Frost-covered mud crunch beneath Hazel’s boots. Sparse, lifeless grass littered the ground in sporadic patches. Graves, if you could even call them that, lined the cemetery in crooked rows. The District Twelve graveyard was an overcrowded plot of haggard land, a death-colored boutonniere that completed the district’s coal-dust-soaked ensemble.

The white of the morning frost merged with the black and gray, making everything feel and look muddy, dull, and lifeless. Lily would hate it here. Linden probably would consider it inspired.

Hazel felt a weird comradery with the place herself. Not for the depressing color pallet but more because it was as though her sentiment matched the setting. She had, after all, spent the rest of the night wide awake, terrified of what waited beneath the canopy of unconsciousness.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Bellona said as she walked beside her. “But you look like hell.”

Apparently, Bellona recognized the similarities as well.

“Good to know that the outside matches the inside.” Hazel sighed, her breath puffing out in gray steam.

“Restless night?” Bellona asked, studying her out of her peripheral vision.

Hazel pulled her coat tighter, “Something like that.”

“I swear I heard you talking with someone.”

She was grateful for the coolness of the air and the murky morning light as it masked any blush that threatened to break free. “Probably just sleep talking again. Been doing it since I was little. I thought I grew out of it.”

“Oh right,” Bellona’s face melted into pity.

Hazel’s face grew instantly warm despite the frigidness. “Did you watch that part of my games?”

Bellona nodded. Hazel would rather be buried in the cemetery than think about how many others heard her speak Snow’s name in her sleep. She battled her feet to walk normally. “Did I say anything….interesting?”

Her guard shrugged, “Couldn’t tell.”

A small amount of relief filled her. “You have an issue with sleepwalking, too?” Bellona asked.

Relief gave way to a fresh wave of concern. Hazel paused, staring at her with a desperately perplexed grimace, “Not that I know of.”

“Weird,” Her guard faced her, “I thought I heard you moving around in there, but no one came in or out all night.”

Bellona stuttered, watching the harrowed expression filter over Hazel’s features. “I mean, maybe it was nothing.”

Hazel grimaced the image of her tipped-over chair burning in the back of her mind. “Probably.”

“Maybe, I have something that can help.” Bellona tugged on Hazel’s sleeve, “Give me your hand.”

Hazel relented, opening her palm. Bellona reached into her uniform pockets, pulled out her balled fist, and pressed something into Hazel’s open hand.

Hazel shivered. Something about it reminded her of Snow’s ghost giving her the knife. But this was no knife. It was cylindrical, hard, but most definitely plastic in nature. She furrowed her brow, catching a glimpse of the undeniable orange tint of a prescription bottle.

Hazel's voice dropped to a whisper, “Bells, are you giving me drugs?”

Bellona stifled a laugh, shaking her head, “They’re yours.”

Hazel’s eyes widened, looking at the bottle again.

Bellona continued, “You forgot to pack these, and I had a feeling you might need them.”

The only thing I forgot was to chuck them in the trash bin.

“I don’t know.” Hazel started, but Bellona released their hands, moving to grip one of her shoulders.

“I’ve seen how grief can destroy someone, Marlowe,” Bellona said, her stare growing distant for a moment. “Rots a person from the inside out.” She cleared her throat, “You need to take care of yourself.”

Hazel’s shoulders dropped. It must have been a harrowing experience. She tried to imagine a young Bellona, a helpless audience to her own mother’s descent into madness.

“Take them with you.” She sighed, stepping back, “Decide later whether to use them or not, but maybe it would mean at least one decent night’s rest. And you, Marlowe…” Bellona’s features softened, “You definitely need it.”

A full night of sleep without any horrific imagery or weird conversations with ghost versions of Senator Snow did sound suddenly tempting.

“Thank you.” Hazel dropped the pills into her pocket. She resolved to accept the gesture for the time being and decide whether she would flush them later. “I’m so sorry about your mother, Bells,” Hazel replied quietly.

Bellona nodded gruffly before whispering for Hazel to go on ahead.

She acquiesced, returning to her trek through the cemetery while Bellona stayed with the rest of the horde of guards. Hazel was still within eyes sight but at least out of earshot which gave her a small sense of privacy.

Or at least the illusion of it.

Here, there were no flowers and no tokens left in remembrance. Just jagged grave markers with nearly unintelligible inscriptions carved across their surfaces. Despite this, it was clear where the two of the newest rose from the earth. The headstones were simple but cleaner and side by side.

The early morning wind whipped through Hazel’s hair. It carried the scents of dirt and coal instead of sawdust and pinesap.

Ethan’s was to the right, and Ruby’s to the left. Their engravings were unrefined, just their names and the dates of their short lives. She paused as she recognized the engraving on the other side of Ethan’s stone. Tulsi Black.

‘Don’t let him get away with this.” The words were so clear. It was as if Ethan was there whispering them to her.

A shiver shook Hazel’s shoulders, and she tightened her grip on her coat. Hazel clenched her left hand into a hard fist, her finger jamming into the center. But the pain could not stop the overwhelm from dousing her.

There was space for another grave next to Ruby’s. Hazel shuddered as little Amethyst’s face flashed before her eyes. She wanted to promise to protect the girl. Or promise her fallen allies that she would do what she could now that they were gone. But the words died on her lips. How could she protect anyone when she could scarcely hold herself together?

Her pulse throbbed in her chest. She sunk to her knees, hands resting against the frozen dirt, “Forgive me. I’m so sorry. I can’t make any more promises.” She squeezed her eyes closed as she could practically hear the screeching of the spider and Ruby’s screams of terror. Hazel whispered to the stones, “Please, don’t ask me.”

The sound of boots approaching met her ears, shattering her gray bubble of solitude-laden grief. Hazel wiped at her eyelids. “I’m all right, Bells.”

“You don’t appear all right, Miss Hazel.” The voice was not Bellona’s.

Hazel lifted her gaze. Mrs. Black was striding over to her, eyes red-rimmed, wrapped in a deep brown coat that had seen better days.

Hazel quickly pulled herself to her feet and ran her sleeve beneath her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Black. I just…” How could she possibly even begin to articulate what was happening? She’ll think I am insane.

“No need to explain to me.” The woman walked forward until she was shoulder-to-shoulder with Hazel. Harla’s gaze fell to the desolate graveyard, and her lips pressed into a shivering line. The wind swirled around them both as they stood silently for several minutes.

“Sometimes, this is the only place that can convince me it is all real. That they aren’t going to come running in from outside at any moment.”

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Pity wasn’t even the right way to describe how Hazel felt for this woman. Her life was in tatters, both of her children buried beneath her feet.

“Mrs. Black…” Hazel murmured. “You think we will see them again? That there is something after all this?”

Harla’s voice was like a pair of worn boots taken on many muddy hikes. It was caked in a thick layer of understanding and clearly had been to the depths of despair Hazel couldn’t even fathom. “I believe there is.” She dug her hands deeper into her pockets, “There has to be. It is the only thing keeping me going. Keep telling myself that they are waiting for me. And one day, when it is my time, I will see them again.”

Hazel swallowed, gaze dropping to her refined shoes, “My brother thought so, too. Said it all can’t be for nothing.”

A small part of Hazel hoped it was true.

“He was a fine young man and apparently a wise soul.”

Hazel’s lip began to quiver, and she bit down on it, “He was.” She ran her sleeve again under her face.

A heavy hand landed on Hazel’s shoulder. “Let me tell you the same thing my mama told me.” The woman gently pulled until Hazel faced her. Despite her evident grief, sympathy swirled within her features, “Grief is merely the shadow of genuine love. Can’t really have one without the other. And just like a shadow, it follows you wherever you go. Some days, it is dark and obvious. Others, it is barely noticeable, but it’s never truly gone.”

Hazel nodded, more tears welled, dangerously close to spilling.

“I don’t say this to burden you, Miss Hazel, but to help you see it as it is. You can fight a shadow all you want, but it won’t change its inevitable nature. You can make it your enemy or your neighbor.” Harla tilted her head, and her own eyes glistened as she watched Hazel. “For me, it’s always there—a companion, reminding me that my children lived, that their lives had meaning, and that, in some way, they’re still with me.”

The strength of the person before her nearly took her breath away. Harla held within her a shining hopefulness that was nothing less than shocking.

“So that is how you make it through each day?” Hazel met the older woman’s eyes again.

“That and waiting for Trask to get what is coming to him, of course.” Her irises sparkled in an achingly familiar way. “My son would have given anything to see it for himself.”

Hazel felt suddenly sober, “Mrs. Black…forgive me, but…what happened to Tulsi?”

Harla’s face fell, and her hand dropped from Hazel. She cast a glance over her shoulder as she appeared to be having an internal debate. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but…” She turned back to Hazel, and a deep line formed between her brows. “Maybe it is best you are aware of what kind of man he really is.”

Hazel’s heart sped up at the bitter way Harla spat out the word ‘man.’

“My Tulsi… She was fourteen when we…lost her.” Harla shook her head like she was pushing down a familiar-looking overwhelm, “She was much like your brother….” Her eyes fluttered closed as she sucked in a deep breath through her nose, “Took fate into her own hands. I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve stopped her.”

A coldness settled over Hazel that outmatched the wind whipping around them. How many times had she wished the same? “Why did she…?” The words wouldn’t come, or maybe she just refused to allow them to pass through her lips.

Harla reopened her eyes, tears having given way to a smoldering stare. “There may be three graves.” Mrs. Black let out a long, ragged breath, nodding to the stones before them, “There are four bodies buried here, Miss Hazel.”

Hazel’s gut churned, and her mind spun as Harla continued. “There’s little more dangerous in this world than a father to a child he doesn’t want. My girl just beat him to the punch.” Mrs. Black’s eyes locked with hers. “It’s not often someone seeks out the hanging tree willingly. For most, it is a punishment, but for her, it was an…escape. ”

The stale reality of Harla’s words was haunting. It could really only mean one thing. Hazel could barely contain the shock on her face. She fought the urge to dry heave. “My god…”

“He couldn’t stand that she took even a sliver of power away from him.” She paused, shaking her head as if to clear away a storm of memories. “When he lost hold of Tulsi, he decided to punish those closest to her. So he condemned my boy and poor little Ruby.”

Hazel sank her teeth into her cheek; the sharp iron brine merged with the bile threatening to rise in her throat. The sheer malevolence of the man was staggering, more insidious than she had ever dared imagine. Her vision swam with the brutality of the truth.

“I’m so sorry, Harla…” she murmured in an almost whisper.

Harla clasped her hands together, “Should’ve protected them. I can’t tell you how much I'd rather it was my name on these three stones.”

Hazel slid closer to the other woman, resting her own hand over Harla’s clenched ones, “I know exactly what you mean. I don't think I'll ever forgive myself.”

“Fate is cruel, child. But you’re too young to let something you couldn’t control destroy the rest of your life.”

"It wasn't fate..." Hazel's voice dropped low beneath the wind’s howl, “My reaping was fixed, too.”

"I see..." Harla watched her with little to no surprise as if she suspected as much. “I think you’ll find we’re not alone in that.”

“Marlowe,” Bellona’s voice startled her, and she let go of Harla’s hands. Hazel’s stomach nearly left her body. Bellona was escorting the man of the hour. Augustus was clad in a long black winter coat and making his way across the morbid expanse as he conversed with her peacekeeper guard.

Hazel turned back to Mrs. Black, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think he would come here.”

Mrs. Black pulled Hazel into her arms in a tight hug. “Take care of yourself, Miss Hazel.” Chapped lips brushed against her ear as she whispered. “My Tulsi wasn’t the first and won’t be the last.”

Hazel shivered at the thought of others like Tulsi. “I will, you as well, Harla.”

Augustus was upon them as Harla released her, “Morning, ladies.”

Hazel strained to contain the raw disgust coursing through her bloodstream. Though she was certain a hint of a glare shone in her eyes as she looked at the man with a new sense of perverse understanding.

Mrs. Black shot Augustus a withering look but placed a cold smile on her face, “Mr. Trask.”

Augustus glanced at the three graves, “Paying your respects at an early hour?”

“Best time of day, usually less crowded.” Mrs. Black retorted.

“Doesn't seem to be the case today.” He replied, gesturing to the mass of peacekeepers and then settling his attention on Hazel.

“You didn’t give me much of a choice, Mr. Trask,” Hazel said with as careful composure as she could muster, “considering how clearly you emphasized the importance of remaining on schedule.”

Augustus smirked, “I’m pleased that you’re starting to appreciate the order of things.” He turned to the woman beside her, “Which is frankly something that is sorely lacking these days.”

Before he could continue, Hazel cleared her throat. “You know I am just finishing up.” She shrugged in as nonchalant way as she could manage. “I think it is just about time to head out.”

Augustus nodded, but his eyes were sharp as they oscillated between the two women.

Hazel turned to Mrs. Black, “Give your husband my best.”

Augustus smirked, “Yes, give Ivor my regards.”

Harla ignored Augustus, fixing her stare on Hazel, “Good luck to you on the rest of your tour, Miss Hazel.”

Hazel responded with a sharp nod before she backed up. Their eyes met one last time before she turned on her heel. She all but sped walked in the opposite direction hoping to lure the man away from Harla.

Augustus jogged to catch up to Hazel’s retreating form. Once within reach, he raised an arm to her, offering his elbow. Hazel waved it off. “I’m perfectly capable of walking unassisted, Mr. Trask.”

He let his arm drop as the peacekeepers fell in rank behind them as they trudged toward the train station. “Were you two discussing anything interesting?”

Hazel shrugged, “Nothing much. Just the meaning of life and death.”

“Oh, is that all?” His light tan eyes scanned her, and she pulled her hair over her shoulder, hoping to block out the abhorrent man. “Anything specific?”

She cast a look at the gray sky, “The existence of heaven.”

“A little heavy for me at this hour of the morning.”

She eyed him between her crimson tresses, “Right, it would probably be more appropriate to ask you about hell.”

Augustus scoffed, brushing at invisible dirt along his jacket sleeve as if he could as easily wipe away her barb. “Does it matter? The present is the only thing that truly does.”

Hazel scowled ahead, determined to ignore him for the rest of their walk.

“I wouldn’t believe everything I hear,” he interjected when it was clear she wasn’t interested in engaging with him any further.

“And what is it you think I’ve heard?” Hazel inwardly glowered but outwardly was passive, keeping her attention fixed on the path ahead.

“District folk tend to be … deceitful. Most would say anything to get whatever they can.”

Hazel halted, turning back to the man and utterly failing at a neutral expression. “I am District, Mr. Trask.”

“No, Red,” Augustus countered, his shark-like eyes ensnared her, lighting up with the success of his baiting. “You’re a Victor.”

She matched his intensity with a version all her own, “Do you expect a thank you?”

Augustus straightened his spine, his coat rippling in the breeze as he raised a hand toward the cluster of peacekeepers watching from a safe distance, including a particularly perplexed-looking Bellona. They halted as one, waiting for his signal to restart their trek.

Augustus appeared to mull over his response as though carefully choosing his next words. They were nearly lost to the wind as he spoke them. “You stopped being District the day dear old dad handed you over.”

Hazel’s pulse lit with a sudden, painful fire. “You taking advantage of Heath’s broken moral compass to line your pockets doesn’t change who I am.”

“Sure it does.” He gestured behind him at their little audience, “They see it, I see it. You, however, seem blind to it. Or are you just purposefully ignorant?”

“A gambler turned unqualified Gamemaker’s opinion matters little to me.” Hazel studied the monster before her, all pretense having faded. “Though if I were you, I would rethink my stance on the afterlife.”

His eyes flashed as he breathed out, "So ignorance it is."

Hazel turned her gaze away from the man, unable to stand looking at him any longer. Without another word, she turned on her heel and veered once again toward the train station.

Augustus snared her sleeve. It took everything within her not to lurch back like a slug had landed on her hand. “I may be green, but what I said was no opinion. I know the Capitol and Panem far better than you give me credit for.” His features hardened into a genuinely terrifying intensity. “Victors belong to our culture, our legacy, our history. That’s a fact, my dear. It always has been, and it always will be, Red.”

Hazel warred with a heavy scowl, “I don’t belong to anyone, sir.”

She took a step backward, yanking her arm free as he leaned forward. His dark braid with the fading streaks of turquoise flopped over his shoulder like a beached fish. “Oh, but you do,” he said, his tone dripping with certainty.

She turned away once again, all but running from the man. He let her escape, though she swore she heard his voice carried by the breeze, “You, more than most.”