Silus swiftly stepped in, his protective instincts kicking in. "Holt," he said firmly.

Hazel, however, attempted to downplay the situation. "It's fine," she said, waving a hand dismissively, though inwardly, she felt anything but fine. She was painfully aware that her family's history wasn't exactly private – parts of it had been broadcast across Panem, after all. Yet, she wasn't accustomed to people probing so blatantly into her past, a past she had spent so much energy trying to keep at bay. With a forced smile, she tried to brush off the topic. "With how things are now, who hasn't lost an uncle in the Hunger Games?"

But Holt seemed either unaware of or indifferent to her discomfort, pressing on with a keenness that bordered on intrusive. "Wasn't his name Cedar?" he persisted, his curiosity tinged with a lack of tact that made Hazel's forced smile falter. It also made Hazel realize Holt knew the answers but asked them anyway.

A flash of Cedar's auburn hair crossed Hazel's mind, tightening her chest. "Yes, Cedar," she managed to say, voice flat, an attempt at indifference.

"And you remember him?" Holt continued, undeterred by the rising tension.

Hazel swallowed hard, her discomfort palpable. "I was just five when he... when he died..."

Her words trailed off. How do you describe how tributes die? Do they just die? Are they murdered? Sure. Murdered by other tributes? Sometimes. Or murdered by the Capitol itself? Always.

"Can we not do this now, Holt?" Silus interjected, his tone a clear warning, but Holt was relentless. Despite the impending reaping, she had attempted to keep her painful memories at bay, avoiding any thought of her uncle or her father, for that matter.

"Isn't that when your dad spiraled into alcohol? After your mom left him?" Holt's voice took on a taunting edge as he leaned closer, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing.

Hazel forced a light-hearted laugh, masking her discomfort. "Wow, Holt, do you know my favorite color but want to pretend to ask me what it is? Sounds like you've been doing some serious stalking," she tried to divert the conversation. "That's kind of creepy, you know."

Holt merely shrugged, his expression calm. "Just got me thinking, what with the reaping and all. You know, about things."

"You thinking? Sounds dangerous for the rest of us." Hazel retorted, earning chuckles from a few lumberjacks nearby.

Rowan stepped up, his body tense. "What's your angle, Holt?" Holt's eyebrows raised as if he were surprised, but his crooked smile hinted that he had only achieved his goal, at least partially.

"Rowan, don't worry about it. People are curious; it is okay. Let's get back to work," she attempted to persuade, failing miserably when Holt ignored her altogether.

"It's just curiosity," Holt claimed, his smile widening unnaturally. "I'm genuinely curious."

"Why don't you go be curious somewhere else." Rowan's voice sounded like it could cool the air temperature.

"Row," Silus's deep voice warned. He stepped closer to his younger brother and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Holt threw up his dirt-streaked hands in a mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Just wondering why someone like Fern would ditch Heath for a man like your dad." Holt had always been antagonistic and seemed to revel in drama, but he had never been this directly confrontational.

Rowan surged forward, “What the hell is your problem?"

The crowd of lumberjacks paused their work, their attention fixed on the confrontation.

"Row, don't." Silus's hand pressed against Rowan's chest, urging him back. "He's not worth it."

When Rowan didn't move, Silus pulled his brother away, the boy's shirt clutched tightly in his fist. His voice was low and deliberate, "We are not going to engage with him. It is below us."

Hazel ran her hand down Rowan's shoulder. "He could use a bit of Birch's cyder right about now, don't you think?" She sighed. "The reaping has everyone on edge. He's just looking for a reaction. Let's walk away, okay?"

Rowan reluctantly turned away, his frown deepening, his posture radiating anger.

"What is going on over here?" The escalating argument had clearly drawn attention. Foreman Thron approached, his characteristic gruffness more pronounced as the deep frown lines between his brows grew more profound.

"God, his voice sounds like a cat on fire being thrown into a wood shredder," Hazel muttered to her brothers. Rowan stifled a chuckle at her comment while Silus shot her a warning glance. "Haze, seriously, not now."

Silus, always the mediator, faced Thron. "Just a minor disagreement, sir. Nothing to be concerned about."

Thron looked unconvinced, his gaze lingering on Rowan's taut expression and clenched fists. "Doesn't look 'minor' from where I stand," he remarked skeptically.

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Holt raised his hands in an innocent gesture. "Some people just can't take a joke, boss."

"Get back to work, Holt. I don't want to see your face again until it's time to head back to the mill."

"Of course, sir," Holt replied, his voice dropping a notch in deference as he began to walk away.

"Oh, and one more thing?" Thron called after him.

Holt stopped, turning back. "Yes, sir?"

"I want those practice targets dismantled by the end of the day. We'll all be in trouble if a peacekeeper stumbles upon one."

The color drained slightly from Holt's face. Axe throwing was more than just a pastime; it was a release for the lumberjacks. The peacekeepers sometimes joined in, but the new foreman's rules were clear—no exceptions.

"Understood, sir."

Holt picked up his gear and headed towards the edge of the woods. He seemed ready to get back to work, but not without casting a sly wink in Rowan's direction.

Thron's scrutiny returned to the three siblings, his dark eyes probing each of them. But before he could question further, the radios, strategically placed throughout the lumber site for official purposes, sprang to life, disrupting the forest's natural ambiance. These devices, sleek and modern in design, were out of place in the rugged, earthy environment of the clearing. They were typically used for official communications, but sometimes, the lumberjacks would tweak them to catch snippets of music broadcast from the Capitol.

On this occasion, the radios served their primary purpose, relaying a message from the Capitol in a tone that commanded attention.

"Attention, citizens of Panem. This evening at 7:00 PM, a mandatory broadcast will be aired. Head Gamemaker Dr. Volumina Gaul and Gamemaker Senator Coriolanus Snow will present a special announcement regarding the 15th Annual Hunger Games. All citizens are required to tune in. Due to this important broadcast, a district-wide curfew will be strictly enforced starting at 6:45 PM. Any citizens found loitering outside after this time will face strict penalties. Remember, your cooperation is vital to our great nation. Happy Hunger Games."

The unnatural sound faded out as suddenly as it came. It felt as though the air had thinned around the clearing. The workers around the site exchanged uneasy glances. Silus took a deep, shaky breath next to her.

Hazel's eyes momentarily rested on Thron Pilner. The hard edges of his stern demeanor softened, revealing a glimpse of the deep, unspoken sorrow beneath. She saw the sheen of tears at the edges of his eyes before he abruptly turned and walked away, his steps heavy. A twinge of guilt pricked Hazel's conscience for her earlier comments about him like a splinter caught up under her skin.

Turning to her brothers, Hazel exchanged a look with Silus and Rowan, "Well, that's just great," she muttered. "This day just keeps getting better."

Exhaling slowly, Silus scanned their faces. "Whatever it is," he said, his voice low, "It can't be good."

Hazel worked diligently through the remaining hours of the day; her actions were mechanical, and her mind was adrift.

She repeatedly conjured the image of Dr. Gaul. The Head Gamemaker's appearance was distinctive – an explosion of wild curly hair that seemed to mirror the chaotic nature of her mind. Dr. Gaul's face was captivating and terrifying, often lit by a wide, bright white smile. But it was her eyes that Hazel remembered most vividly – cold, calculating, and devoid of warmth. Those eyes seemed to see everything and gave away nothing, a significant contrast to the welcoming curve of her smile.

Hazel could feel a chill run down her spine as she thought of Dr. Gaul's role in the Hunger Games. The way she manipulated the mutations, turning animals into weapons of terror, and her influence over the Games themselves made her a figure of dread in the districts. Yet, in the Capitol, Dr. Gaul was held in high regard, her brilliance and ruthlessness admired and revered.

This duality of fear and admiration Dr. Gaul inspired was unsettling to Hazel. She represented a power and cruelty far beyond the understanding of the average district citizen. The thought of whatever announcement Dr. Gaul had to make that evening sent a wave of anxiety through Hazel, her hands tightening around Oliver as she tried to focus on her work.

And then there was Senator Coriolanus Snow, a figure Hazel found even more disturbing. He was the epitome of a wolf in sheep's clothing—tall, handsome, with piercing blue eyes and bright blond hair, adored in the Capitol and rapidly rising in the political arena.

As Hazel maneuvered through the dense underbrush, lost in her thoughts, she nearly stepped on a cluster of small white flowers. Their presence was almost camouflaged among the greenery. Pausing, she realized that they were young Sapphire's Breath blossoms. It was an indigenous flower found deep within the forests of District 7. It began as an innocent, pure white blossom, harmless and almost inviting. However, as it matured, its petals transformed into a deep, mesmerizing blue, a vivid color that seemed nearly artificial.

What was most interesting about Sapphire's Breath was its captivating aroma, which, in small doses, could induce a sense of euphoria. But the scent was a double-edged sword. If one were to inhale too much of its fragrance, it became lethal, overwhelming the senses and leading to a swift, albeit serene, demise. She vividly remembered the first time she saw a cluster of Sapphire's Breath in full bloom, the deep blue petals almost glowing in a shaft of sunlight breaking through the dense canopy. The sight was breathtaking yet terrifying. Hazel knew the stories all too well – of fellow District 7 citizens who had succumbed to the flower, drawn in by its beauty and the promise of its aroma.

The fear of the Sapphire's Breath was ingrained in the people of District 7. The flowers couldn't even be burned safely; the smoke was deadly.

She scoffed to herself as she stared down at the innocent snow-white petals. Whenever she saw Coriolanus Snow, she couldn't help but be reminded of Sapphire's Breath. He seemed to embody an unnerving, beautiful danger.

With a swift motion, she stepped forward. Her boot pressed down on the cluster of blossoms, crushing them into the soil. She lifted her foot, leaving the flowers flattened and embedded in the earth.

Turning away from the crushed blooms, Hazel resumed her path, her pace steady. She had encountered the deadly flower numerous times during clearing operations in the dense woods. Still, she had always maintained a cautious distance from Sapphire's Breath, never daring to experience its deceptive scent, no matter the euphoria it promised. A thought struck her. Another thing they have in common is I certainly don't plan on ever getting close enough to Snow to find out what he smells like.