ainsley grant | seven | cb2 | fin

Older than the Games. Older than Panem. Older than time itself - the stars were hung by the gods and Ainsley and her family followed them. Their maps, useful for travellers looking to escape to the outer reaches of the districts, were smuggled with cowboys, carried by lumberjacks, carted across the plains by merchants on paper that was designed to withstand the elements.

The secret was the wood harvested from trees deep in the mountains of District Seven. A yearly pilgrimage with her father and uncles, her little brother and sister in tow, meant that they would have enough paper to last them and satisfy each order. Every knew how to swing an axe by age three, throw an axe by age four, and handle a Bowie knife like it was an extension of their arm. 

Ainsley (Ains for short, only her full name if she was in trouble with Papa) was in charge of finishing the legends. The most important piece of the map because without the legend to guide you, you would be lost in a second.

The girl wondered if they could see stars in the Games arenas - they had to, right? They had to be able to use them to chart their way through the labryinths each year. And if they didn't, those tributes were idiots and deserved an easy death. She wondered if Mackenzie Pryce and Jacinta Salazar plotted their survival from the stars, but had never had the courage to ask them. The whims of the Victors didn't concern the Grant family and soon Ains woud age out and take over the family business. 

Pulling her long brown hair back into a ponytail, the girl bit her lip as she painted the legends on. As she painted the way home by the stars.