The 23 Cannons Trilogy

Truce

Brinn opened his eyes to darkness. He blinked several times, trying to change what he saw in front of him, but it didn't make a difference whether his eyes were open or not: blackness was all that greeted him. Two thoughts simultaneously entered his head. The first was that the Gamemakers had enshrouded the arena in darkness. The second was that somehow, in the night, Brinn had gone blind.

Panicking, Brinn sat up. As he did so, a rustling sound accompanied him, and at the same time, both his fears were disproved. Instead of those horrific thoughts, all that had happened was that overnight, a pile of brown leaves had been dumped on Brinn. He then looked around his surroundings, finding that the trees were half-bare, and that the entire forest floor had been coated in a blanket of leaves. A chill struck Brinn: the leaves falling off meant that the trees were dying.

Brinn looked directly above him, seeing a bare, spindly branch looming over where he slept. Without wasting any time, Brinn jumped to his feet, making even more noise as his boots made the leaves rustle. He was breathing heavily, on the verge of breaking into a full-blown panic attack. The season had suddenly changed, and it felt as if he was back home in District 7, on the day of the accident. The day that had made so many ghosts etch themselves into his brain. It had only been sheer luck that the tree hadn't crushed Brinn back then, but now, surrounded by them, he knew that one of them would certainly kill him, in order to complete the cycle begun all those years ago.

And to make matters worse, he couldn't even sneak out of the woods: the fallen leaves had ensured that stealth was no more. It would mean that if there were any nearby tributes, they would immediately be drawn to the noise he was making. And right now, Brinn had to remind himself that the real opponents were the other tributes, not the trees. The trees were there to unhinge him, but the tributes were there to end his life. He had to that when confronting the trees: he was better than that.

But still, how come the trees had suddenly died? Brinn found himself pondering over this question as he trudged through the leaves, rustling with every step, also hoping that nobody would hear him. The arena had been full of life just last night: why had the climate changed? And as Brinn thought this, he noticed a definite chill in the air. He looked up, and noticed that the sky was now overcast, grey clouds staring down at him.

Brinn, the answer is simple.

Yes, so very simple.

How is the answer not clear to you?

It is the lord.

The lord of the dead.

He is raining judgement upon the tormented souls.

This is why the land is dying.

He is making his presence known.

And soon.

Yes, so very soon.

Soon, death will greet all.

Even you, Brinn.

None can escape death's grip.

Resistance is futile.

All are doomed.

Brinn felt a wave of panic attack him as the ghosts turned restless, whispering these ominous things into his mind. The lord of the dead? Here? It couldn't be. Could it? Then again, it did make sense for someone as vile as the Gamemakers to be in contact with the lord of the dead. Perhaps what Brinn had always dismissed as a story was real. And here. And willing to kill.

He desperately tried to avoid these thoughts, but with every step, Brinn felt his heart sink. Death was already all around him; he didn't need to see it to know. But that was what the ghosts were implying, and when had they ever been wrong? So far, they had steered him from death. But now to know that a brush with it was inevitable felt like a crushing blow. Brinn had done everything to keep himself safe, and out of harm's way. Why was he going to have to come face-to-face with death? It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair!