"Timber!" A lumberjack's call sliced through the forest's tranquility.

  The sound was a sobering warning that stilled the very atmosphere. A majestic white pine's trunk groaned under its own weight. The entire thing tilted. A once-stationary behemoth transformed into a moving spectacle of nature's power.

  The melody of the felling started with the splintering crack of wood until it amplified into a deafening roar. As it plowed through the air, birds of all kinds erupted from the surrounding treetops.

  Bark fragmented into thousands of shards as the pine met the earth. The impact sent dust and dirt billowing into the air. The earthy scent of freshly cut wood amalgamated with the musk of the dew-drenched forest floor.

  Hazel let her eyes flutter close filling her lungs to the brim. The scent was intoxicating. District Seven's forest was as much her home address as the modest log cabin where her family resided. The morning's dew clung to Hazel's skin and hair. She took a moment to immerse herself in the forest's beauty—the melodic chorus of birds, the soft whisper of leaves in the breeze, and the chime of axes striking wood. All of it was utterly home.

  As the echo of the fall faded, the forest slowly returned to its rhythm. The incident was absorbed.

  The fallen pine, its branches laid splayed out like a shattered doll. The temporary hole it had occupied was merely a space that would be filled with new life. No matter how big a tree they brought down, the relentless hum of the forest always returned.

  The lumber site was alive with a focused energy, a hive of workers. Amidst this buzz of activity, Hazel moved quietly, scanning the area for ripe trees to fell. With a swipe of her axe, she marked the next on the line.

  As she worked, her gaze often drifted toward her brothers. Each was engrossed in their respective tasks. Watching them, a sense of pride merged with an undercurrent of anxiousness within her.

  Silus, the older of her two stepbrothers, was already maneuvering to prepare the fallen tree for transport. His muscles were taut, and with effort, he sliced through wood like it was cake. His skin glistened with the exertion, and his close-cropped hair almost blended with the shadows. He wielded his axe with the skill that he shouldn't possess at seventeen.

  While Rowan was younger he had a gravity all his own. In the middle of the racket of engines and the clatter of chains, he directed the loggers. Sawdust adhered to his skin like flecks of wooden glitter in his dark curls. Unlike the more vocal Silus, Rowan's strength lay in his observation and reserved intellect.

  Hazel paused, noting Silus laboring ahead. Despite the morning's coolness, his shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to his back as he set aside his axe to wipe his brow. Hazel unslung her water flask, approaching him.

  "Working up quite the storm there, aren't we?" Hazel offered the flask to him with a concerned frown.

  Silus looked up, surprise giving way to relief as he accepted the offering. Taking a deep, satisfied drink, he sighed.

  "In your case it's less storm," he said with a playful smirk. "And more like a light breeze."

  "Remind me to reconsider my generosity next time I offer hydration, and I get sass in return." Hazel shot back.

  Silus chuckled, wiping the last drops of water from his chin. "True, without your five-star service, where would we be?" he hoisted his axe onto his shoulder. "Keep the water coming, and I'll keep the sass to a minimum. Deal?"

  "Deal." She playfully poked his arm. "Still have to keep you in line."

  Silus laughed, the sound echoing slightly in the wooded clearing. "Some things never change, huh?"

  "Can't escape me, little brother." She stuck her tongue out at him but jolted suddenly when an irritating voice rang out behind her.

  "Are you two working or chatting like old women?" an ungodly voice barked. The sudden interruption came from Thron Pilner, a middle-aged man whose gravelly vocal cords bore the marks of years of indulging in large, illegal cigars.

  "Looks like we've found Birch's replacement," Hazel muttered under her breath, exchanging a knowing glance with Silus. To Thron, she raised her voice, "Sorry, boss, just taking a quick water break."

  "Break time is at noon, not whenever you decide," Thron responded.

  Silus, ever the peacemaker, intervened. "Of course, sorry about that. My sister was just looking out for me." He returned the flask to Hazel, hoisting up his axe.

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  "Right, I forgot you two are siblings," Thron murmured. The insinuation in his words did not escape either of them. Silus seized her shoulder with a heavy yet reassuring hand.

  With reluctance, she stashed away the water and took up her axe. In her periphery, Rowan was observing the interaction. Though he was typically more reserved, he had become increasingly outspoken over the years, his manner reflecting more closely with Fern's assertive nature, in contrast to Silus, who had the tact of Oren. Day by day, Rowan was shedding the skin of the quiet, introspective boy he once was.

  Despite the discomfort, Hazel trudged back into the woods.

  I'm definitely not cut from the same cloth as Mom or Rowan.

  Don't have Oren or Silus's knack for handling these things.

  Her thoughts drifted briefly to her father.

  Maybe I'm more like him.

  The comparison brought an uncomfortable prickle to her temples.

  God, I hope not.

  With a mental shake, she refocused on her work.

  Hazel adjusted the strap of her tool belt as she stepped deeper into the dense underbrush.

  Approaching another healthy pine, Hazel ran a hand along its rough bark. Her fingers glided over the trunk's surface, feeling for any hints of disease or infestation, an automatic disqualification for harvesting. She tapped lightly with the back of her axe, listening intently to the sound it made. A solid, healthy thud followed.

  Good.

  Satisfied, she moved on, leaving the pine marked.

  Hazel's gaze lingered on a cluster of young trees, their trunks slender and flexible, their leaves vibrant against the muted browns and richer greens of the forest. She paused, her axe resting lightly against her shoulder as she considered their fate. Not yet ready for harvest, the saplings needed more time to mature.

  Her thoughts drifted inevitably towards the Reaping and the looming Games. She glanced at her fellow lumberjacks. It wasn't just her; the shadow of the Capitol hung over all of them. Like the forest managers who thinned the woods to reduce the risk of fire or disease, the Capitol claimed to maintain balance by sacrificing the few to protect the many.

  As Hazel's hand hovered over a young oak. With a deep, inward sigh, she shouldered her axe and moved on. The young trees would remain standing for now.

  Hours later, Hazel's body ached with the day's toil as she collapsed onto a nearby stump. Her lunch pail made a solid clunk as it met the ground. Rummaging through it, she was met with an array of apple-themed items.

  "It is like an apple orchard vomited in here," she remarked, lifting a ruby red apple, followed by a bag of apple chips, apple bread, and a jar of applesauce. She raised an imploring brow at Rowan.

  "I worked with what we had, okay? And yes, Mom found a sale on apples. Be thankful there's lunch at all, unlike last time it was your turn," Rowan retorted.

  "He's not wrong, Haze. Our stomachs put the saws to shame that day," Silus added between apple bites.

  Hazel rolled her eyes in mock irritation even as the corners of her mouth betrayed her with a reluctant smile. "Oh, come on, that was ages ago—two whole years. Will I never live that down?"

  Rowan leaned in, "Well, at least be grateful. It could be so much worse than apples. Remember Mom when she found that deal on asparagus?"

  Hazel and Silus shared a collective groan. The memory was vivid and still traumatic. It had been the summer of endless asparagus dishes—from overcooked entrees to strangely experimental desserts. She could practically taste the fibrous, overbearing flavor that had haunted their meals for weeks.

  "If I'm ever faced with a choice between asparagus and starvation," Hazel mused, "I'll gladly starve."

  As Hazel bit off a corner of the apple bread, her eyes wandered across the clearing. Thron caught her scrutiny. Their new foreman was energetically reprimanding a group of guilty-looking lumberjacks. He was clearly irritated, even from a distance.

  "Never thought I'd appreciate Birch this much," Hazel mused aloud.

  Rowan snorted, pushing his errant curls out of his eyes, "Seriously, at least he wasn't such a prick." Hazel's eyebrows shot up in surprise at his choice of words.

  Silus gave Rowan a sidelong glance, his deep voice low but firm. "Don't let Dad hear you talking like that."

  "I'll tell you this much. I almost miss Birch's bizarre conspiracies."

  "There's talk he got caught up not just for being impaired but for letting some of the guy's domino fell after hours last week," Rowan whispered. He always had a knack for collecting the latest lumberjack gossip.

  Domino felling was highly illegal, and for good reason. The idea was simple yet profoundly risky: one tree was cut so that it would fall into another, setting off a chain reaction akin to dominoes toppling. While the notion might hold a certain appeal for its efficiency and spectacle, the reality was far grimmer.

  The uncontrollable nature of the falling trees posed severe risks—not only to the safety of the lumberjacks but also to the integrity of the forest itself.

  Hazel raised her eyebrows, "No wonder Thron is tightening the reins."

  Silus sighed, "I guess this means no more axe-throwing competitions during breaks, either. Thron doesn't seem the type to turn a blind eye like Birch did."

  Rowan tightened his jaw, "Thron wouldn't know fun if it hit him in the face."

  Silus's tone softened a bit. "Rowan, Thron's got his burdens. Life's already hit him hard."

  Hazel's mind involuntarily conjured the image of young Willow Pilner, her golden hair stained with blood, delicately lying on the arena floor. Hazel's stomach churned, her mind recoiling from the memory, from the Capitol's morbid fascination with those final, desperate moments.

  Unfortunately, Thron's loss was far from an isolated incident in District Seven. With fourteen Hunger Games having passed, the toll on the district became increasingly evident. Each year, the Games claimed more young lives, leaving behind a growing number of families grief-fractured.

  "Thron's not the only one 'round here." Holt, a giant and burly lumberjack, interjected into the sibling's conversation.

  "Were we talking to you?" Rowan scowled at the man.

  Holt smirked at Rowan, "Wasn't talking to you." His voice was casual but notedly lacking in social awareness as he settled his attention on Hazel, "What was it like to have your uncle die in the Hunger Games?"