There are no weapons on the borded-up Main Street Shops, but there are old t-shirts and stubby pencils, tiny little souvenirs of a time gone by that can perhaps be of use in the future. Aunamee — the prince, the savior, the chosen one — ties them all up in his clean and pristine cape and hoists it over his shoulder as he moves through the street. The air is quiet, absent of cannons, and he finds it disturbing somehow, like the calm before the storm.

He sees Hyperion.

This isn’t someone Aunamee recognizes. That lean figure, that clipped blond hair. Aunamee was always thorough in his research, in examining each and every tribute, how they operated and fought and fell. But no, oh no. This one is new. This one is unpredictable.

He slows his pace, his eyes locked on the other man.