Elmira Ashwood's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Elmira fastened the small glass vial around her neck and studied the girl in the mirror. Tomorrow she would stand in the sunken stone arena and answer questions meant to decide if the Capitol remembered her name. Twelve years of tribute footage said the forgettable died first. She needed to win the Games. That meant winning a room before she ever saw the woods. She turned the tiny bottle so the wildflower seeds caught the light. Soft. Rural. A girl who missed home. The pendant told a story her shoulders could not. It said harmless. It said sad. It said look away, and then forget you looked. The next afternoon she climbed the steps into the carved wooden hall and let the tiered benches of painted faces lean down at her. She kept her hands folded over the vial. She spoke slowly. She let her voice catch once, on purpose, when they asked about her family. A woman in the front row pressed a hand to her mouth. When the interviewer dismissed her, the benches were still watching. Tomorrow her face would be on every screen, labeled gentle, labeled small. The story was set now, and she could not take it back. Every tribute in the arena would have seen it too.