Azalea Rose Willow loves three things above everything else:
summer, the only season that mattered in her mind.
singing, alongside the comforting embrace of her guitar.
but above all, the easy camaraderie with the boy who lives next door to her, and...
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The world dissolved into a hazy blur.
Azalea's name echoed through the square, a sonic boom that shattered the fragile silence.
She had been reaped, reaped for the 68th Hunger Games.
Heads swiveled, eyes widening in a mixture of shock, relief, and morbid curiosity. Gasps escaped trembling lips as the weight of the announcement settled in.
Some, selfishly relieved it wasn't their child, exhaled shaky breaths. Others, twisted by the Games' perverse allure, let out a sickening cheer, their faces lit with a hunger for the spectacle to come.
Azalea stood frozen, a statue carved from ice. The world seemed to blur around her, the frantic beating of her heart the only sound breaking the deafening silence. Then, a wave of heat flooded her cheeks, and her body reacted as if on autopilot.
Remember your training, her father's voice echoed in her mind. Don't show fear.
Slowly, deliberately, she straightened her posture, raising her chin a fraction. With measured steps, she began to walk towards the stage, each step a conscious act of control.
The crowd parted before her like a churning sea, their gazes a mix of pity and morbid fascination. Ignoring them, Azalea focused on the stage, where Catlina stood with the glass bowl filled with other papers, other girls that could've been her right now, her ever-present smile stretched even wider.
"Well, well," Catlina chirped, her voice saccharine sweet, "What was your name again dear?"
"Azalea Rose Willow."
"And how old are you darling?"
"Seventeen."
Catlina's smile widened, recognition dawning in her eyes. "Did you say, Willow? As in Tomas Willow's daughter?"
A thrill of excitement ran through the escort. A victor's child! The crowd stirred with renewed interest. Azalea tried to hold back a grimace. Catlina's excitement felt like a bucket of ice dumped on her already chilled heart. Did the woman not understand the gravity of the situation? Her forced smile strained at the edges, a silent plea for the woman to tone down the theatrics.
However, Catlina was oblivious, her voice reaching a fever pitch. "This is just wonderful, folks! A legacy tribute! The daughter of a victor! The Games are sure to be even more thrilling this year!"
Azalea's gaze darted across the crowd, seeking solace in familiar faces. Mags, her ever-stoic mentor, stood there, her weathered face etched with heartbreak.
Her father, Tomas Willow, the victor of the 45th Games, was a statue of controlled grief. He stared resolutely forward, a mask of stoicism hiding the turmoil within. Everyone's eyes seemed to now be on him, the past victor whose daughter now faced the same fate.
