It started the first night after my conversation with Astro.
I lay in my alcove, unable to sleep despite my exhaustion. My mind kept circling back to everything he'd told me. Three attempts at the Games. Six deaths. One chance left. The curse of choosing wrong.
Then my wrist began to burn.
I looked down and my breath caught. The Blood Moon sigil wasn't just glowing anymore. It was bleeding. Not blood exactly, but light. Red luminescence poured from the crescent moon on my wrist like a wound that wouldn't close.
The light spread across the white stone floor, painting my alcove in shades of crimson. It was beautiful and terrible and wrong.
I tried to cover it with my other hand, but the light bled through my fingers. Tried to wrap it in the thin blanket they'd provided, but the light seeped through the fabric.
There was no hiding it. No making it stop.
