Chapter 31 : The Mathematics of Survival
Nightlock berries gleamed in my palm like dark promises.
"Wait." Katniss grabbed my wrist before I could explain. "Wait. The rule change—we can both win. You and me. District 12."
"I know."
"Then why are you—" She stopped. Looked at Rue. Understanding crashed across her face like a wave breaking stone.
Rue stood at the Cornucopia's edge, flower crown somehow still clinging to her hair after everything. Twelve years old. District 11. Not District 12.
The rule change didn't include her.
"Oh god," Katniss whispered.
The wound in my side was still seeping, healing slower than usual. Too much damage, not enough calories. I forced myself to focus past the pain, past the exhaustion, past the horror of what the Gamemakers had just done.
They'd given us hope—then carved it into a weapon.
Two victors. Same district. Katniss and I could walk out of this arena together, hands clasped like the parade, like the interviews, like every moment that had built our partnership. The Capitol would love it. The narrative would be perfect.
All we had to do was kill Rue.
"No." The word came out harder than I intended. "No. There has to be another way."
"The rules—" Katniss started.
"Were just changed once. They can change again." I looked at the sky, at the cameras I knew were watching. "They want entertainment. They want drama. Three victors is more dramatic than two."
"They won't allow it."
"They might not have a choice."
Rue hadn't moved. She stood perfectly still, watching us with those ancient eyes in her child's face. When she spoke, her voice was steady.
"It's okay."
"It's NOT okay," Katniss snapped.
"You two can win. Together." Rue's smile was heartbreaking. "That matters. After everything—the supplies, the Careers, all of it—District 12 can have two victors. That's never happened before."
"We're not killing you." I stepped toward her, wound screaming protest. "I didn't take a spear through my shoulder to watch you die now."
"I know." She took my hand, squeezed once. "That's why it's okay. You wouldn't. Neither of you would." She looked between us. "So we figure something else out. But first—we're not alone."
She pointed past the Cornucopia's edge, toward the scattered supplies near the golden horn's mouth.
Movement. A figure, half-hidden behind a supply crate.
The fourth tribute.
We descended from the Cornucopia carefully.
My wound had closed enough to move, though every step sent fresh waves of pain through my side. Katniss led, bow ready. Rue followed, staying close.
The figure resolved as we approached: Foxface. The District 5 girl who'd survived through pure cunning, who'd grabbed her Feast pack before anyone else could react, who'd outlasted Careers and alliances and everything the arena had thrown at her.
She was eating.
Frantically, desperately—shoveling berries from a scattered supply pack into her mouth. Hunger overwhelming caution. Survival instinct betraying her at the worst possible moment.
I recognized the berries.
Dark purple. Clustered tight. The exact color of the nightlock I'd stored since training.
"No—"
Too late.
Foxface choked. Her eyes went wide, hands clutching at her throat. She took one step toward us—maybe asking for help, maybe just dying forward—and collapsed.
The cannon fired before she hit the ground.
We stood over her body in silence.
She'd survived everything. The bloodbath, the Career hunts, the fire and mutts and chaos of the finale. She'd played the perfect game—invisible, clever, patient. And she'd died because someone's supplies were poisoned and she was too hungry to check.
"Nightlock," I said quietly. "Same as mine."
Katniss looked at my closed fist, at the berries still clutched in my palm. "Did you—"
"No. These are mine. Someone else brought nightlock into the arena." I stared at Foxface's peaceful face. "Or the Gamemakers planted it. Make sure the final count ended with drama."
Three tributes remained. Nolan James. Katniss Everdeen. Rue.
Two from District 12. One from District 11.
The mathematics hadn't changed.
Trumpets sounded across the arena.
Claudius Templesmith's voice echoed from hidden speakers, tense in a way I'd never heard before. The smooth entertainment had cracked.
"Attention tributes."
We clustered together, Rue between Katniss and me.
"The earlier rule change allowing two victors from the same district has been..."
Pause. The kind of pause that precedes catastrophe.
"...revoked. Only one victor may be crowned. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
The silence that followed was absolute.
They'd dangled hope like a treat, then snatched it away. Not just from Rue—from all of us. Now only one could survive. Three people who'd fought together, protected each other, refused to become the monsters the Capitol wanted—forced to kill until only one remained.
I looked at Katniss. At Rue. At the nightlock berries in my hand.
"They want one victor," I said slowly. "What if they don't get any?"
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