Chapter 24 : The Feast
Dawn of Day 16 brought the Gamemakers' intervention.
Trumpets blared through the arena—impossibly loud, echoing from every direction. We scrambled for cover, expecting attacks, mutations, fire.
Instead, Claudius Templesmith's voice boomed across the forest.
"Attention tributes! A feast will be held at the Cornucopia at noon. Each of you needs something desperately, and we will provide it. Think carefully before declining our invitation."
The message repeated once, then silence.
We huddled in our hiding spot, processing.
"It's a trap," Katniss said flatly.
"Obviously." I'd known this was coming—not the exact timing, but the inevitability. Feasts were standard Gamemaker practice, designed to force confrontations when attrition slowed. "But they wouldn't announce it if there wasn't something real there."
"Something we desperately need," Rue repeated. "What do we need?"
I ran through our inventory mentally. Food was stable. Water accessible. Medical supplies adequate. Weapons...
"Arrows." Katniss had been rationing hers since the bloodbath. Seven remained—enough for seven kills if every shot landed, which they wouldn't. "I need arrows."
"And they know that." The Gamemakers had been watching. They'd seen her count, seen her hesitate before drawing, seen the mathematics of limited ammunition. "There's probably a quiver in the District 12 pack."
"Probably." Katniss's jaw tightened. "But getting it means walking into a trap designed to kill us."
"One of us." I felt the plan forming, familiar and terrible. "If I go alone, I can—"
"No."
"Katniss—"
"No." She stood, paced the narrow confines of our hiding spot. "We stay together. That's been our strategy since we found each other. Together."
"My advantages make me harder to catch. You know that." I kept my voice level, reasonable. "I can sense where the observers are concentrated. I can find gaps. I can—"
"You were almost killed two days ago." Her voice cracked. "I watched you take a spear through the shoulder. I watched you bleed. I don't care how fast you heal—you're not invincible."
"I never said I was."
"Then stop acting like it."
Rue watched us argue, dark eyes moving back and forth. Finally, she spoke.
"He's right."
Katniss turned. "What?"
"He's right." Rue's voice was calm, certain. "Katniss, you're the archer. You're the one who scored eleven. You're the one they're hunting most. If you go to the feast, every Career will target you."
"And if Nolan goes?"
"They'll underestimate him. They always have." Rue looked at me with something like trust. "He scored a six. He let them think he was weak. At the feast, they won't see him as a threat until it's too late."
The logic was sound. I'd built this strategy since the training scores, cultivating weakness as camouflage. Now it could save us.
Katniss wrestled with the argument for a long moment. Her instincts screamed against separation—I could see it in her posture, her clenched fists, the rapid movement of her eyes.
"If you die," she said finally, "I'm going to be very angry."
"Noted."
We reached a compromise in the hour before noon.
Nolan would approach the feast alone, using his Blind Spot to navigate the observation patterns. Katniss would take a sniper's position overlooking the Cornucopia, providing cover with her remaining arrows. Rue would wait at a fallback point, ready to guide them to safety if things went wrong.
"In and out," I promised. "I'll use my advantages. Find the gaps. Get the pack. Gone before they can touch me."
"The Careers will be there." Katniss checked her bow for the hundredth time. "Cato, Clove, whoever else is left. They want those supplies as badly as we do."
"Probably more. We destroyed their stockpile, remember?"
"They want revenge."
"Then they'll be sloppy. Angry people make mistakes."
She didn't look convinced. But she nodded.
We moved toward the Cornucopia through the morning, using familiar paths and new detours. Katniss found her position—a rocky ledge with clear sightlines to the golden horn, concealed by vegetation. She settled in, arrows arranged for quick access.
Rue marked the fallback location with a pile of distinctive stones. She hugged me before we separated, small arms tight around my waist.
"Come back," she said.
"I will."
The simplest promise. The hardest to keep.
The Cornucopia had changed since the explosion.
The golden horn still gleamed, scorched but intact. But the supply pyramid was gone—replaced by a smoking crater and scattered debris. The Careers had salvaged what they could, but most of their advantage had vaporized with those mines.
Now a table stood at the horn's mouth. Five small packs, marked with district numbers: 2, 5, 11, 12, and one unmarked. Whatever the Gamemakers thought each tribute desperately needed.
I approached from the tree line, my Blind Spot mapping the observation pressure. Cameras everywhere, attention concentrated on the clearing. The whole Capitol was watching this moment, betting on who would emerge alive.
I found a gap—a narrow corridor where observation flickered rather than concentrated. I waited, watching.
A flash of red.
Foxface—but I'd seen her face in the sky. Not Foxface. Someone else.
No. The girl who darted from the Cornucopia's far side was definitely the District 5 female. Small, clever, fast. I'd misidentified the death last night. She was still alive.
She grabbed her pack without slowing, tucked it under her arm, and vanished into the forest before anyone could react.
Smart. Ruthlessly smart.
The clearing was empty again. I began my approach, moving through the gap I'd identified.
Twenty feet to the table. Fifteen. Ten.
Movement from the opposite tree line.
Clove emerged, knife already in hand, eyes locked on the District 12 pack.
She'd seen me.
For one frozen moment, we stared at each other across the clearing. She was faster than me. Better trained. Armed and ready.
But she didn't know what I could do.
"Well," she said, smile spreading across her face. "The boy with the six. I was hoping for your partner, but you'll do."
The knife left her hand before she finished speaking.
I dove, felt the blade whistle past my ear, hit the ground rolling. My own knife was in my hand—stored and retrieved in the same motion, appearing from nowhere.
Clove's eyes widened. Confusion, not fear.
I didn't give her time to process.
I threw. Not at her chest—she'd dodge that—but at her legs. The knife bit into her thigh, and she stumbled, caught off guard by a boy who shouldn't have been armed.
Behind me, Katniss's arrow sang through the air.
Clove twisted, but the arrow caught her shoulder, spinning her around. She screamed—rage more than pain—and threw another knife even as she fell.
This one I couldn't dodge.
The blade buried itself in my side, between ribs, exactly the kind of wound that would kill a normal person in minutes.
I grabbed the District 12 pack anyway.
Then I ran.
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