood, District Seven's escort for the past four Hunger Games.

  Her deep caramel skin glowed under the bright July sun, and her long, thick black hair cascaded down her back and swayed gently with each step she took in sky-high heels. Her vibrant purple dress seemed to capture the very essence of the Capitol's flamboyance. The bedazzled matching heels sparkled as she moved.

  Indira's voice was deep and smooth like tempered chocolate, oddly satisfying. Under different circumstances, Hazel might have found it soothing, even captivating. She could imagine Indira telling bewitching stories or singing enchanting lullabies. Yet, here she was, the harbinger of doom for two of District Seven's children.

  As she approached the microphone, a hush capsized the crowd.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," Indira began. "Today marks a significant moment in our history, the reaping for the 15th Annual Hunger Games. This year promises to be unique, an extraordinary spectacle, especially in light of the... recent developments."

  The crowd shifted uneasily, the memory of the old arena's destruction still fresh in their minds.

  Indira continued, her voice rising. "The Hunger Games symbolize our unity, a reminder of the dark days we've overcome and the brighter future we strive towards."

  Indira paused expectantly as if expecting applause. But only noiselessness enveloped the crowd. It would have been comical if it wasn't so depressing. After a few awkward seconds, she decided to move on.

  "As per the order established by the Capitol, District Seven will select seventh, following the first six districts."

  On cue, the overly large screens around the town square crackled to life with ongoing live coverage of the 15th annual Hunger Games reaping.

  Hazel's gaze was drawn to the unfolding scenes, each revealing the fate of another district's youth. The first was District One, where Elara Luxe, a 16-year-old girl with dark brown hair and hazel eyes that, held a deadly tint.

  Next to her, Julian Bright from the same district, a 17-year-old boy with dirty blond hair and blue eyes, stepped forward. He was tall, with an impressively athletic frame.

  The coverage shifted to District Two, notorious for its formidable tributes and a near-constant stream of victors. For the past three years, the Hunger Games had been won by male tributes from District Two.

  The female tribute, Eve Preston, was sixteen. Her long black hair hung sleek and straight, framing piercing green eyes that swept over the crowd with sharp, cautious assessment. She carried herself with a quiet readiness built for speed and precision rather than brute force.

  Then came the boy. Caleb Thornley. His dark curls were cropped short, framing a face set in quiet scrutiny. But there was nothing reserved about his eyes.

  They were wild. Intense. Pools of dark bronze, like coffee brewed too strong. And yet, beneath the fire, there was something else. Confidence.

  Not that it was surprising. He would be the favored tribute, after all. His muscular frame bore the signature of District Two's rigorous training, a physique nearly identical to the last three victors.

  Hazel swallowed hard, a knot forming beneath her collarbone. Each name called, each face shown, sent another wave of sorrow crashing over her. The intermittent cries of anguish from parents and loved ones punctuated the broadcast, jagged and raw.

  Her stomach twisted as the reaping surged closer to home, each district pulling her nearer to the inevitable. She forced herself to look away, fixing on the cracked, sunbaked dirt scuffed by countless boots.

  The broadcast droned on, words dissolving into meaningless sounds. Hazel barely registered the faces flashing across the screen, their features blurring into a sea of strangers bound for slaughter. Her skin prickled, sweat pooling in the crook of her elbows, her pulse a frantic staccato.

  Somewhere in the distance, Indira spoke.

  "And now, the moment we have all been waiting for. The selection of the tributes who will represent District Seven in the Fifteenth Hunger Games."

  It was their turn.

  Hazel's fingers dug into the folds of her skirt, twisting the fabric until it bit into her palms. Her knuckles burned from the strain, but she couldn't let go.

  Indira stood poised at the glass bowl, her bejeweled heels flashing like a shard of sunlight slicing into Hazel's vision. The Capitol's absurdity never ceased to stun her.

  "Alright, ladies," Indira cooed. "Let's see who our lucky lady seven is this year." Her jeweled fingers dipped into the sea of names, gliding over them as if savoring the moment. Her nails, a polished violet, gleamed like freshly bruised skin.

  Indira's hand swirled through the slips, stirring fate like a spoon through honey. Every second was excruciating.

  Hazel's breath swelled in her chest. The hush of the crowd pressed in, siphoning the oxygen and suffocating her.

  Then, with a final surgical precision, Indira's fingers closed around a single slip.

  Hazel's heartbeat crashed against her ribs, a frantic stuttering that drowned out everything else. The air thickened, heavy with hundreds of unspoken prayers. She couldn't look away, locked in a trance as Indira unfurled the slip with a flourish, her face a porcelain mask of detached delight.

  Then she leaned into the microphone.

  "Hazel Marlowe."

  The words cut through Hazel like a blade penetrating her, slow and deep.

  Her thoughts detonated, one after the other, bashing into each other in a maelstrom of disbelief.

  That wasn't her name.

  It couldn't be.

  Some mistake.

  Some sick, twisted joke.

  But she didn't need confirmation. She felt it. In the way, the girls beside her exhaled, their relief curling around her. In the way the world stilled, its attention snapping to her.

  Her name had been spoken.

  It hung there, raw and irrevocable.

  Hazel Marlowe. The chosen female tribute of District Seven.

  The tremors started in her fingers, then cascaded through her limbs, rattling her bones like a weary pine caught in a thunderstorm. A fire ignited deep inside her, searing through her nerves and licking up her spine. She was burning from the inside out, but her body remained paralyzed, locked in place by something far colder.

  The sensation spread, snaking through her bloodstream, voracious, like the wildfires that ripped through District Seven every August. She was both frozen and consumed, the contradiction splitting her in two.

  The world lurched sideways. Warped faces burned her irises with shifting colors, but time itself seemed to splinter. It staggered forward, dragging her under.

  Her head snapped up. Silus.

  His eyes locked onto hers across the crowd, his expression an utter downpour of devastation, disbelief, and, worst of all, helplessness. Her stomach hollowed at the sight of him.

  She couldn't look. Couldn't let herself drown in his face, or Rowan's, or her mother's, or she'd shatter right there in the sundried dirt.

  With a herculean effort, she forced a foot forward. Then the other.

  Peacekeepers awaited her at the edge of the girl's assembly.

  Then—a scream.

  Raw. Splintering. Visceral

  Fern.

  Hazel flinched, the sound ripping through her like a blade to her aorta. Her pulse stuttered, her breath clawing its way up her throat.

  The faces in the crowd blurred into a sea of indistinct features, yet she could feel their eyes on her, their silent pity.

  She reached the stage, though she had no memory of crossing the distance. A Peacekeeper's firm hand guided her up the steps, most likely knowing she wouldn't have the balance to navigate them alone.

  Her mother was still screaming. Muffled now.

  Oren, most likely, holding her back from crumbling.

  The stage wasn't real. It couldn't be. A nightmare she'd wake from at any moment.

  Indira Lovegood's synthetic smile gleamed beside her, bright and meaningless, a garish contrast to the crushing dread curling around Hazel's ribs.

  She was directed to a spot on the stage, where a gentle breeze teased the fabric of her skirt. Her mother's skirt.

  She lowered her eyes to the crowd.

  Oren's thick arms were secured around Fern in a tight, protective grip, his face locked in silent anguish. Fern's sobs wracked her small frame.

  Then came the others.

  Linden. Lily. Sage. Their small faces darted between their mother and Hazel, trying to understand, trying to piece together what could never make sense.

  And beyond them was Heath.

  A familiar shadow at the edge of the crowd. His green eyes. Her green eyes. Locked across the distance. Still. Hollow. Unreadable.

  Hazel wrenched her gaze to Rowan.

  His hand covered his face. Hazel could see the tremors now, worse than before, rippling through him like aftershocks from a quake. The tears she had fought to hold back threatened to breach, burning at the edges of her vision. She tried to hold herself together. But it felt like trying to make a ball out of dry sand. Impossible.

  How did anyone pretend in a moment like this?

  Indira moved. Her heels pierced the stage as she slid toward the second glass bowl.

  "Alright," she trilled. "Next up is our seven boys."

  The air thickened.

  Stalled.

  The world braced.

  Hazel shut her eyes.

  Silence clutched the square, heavy and absolute, save for the dulled hiccups of her mother's weeping and the slow rustle of paper as Indira's hand sifted through the names.

  Then—the rustling stopped.

  A painful hush. The sound of a hundred people breathing in at once.

  Hazel's nails sank into the flesh of her arms, anchoring herself against the freefall.

  Indira spoke once again.

  "Silus Starling."