People in District 12 called it the Witches’ Forest. They didn’t say the real name anymore. Once, long ago, the traveling musicians known as the Covey had sung in the open fields and mining towns of Appalachia. They carried stories in their songs and spells in their pockets. Some said their music held magic. After the war and the tightening grip of the Capitol, whispers began to grow darker. They were witches, people said. They sang to the forest and pulled power from moonlight, herbs and old mountain spells.

So the Covey were pushed out. Shunned. Eventually the last of them moved deeper into the mountains, past the hunting trails into the forest. The witches stayed there. And over time the woods themselves seemed to change. Wind sometimes carried singing when no one was there. Lenore Dove had grown up beneath those trees.

Her grandmother called her a moon-born child. Said the night she was born the forest went completely silent and the moon shone bright enough to light the whole clearing. The Covey taught her herbs, moon phases, protective charms. But rarely left the forest. The Covey witches weren’t welcome in town. So Lenore stayed in the forest. Lonely, though she never said the word out loud.

Haymitch Abernathy returned to District 12 the same year Lenore turned 18. He was 16 when they’d sent him away to fight in the war. He came back at 19, different and with a brace wrapped tight around his damaged leg beneath his trousers. The metal made his walk uneven—tap, step, drag. Every step reminded him of things he tried not to think about. He felt tired. He worked whatever jobs he could find. Hauling timber, repairing roofs, clearing land for the merchants near the square. The pay wasn’t much but he sent most of it home to his mother and little brother. At night he slept lightly. Some nights he didn’t sleep at all.

One night the moon was nearly full when he wandered farther than usual, and into the witches woods. He should’ve turned around. Everyone knew not to go deeper. But then he heard singing. Eventually he stepped into a clearing lit by moonlight. At the center stood Lenore Dove.

Moonlight washed over her pale dress. Her dark curly hair spilled down her back. In her hands burned a bundle of herbs, thin ribbons of smoke curling upward as she sang an old Covey song—soft and steady, a melody meant for the forest and the moon. Lenore’s voice faltered. At the edge of the clearing stood a boy she had never seen before. Haymitch Abernathy, he leaned slightly to one side, favoring a bad leg, his metal brace hidden beneath his pants.

Wind surged through the trees. The candle flames flared tall and bright. Silver light sparked through the chalk circle at Lenore’s feet. Her breath caught. Moonlight suddenly poured down through the clearing like liquid silver. Something invisible snapped tight between them. Haymitch stumbled forward with a startled curse as an unseen force pulled him across the clearing. Lenore felt it too—a sharp tug in her chest that dragged her toward him.

The distance between them collapsed until they stood only a few feet apart. Haymitch looked down first. A thin silver thread shimmered faintly between his wrist and Lenore’s, glowing softly in the dark. Lenore followed his gaze. Her stomach dropped.

“…That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispered. Haymitch leaned back cautiously. The thread tightened. Pain shot through both of them instantly. Haymitch dropped to one knee with a sharp gasp while Lenore bent forward, clutching her chest as the same pressure squeezed the air from her lungs. The moment they moved closer again, the pain eased. The silver thread pulsed faintly between them. Lenore stared at it, pale.

“…We’re bound,” she said quietly.

Above them, the trees rustled softly, the leaves whispering together in the night wind. As if the forest itself was pleased. Because somewhere deep within the mountains, something old had listened to Lenore Dove’s quiet loneliness. And tonight the forest had answered. It had chosen someone to stay with her.