"Holt," Silus warned, sending a stone-cold scowl to the burly annoyance.

  "It's fine," Hazel waved a dismissive palm.

  Inwardly, she was anything but fine. She was painfully aware that her family's history wasn't exactly private – parts of it had been broadcast across Panem, after all.

  Yet, she wasn't accustomed to people probing so blatantly into her past. Especially one she had spent so much energy trying to keep at bay. With a forced smile, she tried to brush off the topic. "With how things are now, who hasn't lost an uncle in the Hunger Games?"

  But Holt seemed either unaware of or indifferent to her discomfort, pressing on with a keenness that bordered on intrusive. "Cedar, wasn’t it?"

  The sheer lack of tact made Hazel's forced smile falter. Holt knew the answers but asked them anyway as if it was some kind of cruel entertainment.

  A flash of Cedar's auburn hair crossed Hazel's mind, tightening her chest. "Yes, his name was Cedar.”

  "You remember him?" Holt continued, undeterred by the rising tension.

  Hazel swallowed hard. "I was just five when he... when he died..."

  How do you describe how tributes die?

  Do they just die?

  Are they murdered? Sure.

  By other tributes? Sometimes.

  By the Capitol? Always.

  "Can we not do this now, Holt?" Silus warned. However, Holt was as dull as he was relentless. Hazel found such traits often went hand in hand.

  "Isn't that when your dad spiraled into alcohol? After your mom left him?" Holt's voice took on a taunting edge as he leaned closer, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing.

  Hazel forced a laugh that bordered on a fully blown scoff. "Wow, Holt, do you know my favorite color but want to pretend to ask me what it is? Are you that bored or…” she whispered, “have you been dipping into Birch’s stash?”

  Holt merely shrugged, his expression calm. "Just got me thinking, what about the reaping and all? You know…about things."

  "Sounds awful dangerous for the rest of us." Hazel retorted, earning chuckles.

  Rowan stepped up, his body tense. "What's your angle, Holt?" Holt's eyebrows raised as if he were surprised, but his crooked smile hinted that he had only achieved his goal, at least partially.

  "Row, don't worry about it. People are curious; it is okay. Let's get back to work," she attempted to persuade, failing miserably when Holt ignored her altogether.

  Holt’s smile widened unnaturally. “Just curious, is all."

  "Why don't you go be curious somewhere else." Rowan's voice sounded like it could cool the air temperature.

  "Row," Silus warned, sidling closer to his younger brother.

  Holt raised his dirt-streaked hands in a mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Just wondering why someone like Fern would ditch Heath for a man… well, like your dad."

  Holt had always been antagonistic and simmered in his fair share of drama, but he had never been this directly confrontational.

  Rowan surged forward. “The hell is your problem?"

  The crowd of lumberjacks paused their work, their attention fixed on the rising confrontation.

  "Row, don't." Silus's hand latched onto Rowan's chest. "He's not worth it."

  When Rowan didn't move, Silus muscled his brother away, and the boy's shirt twisted around his fist. "We are not going to engage with him. It is below us."

  Hazel followed, running her hand down Rowan's shoulder. "He could use a bit of Birch's cyder right about now, don't you think?" She sighed. "The reaping has everyone on edge. He's just looking for a reaction. Let's walk away, okay?"

  Rowan reluctantly turned away, his frown deepening, his posture radiating anger.

  "What is going on over here?" Foreman Thron approached, and the lines between his brows grew more profound.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "God, his voice sounds like a cat on fire being thrown into a wood shredder," Hazel muttered to her brothers.

  Rowan stifled a chuckle at her comment while Silus shot her a warning glare. "Haze, seriously, not now."

  Silus, always the mediator, faced Thron. "Just a minor disagreement, sir. Nothing to be concerned about."

  Thron was clearly unconvinced, his gaze lingering on Rowan's taut expression and clenched fists. "Doesn't look 'minor' from where I stand.”

  Holt raised his hands in an innocent gesture. "Some people just can't take a joke, boss."

  "Get back to work, Holt. I don't want to see your face again until it's time to head back to the mill."

  "Of course, sir," Holt replied, his voice dropping a notch in deference as he began to walk away.

  "Oh, and one more thing?" Thron called after him.

  Holt stopped, turning back. "Yes, sir?"

  "I want those practice targets dismantled by the end of the day. We'll all be in hot water if the wrong peacekeeper stumbles upon one."

  The color drained slightly from Holt's face. Axe throwing was more than just a pastime; it was a release for the lumberjacks. The peacekeepers sometimes joined in, but the new foreman's rules were clear—no exceptions.

  "Understood, sir."

  Holt picked up his gear and headed towards the edge of the woods. He seemed ready to get back to work, but not without casting a sly wink in Rowan's direction.

  Thron's scrutiny returned to the three siblings, his dark eyes probing each of them. But before he could question further, the radios, placed throughout the lumber site for official purposes, sprang to crackling life.

  The highly modern devices were out of place in the rugged, earthy environment of the clearing. Typically, they were only used for official communications, outside of the rare tech-savvy logger who could tweak the signal to catch snippets of music broadcast from the Capitol. Though most of the time, it was stiff and boring, if not just the anthem on repeat.

  On this occasion, the radios served their primary purpose, relaying a message from the Capitol.

  A shiver caressed Hazel’s spine as words boomed through the clearing.

  "Attention, citizens of Panem. This evening at 7:00 PM, a mandatory broadcast will be aired. Head Gamemaker Dr. Volumina Gaul and Gamemaker Senator Coriolanus Snow will present a special announcement regarding the 15th Annual Hunger Games. All citizens are required to tune in. Due to this important broadcast, a district-wide curfew will be strictly enforced starting at 6:45 PM. Any citizens found loitering outside after this time will face strict penalties. Remember, your cooperation is vital to our great nation. Happy Hunger Games."

  The unnatural sound faded out as suddenly as it came. It felt as though the air had thinned around the clearing. The workers around the site exchanged uneasy glances. Silus took a deep, shaky breath next to her.

  Hazel's eyes momentarily rested on Thron Pilner. The hard edges of his stern demeanor softened, revealing a glimpse of the deep, unspoken sorrow beneath.

  A sheen of tears sparkled at the edges of his eyes before he abruptly turned and walked away. A twinge of guilt pricked Hazel's conscience for her earlier comments about him like a splinter caught up under her skin.

  Turning to her brothers, Hazel exchanged a look with Silus and Rowan, "This day just keeps getting better."

  Exhaling slowly, Silus scanned their faces. "Whatever it is. It can't be good."

  Hazel kept her head bowed through the remaining hours of the day. Allowing the burn of her muscles and the roar of axes and machinery to drown her thoughts.

  However, some images still slipped through the distractions.

  Dr. Gaul conjured in the back of her mind. The Head Gamemaker's appearance was distinctive – an explosion of wild curly hair that reflected the chaotic nature of her mind. Dr. Gaul's was captivating and terrifying. While her teeth were bright and almost too-white a smile, it was her eyes that separated her from the masses.

  Mismatched deep brown and crystalline blue were mesmerizing but held an edge of derangement.

  Frigidity crept down her spine as she thought of whatever announcement Dr. Gaul was prepared to make this evening.

  And then there was Senator Coriolanus Snow. Dr. Gaul’s most prized pupil. He was a figure Hazel found almost more unnerving. He was the epitome of a wolf in sheep's clothing—tall, handsome, with piercing blue eyes and bright blond hair, adored in the Capitol and rapidly rising in the political arena.

  As Hazel maneuvered through the dense woods, adrift her thoughts, she nearly stepped on a cluster of small white flowers. Their presence was almost camouflaged among the greenery. She paused, tucking her nose into the crook of her elbow.

  They were young Sapphire's Breath blossoms. It was an indigenous flower found deep within the forests of District Seven.

  While seemingly innocent, they retained a noxious secret within their pearl-toned petals.

  What began as pure white buds matured into a spellbinding cerulean, a hue that was so vivid it appeared borderline artificial.

  Yet, that was hardly the most interesting aspect of Sapphire's Breath. That attribute was its captivating aroma. In small doses, it could induce euphoria. But the scent was a double-edged sword.

  If one were to inhale too much of its fragrance, it became highly lethal, overwhelming the senses and leading to a swift, albeit serene, demise.

  She vividly remembered the first time she saw a cluster of Sapphire's Breath in full bloom, the deep blue petals almost glowing in a shaft of sunlight breaking through the dense canopy. The sight was breathtaking yet terrifying. Hazel knew the stories all too well – of fellow District Seven citizens who had succumbed to the flower, drawn in by its beauty and the promise of its aroma.

  The fear of Sapphire’s Breath was ingrained in the people of District Seven. Even when fully matured, the flowers couldn’t be burned safely—their smoke was just as deadly.

  Over the years, she had encountered the poisonous bloom countless times, always keeping a wary distance. Never had she been foolish enough to sample its scent, no matter the euphoria it promised.

  Tramping forward, her boot pressed down on a cluster of blossoms, grinding them into the ground. She scoffed as she stared at the crushed snow-white petals.

  Every time she saw Coriolanus Snow, she couldn't help but think of the death-dealing blooms. But not in the way others might think. Not because of the danger but because it was hidden behind something polished, pristine.

  Everyone knew what Snow was. He was an utter Gamemaker. An architect of suffering. A designer of demise. Maybe, worst of all, a politician.

  He wrapped himself in prim suits and megawatt smiles, a man who feigned civility while dealing out death.

  A thought struck her. Another thing the flowers and the Senator had in common: I certainly don't plan on ever getting close enough to Snow to find out what he smells like.