REYNA RAMÍREZ

The door barely makes a sound when you ease it open.

You had planned it that way.

Every step back through the quiet corridors of the praetor’s quarters is deliberate—measured, careful, the kind of movement that avoids attention rather than invites it. The camp is asleep, or close enough to it. The usual hum of activity has dulled into something softer, distant murmurs and the occasional clink of armor from late patrols drifting through the night air.

You should feel relieved.

You made it back.

No one stopped you. No one questioned you.

It should have been simple.

But the second you step inside your room, the illusion shatters.

Reyna is already there.

She’s not standing. Not pacing. Not waiting in some rigid, formal stance that would make this easier to face.

She’s sitting.

Casually—if anything she does can be called that—legs slung over the arm of one of the chairs, posture loose in a way that feels entirely at odds with everything you know about her. The dim light casts shadows across her features, but her gaze is unmistakable.

Sharp. Focused. Unyielding.

Locked entirely on you.

“Care to explain yourself?”

Her voice is even.

Controlled.

Completely devoid of emotion.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

You close the door behind you slowly, the quiet click echoing louder than it should. For a moment, you don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stand there, caught in the weight of her attention.

Great.

Of all the nights.

Of all the times to get caught—

It had to be by her.

“I didn’t realize I needed permission to step outside,” you say, keeping your tone steady, even if your pulse isn’t.

Reyna doesn’t react immediately.

She studies you.

Not just a glance. Not a surface-level assessment.

She takes you in fully—your posture, your expression, the faint traces of the outside world still clinging to you. Dust on your boots. The shift in your breathing. The fact that you’re here at all.

“You don’t,” she replies finally.

A beat passes.

“Unless you’re Praetor.”

There it is.

Not raised. Not sharpened.

But unmistakably pointed.

You exhale slowly, stepping further into the room, letting the door fall fully shut behind you. “Last I checked, I am.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“Yes,” she says. “You are.”

Another pause.

“But you weren’t acting like one tonight.”

The words land heavier than they should.

Because it’s not just criticism.

It’s disappointment.

And that—more than anything—is what grates.

You cross your arms, leaning slightly against the edge of the table, grounding yourself in something solid. “I stepped out for a few hours. The camp didn’t fall apart in my absence.”

“That’s not the point.”

Her response is immediate.

Of course it is.

Reyna shifts then, swinging her legs down from the arm of the chair and sitting upright. The movement is fluid, controlled—every bit of that casual posture gone in an instant, replaced by something sharper. More familiar.

More her.

“The point,” she continues, “is that you left without informing anyone. No guard. No escort. No contingency plan if something went wrong.”

Her eyes narrow slightly—not in anger, but in focus.

“You disappeared.”

You push off the table, straightening. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

“That’s not the issue.”

“It seems like it is.”

The tension in the room tightens, pulling taut between you like a drawn wire.

You’ve had disagreements before.

Of course you have.

You don’t become co-praetors without clashing—two leaders, two perspectives, two entirely different ways of handling responsibility forced into a single role.

You’ve always thought she was too rigid.

Too bound by rules and structure to see anything beyond them.

And she—

Well.

It’s never been hard to guess what she thinks of you.

Reckless.

Unpredictable.

A variable she can’t fully control.

Reyna stands.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t step into your space aggressively. But the shift in her presence is immediate—like a line has been drawn, clear and immovable.

“You are a leader of this camp,” she says, each word precise. “Everything you do reflects on that position. Every decision you make—especially the careless ones—affects more than just you.”

“Careless?” You let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “I went to see someone. That’s all.”

“At night. Alone. Outside camp borders.”

Her gaze sharpens further.

“You call that responsible?”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

Because when she says it like that—

It doesn’t sound as harmless as it felt.

But you’re not about to concede that.

“I handled myself just fine,” you say instead.

Reyna’s expression doesn’t change.

“That’s not the standard.”

There’s no anger in her voice.

No raised volume.

Just certainty.

And that—more than anything—makes it harder to argue against.

“You don’t get to take unnecessary risks,” she continues. “Not like that. Not when people are relying on you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can.”

The response is immediate.

Firm.

And for a moment, it throws you off.

Because there’s no doubt in her voice.

No dismissal.

Just… acknowledgment.

“But that’s not the point,” she adds, quieter now. “This isn’t about your ability.”

“Then what is it about?”

She holds your gaze.

And for a brief second, something shifts.

The sharp edges of her composure don’t disappear—but they soften, just enough to reveal what’s underneath.

“It’s about responsibility,” she says.

Not as an accusation.

Not as a command.

But as something heavier.

Something real.

“You don’t get to act like your choices only affect you,” she continues. “Not anymore.”

The words settle into the space between you, pressing against something you don’t want to examine too closely.

You look away first.

Not in defeat.

Just… to breathe.

“I needed a break,” you admit, the words quieter than before.

Reyna doesn’t respond immediately.

You can feel her watching you, weighing what you’ve said.

“You could have said that,” she replies eventually.

You let out a short, humorless breath. “And you would’ve approved it?”

“No.”

There’s no hesitation.

Of course there isn’t.

“But I would have made sure you had one,” she adds.

That makes you look back at her.

Because that—

That wasn’t what you expected.

Reyna stands there, composed as ever, but there’s something different in the way she’s looking at you now. Less like an opponent. Less like someone she needs to correct.

More like—

A partner.

Even if neither of you has quite figured out how to act like it.

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” she says.

The statement is simple.

But coming from her—

It means more than it should.

You study her for a moment, trying to reconcile this version of Reyna with the one you’ve spent so long butting heads with.

Maybe they’re not as different as you thought.

Or maybe you just never bothered to look past the surface.

The silence stretches.

Not tense.

Not comfortable.

Just… unfinished.

Reyna exhales softly, some of the rigidity in her posture easing—just slightly.

“Next time,” she says, returning to that steady, controlled tone, “you inform me before you leave.”

It’s not a question.

You hesitate.

Then nod.

“Next time,” you agree.

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, as if making sure you mean it.

Then, finally, she steps back.

Not dismissing you.

Not turning away entirely.

Just… giving space.

And somehow, that feels like more trust than anything she’s said so far.

The tension in the room doesn’t disappear.

But it changes.

Shifts into something quieter.

Something that might, eventually, become understanding.

If you let it.

What you do with that is up to you.