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chapter twenty-five
RIDDLE ME THIS

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Only a few of them show up to The Academy regularly. Since Corbel's announcement that they wouldn't be preselecting a volunteer, allowing whoever to step forward should they desire it, the ones who are disinterested don't bother coming anymore. Of the alive male Victors, only Ptolemus, Brutus and Nero are there every day. Although, knowing his father, he knows his attendance is just for show. For the women, it's Terra, Enobaria and Petra, his mother likely there for similar reasons as her husband. Corbel oversees quietly.

Each day, Ptolemus hopes and prays that Brutus's drive to participate in the Quell will dissolve the closer they get to the Reaping. He waits for him to have an epiphany, to be yanked out of his programming, and to realize the cost is more than the reward. When they lace up their shoes in the lockerroom, he always tries to ask something regarding his wife and twin daughters, playing it off as small talk.

"Did Aria and Iris make the Rugby team?"

"Do you think Thea could pass on her recipe for her homemade Maritozzi?"

"Isn't your anniversary coming up? Any special plans to celebrate with the Mrs.?"

If Brutus knows what Ptolemus is trying to do, he doesn't show it, those dark eyes still clearly set on the prize. The Legacy makes the point to not just train with swords, his comfort zone, but other weapons as well, brushing up his skills with knives, spears, and even an ax. He doubts he won't be able to find his weapon of choice in the Cornucopia, yet it doesn't hurt to be prepared. He finds a spear is easier to fight with than he expected.

He still prefers a sword.

Once it's April, four months dwindling to three until the Reaping, Ptolemus feels himself becoming antsy. Brutus isn't backing off. Even when Ptolemus's markmanship with throwing a spear catches up to his experienced one and his sprints beat him by several seconds, the man isn't deterred.

When they spar and The Legacy beats him in swordsmanship, it only seems to motivate him more. Unfortunately, he does have Ptolemus beat when it comes to physical strength, able to bench three-fifty and deadlift six hundred pounds while still in his forties. Not to mention, when they've sparred with spears, Brutus's weapon of choice, the older man has The Legacy beat each time, his experience and skill unmatched.

He's a machine of a different caliber, as much as Ptolemus hates to admit.

The train ride from Two to The Capitol is quick like always. Despite its rapid speed, it still isn't fast enough, Ptolemus's knee bobbing up and down as he plays with his rings and glares out the window. His heart is racing. This will be the first time he's finally been able to see Sage since the stupid Cupid's Ball before the announcement for the Quell was made.

Since the news, parties where they invite Victors who are no longer considered desirables have grown scarce. Unless you have a physical service you can provide, it seems The Capitol's people and their interest has dwindled. Many are still reeling over the news and the thought of parting with their favorites, according to Deverra's "source." One even said being around Sage and Ptolemus would just make them too sad as they grapple with the fact at least one of them could die.

Guilty conscience, maybe?

Ptolemus doesn't care. He's just exceedingly grateful he's finally able to see her. Perhaps if they return to the public eye again, the mood will shift, and The Capitol will want to hold them closer for the few months they have left with them together as a couple.

One particular wealthy and powerful socialite has chosen this route. Adonis, the barely alive fossil of a fashion designer that seems incapable of dying, would still like his favorite Victors at his birthday party this year. Including Sage and Ptolemus.

A train door slides open, and he hears her heels clicking as The Capitol's towering mountains grow closer and closer in the window. Deverra pats his shoulder warmly before sighing. She drops into the armchair in front of his and swipes through her tablet. Her manicured nails click as she types.

"I've got a potential visit set up for you with the Summer Solstice. Gallico's assistant said he's still reviewing the guest list, but you're both on the draft as of now."

Ptolemus doesn't answer, just continues to stare out the window as he clenches his jaw. That's two months from now. That isn't enough. Every single second is precious time he needs to savor with Sage. Deverra knows this.

"I'll keep trying to spin more visits." She peeks over at him. "Perhaps after tonight, they'll remember how much excitement your romance can bring. More invitations will come."

"Hm. Excitement." He scoffs, shaking his head. "Does it excite them to continue to play with our lives like dolls?" His tone shifts, mocking potential headlines. "What will Sage and Ptolemus do? Who will die for who?"

Deverra's lips form a tight and grim line. Something along the lines of pity glistens in her gaze, and her shoulders slump. "Perhaps no one will have to. There are six other male Victors who could be called or volunteer for Two."

"Doesn't matter." Ptolemus shakes his head dismissively. "I'm going into that Arena."

"If someone else volunteers before you—"

"No one's going to volunteer before me." He leans forward in his seat, removing his glare from the blurring scenery. He props his elbows onto his knees, still mindlessly playing with his rings as he peers over at his wary and stiff Escort. "Lysander, Bronze, Marcellus— they want no part of it. Haven't stepped foot in The Academy since the announcement."

Deverra quirks a dark brow. "What about your father?"

Ptolemus sneers. "There for show. Like always." He scratches at his cheek, recounting the dark determination in his only opponent's gaze. "And Brutus..."

Even when Ptolemus had him beat on the floor as they sparred with swords, the glory-starved glint in his eyes remained just as ravenous. It enhanced even more when the roles were reversed, Brutus's spear aimed right for his face for the death blow in the ring. The man still talks about his daughters' tenth birthdays coming up this September as if he's going to be there. In attendance not just as their father— but as the Victor of Victors.

There's no chance he won't volunteer. Leaving it up to who blurts the famous words out first feels too risky.

Unless...

The idea comes to him plainly, and he almost scolds himself for not thinking of it sooner. Ptolemus straightens, and he slowly lifts his stare back up to a waiting Deverra. She must recognize that look in his eye, the epiphany shining, because her brows furrow uneasily. "Brutus... what?"

A corner of his lips tug upward, the idea growing more and more appealing by the second. He nods, accepting it. "Brutus is going to have his name called from the Bowl."

"How do you know tha—" Deverra's voice stops short as she catches on. She blinks at Ptolemus in stunned silence for a moment. Then her lips twist defensively. "Ptolemus, if you think I'm going to rig—"

"It's not like no one's done it before," he interjects coolly.

His Escort blinks at him furiously to the point her lashes tie into knots. Her jaw gapes in shock, chest heaving as she shakes her head. She swallows thickly, clamping her lips shut, before breathing shortly through her nose. Ptolemus has no intention of backing down.

Deverra grinds her teeth together and shakes her head again. "Ptolemus—"

"I'm getting into that Arena, Dev." A muscle in his cheek twitches, and he holds her stare with his determined and unwavering one. "Whether you help me or not. If I have to brawl with someone on that stage for it, I will. If Brutus has to twist his ankle in training the night before, I'll make sure he will. Whatever it is I have to do, I will. I'm going."

If he can get past his anger and desperation, he can see it. The way his Escort has gone otherwise silent, warm eyes glistening like the chandelier jingling above their heads. She grips the arms of the chair tightly, not even breathing as she studies him quietly. Once he starts to realize that those are tears in her eyes, he almost softens, brows creasing together in confusion.

"This is what you want?"

Her tone, low and quaky, startles him for a moment, causing him to hesitate. Now he's the one studying her in bewilderment. Nevertheless, his answer remains the same as he bids her a firm and unwavering nod. He's never felt so sure about anything in his life.

"This is what I want, Dev."

Something in his Escort's eyes falls, and he swears her bottom lip starts to quiver. She stares at his feet, still clenching the arms of her velvet chair. All that can be heard is the train's hum and the chandelier as she gives him a curt nod. She inhales a sharp breath, using the momentum to stand. "Very well then."

Deverra squeezes his shoulder as she passes him by, the door sliding open behind him. She exits the same way she came. He almost feels guilty.

"Brutus's name will be called."

━━━━

For once, Sage is worried whether her eyeliner will be straight and crisp or crooked and wavy. With all things considered, her makeup is the least of her worries these days as her sniveling Prep Team tries to pluck and prune her into something presentable. Zelia, who's adjusting the skirt of her ruby red gown, continues to choke on her soft sobs at her feet. Orion's shaky hand adjusts the wing of her eyeliner, and he inhales a deep breath, lining up a matching gem to the corner of her eye perfectly.

"I am a professional, I am a professional." The odd man's lips quiver, and he shakes his head, another wheezy breath and another gem. "We are professionals, Zelia."

The woman nods fervently, as if she's trying to convince herself, stifling another whimper.

"I'm not dead yet," Sage mentions awkwardly, picking at her fingers. It's strange, she feels like she's at her own funeral even though her heart is still beating in her chest as she eyes the room. They all wince at her words, and Zelia whimpers again.

Her Prep Team has been stiff around her, staring at her far too long to be comfortable, fretting over every little thing she does and insisting they do it for her instead. She was sure Zelia was going to follow her into the bathroom had she not shut the door in time. Then there's moments like this, where they're stifling tears and cries. Meanwhile, Philo is drinking champagne per usual, almost drowning in it. The cheeseboard beside him has hardly been touched.

"We know that, dear," Tatiana insists softly. She brushes a strand of Sage's raven hair behind her ear. "It's just this news has been so..."

"Unfair. We adore our Victors!" Philo blurts from his perch along the stool, pounding his fist against a piece of cheese. "We just brought you home— and to think next year we'll have to start all over again? It's horrible!" He stifles a sob, covering his face with his hands, shoulders trembling.

Sage stifles a scowl. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Philo.

"I'm just so sad about you and Ptolemus," Orion adds, a tear brimming in the corner of his eye. He adds the final gem. "Like Romeo and Juliet. Never to be!" Just when he's about to break into a sob, he turns away to conceal his tears, almost tripping over Zelia at her feet.

It seems Tatiana's patience has run thin, just like Sage's. "Professionals! Please try to behave like professionals!" A frustrated and heavy sigh that she tries to conceal with a breathy smile as she glances back to Sage, adding the finishing touches to her hair. "Apologies, dear."

"It's fine," she lies tightly. The way they mourn her without actually mourning her just makes her feel even less of a human being. Like Shep said— a toy. The worst part is this is them trying. This is them "meaning well." Her annoyed gaze darts past Tatiana's shoulder and to Philo. "Can we go now? Don't want to be late."

The dreaded "L" word seems to snap Philo out of his stupor, and he nods vehemently, riggling out of his stool. He offers Sage his arm, practically dragging her down the hall. Zelia barely moves out of the way, almost tangled into the skirt of her dress. Nevertheless, Sage and Philo quickly head down to the lobby to where they'll meet Ptolemus and Deverra like they always do. The Victor of Ten finds herself moving the fastest she ever has, not even the heels slowing her down, her heart aching.

The last time she was able to touch him was... well, one of the worst days of her life. And while she's dreading more conversations like their last one on the phone, she can't bear to be away from him much longer.

Ptolemus feels the same, watching the elevator anxiously, heart ready to leap out of his chest each time those golden doors part. Deverra still hasn't looked him directly in the eye since their conversation on the train, her irritated and impatient gaze glaring at her watch instead. He clutches the flowers carefully. Pink dahlias— her favorite.

The elevator dings, and finally, their eyes find each other after a month and a half of distance. Ptolemus's steps toward her start off slow, trying to find some restraint as the relief washes across his entire body. Sage doesn't even care, heels clicking and her arm jerking away from Philo's, almost sending the man stumbling. She runs to him, and he runs to her, both of them catching one another with a tight and aching embrace.

There's no better relief than this. They don't know how long they hold onto each other, nor do they care, a few sympathetic and weepy stares skimming in the lovers' direction. Philo blows into his handkerchief.

"Hi," Sage breathes, inhaling his scent.

Ptolemus presses a kiss to the top of her head, before leaning back. He cups her face, kissing both her cheeks, then her lips. His greeting is just a breath between another kiss. "Hi."

Neither of them have any interest in going to the party. They just want to stay in each other's arms, tucked away from the world somewhere no one else can find them. No one else can try to hurt them.

But they can't.

He releases her for half a second so that he might offer her his arm, and she takes it, clinging to him tightly. Another kiss to her temple before he gifts her the bouquet of flowers that's been slightly ruffled from their embrace. They barely remember to follow a quiet Deverra and a sniveling Philo out to the car, as if walking through a daydream.

"These are for you."

Sage's gaze brightens ever so slightly at the sight of the pink flowers. A blush creeps across her cheeks, his romantic gestures never failing to evoke a girlish grin from her features. There's still an aftertaste of sadness to it as she takes them, their phone call and the announcement looming over them both like a heavy cloud.

They only have three months.

She takes them from his grasp, almost clutching them to her aching heart. Her thumb rubs a soothing circle into his bicep as she gives him an appreciative squeeze. "Thank you, Tolly."

When they arrive to Adonis's Temple, there's quite a crowd of cameras, a sea of paparrazi vying for a shot of their Victors since the announcement. Ptolemus holds Sage's hand, shifting in front of her in hopes of blocking the glares of their cameras. They shout and squeal at the sight of the two together.

"Ptolemus! Sage! How are you coping with the news?!"

"Will you be sneaking away for a romantic getaway before the Games? One last time?"

"Ptolemus! Can we expect you to volunteer?"

The last question kicks Sage in the gut, and she gnaws on the inside of her cheek to stifle a shudder. He can't volunteer. She can't let him. She has to talk to him— she has to try again— she has make him to listen. She can't just let him die for her.

How the hell are they going to get out of this?

She feels as if she's living inside a cage, the bars growing tighter and tighter with every passing day. It's slow but steady, half an inch closer with each strained breath she takes. Desperation rises in her as she tries to claw the encroaching bars away, like the animals who are slowly beginning to realize their fate.

Ptolemus can't break the bars, so he's jumping into the cage with her. Something even more agonizing.

She can't let him die for her.

He senses her growing lost, and he squeezes her hand. There's a familiar head of blond hair making his entrance in front of them, his broad shoulders rocking arrogantly with each stride.

Augustus leans back to entertain a reporter's questions, teeth shining like diamonds, and his predatory glare catches Ptolemus and Sage in the corner of his eye. He smiles brighter, and The Legacy leads her around him and up the steps carefully. His eyes trail her like a wolf catching sight of prey, and Sage shoots him a glare. It takes everything in her not to give him the finger, a dazzling and heavy ring weighing her down.

Adonis has painted his "statues" gold this year. They all wear crowns that uncomfortably remind Sage of the one once placed on her head in front of Panem. Her eyes narrow as she studies them uneasily. It's when they pass a golden woman with shining raven hair who looks right at her that she notices the number 72 engraved on her chest like a medal that she finally realizes who they're supposed to be.

Sage holds onto Ptolemus tighter, nervously glancing around for the fashion designer. Per usual, he's on his balcony, stretched out and tilting his head back for a massage on his wrinkled neck.

"I'm not eating a single thing here tonight," she murmurs, anxiety bubbling in her tone. Her eyes trail the trays of food, wondering if this year Adonis has drugged anything else besides the champagne.

Ptolemus's hand overlaps the one holding onto his arm. "I've got you."

For the majority of the evening, the two stick together. Where Sage goes, Ptolemus goes, and vice versa. There's quite a fair share of Victors here. From this corner of the party, Sage can pin point Cashmere and Gloss Kincade, Finnick Odair, even Beetee Latier from Three and others she recalls seeing on the television and in The Capitol. She has yet to see her, only her matching statue with a matching brace, but Porter Millicent Tripp must be here somewhere. Of course, Petra and Nero have been invited as well.

They make casual and formal conversation with so many faces they all start to blend in. Most of them fuss and swoon over them, one older woman even crying into Ptolemus's shoulder over the thought of the couple being forced apart. They don't even pretend to be pleasant or console The Capitol guests, just staring at them bitterly.

"Well if it isn't the happy couple," Augustus Braun greets, sauntering up to them in his bright peridot colored tux. His dark gaze sweeps across them in amusement, and he tilts his head to the side at Sage. "Pretty dress, sweetheart."

"Does your Stylist hate you?" Sage asks, quirking a dark brow at him. His tux is nearly as blinding as the flashing cameras.

"Not as much as the Universe seems to hate you." He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, shaking his head with pity. "Such a shame Alondra died last year. I've enjoyed seeing your pretty face at these parties."

Sage stifles the urge to gouge his eyes out. Ptolemus narrows his gaze, jutting his chin aimlessly. "Why don't you keep it moving man?"

Augustus hardly falters, simply barking out an obnoxious chuckle. His ringed hand clamps down on Ptolemus's with false comradery. "Always so serious, Tolly Boy. Still can't keep up with my humor?" A friendly squeeze that The Legacy shrugs away.

"No I get it, it's just you have to actually be funny in order for me to laugh."

He straightens, stuffing his hands into his pockets casually. His eyes glitter with amusement like the chandelier above his head. "I find this Quell idea quite thrilling. Patriotic, even. Talk about a hell of a competition."

"Not sure patriotic is the word I'd use," Sage quips sharply.

"I suppose you wouldn't," he smiles. A woman with a lavendar wig and silver dyed skin calls out his name with a giggle, and he peers over his shoulder at her. "Well, duty calls, and duty has a gorgeous pair of legs." Another sickeningly charming glance at Sage. "Save me a dance, will you?"

"Not even when I'm dead."

"Let's hope that isn't any time soon. Right, Ptolemus?"

A muscle in The Legacy's cheek twitches. "Keep talking and it might be sooner for you."

Augustus chuckles at that, polished smile gleaming. "I'll miss this banter back and forth with you. Guess we'll have to enjoy it while we can when we're allies in the Arena." He smiles at Sage again. "Welcome to the club, sweetheart."

Sage just glares, biting back another comment. She remembers what Shep said. Being with Ptolemus means she'll likely be in alliance with Careers.

Let's hope Gloss is the one Reaped. Or literally anyone else besides Augustus.

When he's given nothing, he saunters off the same way he came, gloating and arrogant. Sage seethes at his retreating figure, begging for flames to catch. Unfortunately, it's to no avail.

"He's the worst," she mutters.

Ptolemus nods in agreement as he clenches his jaw. What he would give to punch the arrogant man's glittering teeth right out of his mouth. He might once they're in that Arena.

Then he remembers, the thought nagging at the back of his mind.

As much as he despises Augustus, he is a Career, just like him. A Career that's still young, still healthy, and insanely lethal. If he's going to protect Sage in the Games, they're going to have to start off with strong allies to help them pick off the rest before they can do so to them. People like Augustus, Enobaria, Cashmere and Gloss— they at least respect the nature of a Career alliance, even when it's strained and the only thing holding them together is tradition. Hence why One and Two always stick together almost every year.

He knows Sage won't like it, hell, even he doesn't, but if they don't follow the traditional alliance, he knows what their first move will be. What Augustus's first move will be.

To hunt them down.

Sometimes it's best to keep your enemies close. Even if just for a little while.

Let's hope it's Gloss who's reaped.

"Sage!" a voice slurs.

She can't see him yet with the crowd, but she recognizes Philo's voice. Eventually, his figure parts through the skirts and tuxes, gripping a glass of champagne in one palm and someone else's hand in the other. Her eyes trail up to spy a man who appears familiar, though she can't remember why. His youthful features beam at her.

"I have someone who's been meaning to talk to you," Philo starts, glancing between the two. He stifles a hiccup, rocking back and forth on his toes. "Don't you remember him?"

Sage just blinks, lips parting dumbly. She barely bites back a blunt No.

"That's quite alright," the man says lightly at her hesitancy. "The first time we met, I was wearing a mask, so..." He offers her a hand to shake, and she apprehensively takes it, brows pinched together. "Prospero Cardew. Host of the Masquerade at the old bank."

"Ah." A distant memory of Petra introducing him and Sage strategically stepping on his toe to free herself from a fifth dance. "Good to see you again," she lies.

"Indeed. I was hoping to ask you for a dance." He glances at Ptolemus almost nervously. "Just one song this time, I promise."

"That's up to her."

Sage shakes her head. "I might be too tired for dancing. I'm sorry."

Philo gapes at her refusal, blinking furiously. She just ignores him. Prospero struggles to hide his disappointment, head ducking as he takes her rejection with stride. He nods respectfully. "No need to apologize. Just happy to see you here." He smiles at Ptolemus. "Both of you."

"Happy to see you as well!" Philo pipes up, almost burping. His features flush violet again, and he plucks the man's tie curiously, almost flapping it in the air like an amused child. Prospero awkwardly chuckles. "Pretty birdies on your tie."

Sage stifles a frown. Clearly Adonis's champagne is beginning to take effect. Behind him, a man gnaws on a turkey leg like he's making love to it, his glass dangling limply in his hand as he sways to the music. Prospero grins, subtly trying to pull his tie out of the Escort's grasp. When he smooths it back down, Sage can finally make out the pretty birdies Philo was referring to.

Mockingjays.

A fashion symbol in The Capitol. The symbol of a rebellion in the Districts.

"I'm glad you like it. Everyone's wearing them these days." Prospero returns his stare back to Sage now. "In fact, my sister Fulvia's boss just got a new one of a kind watch. It has a mockingjay on it that only shows in certain light. Magnificent, isn't it?"

"Sounds flashy," Ptolemus muses boredly.

"Indeed." The man suddenly snaps his fingers, pointing to both of them in amusement. "Before I go, I've got a riddle for you. Just heard it the other day."

"Ooh! Ooh! I love riddles!" Philo squeals, interjecting into the conversation again. His dazed eyes glance between all three of them. She can tell from one glance that he's sinking further and further into the champagne's potion. "Knock knock!"

Everyone just ignores him. Sage and Ptolemus wait stiffly and boredly for Prospero to get on with it. Perhaps if they humor him, he might finally leave them alone.

"I have numbers on my face, but can't find thirteen any place." The mention of that number plucks an uncomfortable twang in Sage's gut, and she tries to stifle it. She immediately thinks of Colt perched on that rock that afternoon. Prospero doesn't notice, simply raising his brows. "What am I?"

"Who's there?" Philo burps, still lost.

She answers before she can think better of it. "A watch."

Prospero grins like a proud school teacher. "I knew you were clever. Told my sister's boss that one the other day. He seemed to like it."

Philo shakes his head, frowning. "I don't get it."

"It's good." Ptolemus quirks an unamused brow. "Can you do magic tricks too?"

Sage squeezes his arm, but the aristocrat takes his comment with stride. "That's still a work in progress." Another cordial nod. "Well, it was nice seeing you again. Enjoy your evening."

Both of them watch the man slip away toward a refreshments table. He doesn't take the champagne, plucking a cream puff instead and bidding pleasantries to those he passes by. Of all The Capitol people in attendance, he's at least somewhat pleasant. Sage would appreciate it if her mind wasn't so locked in on what he said.

Can't find Thirteen any place.

The first thing it reminds her of is Colt and his obsession with Thirteen. A District said to be blown off the map. But not according to that damn Valley Man song. All the riddles hidden inside the lyrics that drove her brother to his death, chasing something he wasn't entirely sure was real. Not to mention his own belief in the Mockingjay herself, allowing himself to be consumed by the Girl on Fire's flames. All for a rebellion Sage has been itching to partake in— should the right opportunity reveal itself.

The answer to Prospero's riddle could've easily been Panem...

It's happenin—

Stop.

She senses herself spiraling into paranoia and madness, and she yanks herself out before she can fall too deep. Maybe his words would be worth something if he wasn't Capitol born. If the mockingjays on his tie were more than just "pretty birdies" and a fashion symbol. They don't mean the same thing here as they do back home.

It was just a stupid riddle.

"You alright?" Ptolemus asks, leaning down toward her.

Sage straightens. "Can we go dance? Maybe people will stop trying to talk to us."

Ptolemus tries to ignore that veiled look in her eye again, tucking it in the back of his mind for a conversation later. Sage glances over to a drunken and drugged Philo, who's now trying to get the swan ice sculpture to partake in his knock knock jokes. Her lips form a tight line as she sighs through her nose.

"Philo," she tries, grabbing gently onto his shoulder.

Her eyes almost cross when he whirls around, hovering a pointed finger to her face as if to silence her. "Knock knock."

She glances over to Ptolemus. "Is Dev around to watch him?"

The Legacy scans the crowd, his height giving him enough leverage. His eyes center on her only two tables down, just past the "statue" of Enobaria. "I'll bring her over."

"Knock knock!" Philo tries with a burp.

Ptolemus goes to retrieve Deverra, and Sage holds onto Philo's shoulder to keep him from wandering. She dares to entertain his antics. "Who's there?"

"Not Philo! HA!"

The Escort surprises her when he tries to break into a sprint, as if making a mad dash for his freedom. His shoulder rams into hers, but her reflexes allow her to dig her fingers into the jacket of his tux. Her eyes widen as she desperately tries to hold onto her fleeing Escort, gaze darting around for watching eyes. Most of the crowd is too drunk to notice his theatrics, partaking in their own from the champagne, but she can only imagine the horror he'll feel in the morning. Just when he's about to slip out of his tuxedo jacket, ever so slippery, Ptolemus and Deverra arrive to the rescue.

The Legacy grips Philo by his bicep, trying to hold him firmly yet gracefully in place. "Dev's here. She wants some tips on the Escort business." The woman glowers at him, huffing and rolling her eyes. "Care to enlighten her?"

Philo straightens at that, his ego causing his chest to puff out like a peacock. It reminds Sage of the chickens in the Poultry Sector, chests so swollen they almost fall over. She half-expects her Escort to stumble face first into the floor, but Ptolemus simply steadies him to face Deverra. The look she gives her Victor is a scalding one that says "You owe me." The most she's looked at him since their conversation on the train. He just gives her an appreciative nod and smile, stifling guilt.

Leaving them to it, Sage and Ptolemus start toward the dance floor. Despite the champagne's effects running rampant throughout the party, there is a sense of synchronized choreography going on, partners twirling and dancing. When Ptolemus glances up to the balcony, he realizes Adonis is overseeing quietly, sipping from his glass. To avoid standing out, he tries to mimic the pairs around them.

"Who's Prospero's sister?" Sage asks, following his lead. She peers up at him before skimming the rest of the party curiously.

Ptolemus shrugs. "He's a Cardew right?"

"I think that's what he said."

"Starts with an F. Flavia, Fulvia? Something like that. Eudora mentioned her wife did her tattoos on her cheeks for her."

"Hm."

Sage glances around, almost looking for his familiar face again. No matter how much she tries to forget, his stupid riddle keeps getting stuck in her head. Like a song on a constant loop, whirling around the caverns of her skull. It threatens to make her dizzy, eventually intertwining with the lyrics of The Valley Man song.

She finds him completely by accident. With the way that Ptolemus is spinning them, she's able to catch a glimpse of Prospero around the giant roasted pig, in what appears to be light conversation with two others. A woman with strawberry blonde hair, silver vines etched onto her plump cheeks. They have the same nose—  his sister, the one with the name that starts with an F. And beside them, a man so plain and unassuming she could almost picture him working at the Dairy or on top of a horse herding the cows. It's his title that registers in her brain.

Plutarch Heavensbee—  New Head Gamemaker.

His watch flashes when he pulls his hand out of his pocket to scratch his cheek, plain eyes skimming the dancing crowd boredly. She wouldn't be able to see the Mockingjay from here, but the silhouette of the bird's wings burn in her memory anyway.

A Gamemaker with a Mockingjay watch? Hasn't he heard what happened to Senena Crane for affiliation with such a girl?

Of course he had to—

It's happening.

"Is it what Augustus said?" Ptolemus asks carefully, worried gaze boring into her.

She's so lost in her thoughts that she almost has no recollection of what Augustus said. Then it comes back as she drags herself back into the present, brows pinching together into a slight frown. Her heart aches when she looks up at him.

"It's all of it," Sage murmurs, staring into his eyes pointedly. Not exactly a lie. Everything seems to be going to Hell, the downward slope growing more and more steep to the point it's like falling. His lips form a tight line of defeat, lips tugging downward ever so slightly. She shakes her head, now glancing around the room. "It's no use talking about it here though."

"Sage."

She ignores him, standing her ground and clamping her jaw shut for now. She can't seem to look at him, fighting back the tears in her eyes as she remembers the rebellion her brother was willing to die for. Shep talking about the things you do when you're in love, Ptolemus's phone call, the interviewers questions, and then Augustus already plotting alliances with both of them. As if his Fate has already been sealed.

So even if she does make it out of all of this alive, why does she have to be the one to live without him? How is that fair?

None of it is. She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back.

By midnight, the effects of Adonis's spiked champagne have taken full control over the majority of his guests. Delirium is at an all time high, the lights down low and beaming various different colors across his "statues." One woman has found herself in the fountain of wine, practicing her backstroke as she giggles to whatever joke's been told in her head. In this lighting, it looks like she's swimming in blood.

Ptolemus is painfully aware of many things. One—  that Sage is upset about the loss of her brother, the dreaded announcement, and is still struggling to accept the fact that he's made his decision and he isn't backing down. Two—  that in order to protect her, he may have to ally himself with people he can barely stand like Augustus and Enobaria. Three—  that Adonis's eyes are glued to the dance floor, watching the choreography carefully for any missteps. Missteps would mean unwanted attention, and he knows of his intrigue of pretty Victors like Sage.

The fourth and final thing that is unfortunately, with this dance, they switch partners. He doesn't want to let her go. Instead, he'd rather keep her safe right here in his arms, away from anyone else's unwanted touch. But to do that would be a misstep. Missteps would mean unwanted attention, and he knows of Adonis's intrigue of pretty Victors like Sage.

The pairs around them begin to gracefully twirl their partners away to another set of open arms. Sage sees it too. Their gazes lock, and she gives him a soft nod of her head so subtle he isn't sure if he saw it. Apprehensively, he twirls her away, eyes still glued on her while he stiffly catches his next partner. Who sweeps up to dance with her, almost appearing out of nowhere, makes his blood run hot and cold at the same time.

"Sage Navarro." Finnick Odair smiles, his bronze head of hair burning in the dark light while his sea-green eyes twinkle like tourmalines. "I've been meaning to steal you for a dance all night."

Her heart drops, and she peers over her shoulder for Ptolemus. He's been swept up by the dancing partners as Finnick leads her away ever so discreetly, deeper into the crowd. She swallows thickly, inhaling a sharp breath through her nose. Her dark eyes glance to his waiting ones. "You must have a death wish then."

Finnick takes her comment with stride. "I suppose whether I did wouldn't matter now."

She notes he's at least kept his hands at a respectable location. Actually, far away from her waist, almost awkwardly in the middle of her back. "You plan to volunteer? Last I heard there's four other male Victors from your District that could be Reaped."

Sage glances up to the balcony again. Adonis is still watching, a ghostly smile along his lips. When she tries to look for Ptolemus again, she swears she sees a glimmer of his sandy mop and piercing blue eyes towering on the other side of the dance floor. He's looking for her too.

"Maybe." The Victor from Four shrugs. "Call it a feeling that I'll end up in that Arena again."

"Hm."

She knows something about feelings. One's been whispering to her like an avid pen pal for years, responding even when she doesn't write.

He doesn't key into her silence or stiff figure. Perhaps he simply doesn't care, feigning that charm again. He tilts his head to the side, staring right at her while she peers past his shoulder. She swears she makes eye contact with Plutarch Heavensbee along the outskirts, but convinces herself he's just looking at the ice sculpture behind her. The band grows louder in her ears, Finnick seeming to slowly guide them in stride with the song closer and closer. All of them appear sober, except one, who gnaws on the bow of his violin with his bright blue teeth.

Finnick's voice is barely above a whisper. "Did they ever stop that outbreak down there in Ten?" Sage's spine stiffens as she listens. Either it's because of the pounding of her heart or the pounding of the music that she almost doesn't hear him. "I'd like to know whether or not it's safe to trust the steak."

Whether it's paranoia, her mind trying to make sense of anything and everything—  good old Apophenia, or it's that lucky intuition of hers, something inside her clicks. Like a hound on a scent tumbling through the breeze, she teeters to follow it. Or at least try to.

"Not that I'm aware of," Sage says carefully, eyes trained on his. She mimics his tone. "How about those storms out in Four? My Escort has been complaining there's no shrimp cocktail this evening."

"Unfortunately I think he'll have to wait a bit longer." His grin fades to a small and knowing smirk, something hidden beneath his eyes. Deep in the depths of the ocean. "The sea's still angry."

Perhaps she should have found it fathomable that Finnick might know or mention something about the rebellion rising in the Districts. After all, she knows what's been happening in Four, or at least has an idea. She just always figured he was too deep in The Capitol's clutches, decorated as their precious Darling.

Then again, Ptolemus is too. And he still hates them.

"Speaking of your Escort, Philo," he starts. "My Escort Jasper Serling is good friends with him. He heard rumblings of your brother."

Sage's eyes burn with tears, but her veins scorch with fire as she glares warily at him. One wrong poke into her wound, and she'll be screeching and howling like an animal ready to guard and protect, scratching right at his throat. If his game is psychological warfare, to get in her head as well as Ptolemus's before the Games even start, she'll make him regret it. Finnick pretends not to notice, still maintaining a casualness to his tone.

"Horseback riding accident?" She keeps her jaw clenched shut. He notices that too, a veil shifting in his stare. "That's funny. My mother died from an accident too, actually. Drowned." A bitter and wry smile as he raises his brows at her. "Ironic, isn't it? That she die of drowning but be from Four."

She blinks silently. His tone when he says it all allows her to illuminate a different facet of the man. You could mistake it for empathy. Then he prods more, speaking through a smile with clenched teeth.

"Don't you just love irony?"

She used to. Hence her naming a black horse Sunshine. She shrugs with a detached look in her eye, voice coming out flat. "Not really."

Finnick isn't done, inhaling another sharp breath. His tone has an airy lightness to it, pensive and wondering while knowing the answers to all his questions anyway. Sage hates when people talk like that. The loud music doesn't help. "Ironic too how each District finally has a male and female Victor in time for the Quell. Imagine if they would've had to rewrite it had there not been enough?"

Now he's got Sage's attention again. She shifts her stare back to his waiting one, remembering her conversation with Shep just three days after the announcement. It's because of those kids. Those kids from Twelve and their berries. Clearly, Finnick seems to know that too.

She still waits for him to give her more, volleying back and forth with him. "Good thing Katniss and Peeta won last year then, hm?" she muses.

"It is. Shame for you though." Finnick clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, still twirling them perfectly in time with the other dancing pairs. His eyes peer off to the side, focusing on someone. When she follows his gaze, she notes a sober Plutarch Heavensbee speaking with his assistant again. Prospero's sister. "How do you think we will ever get out of this one?"

She has a feeling he knows. She plays dumb until he deals his cards. "Beats me."

Finnick shrugs in agreement with her and pinches his brows together. "Well, when we do get in there, wouldn't it just be great if you could keep the Careers off our tail?"

Sage's eyes narrow at him suspiciously, the conversation turning a direction she didn't expect. Her tongue clicks to the roof of her mouth. "Quite the hypothetical." A shake of her head. "Whose tail are you referring to? Thought you like to make friends with Careers given you're from Four."

"I'm always making new friends, actually. Just like you." His eyes dart in another direction, but she doesn't turn to follow it. She watches his face for clues again. His gaze flickers back to her briefly, before turning back to where he was looking before. "One in particular that hates to see us all go. You know how The Capitol becomes attached to us Victors."

Riddles upon riddles. Is he saying what she thinks he's saying? Just talking to him makes her feel as if she's losing her mind. Like playing connect the dots, the picture still yet to fully reveal itself, only resembling something obscure and nameless.

How will we ever get out of this one? One in particular that hates to see us all go. Does he understand what he's saying? He clearly does, every word measured just like the steps and glances he takes in this dance. Sage tries so desperately to follow his lead.

She swears he keeps looking at Plutarch. The man with a one of a kind mockingjay watch—  according to Prospero Cardew. There's no way that he could be... he couldn't.

Right?

"Well then," Sage starts, feeling Finnick waiting for her to say something. She hates the faint amusement twinkling in his eye. "How do you know I would be able to keep the Careers away?"

"Everyone knows he's going to volunteer. He'll be fighting to get into that arena before the fight can actually begin."

She knows exactly who Finnick's talking about. At the reminder, she finds herself searching for him again, scouring the dance floor desperately. When Finnick turns them to the tune, she spies a flash of familiar blue eyes. Ptolemus averts her gaze from across the room, dancing with an elderly woman covered in cheetah print, only glowering at the man she's dancing with. Guilt gnaws at her.

"And if I do that what do I get?" she asks, diverting her attention back to Finnick. She's praying that this might be worth it, sensing some kind of proposal in his voice.

A corner of Finnick's lips tug upward at her question. His voice drops to a careful whisper. "You get to meet us and our friend at Midnight."

Midnight? What's at Midnight? How could they even tell time in the Arena to know? She tries to figure out if it's another riddle. She wishes he could just say it.

But if he's talking about what she thinks he's talking about, she knows he can't.

She tests him anyway. "What's at Midnight?"

"A magic trick. Make all the Victors disappear."

Prospero's response to Ptolemus's dry joke comes back in her memory. "That's still a work in progress."

Finnick either means he plans to slaughter everyone at Midnight, or he and his "friend" plan to make the Victors "disappear."

Now she hears Colt whispering to her with the hawk's cry.

It's happening.

Sage settles for hoping for Option B. When she looks to a waiting Finnick, she realizes she has leverage. Leverage that allows her to add her own terms in their deal. If she takes his deal. Keep the Careers away from him and whoever he allies with—  though, her mind keeps showing her those kids from Twelve—  and then in return she gets...

"Not without Tolly," she demands firmly, holding his stare.

She can see it now in his face. The spark that's spread from The Girl on Fire.

Finnick quirks an amused brow. "Is that what you call him?" He clicks his tongue and shrugs. "Well that's not up to me."

She mocks him, quirking a brow and clicking her tongue too. "Oh it isn't?" A shrug, lips turning downward into a sarcastic pout. "Then it's not up to me whether or not he tries to kill you and all your friends. Besides, why can't we join you and your friends in the arena?" He twirls her to the tune, raven hair almost falling into her fiery eyes. "Not cool enough for your club?"

She'd much rather her and Ptolemus team up with anyone else but Augustus and Enobaria.

"Because then there'd be no show. And you know how they enjoy a show," he says simply. An amused smirk as he draws his hand back to a spot between her shoulder blades. God, how long is this dance? "Can you imagine their reactions if we all sat in a circle holding hands and singing songs?"

Sage stifles a sigh. "I get your point."

"Good," Finnick nods. "Any other demands I should relay to my friend?" he asks wryly.

"Shep gets to come too. And my family."

He whistles lowly at that, almost frowning at her. "That's a tall grocery list, Miss Navarro."

She doesn't care how unrealistic it sounds. If they're talking about what she thinks they're talking about, then she'd better dot all her i's and cross all her t's.

"The price fits the reward." Sage meets his judgmental stare evenly, not backing down. "And I'd say I'm being perfectly reasonable considering I could ask for the dogs, cows and horses too."

He snickers. "Of course you have a horse."

"Her name is Sunshine."

Another charming grin. "Well, given my goldfish wasn't invited, I'll have to say Sunshine is likely to sit this one out."

Her heart aches at the thought of leaving the animals behind, but she knows what she's already demanding might not be feasible.

"Fine." She sharpens her tone, staring at him pointedly. As if her words are holding her hatchet to his throat to force him into keeping a bargain. "But they won't. All of them—  including Tolly. Or no deal." It's when she says his name that she sees him again. He's finally worked his way closer now. She can tell from the steps of the dance there might be an opportunity to trade partners again, him ready to catch her. He keeps glaring at Finnick uneasily.

Sage quirks her brows at the Victor from Four, who clearly must feel the chill nipping at his spine. "And given how he's watching you right now, I can't say he won't come for you first."

"You know how to sell, Navarro," he grins. He maintains his low pitch. "Before we sign the dotted line, please use your discretion regarding our... meeting."

She nods. "My discretion will mirror yours."

"Well then, if you can keep your boyfriend from murdering me, it looks like we have a deal." She feels his grip on her begin to slacken, bracing for the switch again. Other couples nearby do the same. It's when the pace of the song changes that she realizes her heart is racing. Almost tumbling right out of her throat.

"Promise?" she breathes, her voice resembling a child's. She'd wince if she cared.

His lips quirk into amusement as he studies her for a moment. Another nod. "Cross my heart."

His promise does little to settle her nerves. She feels like she could throw up.

"Everyone's wearing these Mockingjays. I've never known much about the birds until as of late." Finnick prepares to let her go. Another pensive grin as he raises his brows. "But it's funny how their songs can get stuck in your head, don't you think?"

Those words tell her what she needs to know. That this plan isn't just for any of the Victors. It's for one in particular. The face of the rebellion. The girl whose flames have caught fire across the District. The girl Snow is trying to discreetly murder to maintain the upper hand and send out a different message.

The Mockingjay.

"See you at Midnight."

Finnick twirls her away with a smirk, and Ptolemus is right there to catch her.

━━━━

When they get back from the party to the condo at two in the morning, Sage half-expects to find Philo drowning in champagne and bearing bad news again. Especially after her conversation with Finnick tonight. Maybe all her brothers dead now, her parents too, or her family's property wiped off the face of the map. But no one's there besides her and Ptolemus, her Escort passed out drunk and brought back to his own flat with the guidance of Deverra. The door clicks shut, the sound bouncing off the hollow walls.

Neither Sage nor Ptolemus have really spoken more than ten words to each other since the dance. She's too caught up in her head, trying to make sense of everything that was even said between her and Finnick, half of it feeling like a hallucination. Did it even happen? Is what's going to happen actually going to happen? Is what he was saying actually what she was hearing? It's a vicious cycle, the pieces of conversation swirling around her brain like a whirlpool as she tries to pick them out of the murky waters.

The Rebellion. Is she about to be part of the Rebellion? If they get out of the Arena, where are they all supposed to go? Prospero's riddle comes back to her. Can't find Thirteen any place.

Flames itch beneath her skin, anxious to finally burn. Like a dormant part of her rattling itself out of its slumber.

It feels powerful. She feels powerful.

Her brother's death won't be for nothing. None of theirs will be.

But when she looks at Ptolemus, his gaze stealing wary glances and thinking that he's subtle, that feeling starts to quiver. She feels that sense of power slipping out of her grasp like grains of sand as her fingers desperately try to hold on.

It's okay. He's part of the deal. She keeps the Careers away, and he gets to come too. Finnick promised.

But is his word worth it? She doesn't know him well enough to be sure.

It's all such a gamble. A gamble made out of riddles.

Meanwhile, Ptolemus is trying to find where Sage is lost so he might bring her back. He knows she's still upset about their phone call. About his decision. And for once, he can't mend or solve or shield her from what's eating at her. He's partly what's caused it.

He's not sorry for it. He's just sorry it's hurting her.

Then the conversation with Augustus—  the arrogant prick always trying to get under both their skins. He knows he's a threat. Unfortunately, some threats are better kept close for a while. Then there's threats like Finnick. He knows their dance wasn't her fault, but seeing the man that killed his sister holding the girl he loves makes him want to scream and tear down the walls. The image of him piercing Alessandra's chest with his trident burns in his memory, his sister morphing into Sage like an eerie premonition. A sour taste stains the inside of his mouth, and he grimaces.

"You want some ice cream?" he tries, reaching for the freezer with trembling fingers.

Sage shakes her head, the thought of eating right now making her more nauseous than she is. "That's alright." She grips the bouquet of flowers from the limo, finding a vase in one of the cupboards. She fills it with water before placing the pink dahlias on the island.

More silence. It's the kind that's suffocating, only broken if one of them screams. So who's going to scream first?

Ptolemus rubs the heel of his palm into his aching eyes tiredly. A heavy sigh as he nods, turning to lean against the counter and face her. Her back is to him, and she fluffs up the wilting flowers to distract herself.

Sage can feel the tension in him building up. She sighs too. "I'm sorry about that dance with Finnick."

He shakes his head dismissively, folding his arms across his chest. He reaches up to rub at his shoulder. "It's not your fault. It was my idea to switch, so..." Now he scratches at the back of his head. "Just bad timing."

Or perfect timing. Anger claws at his chest from the way that Finnick looked at Sage. He grimaces when he envisions him hurling his trident again. Her scream and then a cannon. God...

A few more silent beats. Sage eventually just nods quietly, turning back to face him with that distant look in her eyes still. She forces a soft and faint smile, tucking a strand of hair away from his brow, the shadows on his face causing his frown to appear deeper. Her hand drops back down to her side as she inhales a soft breath, starting back toward the bedroom. She kicks off her heels in two steps before she gets to the door, and he hears her unzipping her dress.

Ptolemus just waits, gnawing on the inside of his cheek silently. There's so many feelings inside him right now he doesn't know what to call any of them, everything so murky. One of them reaches up and squeezes his heart, demanding to be heard. He sighs shortly as he props himself off the counter, and follows her back into the bedroom.

"What'd he say to you?"

Sage has riggled herself out of the dress, it just a pile on the floor. Now she's slipping into one of his t-shirts again. "Hm?"

He scratches at his cheek nervously, just staring at her from across the room. "Finnick. What'd he say to you?"

Her heart hiccups, and she tries to conceal it. Does she tell him? Does she tell him about the plan? It might be easier that way. But here? At least at Adonis's party the majority of his guests were drugged beyond comprehension, the band playing so loudly. It honestly was quite strategic on Finnick's part.

On Plutarch's part.

Use your discretion.

Maybe it's better he knows nothing. If this goes south, and Peacekeepers come pounding down their door this instant, at least he'll be safe once they find out he knows nothing. She thinks of how Colt used his discretion when concerning Shiloh. Because of that, that might be why she still has at least two brothers still alive.

Sage pretends not to notice the tightness in his tone. Instead, she rubs at the blisters of her ankles, before glancing to her reflection, the makeup still caking her face. She winces as she tries to pry one of the rubies off the corner of her eye.

"Just his weird charm. Capitol Darling and all." She peels off another ruby, peeking over at him through the mirror. "I think he's just trying to get into our heads. Like Augustus."

Everything she says seems fathomable. Yet there's still an itch to it, a tick, something whispering she's not telling the entire truth. Before he can listen to it, it's drowned out by the anger toward the bronze-haired man. The vengeful little boy in him screams and cries his hateful warnings.

"There's no way I'm not going in there."

He thought he just thought it. He was only supposed to think it. But when Sage's figure stiffens, and his ears catch the low murmur of his words, he knows he said it out loud. Now Sage is the one staring.

There's no guarantees to Finnick's plan. Ptolemus could die before Midnight, whenever Midnight is supposed to be, falling to a sword meant for her or fighting back a Mutt so she might escape. She knows he would. She knows how ready he is to die for her, and she hates it.

"Ptolemus."

When she says his full name, especially like that, he knows she's upset with him. Can you imagine if she knew he was rigging the Reaping to solidify his chances even more? He just stares back at her from his side of the room.

Sage spins around to face him, no longer content with peering through the mirror. Her jaw is squared as she glowers at him, and her chest heaves. He doesn't help his case.

"It's true."

Her lips quiver into a scowl, and she shakes her head at him, clenching her jaw to keep the tears at bay. They still shine in her eyes anyway. "Shep is going in there with me. I'll be fine," she tries, her tone quaking with frustration.

Ptolemus strikes her efforts down immediately, something defensive in him rising up. A shield for her and him at the same time. "Not taking the chance."

"And you'll take the chance that we both die in the Games?" she demands, taking a sharp step toward him.

"That won't happen."

"It could."

"That won't happen." He refuses to entertain the thought as it punctures his heart with its teeth, shaking it around his chest like a rabid dog. He fights against it anyway. "I won't let that happen."

"You don't know that. There's Mutts, there's other Tributes—  Victors, and whatever Hell the Gamemakers decide to rain on us!" Sage argues desperately. Her chest is heaving as she glares at him through a teary gaze. "What happens if everything goes according to your plan and it's just you and I at the end? Then what?"

"We wait it out and see if they do what they did for Katniss and Peeta."

"They won't."

Ptolemus shrugs plainly, as if he's not understanding the weight of his words. Except he does, his plan solidified perfectly in his brain. It's the only thing that makes sense to him. "Then I fall on my sword."

His words strike her like a whip, and she winces as if she's been slapped. Slapped and stabbed and shot right through the chest, all her other wounds still aching and festering, herself barely a pulse above death. She can't bear to lose anyone else. He takes a step toward her, hating her reaction, ready to ice the sting. Tears brim in her eyes, her lip quivers, and he reaches for her.

"How is that fair?" she demands, stepping away from him as he tries to grow closer. She isn't ready to be coddled yet. A tear slips down her cheek, and she brushes it away roughly with her hand, still glowering. "You don't think that won't kill me too? You're not the only one of us who has something to lose!"

Sage's knees feel like they might buckle soon, so she flops to the edge of the bed, ribs curling inward as she tries not to cry. She's so tired of crying. How many tears can the body produce before it runs dry? The bars of the cage are getting tighter and tighter. More tears slip through, the painful image of Ptolemus's picture in the sky threatening to shatter her pieces into even smaller ones. Because of her. He would die because of her.

No.

Ptolemus hates how upset he's making her. She's shaking, trying to stifle the sobs, and he holds his hands up into the air, waving his white flag. He crouches down in front of her figure sitting along the bed. "I don't wanna fight," he tries. He ducks his head into her vision carefully. "I don't wanna fight, okay?"

Her stinging eyes snap down at him. Another tear falls off her chin and onto her lap. "Yeah well maybe we should!" She shakes her head. "Am I supposed to just let you do this?"

"Nothing's going to change how I feel about this, how I feel about you. I'd die for you and I'm okay with that. I'm okay with choosing that as my Fate." He shakes his head again. "I can't think of a better way to die."

"That's what I'm afraid of!" Another wince, and her chest heaves, desperation rattling through her. "You don't think I feel the same way too?!"

Sympathy washes through him, and he stares back at her sadly. He knows she loves him. He feels it every day. Like basking in warm sunlight. He can't bear the thought of never feeling it again.

She deserves to live more than he ever has.

"This is a fight neither of us are going to win," he murmurs quietly.

Sage chokes back another sob, hating how he's right. She tries one more time and wields her words like a sword. It's shaky and futile, the sword about to crumble to dust. "You volunteer for these Games and I will never forgive you." Fire dances in her eyes beneath all the rain. "I mean it, Ptolemus."

He studies her quietly. He hears her vow loud and clear. He makes one of his own as he accepts her terms and conditions.

"And I can live with that." Sage's lips quiver at the determination in his voice. He's so damn stubborn. Ptolemus rises from his crouch in front of her, cupping her face with his hands and ducks his gaze right into her teary eyes. Some build in his own. "Because if you die in those Games, I'll never forgive myself."

A raspy sob breaks out her chest, and she shuts her eyes, turning her face into his palm. "I hate this."

Finally, something they can agree on. He nods, kissing her forehead before pressing his to hers. "I do too."

Sage reaches up to him, tugging him closer to her now as her fingers clench the fabric of his shirt. Her body heaves, ready to give out, and she falls back onto the mattress in defeat. She pulls him down with her as she cries.

"I love you," she admits, still sobbing and trembling. She says it over and over again, never able to say it enough. Especially not now. It's almost like a plea to the Universe to save them both, begging it to simply have mercy. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Ptolemus looms over her like a shield, crying softly too. His thumb brushes the tears off her cheeks while his other arm wraps around her, both of them clinging to each other. They press their foreheads together.  "And I love you." Another kiss, salty and bitter from all the tears and heartache. He tucks a dark strand of hair out of her face. "More than you could ever know."

But she does know. She does know because that same love lives in her. That's why she never wants to let go. In fact, the two of them hold onto each other the entire night, kissing and murmuring "I love you's" between all the tears. Eventually, they've both cried so much that their bodies can't bear it any longer, forcing them into an achy slumber.

When dawn breaks, crimson halo creeping into the windows, Sage wakes first, her eyes almost swollen shut. Ptolemus's arm remains draped around her, their fingers intertwined. She feels his breath tickle the back of her neck, the sensation of his chest rising and falling as soothing as Sunshine's hooves pounding against the earth.

She can't bear the thought of his heart ever stopping, his chest growing still and his breath empty.

That's why their plan has to work. And Sage is willing to do anything to ensure it does.

━━━━

»»————-　♡　————-««

🧍‍♀️ that was a lot of words

Thanks for reading all of them and I hope you enjoyed!! Thoughts, opinions??

Actual picture of Sage at that birthday party trying to make sense of all the shit everyone was saying

I hope that all came off the way I wanted it to!! Trying to write how the other victors planned this stuff is difficult because like yeah WE know what's going to happen but they don't so piecing it all together could be super difficult. Hence why Katniss didn't get it when Plutarch showed her his watch. But I hope that all made sense for how Sage finds out!

Fulvia Cardew is a canon character from Mockingjay! She was Plutarch's assistant and in thirteen with him. Prospero Cardew is an oc I created that Sage met at the Masquerade :)

Also, that scene with Ptolemus and Sage at the end on the bed is not a sex scene, I don't think I have to say that I just want to clear it up because I know some people do really look for smut in books and stuff. I personally do not enjoy writing smut so I do not write those scenes! The most scandalous I do is a *fade to black* so sorry if that's your thing!

Ugh, my babies make me cry. And I wrote it. But yay you get to see how I plan to approach this Quell and weave Sage and Ptolemus into it!

Feel free to comment, I love hearing from you and interacting with you! I love seeing your reactions to events that happen as well as hearing your thoughts on the chapter :)

Eeeek!!! We're getting to Reaping time!! AHHHHHHHH!!! Are you scared? I'm scared!

Word Count: 11372