our common ground {atlas/kyros; blitz}

Knife's edge sinks into bullseye; this is the only way I'll leave my mark on the world.

I inhale; fresh air and composure is the closest concept I'll ever get towards a high while the blood of fifty one others still flows through their veins and the only kingdom I know doesn't stretch out from the confines of my manor.

And I exhale; I can't help but wonder if this display of skill has placed a target on my back. After all, a year ago my kinsman was practically a magnet for steel and fire, his skin splitting in rancid red gashes and his bones shattering under spiked torture devices - it was as if the world wanted to remind me that he didn't have ichor flowing through his veins after all. In my efforts to analyse the obvious, I told myself that it was the training score of 10 he had proudly branded on his back.

At the sight of me sinking steel into red targets almost effortlessly in quick succession, it would not be a surprise if I was the focal point of conspiracies and daggers in the dark but I have simply run out of fucks to give. This is the only way I can hope to leave a mark anyway.

I pluck another knife from the table and twirl it in my fingers, direct sight focused on targets but peripheral vision stolen by a single distraction, a familiar distraction.

Kyros from home.

I didn't speak to him on the train, Diorite Fray stole most of my attention, but he looks a little more than under the weather, I swear most careers would look like children in a candy factory at the sight of this equipment of the highest quality. Before today I never even dreamed of touching knives of this caliber.

I let the knife drop and make my way over to him, wearing confidence stitched to my chest I grin and chuckle. "You've been sitting there an awful long time brooding, if you have some kinda way of sulking the other tributes to death I would love to know."