Timber

Chapter Three: A Shift in the Air

Silus swiftly stepped in, his protective instincts kicking in. "Holt," he said firmly.

Hazel, however, attempted to downplay the situation. "It's fine," she said, waving a hand dismissively, though inwardly, she felt anything but fine. She was painfully aware that her family's history wasn't exactly private – parts of it had been broadcast across Panem, after all. Yet, she wasn't accustomed to people probing so blatantly into her past, a past she had spent so much energy trying to keep at bay. With a forced smile, she tried to brush off the topic. "With how things are now, who hasn't lost an uncle in the Hunger Games?"

But Holt seemed either unaware of or indifferent to her discomfort, pressing on with a keenness that bordered on intrusive. "Wasn't his name Cedar?" he persisted, his curiosity tinged with a lack of tact that made Hazel's forced smile falter. It also made Hazel realize Holt knew the answers but asked them anyway.

A flash of Cedar's auburn hair crossed Hazel's mind, tightening her chest. "Yes, Cedar," she managed to say, voice flat, an attempt at indifference.

"And you remember him?" Holt continued, undeterred by the rising tension.

Hazel swallowed hard, her discomfort palpable. "I was just five when he... when he died..."

Her words trailed off. How do you describe how tributes die? Do they just die? Are they murdered? Sure. Murdered by other tributes? Sometimes. Or murdered by the Capitol itself? Always.

"Can we not do this now, Holt?" Silus interjected, his tone a clear warning, but Holt was relentless. Despite the impending reaping, she had attempted to keep her painful memories at bay, avoiding any thought of her uncle or her father, for that matter.

"Isn't that when your dad spiraled into alcohol? After your mom left him?" Holt's voice took on a taunting edge as he leaned closer, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing.

Hazel forced a light-hearted laugh, masking her discomfort. "Wow, Holt, do you know my favorite color but want to pretend to ask me what it is? Sounds like you've been doing some serious stalking," she tried to divert the conversation. "That's kind of creepy, you know."

Holt merely shrugged, his expression calm. "Just got me thinking, what with the reaping and all. You know, about things."

"You thinking? Sounds dangerous for the rest of us." Hazel retorted, earning chuckles from a few lumberjacks nearby.

Rowan stepped up, his body tense. "What's your angle, Holt?" Holt's eyebrows raised as if he were surprised, but his crooked smile hinted that he had only achieved his goal, at least partially.

"Rowan, don't worry about it. People are curious; it is okay. Let's get back to work," she attempted to persuade, failing miserably when Holt ignored her altogether.

"It's just curiosity," Holt claimed, his smile widening unnaturally. "I'm genuinely curious."

"Why don't you go be curious somewhere else." Rowan's voice sounded like it could cool the air temperature.

"Row," Silus's deep voice warned. He stepped closer to his younger brother and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Holt threw up his dirt-streaked hands in a mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Just wondering why someone like Fern would ditch Heath for a man like your dad." Holt had always been antagonistic and seemed to revel in drama, but he had never been this directly confrontational.

Rowan surged forward, "What the hell is your problem?"

The crowd of lumberjacks paused their work, their attention fixed on the confrontation.