The Peacekeeper at the check-in station didn't ask for my papers. His eyes drifted to my face, then down to the blue pheasant feathers on my skirts, before he looked at the hidden silver band pressing against his own wrist beneath his uniform. He didn't see an orphan or a victim; he saw the woman who had promised his family they would never have to worry about shadows again.
"Zinnia Moonlight," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd. He pressed the needle to my finger for the blood sample with a gentleness that was unheard of in the Seam. "Good luck... my lady."
I stepped into the cordoned-off area for the eighteen-year-olds. Around me, the air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and pure, acrid terror. I stood straight, letting the sun hit the violet highlights in my hair, making them shimmer like a warning.
On the stage, Effie Trinket was a blur of neon pink. She adjusted her towering wig and leaned into the microphone. "As always, ladies first!" She pulled the first name. "Bridget Ludington!"
From the Merchant's section, a twelve-year-old girl with soft features and polished shoes began to stumble forward, her face white with a terror that made her knees buckle. She reached the stage, trembling so hard that Effie had to steady her by the elbow.
Then, Effie turned to the second bowl. "And now, for the boys!" She reached in, swirled her fingers, and pulled the slip. "David Hart!"
A hush fell over the boy's side. David Hart was only thirteen, a scrawny, thin boy with messy brown hair and wide, watery blue eyes. He looked like a stiff breeze could knock him over. He walked toward the stage with the mechanical, hollow gait of someone heading to their own funeral. When he reached the top, the two children stood side-by-side, looking like two small birds waiting for the hawk.
Effie looked out at the silent, mourning crowd, her voice chirping back into its practiced rhythm. "Now, as per the rules of our wonderful Panem, we open the floor. Do we have any volunteers?"
She didn't expect a response. No one in District 12 ever volunteered. She was already turning back to her notes when I stepped out into the aisle, my blue dress fluttering like wings.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
The Square didn't just go quiet; it became a vacuum. Thousands of eyes swung to me. I walked toward the stage with the grace of a queen ascending her throne, the silver hair stick glinting in my bun.
Effie's eyes went wide, her hand fluttering to her throat. She had spent years trying to find "mahogany" and "class" in District 12, and suddenly, she was staring at it. I caught Haymitch's eye in the Victor's wing. He was sober—truly sober—and his jaw had dropped.
As I reached the stage, Bridget Ludington let out a ragged, hysterical sob of relief. She didn't wait to be dismissed; she turned and rushed down the steps as fast as her legs would carry her, disappearing back into the safety of the Merchant crowd.
David Hart, however, stayed rooted to the spot. He looked up at me with pure, unadulterated shock, his blue eyes searching mine as if trying to understand why anyone would choose this nightmare. I reached out and placed a steadying hand on his scrawny shoulder, feeling him tremble under my palm.
Effie blinked, her eyelashes fluttering as she recovered her composure. A bright, delighted smile stretched across her painted lips, thrilled by the sheer spectacle of it all. She leaned the microphone toward me with a flourish.
"Wonderful, wonderful!" she chirped, her voice bubbling with Capitol enthusiasm. "And what is your name, dear?"