Beneath the uniform streets of the Capitol, deep within the catacombs of District Zero, Cress sat on her throne, surveying her kingdom. And it was magnificent to behold. The swirling, glittering array of costumes, gliding uniformly across the dance floor. A knight, moving forward to take a pawn. Laughter as wine poured freely over gilded chalices, and the distant clang of swords, crisp blades scraping against each other as opponents vied for control.
This was her fourth birthday at District Zero, but her first with a co-host. Slate, somewhere in the crowd, and wasn't that the most peculiar thing? That Cress was here, draped across her throne, and Slate was lost in the thralls of the revelry, the shadowy corners where indulgences took hold.
Cress watched the crowd with a practiced elegance, her eyes glinting with amusement and concern. A kiss blown to a passing guest. A wink to another. Some attendees were wearing masks, but Cress' must have been the best: that of perfection, of regality. But she was searching for him -- for her lover, her victor, her king.
@slate-skylar














