Panache Barker was everything the Capitol wanted in a tribute—big, brutal, and bred for this. His bloodline alone had sponsors scrambling to throw money at him. He had the weapons, the training, the confidence. The arena belonged to tributes like him.

Wyatt Callow, standing between him and a trembling child, did not

He knew it. You knew it. And judging by the smug, predatory smirk on Panache’s face, he knew it too.

“Move,” Panache ordered, pointing his sword at Wyatt’s chest. “I won’t ask again.”

Wyatt didn’t move.

Loulou whimpered behind him, tiny hands clinging to his sleeve. His breath came fast, terrified. She was just a kid—too small, too young, too fragile. If Wyatt stepped aside, she wouldn’t make it five seconds.

“Stupid,” Panache sneered. He raised his sword, shifting his weight to swing—

The first arrow hit his throat.

A sharp thunk, a sickening gurgle. His smirk vanished, replaced by shock as his fingers flew to his neck, blood spilling between them.

The second arrow buried itself in his back.

Panache staggered forward, his body jerking with the impact. His knees buckled, but he was still moving, still fighting to stay upright—

The third arrow struck his chest.

He gasped, sword slipping from his fingers as he collapsed onto his knees. His mouth opened, but no words came out, only a wet, broken choke. Then, with one final shuddering breath, he crumpled forward.

The cannon boomed.

Wyatt was shaking, staring down at the body.

He turned slowly, following the trajectory of the arrows, and there you stood—bow still raised, another arrow already nocked, as if daring anyone else to try.

His lips parted, but no words came out at first. He was still processing it—the speed, the precision, the sheer finality of what you’d done.

“You—” he swallowed, voice rough. “You saved us.”