The mice are really too small for Finnick's usual method of defense. There's a good chance the tines of a trident would miss the pests, no matter how good his aim is. So today, he's perched on the porch, his territorial gaze cast across the birds' enclosure in case one of the little rodents appears. He doesn't actually have any throwing knives, but he's testing the balance of a dagger in one hand when he sees the woman approaching up the road. He keeps weighing the dagger, but his attention is now focused on her rather than the birds he's guarding.

"She's not here," he says.

The woman is dark-haired, petite, and she moves with an ease that in his experience is usually born of confidence and competence rather than actual casualness. He taps the dagger on his hand for a moment, then smiles.

"You must be Hawke."