She is silent as the Peacekeepers escort her to the entry room, where she will ascend into the Arena. Her stylist sees her off and says a goodbye, but Vervain just blinks at them, her face devoid of any feeling. She is too numb to speak a word, or even try to fake a smile. Vervain is tired of putting on a show; she has been for weeks now. Even though there is more to come, she can’t—she just can’t process all of that right now. She just wants to shrivel up and hide away.

Vervain frowns as she looks over her tribute uniform, which is a slate gray color. She wears a parka over warm winter clothes, indicating that the Arena will be cold.

Great, she thinks, just my luck.

She hopes she won’t freeze to death. Hypothermia would be an awful way to go. They learned about it in human biology class, and took a quiz over some of the bodily processes for different causes of death. Vervain thinks of the blue-skinned, purple-lipped corpses on the slides of hypothermia and shivers.

Which would be worse? Dying from a stab wound, or hypothermia? A difficult contest, but Vervain supposes that being stabbed would be quicker. Hypothermia is slower, more excruciating. When she goes, she just wants it to be quick. She hopes that it will be just like falling asleep and never waking up. A peaceful, endless blackness.

The stylist notices Vervain’s grim expression, and says, ”Not a fan of the cold?

Vervain shrugs. ”I don’t know. Winters in Three aren’t so bad. I doubt it’s going to be comparable to a snow Arena.”

They give Vervain another small smile, and then their eyes glance at the timer on the wall. “You should be going,” they tell her.

Before she turns to the tube, Vervain’s fingers brush over her grandfather’s pocketwatch, which her stylist converted into a necklace for her, as a token. ”Thank you,” Vervain says, ”for turning the pocketwatch into a necklace. I never thanked you for it and—it means a lot. I was afraid of losing it in the Arena.”

Vervain wants her family to have it back when she dies. She wants it to go home with her body.

”You’re welcome,” the stylist replies. ”Good luck in there, Vervain.”

She nods at the stylist, and then steps into the tube. Vervain just hopes she can find Mona, Iris, and Charlie in time. They agreed to band together in the Arena, after their somewhat… chaotic meeting in the Training Center. Iris and Charlie are something,, but Mona seems more down to earth, reasonable. Vervain doesn’t trust her, or any of the tributes for that matter, but leaning on her would be wise for now. She had one of the highest training scores in the Arena, proving that she must be very skilled, a valuable ally.

After a few moments of waiting, the tube begins to rise. Vervain’s heart immediately begins to pound uncomfortably in her chest, like a heavy hammer beating against her sternum. Darkness comes over her, and then a blinding light. Slowly, her eyes adjust, and she sees an expanse of white snow, bright as it reflects the glaring sunlight.

Vervain stares intently at the timer, which counts down the seconds until the gong sounds, and the Games officially begin. She finds all of her allies among the tributes on the podiums. Charlie is the closest to her, only three districts away. Iris stands out in the crowd though, with her bright red hair, a few shades lighter than Vervain’s. And then there’s Mona, all the way at the end.

When the timer finally reaches zero and the gong sounds, Vervain leaps off the podium, her boots hitting the snow, and runs diagonally, both towards the Cornucopia and Charlie. It is much more difficult than she expected to dart through snow. Her feet already feel heavy, and she’s slower than she normally would be.

This is already a drag. Part of her just wants it to be over already, but she knows it won’t be until either her face is in the sky, or twenty-three tributes are dead and she has a crown on her head.

I entered this world with an Antoinette by my side, and entering the next with another walking along my side. She doesn’t have much to offer compared to the one I used to know, but at least she left me with three words more than mine had. “Just don’t die.”

But I know what is to come Cricket, I know what lies next after they handed me the clothes. The familiar beast erupted around my shoulder blades, clenching tight under my jaw as it made its way to my temples. Although we hadn’t set foot in the arena yet, the thickened steel thermal coat had already poisoned me. It was of a poison that had been injected from when I was ten. One that shocked my body more than the frigid flurried breeze against my cheeks. I knew it laid dormant, that I would be forced to search for the antidote soon. But I didn’t expect to search for it here.

To have to claw my fingers for a vial again through the alabaster below. To the youth of Two, they always dreamed of the snow. It was a time for angels to lay bare, to reveal their wings, and to reminisce on days where academies were shut. On days when the roads were so thickened, our dads could stay home. But what they don’t tell you is what happens when you stay out too long in the snow. Because you won’t find the vials, they’ll sink deeper within. And you won’t feel the warmth of your loved ones near. To be after hours in the snow, the storm will consume you. The climate will take what belongs to her, but what you have to fear most is those you can’t see through the storm.

The countdown had already sounded, the audio blaring in and out, almost fading as the numbers dwindled. I only bore it mind since no runner will ever miss the starting gun. I can’t lose this race just yet, especially not for you. Since I’ve lost this race before, I’ve lost it time and time again.

No matter how fast I tried to get to him, it always ended the same in my memories. You were reclaimed by the snow, your memories sprayed out beneath you, sinking away from my fingertips. No matter how fast I ran he always grabbed me, Antoinette never answered the phone, and life remained the same. Bruised, cold, and alone.

The howling distant gales and translucent ahead of me drew my body forth, the intensity within me reaching a boiling point. One I’ve learned there is no use screaming to decompress, since cement walls eat up any sound. But across there Neysa stood, and for once I wasn’t alone. Our eyes locked knowingly as we positioned ourselves, almost centering ourselves. There may be no baton, but this was a relay marathon that neither intended on failing just yet. Our task was simple as Cricket said, just don’t die. How hard can that be, when I’ve already tasted death?

I may be in the dreams of the children of Two, but I’ll make this nightmare my bitch. And I’ll be sure to chop off that snake’s head once and for all when I return. My blade wasn’t steady at fifteen, but after some rounds of practice all you can give me is at least a sweet sixteen.

[Domitia Drusilla enters the bloodbath]