"Timber!" The lumberjack's call sliced through the forest's tranquility. The sound was a sobering warning that seemed to still the very air. Hazel's eyes locked onto a majestic white pine whose towering trunk groaned under its own weight. As it tilted, the once-stationary behemoth transformed into a moving spectacle of nature's power. The sound of its fall was a crescendo, starting with the splintering crack of wood and growing to a deafening roar as it cleaved through the air. Birds erupted from the treetops in a flurry of activity.

Hazel felt a vibration under her feet as the pine met the earth; the impact sent a cloud of dust and bark fragments into the air. The earthy smell of freshly cut wood mingled with the musk of the dew-drenched forest floor. Hazel closed her eyes when she thought none of the others were looking, breathing deeply. The scent was intoxicating. Freshly cut trees were one of her favorite smells in the whole world.

As she opened her eyes again, Hazel felt a momentary sadness for the fallen tree. But the fallen pine, its branches splayed out, was not just future lumber; it symbolized her home, livelihood, and everything District Seven.

As the echo of the fall faded, the forest slowly returned to its rhythm, and the incident was absorbed into its ongoing narrative. The fallen tree left a void in the forest, a space that would soon be filled by new life. No matter how big a tree they brought down, the busy hum of the forest always returned.

The morning's dew clung to her skin and hair, imparting a cool, invigorating sensation that seemed to rejuvenate her mind and spirit. Hazel took a moment to simply stand and immerse herself in the forest's beauty—the melodic chorus of birds, the soft whisper of leaves in the breeze, and the resonant sound of axes striking wood. Here, she felt a connection—this forest was as much her home as the modest log cabin where her family resided.

The lumber site was alive with a focused energy, a hive of workers, each playing their part in the intricate dance of harvesting the forest's bounty. Amidst this buzz of activity, Hazel moved with a quiet efficiency, her viridian eyes scanning the area. Unlike her brothers, she was often tasked with marking the trees for cutting and deciding which trees were ripe for felling.

As she worked, Hazel's gaze often drifted toward her brothers. Each was engrossed in their respective tasks. Watching them, a sense of pride mingled with an undercurrent of anxiousness within her.

Silus, the older of her two stepbrothers, was already maneuvering to prepare the fallen tree for transport. His muscles were taut, and with effort, he sliced through wood like it was air. His skin glistened with the exertion, and his close-cropped hair almost blended with the shadows. Watching Silus at work, Hazel couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. He wielded his axe with skill and precision that spoke of years of experience he shouldn't possess at seventeen.

Her gaze wandered to Rowan, younger but with gravity all his own. Amidst the racket of engines and the clatter of chains, he directed the loggers with a series of pointed gestures and brief commands. Sawdust clung to his skin like flecks of gold in his dark curls, now restrained to keep his vision clear. Unlike the more vocal Silus, Rowan's strength lay in his observation, his eyes scanning the landscape.

Hazel grasped Oliver tighter, its handle worn smooth from years of use. It felt as natural in her hands as the rhythm of her heartbeat. Oliver may not have been as impressive as Silus's axe or Rowan's, but the weight was comfortable. In District 7, wielding an axe and navigating the woods was as second nature as breathing, a skill honed from early adolescence.

She paused, noting Silus laboring ahead. Despite the morning's coolness, his shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to his back as he set aside his axe to wipe his brow. Hazel unslung her water flask and approached him. The forest floor muffled her footsteps, making her presence almost as unnoticed as the breeze. "You're working up quite the storm there, aren't you?" Hazel observed, offering the flask to him with a concerned frown.

Silus looked up, surprise giving way to relief as he accepted the flask. He took a long, deep drink, his throat working as he gulped down the water. "Well, some of us put a bit more muscle into our work," he said with a playful smirk. "Someone's got to make up for your slacking."

"Hey, I bring refreshments. That's crucial support," Hazel shot back, her tone light, "And remind me to reconsider my generosity next time I offer hydration, and I get sass in return."

Silus chuckled, wiping the last drops of water from his chin. "True, without your five-star service, where would we be?" he hoisted his axe onto his shoulder. "Keep the water coming, and I'll keep the sass to a minimum. Deal?"

Hazel grinned, nodding in mock seriousness. "Deal. Let's not forget who's the big sister here—even if you've outgrown me in size." She playfully poked his arm, emphasizing her point. "Sometimes, I still have to keep you in line."

Silus laughed, the sound echoing slightly in the wooded clearing. "Fair enough, Haze. I guess some things never change, huh? You're always looking out for me." He rolled his eyes, "Even when I don't want you to."

She stuck her tongue out at him but jolted suddenly when an irritating voice rang out behind her.

"Are you two working or chatting like old women?" an ungodly voice barked, his tone gruff and unamused. The sudden interruption came from Thron Pilner, a middle-aged man whose gravelly voice bore the marks of years of indulging in large, illegal cigars.

Hazel muttered under her breath, "Looks like we've found Birch's replacement," exchanging a knowing glance with Silus. To Thron, she raised her voice, "Sorry, boss, just taking a quick water break."

Thron's response was curt, "Break time is at noon, not whenever you decide."

Silus, ever the peacemaker, intervened smoothly. "Of course, sorry about that. My sister was just looking out for me." He returned the water to Hazel and picked up his axe, ready to resume work.

The slight narrowing of Thron's eyes sent a wave of tension through the air. "Right, I forgot you two are siblings," he murmured. The insinuation in his words did not escape Hazel; a warm flush spread across her cheeks. Silus, with a firm yet comforting grip, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

With reluctance, she put away the water and took up her axe, her actions a bit more rigid. From the corner of her eye, she caught Rowan observing the interaction. Rowan, typically more reserved, had become increasingly outspoken over the years, his manner reflecting more closely with Fern's assertive nature. In contrast to Silus, they had the tact of Oren. Day by day, Rowan was shedding the skin of the quiet, introspective boy he once was.

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Despite the discomfort, Hazel resumed her work. 'I'm definitely not cut from the same cloth as Mom or Rowan,' she mused silently. 'Nor do I have Oren or Silus's knack for handling these things.' Her thoughts drifted briefly to her father. 'Maybe I'm more like him. The comparison brought an uncomfortable prickle to her temples. God, I hope not. With a mental shake, she refocused on her work.

Hazel adjusted the strap of her tool belt, the weight of her axe heavy against her thigh as she stepped deeper into the dense underbrush. Her boots crunched softly over the carpet of leaves. Every tree told a story—its bark, branches, and stance even. Approaching another towering pine, Hazel ran a hand along its rough bark. Her fingers glided over the trunk's surface effortlessly, feeling for the tell-tale signs of disease or infestation that might disqualify it from harvesting. She tapped lightly with the back of her axe, listening intently to the sound it made—a solid, healthy thud. Good. Satisfied, she moved on, leaving the pine marked for felling.

Hazel's gaze lingered on a cluster of young trees, their trunks slender and flexible, their leaves a vibrant burst of life against the muted browns and greens of the forest. She paused, her axe resting lightly against her shoulder as she considered their fate. Not yet ready for harvest, these saplings needed more time to mature.

Her thoughts drifted inevitably towards the Reaping and the looming Games. She glanced at her fellow lumberjacks, their faces etched with the same underlying tension. It wasn't just her; the shadow of the Capitol hung over all of them. Like the forest managers who thinned the woods to reduce the risk of fire or disease, the Capitol claimed to maintain balance by sacrificing the few to protect the many.

As Hazel's hand hovered over a young oak, her touch was gentle, almost reverent. With a deep, inward sigh, she shouldered her axe and moved on. The young trees would remain standing for now.

Hours later, Hazel's body ached with the day's toil as she collapsed onto a nearby stump, her lunch pail making a solid sound as it met the ground. She opened it with a sense of resignation, only to be met with an array of apple-themed items. "It is like an apple orchard thrown up in here," she remarked, lifting an apple with a flourish, followed by a display of apple chips, apple bread, and a jar of applesauce. She cast a raised eyebrow at Rowan.

Rowan retorted defensively, "I worked with what we had, okay? And yes, Mom found a sale on apples. Be thankful there's lunch at all, unlike last time it was your turn," he added with a pointed glance.

Silus's laughter filled the air, a bright sound that momentarily lifted the weight of the morning's labor. "He's not wrong, Haze. Our stomachs put the saws to shame that day."

Hazel rolled her eyes in mock irritation even as the corners of her mouth betrayed her with a reluctant smile. "Oh, come on, that was ages ago—two whole years. Will I never live that down?"

Rowan leaned in, his eyes sparkling, "Well, at least be grateful. It could be so much worse than apples. Remember Mom when she found that deal on asparagus?"

Hazel and Silus shared a collective groan. The memory was vivid and slightly traumatic. Hazel recalled endless asparagus dishes—from overcooked entrees to strangely experimental desserts. She could practically taste the fibrous, overbearing flavor that had haunted their meals for weeks.

"If I'm ever faced with a choice between asparagus and starvation," Hazel mused, "I'll gladly starve."

Hazel took a small bite of her apple bread, her eyes wandering across the clearing. Her gaze landed on Thron, who was visibly reprimanding a group of lumberjacks. His gestures were stern and irritated, even from a distance.

"Never thought I'd end up missing Birch and his bizarre philosophical tangents," Hazel mused aloud. She found herself unexpectedly nostalgic for Birch's odd, harmless ramblings.

Rowan snorted, pushing his errant curls out of his eyes, "Seriously, at least he wasn't such a prick." Hazel's eyebrows shot up in surprise at his choice of words.

Silus gave Rowan a sidelong glance, his deep voice low but firm. "Don't let Dad hear you talking like that."

The conversation shifted subtly as Rowan laid out the fresh gossip from the clearing that was stirring among the crew.

"Did you guys hear about Birch? There's talk he got caught up not just for being drunk but for letting some of the guy's domino fall after hours last week," he whispered.

Domino felling was highly illegal, and for good reason. The idea was simple yet profoundly risky: one tree was cut so that it would fall into another, setting off a chain reaction akin to dominoes toppling. While the notion might hold a certain appeal for its efficiency and spectacle, the reality was far grimmer.

The uncontrollable nature of the falling trees posed severe risks—not only to the safety of the lumberjacks but also to the integrity of the forest itself.

Hazel raised her eyebrows, "Seriously? That's unbelievable. No wonder Thron is tightening the reins."

Silus sighed, "I guess this means no more axe-throwing competitions during breaks for a while, either. Thron doesn't seem the type to turn a blind eye like Birch did."

Rowan tightened his jaw, "Thron wouldn't know fun if it hit him in the face."

Silus's tone softened a bit. "Rowan, Thron's got his burdens. Life's hit him hard," he reminded gently.

Hazel's mind involuntarily conjured the image of young Willow, her golden hair stained with blood, delicately lying on the arena floor. Hazel's stomach churned, her mind recoiling from the memory, from the Capitol's morbid fascination with those final, desperate moments that had stripped Willow of her dignity.

Unfortunately, Thron's loss was far from an isolated incident in District 7. With fourteen Hunger Games having passed, the toll on the district became increasingly evident. Each year, the Games claimed more young lives, leaving behind a growing number of families fractured by grief.

The Hunger Games were not just a cruel spectacle but a calculated strategy to keep the districts in check, a punishment that reminded them of their subjugation and powerlessness. Hazel felt a growing sense of dread at the prospect of the Games continuing for generations to come. She envisioned a future where nearly every family in District Seven, and indeed in all of Panem, would be touched by the tragedy of the Games, a never-ending cycle of loss and sorrow.

As Hazel gathered her tools, preparing to return to work, a subtle shiver danced along her spine, a silent herald of unease that she couldn't shake off. It was as if the warm, midday sun that bathed District Seven in its light could not reach her thoughts' cold, shadowed corners. This feeling of disquiet had been a constant companion, lurking in the back of her mind, more persistent in the days leading up to the reaping.

As lunchtime wound down, they packed their lunch and prepared to resume work; Hazel welcomed the distraction. She pushed the horrific image of Willow aside, but it was immediately replaced by another – a pair of green eyes similar to her own, set in a face framed by auburn hair. The face was familiar yet distant, like a half-remembered dream. She took a deep breath, attempting to steady herself. Her fingers gripped the edge of the lunch pail, seeking something tangible to anchor her to the present.

Holt, a giant and burly lumberjack with deeply tanned skin that spoke of countless hours under the sun, seemed oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere. His broad, weathered frame towered over the others as he turned his attention to Hazel. His voice was casual but notedly lacking in social awareness, "Didn't your uncle die in the Hunger Games?"