Chapter Text
The sun beat down on District 12 as though the Capitol itself had lowered a great hand to press the coal town flat into the dust. The morning was the same as any other day.
Ember awoke on a stiff bed, sheets faded and moth bitten, the colour the same as most things in the district; grey. In her room there were 4 sets of bunks, hers was the closest to the window. In summer it allowed a reprieve from the heat through the cracks in the walls, but in winter, the cold would seep through and chill her to her bones.
The other children had woken at the same time, jerked from their sleep by a harsh knocking against their door and the barking voice of the community homes Peace Keeper Corylus.
Corylus prowled the community home like a predator. The older man was in his mid-to-late thirties, hardened from his years in District 12; a district where many Peacekeepers dread to be stationed. He carried a cold authority that made even the strongest flinch, but the community home was never a place of safety anyway.
Meals were scarce, chores were endless, and punishment came swiftly for the slightest misstep. When you came of age you were sent straight to the mines, or wherever else you could work, and what little wages you could make would go straight to him. His gazes lingered too long, his smile never reached his eyes, and everyone moved like shadows under his watch. The home, meant to shelter, felt like a cage, walls closing in with fear, hunger, and forced labor, all under Corylus’ chilling control.
Ember Flynnt had grown up under Corylus’ sharp eyes, learning early on that survival meant bending, not breaking. The community home was never a refuge, never meant to be a home. It was just a place where orphaned or abandoned children were thrown until they could starve on their own terms. Meals were scraps, beds were thin and lumpy, and the younger children's cries echoed in the halls while he watched with that cold, lingering gaze. Any mistake, no matter how small, brought his hand, or stick, or whatever he could get his hands on down like a hammer.
Ember learned to move quietly, learnt the path through the aged home to avoid the creaks of the floorboards when needing to escape. And as she got older, and watched the younger children be subjected to what she had, she would sometimes take the blame before anyone else could, the older children had a system, and to swallow the hunger gnawing at her stomach.
Years of abuse had hardened her, shaped her into someone careful, fast, and observant. Fear had become second nature, and pain something she carried quietly, turning it into a strange kind of strength. Her body carried the scars of it, bones sharp beneath her thin skin, grey eyes sunken, marks left behind by Corylus or other kids or the simple clumsiness of a child.
And although Ember woke at the same time she always did, today she woke with a knot in her stomach. It was Reaping Day. The day that came every year. No ifs, ands, or buts. It always came.
The Reaping waited for no-one.
And certainly not her.
Alongside the others in the home, she made her bed, tight and militant and made her way to the communal bathroom. The showers were always cold if they were working, and on a simmering hot day like today, it had no chance of competing with the chill already sinking into her bones. But Ember was 18, and this would be her last Reaping.
The very last time she would wake and dress and stand amongst the masses, palms sweating as she longed for someone else’s name to be drawn from the bowl and not her own.
They dressed in synchronised silence. Brittle bodies and the stale stench of youths sweat huddles together in the overcrowded space. Hair was brushed and styled, and shoes were laced and buckled. The silence within the home was eery, no broken smiles or quiet chatter, but sniffles and harsh breath, the rustle of clothes or hacking cough of one of the older children who had recently been sent down to the mines. Ember being one of them.
One by one they lined up in the large room that served as the dining area, awaiting Corylus, who when he arrived, smiled at them widely.
“With any luck, two of you will be chosen to represent District 12.”
With any luck, it would not be Ember.
The children filed out of the community home in uneasy lines, their small, worn shoes scuffing the dirt road. Clothes were patched and threadbare, sleeves rolled or cut short, skirts and pants frayed at the hems, and yet they were the nicest things they owned. Fear clung to them like a second skin, faces gaunt, eyes darting at every shadow.
It was fear in District 12 that smothered them over the heat.
Corylus walked at the front, tall and unyielding, his gaze scanning the line like a hawk. He carried a stick in one hand, mangled and old, tapping it lightly against his leg. It was a length of wood that had cracked against her skin more times than she could count. She carried the scars to prove it. The older children, hardened from years of abuse, tried to keep the younger ones in line, murmuring quiet warnings or offering a stern hand to steady them.
The air was thick with tension. Whispers died as quickly as they formed, stifled by the ever-present weight of the community home managers eyes. The younger children shuffled along, some tripping over their own feet, the occasional cheeks streaked with tears, and she moved at the edges, watching, eyes scanning to ensure no kid ran or fainted.
By the time they reached the town square, the group looked like a procession of shadows: hunched, wary, and small. A fragile group corralled under the cold, obsessive watch of Corylus. The square loomed ahead, and with it the fear of the Reaping.
It seemed to blur as it always did. The line to the table of Peacekeepers was long where they would check your name off for attendance and collect the blood of the new children who’s names would enter for the first time. The mayor shouted his words from the stage, reminding them all of what to do as though they didn’t do it every year, or had not attended since they were born.
Everyone from the District is required to attend the Reaping. And when the Games would play, all were required to watch. The ring of his voice from the surrounding speakers were swallowed by the heat. The air shimmered above the square, full of sweat and coal soot, and the stink of unwashed bodies packed shoulder to shoulder was suffocating, the stench of fear rising higher and higher.
Ember tugged at the neckline of her faded cotton dress. It clung to her damp skin, plastered tight by perspiration. The Seam children looked no different to those from the community homes, in fact many children in the home were from the Seam, Ember included. Their usually coal-dusted faces were now wiped clean, presentable for those in the Capitol who would also be watching with excitement.
The homes hollow cheeks and thin bodies were pulled into ill-fitting clothes that had been patched so many times they were more stitches than fabric. Her dress had been borrowed from the home, from someone before her who had borrowed it from someone before them. Ember had no family, no hand-me-downs, no heirlooms to speak of. All that she owned was on her back, and even then she didn’t own it, he did.
The Capitol did.
The sleeves hung unevenly, stretched and slightly torn and then sewn back hastily by untrained hands. The hem of the dress brushed her calves in a crooked slope. But it was good enough to stand in, good enough to be seen in when the Capitol’s cameras swept across the crowd.
She brushed her braided back over her shoulder, always braided to avoid the rampant nits that infested the home, or to kept away from her face when she worked in the mines, or walked amongst the soot dusted streets. Embers gaze flitted to the side, the rows of boys separated from the girls standing across the square. Their shirts clung to them in damp patches. Some fidgeted, some trembled, and others blankly stared ahead. The youngest stood at the front, small and frail, tears or anxious looks stolen to their family members behind them. They reminded her of fawn.
The Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, a young woman whose powdered face was already streaking in the sun, strutted onto the stage and read off the speech about the Treaty of Treason. Her voice was loud and upbeat, excitement tinging every syllable that passed through her bright yellow lips. Her cheeks and eyes were also decorated with yellow, giving her the look of someone who had liver failure. Atop her head, a billowing bile yellow wig, where sleepy, most certainly drugged bees crawled amongst her hair that resembled a hive. Her dress and heels matched the unsightly yellow outfit.
Effie continued her speech despite the hundreds of faces pointed towards her who looked on in abject terror. Whose horror and despair was in fear of this very day, when the Capitol would claim the lives of two kids each year.
Sometimes family members.
She didn't seem to notice the dread that permeated from them all. Didn't seem to have any sort of objection to being the one who selects the two children to be killed for entertainment on live television for the whole of Panem. But the Games would never stop. And neither would Effie Trinket.
Effie Trinket kept on as their time shortened, and the end neared for two lives. For when your name was drawn from that bowl, the timer began.
On the stage towards the back where the Mayor sat, Embers gaze drifted to the side where Haymitch Abernathy sat slouched in his chair, partially in the shade. The only living Victor District 12 had managed in decades. His shirt was rumpled, his jacket hanging off one shoulder, and a dark bottle protruded from the folds like he’d forgotten it was visible. He swayed slightly, eyes glazed.
The crowd around him was used to such a sight, disapproving looks having been lost long ago, but she thought it wasn’t so much the drinking that unsettled them. It was that he was a reminder.
Haymitch was what victory really looked like; broken, hollowed, and haunted.
The woman’s voice lifted excitedly, “And now, the time has come to select this year’s tributes!”
The cicadas in the trees seemed to grow silent. Embers mouth went dry. She didn’t know how many times her name was in there, she had lost count over the years, but this was her last year of eligibility. The odds were better than they’d ever been.
Better, but not good.
“Ladies first!” Effie chirped, as she moved away from the microphone, towards the fate of the young girl tribute. Tension spread through the square.
Her heels clacked noisily atop the concrete as she reached the right hand side of the stage, long nails dipping into the glass bowl as she swirled her fingers amongst the slips of paper. Thumb and forefinger pinched together, and Effie cried out. She pulled the paper out of the bowl.
The whole of District 12 tensed.
Effie lifted it slowly, delicately, letting the tension stretch for the Capitol who was watching with bated breath, letting every eye follow the movement.
The paper unfolded between her fingers with a crisp whisper, edges trembling with anticipation in the sun-warmed air. The yellow drenched woman held it up, as she walked back towards the microphone in the centre of the stage, letting that small piece of paper that wielded so much power catch the light. Her lips curved into a practiced smile as she scanned the name once more and leant forward.
“Ember Flynnt.”
The syllables slipped out sharp and clear, slicing through the murmurs of the crowd.
Her name.
Her name.
The tension snapped, and the rest of the girls who stood around her breathed a collective sigh of relief for themselves. It was not their turn this time.
It was hers.
She felt every eye on her. The younger children from the community home pressed closer together, some biting their lips, some crying quietly, others staring in silent shock.
Her heart hammered, but her face stayed still. She took a measured breath, forcing her body to obey reason instead of panic. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms, but she kept her gaze straight ahead. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to fight, to vanish. The run from the square towards the trees and escape. But she had seen what they do to people who run.
Had seen what they did to Woodbine Chance.
The square seemed impossibly large now, the sun glaring down on her, every shadow stretching like a reminder of what awaited. A person waiting to strike.
It felt as though she floated through the crowd, side stepping the other girls as her ears rang, looking up to the stage where Effie Trinket beamed down at her, and the Capitols cameras zoomed in on her face. Her shoulders brushed against others until she made it through to the path and up onto the stage.
Ember felt numb.
Effie’s smile remained, professional and bright, but the slip of paper had delivered the verdict: Ember had been chosen.
“Come, come! Congratulations!” The woman squeaked as she made her way forward to stand next to her.
Her eyes flicked to where Haymitch sat. Her mentor. His eyes were cast downward into his lap, and if it wasn’t for the brush of his lashes against his cheeks, she would have mistaken him for asleep.
“Wonderful, wonderful! What a beautiful young lady you are. Now tell us all, how old are you?”
Embers mouth felt dry, her lips parted, “Eighteen.”
It was automatic, void of any emotion. She was in autopilot and simply stared out amongst the sea of grey until it blurred in her vision.
“Eighteen? Well, how lucky you are to be selected on your very last year of Reapings! Very lucky indeed!”
If Ember hadn’t been in such shock, she would have screamed.
“Now, for the boys!” Effie shifted over to the other side of the stage where the large bowl of boys names sat atop a plinth. With her usual flare, she stuff her manicured hand inside and selected the slip of the unfortunate boy who would be joining her.
“Cole Aspen.”
A broken sob trickled through the crowd from the back, wails of younger children and a mother, inconsolable as they watched the sea of boys look to the front. A child stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his boots. His face had gone sheet-white, eyes darting like a cornered rabbit’s. He looked back into the crowd where Ember glimpsed a woman clutching two smaller children, her mouth wide as she cried, others coming around her to try and soothe her. Quiet her.
At the very least, Ember thought, there would be no one to mourn her.
His shirt was buttoned all the way to the collar even though the heat must have been suffocating, and his dark hair was stuck flat against his forehead. Tears fell from his eyes as he stumbled his way upon the stage, his thin legs trembling within boots too large for him.
Effie ushered him to stand beside her and asked his age, her height in her heels entirely dwarfing him. Twelve he told the crowd, though he looked even younger. Embers chest tightened in an uncomfortable pang she tried to ignore. This was who she would go into the arena with. His eyes were locked upon his mother, who in the back of the crowd was on her knees, her children having been taken by young men who looked similar to him as she sobbed.
Ember stared out at District 12 as the world grew silent. The square, once a blur of faces and noise, now felt distant, as if a wall had dropped between them and the crowd. They were herded by silent attendants, the officials’ hands firm on their elbows, away from the square and into the cold, narrow corridors behind the stage.
The rooms waited like empty cages, bare except for a single chair and a small table. The door closed with a solid thud, cutting them off from the noise, from the comfort of other peoples presence, from the world that they knew.
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her fate as the others all left to go back to their homes. The room smelt faintly of mould and dust, the walls pressing in on her, small and unwelcoming. At first, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The syllables of her name kept echoing in her head.
Her final year.
Life carried on outside as she was trapped in the suffocating silence.
Slowly, the shock began to fade, replaced by a raw, hot, anger. Her last year. Her last year and her name was chosen. Her fists clenched, nails biting into her palms, and the walls seemed to close a little tighter with each heartbeat.
She stalked the small room, the single chair rattling under her fingers as she brushed past it, the floor cool beneath her shoes despite the heat outside. The air felt thin, but the anger inside her flared brighter than the suffocating quiet.
Inside the rooms, each tribute wrestled with the raw, hollow reality: they were alone, and everything that followed from the parade of officials, to the journey into the Capitol would have to be faced without the comfort of home, without the company of those who knew them best, and most of all without hope of survival.
The door clicked open and Ember spun on her foot. She had no family, and the children from the community home were never allowed visitors and was doubtful they'd be allowed to visit her. But as the door widened and the figure stepped in, she had to hold back a hollow laugh.
Of course.
“Lucky you.” Corylus’ lip twitched. His voice was teasing, almost casual, but the weight behind it pressed down like a stone. He didn’t usually smile, not until you were in danger, but his eyes always lingered far too long.
Ember said nothing as he shut the door behind her, leaving her feeling even more caged.
“I wonder how long you’ll last.”
He stepped closer and Ember instinctively stepped back. Time spent with him was either with punishment or the sliminess of something else. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in, every nerve screaming at the subtle menace in his tone.
“You’ve survived so far. Always careful. Resourceful… I admire that. More than you know.”
“Admire?” Ember let out a bitter laugh, hands curling into fists at her sides.
“You…” He paused, nibbling at his bottom lip, “you’ve always been… different. Clever, stubborn… defiant in ways I almost respect.”
“Respect?” Her voice was low, brittle, almost swallowed by space of the room.
Corylus stepped closer, “Well you learned quickly. Certainly couldn’t beat it out of you. Like soot from the mines.” His uniform was perfect: ironed shirt tucked into belted pants, shoes polished by one of the younger children. “I made you resilient. Life out there is far less forgiving than any home could be. I helped you adapt.”
“Adapt? Is that what we're calling abuse?” Her words came slow now, deliberate, threaded with anger.
She would never see him again.
“No terror without purpose. No punishment without reason.” He spoke like reciting from a page, “Every lesson, every failure, every fear, every correction was to make you capable, to make you strong. District 12 is unforgiving. I shielded you from that. Trained you to survive it.”
Her stomach twisted with disgust, “You’ll be glad of one less mouth to feed, then.”
“It was never about the food, Ember.” His voice dropped, shaking his head, “I wasn’t there to feed you. I was there to raise you. Make you into who you are. Another body for the mines, or the Hob, or a man. I let things slide that others wouldn’t be so lucky with. But that’s not what matters, is it? This is our goodbye.”
Her spine stiffened, standing a mere foot from him. She could smell the rationed soap on his skin, the faint tang of sweat. “Is this your way of telling me I was your favourite?” She bit out.
He smiled then, unrestrained, revealing crooked teeth and lightening the scar across his lip. “I wouldn’t say favourite. But I saw in you what I didn’t in others.” He took a step closer, “Potential.”
Ember’s eyes darted to the door. If she screamed, would the Peacekeepers come? Would anyone even be there? When would they take her away?
Or better yet, him?
“Potential for what? Winning the Games?”
The smile stayed, but his eyes roamed over her, “No." He scoffed, "Other things. If you survived, you could maybe come back. Help with the kids.”
She bristled, “If I win, the last place I’ll be going is back to you.”
The smile faltered, then stretched wider, “That’s a shame. Who will take the blame for all the little ones now?”
Guilt flared briefly in her chest.
“See?” His gaze became intense, “There it is. You know you’re going to die, and yet you still want to do more. I could’ve put your name forward to stay here with me. Run the home. Spousal rights.”
Ember blinked, blankly. Spousal rights? Her mouth felt dry; she struggled to swallow.
Corylus reached forward to touch her braid. She flinched.
“I’ve watched you grow into a strong woman. Always so beautiful. There’s so much in the world you don’t know about. I could’ve guided you, shown you. Helped you thrive." He frowned, twirling her hair before dropping it back against her dress, "Seems a waste.”
Ember snapped her mouth shut, voice low and shaking with disgust, “I’d rather die than be with you.”
Anger simmered in the backs of his eyes, but the smile returned, “Good thing you’re about to die, then.”
The door clicked, and two Peacekeepers stepped in. “Time’s up.” came the gravelled voice from behind the helmets.
Corylus stepped back, eyes lingering on her one last time before settling on her face, “I look forward to seeing you in the arena.” He spun on his foot and left, flanked by the guards.
Another pair of Peacekeepers seized her arms. Her heart raced against her ribs, fluttering like a bird.
Trapped.
-
They were escorted together to the train, flanked by guards. Ember caught Cole’s eyes, red, swollen, terrified. She wanted to say something, but words felt useless.
You’ll be fine? A lie.
I’ll protect you? Another.
It’ll be okay.
The biggest lie of all.
The train was a gleaming machine, all brass trim and polished wood interiors, already chilled by humming air vents. After the swelter of District 12, stepping into it was like falling into another world.
Cole wandered from window to window, his fear momentarily forgotten as he pressed his nose against the glass. The train jerked forward as it began to move, and together they watched District 12 fade away from existence. The landscape blurred by, fields and forests and rivers stretching wide.
They were going. Somewhere were likely neither of them would return unless by sheer dumb luck.
Off to slaughter.
Ember allowed her eyes to roam over the carriage.
It was her gilded cage. From the moment Ember stepped across the polished threshold, the air smelt of warmth, varnish, and sweet perfumes. An overwhelming mixture that made her chest tighten. It was too much and unlike anything she had ever experienced before. The floor gleamed, reflecting the soft golden light that spilled from ornate sconces along the walls. Velvet curtains, heavy and lush, framed each window, catching the sunlight and turning it to liquid gold.
The seats were plush, upholstered in deep crimson with delicate gold embroidery along the edges. Each one seemed to aim to cradle the occupant, inviting indulgence while demanding stillness. Between the rows, small tables bore fine china cups, polished silverware, and crystal decanters of juices that shimmered with unnatural vibrancy. The drinks sparkled in the light, promising sweetness Ember didn’t trust.
Above her, the ceiling arched in intricate patterns of gold leaf and carved wood, a miniature cathedral of craftsmanship. Tiny chandeliers hung at intervals, catching the light and scattering it in a thousand flickering rainbows across the polished floor. The walls were panelled in dark, rich wood, inlaid with delicate designs that twisted like living vines.
If Ember wasn’t threatened by her impending death she would have been in awe.
From the window, the countryside rolled past. Green meadows of District 12 shrinking into the distance, tiny homes with soot-streaked chimneys, smoke curling like pale fingers into the sky. Ember felt a hollow ache watching it go, the smell of the train’s perfumed air suffocating her with its artificiality.
Here, life was impossible to grasp, luxurious to the point of cruelty, while beyond the glass, the world she knew, the Seam, the mines, the thin faces of the other children, seemed impossibly far away.
Even the cool air was unnatural, too constant, too perfect. It pressed against her skin, a stark contrast to the sharp, biting heat outside. Ember sank into a velvet chair, the coolness of the room only making her sweat turn clammy. A presence caught her eye as she settled.
Haymitch Abernathy sat slouched at the far end of the car, already pouring himself another glass of amber liquid from a decanter.
Ember stiffened and leant forward in her chair, looking from outside, to Cole, and back to Haymitch again as the silence stretched on. She thought that he would begin straight away. That with what little time left he would give them ideas, tips, anything worth knowing that could help them last an extra hour in the hell that awaited them.
But the silence continued to stretch until the last of District 12 was a dot in the distance, and Haymitch had sunk deeper into his chair, the decanter now half full.
Were they supposed to ask?
Was he?
Nobody told you how this was supposed to work.
At a loss, Ember shifted before addressing their Mentor.
“So,” Her eyes swept to Cole, who seemed to awaken from his spell by the window at her voice, “What do we do?”
Haymitch’s pale eyes flicked toward her, bleary but sharp beneath the haze as he threw back the rest of his drink. A silence stretched on as he looked them over, gaze lingering on Cole the longest, “Be ready to die.”
Embers mouth opened and closed.
What?
Surely he would tell them more? Surely he would help them? It seemed quite obvious to her, and anyone else who had been in the Games that the goal was not to die.
She waited for him to continue, waited for him to give them some tips, even if minuscule for now so that they could lay in their beds and strategise. Maybe even strategise together.
But nothing else came.
Nothing but her disbelief. And then her frustration.
Her mouth downturned and she grit her teeth, “Anything of use?”
Cole shifted uncomfortably at the window as he watched the two of them interact, the tension thickening the artificially thin air. He had been waiting with such an intensity that Ember was more angry on his behalf than for herself.
They were going to die.
The lone Victor raised a single brow and looked at Ember from beneath a curled lock. He was handsome, undeniably so, though it was the kind of handsomeness carved by hard living, not polished smiles or perfect posture.
Haymitch Abernathy looked like most people did in the Seam.
Every crease in his face, every careless gesture, spoke of the weight of what he had survived, and maybe of the ghosts he carried, hidden behind that not-so-charming, almost reckless exterior.
He poked his tongue into his cheek as he looked at her, then over at Cole, “Accept that neither of you are coming back." The lone Victor stood and swayed, golden liquid spilling over the side of the glass in his hand as he swept up the decanter in the other, shaking it in front of them, "Enjoy the delights of the Capitol while you can."
Ember knew in that moment that she hated him.
Her jaw clenched until it ached, “That’s it?” she hissed, voice raw, sensing Cole flinch behind her, “That’s all you have to say?”
Haymitch tilted his head at her, decanter in hand, eyes bleary, voice empty, “Thass'it, Sugar.”
"Y-You're our mentor! You're supposed to tell us how to survive the Games!"
Ember watched in disbelief as Haymitch began to leave the car, stumbling towards the opposite end, bumping into expensive looking dark wooden furniture.
Fear and anger coiled in her chest and twisted into something sharp and aching, “We’re not asking you to save us, just give us something! Anything! If not for me, for him!” She jabbed a trembling finger at Cole, whose wide eyes were frozen in terror.
Haymitch’s gaze turned and narrowed on her, sharp but hollow. He inhaled deeply and breathed out just as loud, as though put out by her request.
“You want a lecture on survival? Step one: Stay alive. Step two: Pray the Capitol likes you.”
Ember’s stomach turned to stone. Rage, despair, and icy terror tangled together, and for the first time she felt the cold clarity of knowing death was coming.
-
That night, Ember lay awake in the Capitol bed they’d given her on the train. The sheets were crisp and cool against her skin, the mattress far too soft.
Cole was in another cabin, guarded, likely far more distressed than her on account of his age and size. She wished she could comfort him, if only to comfort herself. Give herself some sort of distraction for what was to come. What she knew would come. She could hear the faint hum of the train, the steady rhythm of the tracks. The march towards their deaths.
She pressed her palms over her eyes. Her chest ached, not just with fear but with a sick kind of fury.
She had one year left. Just one.
But the odds were never in her favour.