Chapter One

Chapter One / The Angel's Curse

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The Hunger Games.

Just hearing the name could make anyone's heart race, and for good reason. Being plucked out of your life and thrown into an arena where survival was nearly impossible, with a ninety-four percent chance of meeting a brutal end, was nothing short of terrifying. Especially since the participants in these games were teenagers. Young souls who had just begun their journey on Earth, brimming with untold experiences waiting to unfold. Being thrust into the arena meant their futures were snatched away, replaced with a fight for survival where every heartbeat could be their last.

Every person aged twelve to eighteen dreaded this day. They counted the days until the Reaping, calculated their chances of being picked, and tried to take as few tesserae as possible.

In Evelia's district, tesserae were not particularly used. Unlike in Districts Eleven or Twelve, the inhabitants of District Four were not plagued by famine. Sure, they didn't live in luxury, but they had no real cause for complaint. Their lives followed the rhythm of the sea, every day marked by waves and salty breezes, with food almost always in steady supply.

Evelia got off her bed and checked the clock hanging on the wall in front of her; six thirty in the morning. She hadn't slept all night due to the Reaping coming in a few hours. Anxiety and fear had kept her awake, replaying the worst case scenarios over and over again.

You see, Evelia knew she would most likely get reaped this year. Although she came from the richest family in Four, and therefore never went to the Justice Building to get a tessera, her mother had been acting rather strange for the past year.

Strange enough for Evelia to find out she had been picking up tesserae in her daughter's name, to feed an exiled man Evelia knew nothing about. The calculations were quick; at sixteen, Evelia would normally have four slips of paper in the girls' urn. If you added the twelve tesserae picked by her mother, that made it sixteen. And, since the second Quarter Quell would have twice as many tributes as usual, that basically made it thirty-two slips of paper.

In a Career District like Four, having more than six slips of paper was a death sentence.

Well, not that Evelia really minded. Of course, if she had to choose, she would rather stay alive. Dying didn't scare her, but the aftermath did. She simply had no idea what happened after one gave away their last breath, and that terrified her.

But staying alive was no better. Evelia had a miserable life, there was no other way to put it. Her dad was gone, her mother despised her. Her days resumed to going to the Academy, pretending to be interested in the Capitol propaganda taught there, spending her afternoons learning how to fight, then going back home in the evening to a mother who wouldn't even look at her.

She knew there were worse situations in Panem. She knew she had it easy compared to the western districts such as Nine or Twelve. She had enough food and water, a comfortable home and an education. But she was so lonely. She did have a couple of friends, but still. Being surrounded and still feeling the loneliness deep in your bones hurt. Hurt enough to feel a strange sense of relief at the idea of going to the arena.

Evelia forced herself to stand up to stop spiralling. She quickly took a cold shower (despite being so early in the morning, the weather was already burning hot in Four. Nothing surprising for a fourth of July) then put on a shirt, black shorts and grabbed her fishing boots. She quietly left the house, not wanting to wake her mother up, then grabbed her bike and drove to the shore. There, she met Mr O'dair, the owner of the best fish shop in Four. They often fished together, although it was more Mr O'dair who did it, and Evelia clumsily trying to copy his moves.

The sand was already warm beneath her boots as she crossed the pier, gulls screeching overhead, waves slapping lazily against the hulls of sleeping boats. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but Four woke early. It always had and always would.

Mr O'dair was already on the dock, hunched over a battered red crate, sorting nets with a practised rhythm. His silhouette was lean, wiry, shaped by salt and wind. He heard her footsteps before he turned.

"Well now," he rasped. "If it ain't the wee lass who can't tell a halibut from a bloody handkerchief."

Evelia snorted. "Good morning to you too, old man."

He straightened, squinting at her through the orange dawn light. His accent, still holding the remnants of some ancient coastal dialect, rolled like the tide.

"Mornin', Evie-girl," he said, giving a nod. "Yer up early. Tide's high, but not that high. Trouble in the head again, is it?"

She froze for just a second.

He always noticed, but never pried.

Evelia rolled her shoulders, forcing the stiffness away. "Couldn't sleep," she muttered, stepping closer to help lift the crate. "Reaping day, y'know. Figured I'd try not to drown myself with a fishing rod instead."

Mr O'dair let out a low chuckle.

"Aye, that's the spirit. The sea don't fix much, but she keeps a body busy. Come on then, bring yer clumsy hands. We'll see if we can teach you how to cast a line without nearly takin' my eye out this time."

She shot him a flat look. "That was one time."

He grinned, a crooked smile framed by sea-salt stubble.

"One time too many, lass."

They climbed aboard his small boat, paint chipped and hull creaking like an old spine. The engine sputtered to life, coughing smoke into the warming air.

The boat drifted steadily away from the docks, cutting through the morning glitter of sunlight scattered on the sea. The air smelled of salt and brine and the faint oil of the motor, a smell Evelia had grown to rely on.

When Mr O'dair cast the first line, Evelia tried to mimic the motion but her lure still splashed too loud, disturbing the water.

"Oops."

"Ye throw that line like yer tryin' to pick a fight with the ocean," he muttered.

"Shut up."

He huffed, approving of the attitude even if the technique was lacking.

For a while, they fished in silence. The waves spoke for them.

But Mr O'dair had never been one for silence when there was worry brewing nearby.

"So," he finally said, the word heavy, "Quarter Quell."

Evelia's lungs tightened. She stared hard at the float bobbing on the surface.

"Yeah," she said lightly. "Fun twist this year."

"I still think yer mother's done ye a grave wrong," he said. "Sneakin' off to take tesserae in yer name... for some stranger she won't even speak of." His jaw clenched. "If the Capitol don't kill her one day, the sea might for bein' that foolish."

Evelia kept her gaze locked on the water. "Well, killing her won't change my odds, will it?" she said. "Might as well let her be. She doesn't care about me, and still won't in her grave."

Mr O'dair stopped his work then, turning fully to face her. His eyes, the colour of storm-cloud steel, softened.

"Yer wrong there," he murmured. "She cares. Just not the way a mother should. Some folk love backwards by pushin' ye away, thinkin' they're protectin' ye. Some folk... just don't know how to love at all."

Evelia swallowed hard. That kind of love still hurt.

"And sometimes," he continued, casting his line again, "folk make stupid choices 'cause they think they're helpin' someone else. But it's always the young who pay the price."

Evelia's throat burned. She blinked at the sea, refusing to let tears fall where he could see them.

"My name's all over that damn bowl," she whispered. "More than double what it should be. She handed me over before the Capitol ever did."

He didn't argue. He didn't say she'd be fine. He didn't promise she'd be safe.

He respected her too much to lie.

"Aye," he said instead, soft but steady. "But I've seen ye fight, Evie-girl. Ye ain't like those shiny Career brats with their egos bigger than their brains. Ye've got fire. And a clever head. Ye stay quick, ye stay quiet, and ye make it home."

Evelia looked down at her hands that were calloused from climbing cliff rocks, steady from hours of training, shaking from fear she'd never admit.

"Home to what?" she asked in a whisper.

Mr O'dair didn't answer with words.

He just nodded toward the horizon where gulls dipped in and out of the spray, where the sun was climbing, slow and sure. Where Four waited.

"To here," he said at last. "As long as the sea's here, ye've got a home."

He was right. The sea ran through the roots of District Four's people. It meant different things to different citizens—work, danger, comfort, routine—but it meant something to everyone.

But that wouldn't stop Evelia from bitterly thinking that some tributes deserved to go back home more than she did.

Her float jerked suddenly, line tightening in her grip. Instinct took over as she pulled back, and Mr O'dair whooped when a silver splash broke the surface.

"There ye go!" he barked proudly. "Not drownin' yerself today, are ye?"

Evelia let out a startled laugh as the fish thrashed against the line, her boots skidding slightly on the wet planks. She hauled it over the edge, the creature flopping across the deck, scales scattering in the early sun. Mr O'dair leaned down and pinned it.

Evelia wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. "Well," she breathed, "at least I won't starve in the arena. I'll just fish."

"Aye," he replied, twisting the hook free. "Long as the arena's a boat."

"Don't ruin my moment."

He only smirked, tossing the fish into the crate. The boat rocked gently beneath them, seafoam brushing the hull in soft bursts. Silence settled.

But it didn't last.

Mr O'dair leaned back on his crate, hands dangling between his knees.

"Evie-girl," he said, tone shifting. "Ye know fishin' ain't the problem. Surviving ain't just 'bout that. It's the Capitol. The eyes. The games they play outside the arena."

Evelia nodded. Mr O'dair had been to the Capitol a couple of times during festivities to serve them fish. He had explained to her that the city was a different world. Everyone was out of touch with reality, making themselves throw up when they were full to eat again, throwing the most expensive parties when the districts were starving and freezing. It was like they lived on another planet. In their minds, they probably did.

"Yeah," Evelia said quietly. "You've told me."

"Aye. And I'll keep sayin' it." He shifted, the boards under him creaking. "People think the arena's the killin' field. But half the dyin' happens before you even step inside it. Interviews, mentors, sponsors, parades... They pick who gets saved long before the first blade's drawn."

Evelia wet her lips, gaze fixed on the thin line where the sea met the sky. "That's why I'm not getting sponsors," she said. "No one's interested in a girl who can't even smile for her own mother, let alone a camera."

Mr O'dair frowned. "Sponsors don't care about smiles. They care about stories."

"I don't have one."

"Ye've got plenty. Ye just don't want 'em to hear it. And if ye don't... make one up."

The boat rocked softly with the waves. Mr O'dair cast another net, arms moving with slow precision.

"Just remember," he murmured, eyes still on the water, "the Capitol don't save good people. They save people who can be sold."

Evelia's fingers tightened around the handle of the rod. "I'm not planning on being sold," she said.

He gave a low hum. "No. But ye might need to be seen."

Ten-thirty. Evelia stood in line to sign the register, her heart pounding in her chest. No one dared to speak, as if any noise might tip the scales of fate against them. It made no sense, but fear had a way of clouding reason when standing on the brink of death.

Evelia's eyes scanned the crowd and landed on her mother, who was in the front row of the family section. Strange. Her mother usually stayed in the back, eager to be the first to leave once the Reaping was over. Evelia decided not to dwell on it and focused on the slowly advancing line. Her turn was approaching.

"Your finger," demanded the woman behind the desk, not bothering to meet Evelia's eyes.

Evelia extended her right hand, and the woman brusquely took her index finger, turning it upward. With a small syringe-like device, she pricked Evelia's finger but evidently missed the mark, judging by the sharp pain that shot through her hand.

"Ouch!" Evelia exclaimed, pulling her hand back to her chest.

The woman finally looked up, offering a false smile. "Sorry, I missed your vein."

"Missed my vein? You nearly took my finger off!"

One of the Peacekeepers stationed behind the desks approached them. "Is there a problem here?" he asked.

His black mask covered his face, hiding his eyes entirely. Evelia's stomach tightened. He looked like a mutt, and she could feel the weight of his presence even before he spoke again.

The woman behind the desk straightened immediately. "No problem, sir. Just a slight mishap."

Evelia glared at the woman but reluctantly extended her hand once more. The woman swiftly pricked her finger correctly this time, the small bead of blood confirming her identity.

"Evelia Vane," the woman read from her device, scrutinising the teenager.

Feeling uneasy, Evelia started to shift from one foot to the other. "Can I go now?" she asked.

"Next!" the woman called, ignoring Evelia's question but not breaking eye contact.

Evelia quickly stepped away, feeling the woman's gaze linger on her back as she moved to join her friends. Her heart raced, a mixture of fear and anticipation coursing through her veins.

"Took you long enough," Mollie Corsair said as Evelia approached her.

Mollie and Evelia had been best friends since they were ten years old. It all started when a group of girls was making fun of Evelia at school for not having a father anymore. Little Evelia had clenched her fists, tears of fury streaming down her face, which only made the girls laugh even harder. Then, out of nowhere, Mollie appeared and punched one of the girls in the nose.

Evelia and Mollie got detention together that day and had been friends ever since. When they went to the Academy together at twelve years old, they were inseparable, and soon enough they discovered that neither of them agreed with Snow's ideas or his government. Before long, they were burning propaganda posters in Four, tagging walls, and damaging Peacekeepers' vehicles whenever they could.

"The woman handling the identifications was so weird," Evelia muttered, her voice filled with irritation as she brushed her blonde hair out of her face.

Mollie didn't reply, but her expression said it all; she wanted to be anywhere but here. Evelia took her friend's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Hey," she murmured softly. "Your chances of being chosen are really low. Your name is only in the urn four times. I've heard Powen's is in there about ten times. And he's not the only one."

Mollie's lips curved into a weak smile.

"And yet, last year, Pristella was chosen. She was twelve. Her name was only in there once."

Evelia's gaze dropped, silence hanging heavy between them. Pristella had been the best friend of Mollie's younger sister. Her selection for the Games had shattered District Four. Her death had been brutal; a tribute from District One had shot an arrow through her head on the second day. The memory of Pristella's family's cries still echoed through the district.

"How's your sister?" Evelia asked, her gaze sweeping over the group of thirteen-year-olds.

"Convinced she'll be chosen. Like all of us, I suppose," Mollie sighed, her shoulders slumping. "She's been having nightmares every night for a week. I try to reassure her, but it's no use."

"It'll be better tonight," Evelia assured her softly. "We'll have a good dinner together."

"I hope so, Eve."

The town clock struck eleven. Around Evelia and her friend, the few lingering conversations abruptly ceased in unison. Evelia glanced around, taking in the tense atmosphere, as the mayor approached the microphone. His red hair was neatly coiffed, his suit impeccably pressed, and his face bore a satisfied expression that Evelia longed to erase. He had nothing to fear; he and his loved ones were shielded from the impending harm.

The anthem resounded, filling the square with its solemn, oppressive melody. Once it concluded, Mayor Marlowe spoke with a slight smile, the formality of his tone contrasting sharply with the gravity of the moment.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice carried across the solemn gathering, amplified by the microphone that stood as a stark reminder of the gravity of the occasion. His presence, usually a symbol of authority and order in the district, now seemed burdened with the weight of the announcement he bore.

"Today, as we commemorate the 50th Hunger Games, a Quarter Quell, we must reflect on the sacrifices and resilience that have defined our district. As per the decree of the Capitol, on the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd, confirming the collective dread that hung in the air. People had been talking about this Quarter Quell since the announcement back in February, whispering words that weren't allowed in Panem. The number of arrests had doubled over the past four months. Four had never been a very disciplined district, but ever since people learned that their children now had twice as many chances of being sent to the arena, many boundaries had been broken.

Beside her, Evelia felt Mollie's hand trembling in hers. She squeezed it tightly, offering what little reassurance she could amidst the palpable fear that gripped them both. The thought of not just two, but four from their district being thrust into the deadly arena was almost too much to bear.

"This Quarter Quell serves as a testament to our resilience and unity," Mayor Marlowe declared, though his words offered little comfort amidst the reality of what was to come. "Together, as a district, we will face this challenge with courage and dignity, honouring those who have come before us and those who will follow."

Silence fell. Some parents could not contain their grief, finding solace in the arms of friends as tears flowed unchecked. Among the teenagers, however, a stoic silence prevailed, their youthful faces drained of colour but their resolve unmistakable.

The mayor solemnly listed the winners of previous Games. Among them, only one remained alive: Mags Flanagan. The crowd watched in reverent silence as the elderly woman, her beautiful brown curls framing a face weathered by years of hardship, stepped forward to shake hands with the mayor.

Then came Zephyria Bloom, sent directly from the Capitol to announce the tributes and prepare them for their journey. She stood radiant in front of the crowd, her appearance a vivid display of Capitol fashion and opulence. Her attire was a symphony of vibrant colours and elaborate designs, tailored to perfection to accentuate her slender frame. She wore a form-fitting dress adorned with shimmering sequins and intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer under the sunlight. Her hair was styled in an elaborate updo, adorned with jewels that caught the light and sparkled with every movement.

Around her neck, Zephyria wore a necklace that glimmered with precious stones. Her makeup was flawless, with bold colours accentuating her features and drawing attention to her strikingly green eyes. Every detail of her appearance spoke of wealth and privilege, reflecting the stark contrast between the Capitol and the districts it governed

"Happy Hunger Games!" Venus exclaimed. "And may the odds be ever in your favour."

Every year, Evelia had found it difficult to take Venus seriously, and this year even more. She couldn't suppress a whisper to Mollie beside her. "She looks like a fucking clown."

Mollie stifled a small laugh.

"Ladies first," Zephyria declared with a chilling finality, her voice cutting through the tense silence that gripped the square. Evelia felt a knot tighten in her stomach as Zephyria's hand descended into the urn designated for female tributes. The weight of dread settled heavy on her shoulders, knowing that with each name drawn, the odds of her own fate being sealed increased.

The anticipation in the crowd was palpable, a collective breath held as Zephyria's hand moved deliberately among the slips of paper. Evelia's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with desperate thoughts of survival.

That was it. Evelia was going to the arena.

"Delta O'conner!"

Never mind.

The announcement shattered the stillness, and Evelia opened her eyes to witness the devastating scene unfold to her left. Delta's father collapsed in despair, his cries echoing through the square. Two Peacekeepers swiftly intervened, forcibly removing him as Delta, her legs trembling, began her hesitant walk towards the stage.

Delta was a striking figure in her white dress, which stood out sharply against her dark skin. Her long, curly hair framed a face streaked with tears. Evelia knew Delta somewhat from their occasional interactions at the Academy, when they had been paired with someone chosen by the teacher.

As Delta reached the stage and stood beside Venus, tears continued to flow down her cheeks unabated. The weight of the Capitol's decree hung heavy in the air, casting a pall over the district's hopes and dreams.

"And now, the second girl tribute..." Zephyria's voice trailed off ominously as she prepared to draw the next name. The tension in the air was suffocating, the crowd holding its breath once more as Zephyria's hand hesitated over the urn.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl, the seconds stretching into eternity as Evelia braced herself for the inexorable moment. She glanced at Mollie beside her, their eyes locking in silent understanding. They had known this day could come, yet the reality of it felt like a nightmare unfolding before their eyes.

Zephyria's hand finally descended again, fingers curling around a slip of paper. The moment hung suspended in silence, every heartbeat thundering in Evelia's ears.

"Evelia Vane."

–

Omg Evelia got reaped... You didn't see that coming did you...

Mr O'dair mention! Finnick's dad ladies and gentlemen! Evelia's father figure! He's going to watch her go into the arena then watch his son go through the exact same things fifteen years later. Nice!!!!