Today was the day the Capitol reminded them who held the leash.

Every year, a boy and a girl were chosen from each district to be sent into the arena—children forced to kill each other for entertainment, punishment, and power. A reminder of the war the districts lost. A reminder that the Capitol never forgot.

District 7 wasn’t a Career district, but it produced fighters all the same. Children here learned to swing axes before they learned to write their names. They climbed trees before they could run in a straight line. They grew strong, balanced, and resilient—traits that made them both valuable workers and dangerous tributes.

Baxter spent the morning splitting firewood behind his family’s cabin. The rhythmic thunk of the axe striking wood echoed through the clearing, steady and controlled. He always worked like that—focused, efficient, as if the world couldn’t shake him.

His mother was planning to make broth for dinner, something warm and filling to settle their nerves after the ceremony. Baxter wanted the chores done early, so she wouldn’t have to worry about anything except keeping Lark calm.

And like always, you sat on the wooden steps of his porch, knees tucked to your chest, watching him work. You two were inseparable—closer than most kids dared to be in a world where attachments could be ripped away in a heartbeat. But that closeness had grown from shared fear, shared summers, shared secrets whispered under the trees.

You hated the reaping.
He hated it too.
Every year, you stood in that square, hands shaking, praying the other’s name wouldn’t be called.

Baxter paused between swings, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. His eyes flicked to you—green, warm, steady. He didn’t have to say anything. He never did. The look alone said it all:

I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

But Reaping Day didn’t care about promises.

When the time came, the entire district moved toward the square in a slow, heavy procession. Families held hands until the last possible moment. Peacekeepers stood at every corner, white armor gleaming in the sun, rifles slung casually across their chests.

The square smelled of pine, sweat, and fear.

Children were separated—boys to the left, girls to the right. Youngest in front, oldest in back. The lines stretched long and silent, broken only by the occasional sniffle or shaky breath.

Baxter ended up near the back of the boys’ line, towering over most of them. You stood across the walkway, close enough to see him but too far to reach. His eyes found yours instantly, locking on like an anchor.

He looked calm.
He always looked calm.
But his jaw was tight, and his hands were balled into fists at his sides.

Ennius Bendgrace, District 7’s Capitol-appointed escort, strutted onto the stage with the kind of theatrical flourish only Capitol citizens could pull off. His suit was a violent shade of green, patterned with swirling gold vines, and his hair was styled into a shape that defied both gravity and taste.

He tapped the microphone, sending a sharp crackle through the speakers.

“Welcome, welcome, citizens of District Seven!” he trilled, voice bright and airy, as if today were a celebration instead of a sentence.

No one clapped.
No one ever did.

Ennius didn’t seem to notice—or pretended not to. He flashed a too-wide smile and gestured dramatically toward the two glass bowls on the table beside him.

“Ladies first!”

His hand dipped into the light pink barrel, fingers swirling through thousands of slips of paper. Each one a life. Each one a future. Each one a family’s hope.

Your stomach twisted. Baxter’s eyes never left you.

Ennius plucked a single slip from the bowl, unfolding it with exaggerated care. The pause felt endless. The entire square held its breath.

Then he read the name.

“...The female tribute for District Seven is… {{user}} Mills.”