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Reyna had always been called sharp.
When she was young, she was told that she was too sharp-edged. Harsh, rude, and difficult to manage.
Hylla had tried her best to protect her sister, but she hadn’t made it easy. She would snap back, glaring, demanding to know why their father was dangerous. Every time they found somewhere new to hide, Reyna almost always drove them away.
So, maybe it wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should have been when the Daughter of Bellona had impulsively dispelled whatever was left of the mania that used to be her father, her anger and fright as sharp as the edge of the sword.
When they were on Circe’s island, Reyna was told she was too sharp tongued. Her voice wasn’t soft and honeyed like so many of the other girls, and she spat insults far more often than she cooed compliments.
It was here, though, that she learned how to direct her blade, taught to twist her words into something more, to see people’s intentions and manipulate them.
She had hated it.
During the months that Reyna was taken by the pirates, her sharpness was tinged with years of bitterness and cruelty. She’d been wild, lashing out at the smallest of circumstances, snarling even at Hylla during the harsher times.
By the time she’d reached Camp Jupiter, she no longer had any illusions of kindness and hope. It was Jason Grace that helped her see past her anger, the first person that even looked at her and saw more than her sharp exterior.
Then, he was gone.
The praetor’s house he had resided in seemed empty, dust gathering on the shirt he’d left neatly hung on his door to wear the next day, a few papers scattered across the desk in the corner. That black ballpoint pen he always used lay on top, still and seemingly lifeless.
The smell of Jason’s cologne hung in the air, the familiar scent stinging at her eyes. Reyna didn’t have to blink back tears- she was far too used to holding back her grief that she didn’t even need to try to keep up her near constant mask anymore.
She closed her eyes, blinking as visions of Jason burned themselves into the backs of her eyelids. The way he always sat half-off his chair, chewing absentmindedly on a pencil, especially when he thought nobody was looking. How he’d always end up throwing his blankets off the bed as she slept.
Across the room, she saw her own reflection in the large mirror, not centered but slightly off to the left. On her side, there would have been just enough room for Jason to stand, his hand in hers as his matching Praetor’s cloak fell over his shoulders as he smiled awkwardly.
People had left her before. Hylla, her mother, her father- but never Jason. She’d expected him to be with her as they lead, never wavering, always reliable as the wolves that raised him. But no.
Despite all the people just outside that door, Reyna had never felt so alone.
With one more glance around the room, she firmly gripped the door handle, shoving it open with a little more force than strictly necessary. She slammed it shut, walking back towards the principia as quickly as she could without seeming distressed or weak.
With Octavian breathing down her neck and hundreds of legionaries depending on her, she couldn’t afford to break down.
Whatever the next prophecy was going to be, it had been set in motion, and there was no stopping it now. For better or worse, all she could do was look out for her legion. After all, alea iacta est.