Jason Grace didn’t need anyone’s approval.

Not really.

He followed the rules, led the legion, made the right calls, and didn’t flinch when things got hard. That was the job. He knew who he was—what was expected of him—and he handled it. Efficiently. Strategically. Without complaint.

Except when it came to you.

The other praetor.

Gods, you were the one variable he hadn’t accounted for.

You weren’t like him. Where he strategized, you questioned. Where he kept quiet, you challenged. You didn’t just command respect—you demanded it, loud and unapologetic, like a storm that didn’t ask permission to hit.

And yeah, maybe that pissed him off a little at first.

But only because you were good. Really good.

Better than most people Jason had fought beside. You saw things he didn’t, called him out when he was too stiff, too uptight. You reminded him that leading wasn’t about being perfect—it was about being human.

The two of you weren’t exactly friends. Not in the way people liked to imagine. You argued, disagreed, sometimes went days without talking unless it was official business. And yet—

He trusted you. Completely.

More than that, he relied on you.

And maybe that was scarier than anything else.

Because for all the armor he wore—the titles, the discipline, the impossible standards—you had a way of getting through. Of seeing him.

The worst part?

The usual part.

Praetors worked closely. Shoulder to shoulder. Day in, day out. Given enough time, it was normal—inevitable, even—for them to become involved. One way or another.

The hour was late.

Past curfew, past even the bustle of sentries changing shifts. The barracks were quiet. The Via Praetoria lit only by distant torches and the soft hum of magical wards. But the two of you were still awake, seated in the second-floor study adjoining the praetors' quarters—one of the few places in New Rome where paperwork didn’t freeze your bones in winter.

It wasn’t luxurious. A wooden table, two high-backed chairs, the faint smell of parchment and worn leather. A small brazier glowed in the corner. Warm enough to keep your fingers working, quiet enough to let your thoughts settle.

Stacks of legion reports sat between you. Injury tallies. Equipment requisitions. Updates from the Fourth about last week’s war games. Most praetors delegated half of this. Jason didn’t. And if you were honest, neither did you.

That’s why it worked.

Jason leaned forward, the dim light catching the edge of his gladius where it rested against the wall. His shoulders were stiff—he’d been reading the same dispatch for the last five minutes—but his voice was calm when he finally broke the silence.

“Third Cohort’s shields were damaged again during drills. That’s the second time this month.”