Scarlet.

XI

"One Last Sacrifice."

One thing I learned from last year's games is that stamina is everything, which is why I've pushed myself to train again. Each morning, I run roughly twelve miles before I approach the outskirts of the urban area. In the distance, I can spot rudimentary huts dotting the harsh mountains that encircle our district. This is where the poorest portion of the population resides, at least the adults, because the young ones live in the Practice Center until they're old enough to be sent to the games or enrolled in the military academy.

I've crossed paths with several people during my runs, and absolutely everyone recognizes me as one of the victors. However, no one speaks to me; they simply lower their gaze and continue minding their own business, and I do the same. The sun slowly peeks over the horizon, and this is my signal to head back to the urban area; my training starts at three in the morning, and all of the district peacekeepers already recognize me, as I'm the only person walking the streets at that hour (besides the miners and the cadets from the academy, of course), but they don't seem to have a problem with me.

The air is dry, a result of a mix of smoke and dust, which causes my eyes to sting and my lips to crack. The metallic taste of blood prompts me to take a sip of water before heading back to the training center. The news of the Reaping had hit all of us like a bucket of icy water. We haven't decided who we'll send yet, but I prefer to be prepared because I'm convinced that it's going to be me. Not because they force me to go, but because I want to do it.

The mere thought of returning to the Capitol makes me sick to my stomach. I don't want to go back; I won't go back. I'd rather die with what little dignity I have left than spend five minutes with a Sponsor. Going back to the games would be like the cherry on top. I've been prepared for this my entire life, and what better way to die than doing what I do best: fighting.

My training routine hasn't changed too much. The first week was a complete disaster since I had been neglecting my body for nearly a year. I've lost around eighteen pounds and all the little strength I had. My aim has deteriorated due to the recurring dizziness caused by the state of starvation I was in. However, I've been gradually improving. What concerned me the most was my lack of endurance, and that's the first thing I've decided to regain.

Ares has been helping me. At first, it felt awkward and uncomfortable, but his combat techniques have been extremely useful. He knows I'll be going to the games; I haven't told him directly, but he's done the math in his head. The training that cadets like him receive is something I wish I had before going to the games last year. It would have saved me a couple of headaches.

He waits for me every morning at half-past seven at the entrance to the Practice Center, and today is no exception. My old coaches were more than happy when I told them that I wanted to train there again. They had set up a special room, packed to the brim with weapons and equipment that would be useful to me. Occasionally, Ezra, Brutus, and Enobaria train with us as well. We all know that the inevitable is drawing near, and it's better to be prepared.

Cato has been missing since Marjorie's funeral, and I don't blame him. But I don't have the time or the patience to deal with other people's feelings right now. I've seen him a couple of times, so I know he's still alive, but I doubt he's on the same page as the rest of us when it comes to the Quarter Quell.

"You're distracted," Ares says in the middle of our fight, disarming me before forcefully throwing me to the ground. "You're not even fighting back."

I sigh bitterly, irritated that he can see right through me. He extends his hand, and I accept it. As I get up, I wipe the sweat from my forehead, and he hands me back the knife he had taken from my hand moments ago.