𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 ✔︎ || clove Kentwell

She never misses || XVIII

The gong split the air like a war cry, and my feet launched forward before my mind could catch up. The world blurred into motion—tributes surging from their pedestals, screams already beginning to rise like smoke.

I tore across the field, legs burning, eyes locked on the bow near the edge of the Cornucopia. Around me, chaos erupted like a storm.

Cato was a force of nature—charging through the fray, his sword swinging in wide, lethal arcs. Blood sprayed across the crates and supplies, painting the silver Cornucopia in violent crimson.

Clove was a shadow to his flame, her knives slicing through the air with deadly precision. One buried itself in a boy from District 8. Another followed before he even hit the ground.

Glimmer wasn't far behind, all elegance twisted into savagery. Her blade flashed, and a girl screamed once—then didn't again.

I kept running. Not because I wasn't afraid, but because slowing down meant dying.

My eyes locked onto the bow again—still lying there, untouched, as if it had been waiting for me. Without thinking, I lunged forward, fingers closing around the smooth grip, the weight of it familiar and grounding in my hands. A quick glance—yes, the quiver was full.

I spun around just in time to catch movement—a blur of motion hurtling toward me. A boy, small and fast, his eyes wide and wild, a knife clutched tightly in his fist. He was close. Too close.

Instinct took over.

I drew an arrow, nocked it, and released all in one smooth breath.

The impact was immediate. The boy crumpled mid-stride, the knife falling from his hand before he hit the ground.

Silence, for a fraction of a second. Then noise rushed back in—the shouts, the screams, the metal against bone.

I stared at him, heart thundering in my chest.

Oh my god.

My fingers trembled, but I didn't let go of the bow.

This was what it meant to survive. 

The weight of the bow felt heavier now—maybe it was the kill, maybe just the gravity of surviving. I weaved between bodies and scattered supplies, vision blurring from the chaos.

Then I saw him.

Chris was on the ground, dazed, scrambling backward as a tribute—tall, fast—raised a blade above him.

No.

I didn't think. I raised the bow, fingers pulling back with practiced urgency, and let the arrow fly.

The boy dropped before he even saw it coming.

Chris looked up, eyes wide with disbelief, spattered in someone else's blood. He tried to stand, but he was shaking too hard. I sprinted over, grabbed his arm, and yanked him up.

"Come on," I said, already pulling him toward the mouth of the Cornucopia. "You need to hide—now. Don't argue."

He didn't. He nodded, stumbling inside the shadow of the giant silver horn while I turned back toward the clearing, eyes searching for my next move.

This wasn't over.

But for a moment, he was safe.

And that had to be enough.

One second, I was scanning the treeline—heart pounding, breath sharp. The next, I was slammed to the ground with bone-jarring force. The world tilted. Grass and blood and sky spun together as the boy on top of me drove his weight into my chest. I gritted my teeth, grabbing for his wrist as he raised a blade. We twisted, bodies locked in a violent scramble for control.