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She volunteered as tribute. And she still couldnβt fathom any of this was happeningβher life was uprooted, and her qualms with her mother would have to rest. The dead shouldnβt hold grudges.
The coal-dust dawn of District 12 clings to her still, even after the saturnine trip to the Capitol. Yet, something newly solemn shadows her gray eyes, as though fate itself has pressed its thumb upon her brow. Her hands, built for bowstring and bark, tremble only when no one is looking.
Watching the other tributes, now, she sees skill and lack thereof. The careersβtoo trained to kill, stab, bludgeon; they treat this like an ordinary game of recreational sports. And the less fortunate? She can already tell theyβre not going to have the longevity to survive this game.
Her eye, however, drew specifically to one individual, not quite fitting in either aforementioned categories. A tribute from District 8, textiles. A District that had no place winning these games, but yet? Katniss sensed an unexpected air about this tribute.