I do not own the Hunger Games.

Prologue Part I

The Broken King

President of Panem

Tygraz Kaias

Pale, slender hands straightened Tygraz's crimson silk tie for him.

"I'm finished, President Tygraz," the smooth voice cut through the oppressive silence.

Glacier blue eyes flicked to the left, briefly meeting bright gold ones. Tygraz's lips pulled up into a faint, courteous smile.

"Thank you," he answered coolly.

Calmly, he assessed his outfit. A tuxedo with a shimmery green dress shirt worn underneath. The crimson tie rested against his chest, small glittering diamonds encrusted on it. Flashy, his wife would call it. But it would be exactly to her taste.

"Aura!" Tygraz yelled. "Hurry up!"

He held his daughter in one hand, the other outstretched to his clambering wife. Ryna whimpered, burying her face even deeper into her father's shirt.

"Papa," she cried, "I'm scared."

It was pandemonium everywhere. Gunshots and bloodcurdling shrieks filled the air. The rebels had invaded the Capitol. Tygraz's home was half destroyed by the bombs, various items on fire, and it was spreading. He continued keeping his daughter tucked in the nook of his arms, valiantly trying his best to keep her from seeing the blood that ran on the floor.

"Aura," he pleaded.

Time was running out. The need to save his wife kept him rooted to the ground. The remains of the ceiling crumbled.

Pulling back from his thoughts, Tygraz eyed his stylist. Her dressing was provocative; top barely covering her assets. This time she wore the colour gold. Aura's favourite colour was gold. An almost mean smile crossed his face. Almost. Since the incident, he had kept every emotion that shown him as human locked away. There was no one that he needed to be human to.

Livia touched his arm, hand lingering there too long. He removed her hand, expressionless as always. Disappointment flickered over her face.

"Wear blue from now on," he told her as he walked out.

Aura hated blue.

Sweaty hands gripped his. Aura's face was strained and pale. Tygraz's heart lurched when he saw the condition his wife was in. His knees hit the floor, pain jolting through him, as he pulled Aura towards him. For some reason, he gave her gold hair a quick patdown. The action soothed him a little, calmed him a little.

Picking up Ryna, he started running towards their back entrance, hand gripping Aura's tightly. The rest of the ceiling came crashing down. Something slipped from his grasp, followed by a piercing shriek.

"Mommy!" Ryna wailed.

Tygraz spun around wildly, one hand keeping a firm hold on his daughter's head.

"Tygraz," Aura called weakly.

Her legs were trapped underneath the rubble. A faint bang echoed throughout the burning house. Shouts filled the air, demanding for the President.

"You're up in ten, Mr. President!" the anchorman grinned before turning to the rest of his crew members.

Tygraz nodded curtly. Standing stock still, keeping his breathing even, Tygraz practiced his expressions. One, smile, two, triumph, three, serious. The chatter of the Capitolites in the hall floated through the backstage. It made him smile slightly, though his eyes grew darker. Once he walked out onto stage, he knew what awaited him; the adoring looks from his citizens, the cheers as he announced the Quarter Quell, the even louder gossip as anticipation started to build for the Reaping.

Were Aura still alive, she would be beside him comforting him. She would be telling him that he would be fine, that he would deliver his lines perfectly. She was his rock, someone he could always fall back on in times of weakness.

Now, he was alone.

He would not show weakness. He must not be weak.

Instead, he took comfort in her spirit.

"-and ten! Mr. President, you're up!" the anchorman yelled.

Plastering on a confident smile, Tygraz strode onto stage. Lights flashed everywhere, blinding him. The rapid clicking uncomfortably reminded him of that time. But he pushed the memories away as best as he could, and focused on what he had to do. Knowing the way to the podium like the back of his hand, he walked to it. For twenty-nine years, it had been his rightful place.

Cheers and applause erupted as he walked to the podium. Standing on it, he patiently waited for his citizens to settle.

His voice boomed throughout the hall as he spoke.

"Ladies and gentleman, this is the twenty-fifth year of the Hunger Games. It also means that this is the first quarter of the Capitol's victory over the districts' rebellion. For this year, to mark the anniversary, this Hunger Games will be our first Quarter Quell! Each future Quarter Quell will have a twist to it, and this year's is no exception." He paused to allow the words to sink in before continuing. "Let us pick our twist for our first Quarter Quell!"

Tygraz's eyes glimmered as the child carrying the box full of the twists walked up to him. He resisted smiling, already knowing what the twist was. Picking up the yellow envelope labeled twenty-fifth, he unsealed it and pulled out the slip of paper. The child left.

Turning back to face his audience, Tygraz skimmed the ornate lettering on the paper. He allowed a moment more of silence to fuel the Capitolites' curiosity even more.

Heartbeat thrumming away in his ears, he read, "As a reminder to the districts that the rebels chose to sacrifice their children in the rebellion, the districts will have to choose their own tributes by voting for this Hunger Games."

With Tygraz's help, Aura was free of the rubble. But it was clear standing was a struggle for her.

"Papa, let me down! Carry mommy," Ryna insisted, pulling on his sleeve.

"It's...fine..." Aura breathed. "Just leave me behind."

Tygraz could hear his wife's voice tremble. They locked eyes; one pair beseeching the other to run, and the other resolutely saying no.

"I can't," he answered decisively as he let Ryna down.

He bent down and helped Aura climb onto his back. Hooking his arms around her legs, he burst into a sprint. He chanced a glance back, saw his daughter lagging behind, and slowed down. It hurt him that he could not protect his little girl's eyes from the carnage around her. Their dead bodyguards and avoxes; he refused to think what she made of all this.

Ryna caught up with him and trying to hold her hand as best as he can, he started running again. They were almost at the backdoor.

The front door of the room burst open.

"Found him!" a man yelled.

"No," Aura whispered.

Utter horror took hold of Tygraz when he realised his wife was intentionally slipping from his grasp. No, no, no! He tried to tighten his hold on her, but a scream distracted him.

Ryna.

He whirled around, grip loosening on Aura from the shock. His little daughter, his precious gem, had her face contorted as she fell to the ground. Blood bloomed on her white dress. Her lips parted and moved, forming 'Papa' and 'Mama'.

His howl nearly tore his throat into half.

"Hit the President you retard," a rebel snarled as he cocked his gun straight at Tygraz.

Tygraz wasn't quite sure that he minded dying at this point. Though as he thought it, his legs also began to move, wanting to avoid the bullet that was sure to come.

Then, he felt his back become a lot lighter. Tangled gold hair crossed his vision. The backdoor banged open, with it coming more yells. His hand tried to reach out, or at least it did, he thought. A gunshot rang out. He did not quite feel attached to his body right now.

Whatever happened next, Tygraz was not certain. All he knew were the hoarse shouts of President!, cold marble pressing against his cheek, gunfire, and an oddly chilling scream that sounded like his and another person's at the same time.

And then, all he remembered were the unmoving bodies of his wife and daughter.

Tygraz picked up his wine flute and sipped from it, staring vacantly out of the window, down at the city lights. The cheers and wild applause from earlier still remained with him. Yet, they seemed so far away at the same time, as things often seem to be after the rebellion. It often felt like he was in another world, separated from the rest.

He expected to feel joy and elation when he announced the twist. The only thing he felt now was a sense of desolation eating away at him. He could not understand why. Sipping his wine again, he wondered how Ryna would be like now. Whether she would be married now. Would he and Aura have another child? His lips tugged up into a caustic smile. How many more times would he torture himself with thoughts of an unattainable future?

But this was his vengeance, he told himself. This Quell was what he had been waiting for ever since the implementation of the Hunger Games. But something felt deeply wrong. Wrong with what exactly, he could not pinpoint.

He stared down at his wine flute.

This was his right. Why couldn't he be happy about it?

Maybe because it was not what he truly wanted.

anathema n. – a person or thing accursed or consigned to damnation or destruction.

A/N: Back with another SYOT, I know right. For those who submitted to The Winter Palace, you might be feeling really apprehensive right now, but I assure you that I will complete this and Anathema. My writing will be picking up once June 10th is over and I intend to write like a madwoman for both stories.

Anyway, to be brief, this is the 25th Hunger Games so it's basically the Quell for which the tributes are chosen. Guidelines and the form are on my profile but I'll stress this here anyway: notributes through review, and the deadline is June 15th 2359 GMT+8. So yes, this is open submissions.

The format I'll be using for this story is the one used for Measured in Blood by jakey121. He has very kindly granted me permission to use his format :D. And seriously, if you haven't read what he has written so far, go and read them, his writing is really good.

Next chapter will be prologue part II!