The Weight of the Crown

The Wake of Silence

The sun was just beginning to rise over the fertile lands of District 11, slowly tearing through the veil of mist that cloaked the orchards and fields like a patient hand wiping away the pain of the night. Dew-speckled leaves rustled softly in the warm morning breeze. The branches of the peach trees bowed gracefully under the weight of ripe fruit, while the scent of damp earth and sun-warmed wood floated in the air.

In that golden light, Auren Smith walked on, her boots sinking into the mud, her calloused hands buried deep in the pockets of a frayed jacket. She didn't look like a hero. Or a monster. Just a slim, upright figure with eyes sharp as a viper's fang, her jaw clenched under the weight of memories only she could carry.

The people of District 11 called her The Viper. A nickname whispered between rows of cotton, passed along in the rustling of the leaves. Five boys. Five beating hearts. Five minds seduced, then shattered. She hadn't killed them with her hands, no. She had offered them berries, smiling sweetly, poison in her eyes. They had loved her. She had doomed them. And she had survived.

Today, Auren wasn't thinking about them. She was thinking about the rain from the night before, the tree that had snapped near the greenhouse, the way her mother would have cooked the potatoes if she'd still been around. She thought about everything—except the Games. But the silence in District 11 that morning was too dense, too heavy with anticipation. As if the land itself was holding its breath.

She crossed the dusty alleys, nodding at the workers heading toward the fields. They avoided her without avoiding her. She wasn't hated. Or admired. She was feared. Auren had won. And in District 11, no one wins without losing a part of themselves. The hours slid by slowly, like black honey dripping from a cracked spoon.

Auren spent the morning in the orchard, arms reaching up to the heavy branches, fingers quick but mechanical, picking the fruit with dull precision. Around her, the other pickers busied themselves, lowering their eyes when they met hers. She didn't need their respect. She had their silence. And sometimes, in that lukewarm peace, it was enough.

A little girl with tight braids approached her timidly, a shiny apple in her hands. She held it out to Auren with a shyness that was almost painful. Auren knelt, took the fruit, turned it in her fingers.

"It's for you" the girl whispered, barely audible. "Mama says you're mean, but I think your eyes are just sad."

Auren stared at her for a moment. The viper in her, the one the Capitol had carved, might've laughed, or walked away. But something older, something still human, rose to the surface. She handed the apple back and gently brushed the girl's cheek with the back of her hand.

"Keep it. And tell your mama I'm not mean. I'm just still alive."

She stood, heart a little heavier, and returned to work.

At noon, the District's bells rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Lunch was served. Auren joined the others, all gathered around the long tables set beneath the old fig trees. They served hard bread, corn mash, and a bit of warm stew. She sat alone, as always, at the end of an empty table. A few children glanced at her from the corners of their eyes. The adults pretended not to see her.

A figure approached. Seeder.

"Still giving the whole District the silent treatment?" she murmured, setting a tray beside her.

Auren smirked. Seeder, the only other female Victor from District 11. Her shadow sister. Her comrade in scars. She wore her age like an invisible crown: peppered hair, stern eyes, but her back still straight. A woman forged by pain.

"Waiting for them to build me a statue" Auren said, tearing off a piece of bread.

Seeder gave a short laugh. "That day, I want to pick the pose."