Chapter 30 : The Last Stand
The Cornucopia swayed beneath us.
Five people shouldn't have fit on top of the golden horn. We barely did—pressed together in a space meant for drama, not survival. Below, the mutts circled, patient as death itself, their tribute eyes tracking every movement.
Cato had reached the top first, bleeding from Thresh's attacks but still functional. Thresh followed seconds later, rock lost during the climb, fighting with bare hands now.
Our alliance clustered at the horn's far end—Katniss with bow drawn, Rue pressed against my back, me with knife ready despite the wounds still healing across my chest.
"Well." Cato wiped blood from his eyes, grinning through broken teeth. "Cozy."
Nobody laughed.
The standoff lasted maybe thirty seconds.
Cato moved first—not toward us, but toward Thresh. Career calculation: eliminate the biggest physical threat while he was vulnerable. Thresh had no weapons, just his size and ferocity.
They crashed together near the Cornucopia's center.
Katniss raised her bow, tracking the fight, arrow nocked. "I can't—they're too close—"
"Wait." I kept myself between her and the combatants, knife ready. "If she gets a clear shot—"
Thresh landed a blow that should have broken Cato's jaw. Cato absorbed it, kept coming. His sword was lost somewhere below, but his hands were weapons enough—trained to kill efficiently, brutally, completely.
They grappled at the horn's edge, Thresh's bulk pressing Cato back. For a moment, it looked like District 11 might win. Might avenge his partner, might survive to see another sunrise.
Cato found his knife.
The blade appeared from somewhere—a hidden sheath, a backup weapon. It plunged into Thresh's side once, twice, three times.
Thresh's grip faltered.
Cato shoved.
The fall was maybe thirty feet. The mutts were waiting.
Thresh's scream cut short almost immediately. The cannon fired while we watched, unable to look away. Below, the creatures with tribute eyes tore at something that had been a person moments ago.
Four remained.
"Just us now."
Cato turned, blood dripping from his knife, grin spreading across his battered face. He was wounded—cuts across his chest, ribs probably cracked, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. But he was still standing. Still dangerous.
"The volunteer, the archer, and the baby." His eyes moved between us. "This is how it ends. This is how I win."
He charged me.
Not Katniss—the obvious threat, the eleven-score, the one with the ranged weapon. Me. Because I'd been there at every moment of his downfall. Because I'd helped destroy his supplies, kill his allies, ruin everything he'd built.
Our fight was brutal and close and desperate.
His knife against mine, his training against my healing, his rage against my determination. We traded cuts that would have ended normal combatants—his blade opened my shoulder, my knife found his thigh, both of us bleeding but neither falling.
"Why won't you DIE?" He screamed it, frustration cracking through the Career confidence. He'd seen my wounds close, seen damage that should have crippled me fade to nothing. "What ARE you?"
"Better than you."
I stepped into his next thrust.
The knife punched through my side—deep, grinding against rib, probably hitting something vital. The pain was beyond anything I'd experienced, worse than the spear, worse than any wound before.
But his arm was extended. His guard was down.
I trapped his knife hand against my body and drove my blade toward his throat.
He blocked—barely—my knife skidding across his collarbone instead of severing his jugular. But he couldn't pull his weapon free. Couldn't retreat without abandoning it.
"KATNISS!"
Her arrow was already flying.
It took Cato through the eye.
He fell backward, off the Cornucopia, into the waiting pack of mutts.
The cannon fired before he hit the ground.
I collapsed.
The knife was still in my side—Cato's knife, buried deep, handle protruding from flesh that was already trying to close around it. My body wanted to heal but the foreign object blocked the process, each attempt sending fresh waves of agony through my system.
"Nolan!" Katniss was there, hands on my face, eyes wide with fear. "Don't you dare—don't you—"
"Pull it out." The words came through gritted teeth. "Have to... pull it out..."
She didn't hesitate. The blade came free in one brutal motion.
I screamed. Couldn't help it. The sound echoed across the arena, broadcast to every screen in Panem. The volunteer from District 12, dying atop the Cornucopia while tribute-faced monsters circled below.
Except I wasn't dying.
The wound closed. Slowly at first, then faster—tissue reaching for tissue, organs knitting, my body burning through every calorie I had left to repair damage that should have been fatal.
Rue was crying. Katniss was staring. The cameras were watching.
Four tributes remained: me, Katniss, Rue, and—
Wait.
Four?
The mutts retreated.
They pulled back from the Cornucopia's base, slinking toward the burned forest edge like dogs called to heel. The arena went quiet—no howls, no screaming, no sounds of violence.
Claudius Templesmith's voice echoed across the clearing.
"Attention remaining tributes."
We froze. Katniss's hand found mine. Rue pressed against my good side.
"Congratulations to our final four. There has been a rule change."
The words hung in the air. Rule change. The Games had rules?
"Two tributes from the same district may both be declared victors. I repeat: two tributes from the same district may both be declared victors. This rule change applies immediately."
Katniss's grip tightened. Her eyes met mine.
Two tributes. Same district. Both victors.
"We can win," she breathed. "Both of us—we can—"
Rue made a small sound.
I looked at her—twelve years old, flower crown still somehow clinging to her hair, alive because I'd taken a spear that should have killed her. Alive because we'd protected her, fought for her, nearly died for her.
Two victors. Same district.
Rue wasn't from District 12.
"No." The word came out harder than I intended. "No. There has to be—"
"Nolan." Katniss's voice was careful, controlled. "The rule says—"
"I KNOW WHAT IT SAYS." I was on my feet, wound still bleeding sluggishly, staring at the sky where Gamemakers watched from their control room. "You changed the rules once. Change them again. THREE victors. Or—"
"The rule is final." Templesmith's voice was pleasant, regretful. "Two victors, same district. The remaining tributes must resolve the current standings."
Resolve. Such a clean word for murder.
I looked at Rue. She looked at me. Understanding was dawning in her eyes—the terrible arithmetic of survival in a world that didn't allow for mercy.
"It's okay," she said quietly. "I knew. I always knew."
"No." I shook my head. "No. There's another way."
Katniss was silent, bow loose in her hands. Her face was a mask, hiding whatever calculations happened behind those gray eyes.
Three of us. Two could live. One had to die.
Unless...
My hand found my pocket. Found the nightlock berries I'd stored since training—deadly poison, instant death, the Gamemakers' own weapon turned against them.
"Unless we make them choose."
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