Mara, Celestine, Logan, and his stylist all wait for me near the exit. The moment I step into view, I hear a sharp gasp from Celestine. “Your dress! It’s… gorgeous!” she exclaims, eyes wide. I can’t help but smile, feeling a little flutter of pride. “Thanks,” I say softly. “Well,” Mara says, glancing at the others, “we better not dilly-dally. The chariot awaits.” My stomach twists with nerves and excitement. Outside, the Capitol waits, brighter and louder than anything I’ve ever imagined, and I know that in just a few moments, everyone in the city will be watching me, and judging me. I step onto the chariot, my gown swirling around my legs as I find my place next to Logan. The Capitol stretches out before us. Banners, flashing cameras, and a crowd that feels endless. I clutch my hands, trying not to let my nerves show. Logan leans close, his smirk sharp and cruel. “Wow… look at you,” he sneers, eyes scanning me like I’m a joke. “All decked out in green and brown. Really screams ‘I know how to survive the Hunger Games.’ Honestly, farm girl, the whole Capitol’s probably going to cry laughing at District 10 with you leading the way.” My stomach tightens, heat rising to my cheeks. I glared at him, teeth gritted, then snapped. “Better laugh now, Logan,” I spit, voice low and sharp, “because I guarantee you won’t be laughing in the arena.” He blinks, surprised for the first time, and I straighten, forcing myself to stand tall. Side by side on the chariot, I feel his smirk burn into me. I’ve made it clear: I’m not going to be intimidated. Not by him. Not by anyone. The chariot jolts forward, and my stomach flips. We’re in our place, flanked by the other tributes—Districts 1 through 9 ahead, 11 and 12 behind, gleaming and polished, like a line of identical metallic beasts parading through the streets. The Capitol stretches out around us, banners whipping in the wind, and a sea of citizens cheering, waving, and screaming. The noise is deafening, like a thousand storms crashing at once. I clutch the edge of the chariot, feeling the bronze wheels rumble over the cobblestones. My gown shimmers in the sunlight, the golden wheat embroidery sparkling as the wind tugs at its flowing layers. Logan stands beside me, smirk sharp and irritatingly confident, as if the entire Capitol belongs to him. A few citizens point, snapping pictures with tiny buzzing devices. Some gasp, others laugh. My chest tightens, but I straighten my back, letting the gown swirl like fields of wheat with every turn. I will show them we’re more than just farm kids. Logan leans slightly toward me, his voice low and cutting. “Careful, Willow,” he sneers, eyes gleaming. “Try not to trip on all that fabric. Wouldn’t want the Capitol laughing at District 10, now would we?” Heat rises in my cheeks, but I snap back. “Better keep your own boots on the chariot, Logan,” I hiss, voice sharp. “The arena doesn’t care about your perfect hair or your stupid smirk.” The chariot rolls onward, the streets alive with flashing cameras and cheering citizens. Every eye is on us, scanning, judging, hungry for a moment to talk about tomorrow. I glance at Logan again, still smirking, but I catch the tiniest flicker of caution in his eyes. Maybe he’s realizing I’m not just a “farm girl” to be mocked. By the time the chariot slows near the stage, my arms are trembling from gripping the edge, my chest tight from nerves and excitement. The Capitol is dazzling, overwhelming, and terrifying, but for the first time, I feel ready to meet it head-on. And maybe—just maybe—I can survive it.
