The Princess of Panem | Finnick Odair x oc

XXXV

I pull my hair into a tight ponytail, standing in the middle of a room I didn't even know existed. The wide, dimly lit space had become a makeshift headquarters, cluttered with maps, stolen Capitol documents, and crates of supplies. But I never suspected there was more to it than the chaos I saw at the surface.

Until today.

It had started the same as always—me descending the creaky stairs, brushing past the racks of old garments and fabric rolls that lined the walls. But this time, Aurelius was waiting for me. Silent, imposing, with a look in his eyes that told me something different was in store. Without a word, he led me to the farthest corner of the basement, where a seemingly ordinary stack of crates sat against the back wall. I had passed it a hundred times without thinking twice.

He slid the crates aside effortlessly, revealing a narrow door that was almost invisible, camouflaged into the rough brickwork of the wall. It was strange, the way it seemed to just materialize there—like it had been hiding in plain sight all along. Aurelius pulled the handle, and the door creaked open, leading into a room I never knew existed.

I step inside now, my eyes scanning the space. It's stark, utilitarian—nothing like the cluttered, makeshift mess of the main basement. The training room is larger than I expected, with high ceilings and walls lined with padded mats. The floors are scuffed and worn, the faint smell of sweat and leather hanging in the air, as if years of intense physical exertion had seeped into the very fabric of the space. At one end of the room, a series of punching bags dangle from thick iron chains, swaying slightly in the cool draft that sweeps through the room. At the other end, there's a collection of weapons—blunt and sharp alike—displayed on racks, glinting under the dim lighting. The only color in the room comes from the faded red padding that lines the floor.

This place feels different—more serious. A place for warriors, not rebels hiding in the shadows.

"You've been down here before," Aurelius says, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space as he closes the door behind us. "But I bet you never knew about this."

I shake my head, still absorbing the sight of it. "No, I didn't."

He doesn't smile. He doesn't reassure me. He doesn't offer any of the pleasantries I've grown accustomed to from others. His focus is cold, intense. He expects results, not excuses.

"You've never done this before, have you?" His voice cuts through the silence, and it's not a question—it's a statement. There's an edge of impatience to it.

"I've trained," I reply, lifting my chin. "But not like this."

He shakes his head, stepping closer until we're standing face-to-face. "Being in shape isn't the same as knowing how to fight. Strength means nothing without skill."

I try not to flinch under his scrutiny, but I can feel my nerves tightening. His presence is unnerving in a way I didn't expect. I've been surrounded by powerful people all my life, but this is different. Aurelius doesn't care about who I am or what name I carry. All he sees is a challenge—a person to break down and mold into something better, stronger.

"Why do I need to know this?" I ask, folding my arms, trying to meet his gaze without wavering. "I thought I was here to help the rebellion, not to throw punches."

He doesn't hesitate. "If you think you can sit back and let others fight for you, you're mistaken. One day, you'll be forced to step out of the shadows, Snow. And when that day comes, you'll either be ready or you'll be dead."

His bluntness sends a cold shiver through me. There's no softness in him, no reassurance. Only the cold reality of survival. I've always been able to manipulate situations with words, not fists. But Aurelius is making it clear that words won't save me in the battles to come.