The Princess of Panem | Finnick Odair x oc

XLVI

The training room is quiet except for the rhythmic thud of fists hitting pads. Aurelius's instructions come as sharp, brief commands, every word clipped and efficient. He watches me intently as I strike again, harder, pushing myself to match his precision. The air is thick with focus, but underneath, my frustration simmers, just waiting to burst. All the anger I can't voice aloud—it courses through me with every punch, every swing. It's both a release and a reminder of everything I can't forgive.

"Again," he says, taking a step back as I switch stances. His expression doesn't change, but there's a hint of approval in his eyes. "Your form's improved."

"I've had a good teacher," I reply, without any warmth in my tone. I grab a dagger from the nearby rack, testing its weight. I let it fly, watching as it lands close to the center of the target.

"Close," Aurelius says, retrieving it and handing it back. "But you can do better."

I don't bother answering, instead throwing it again, pouring all my frustration into the bullseye. This time, it hits its mark. I feel his gaze settle on me, studying me with what feels like irritating scrutiny. Why didn't he tell me sooner?

"Quarter Quell's coming up soon," he says, voice low. "Any thoughts from you and Plutarch yet?"

I grit my teeth, the frustration flaring again. "No. My grandfather's keeping us in the dark, as usual." The words are sharp, and I hurl the next dagger harder than I mean to, watching as it lands just outside the target. I reach for another, needing to channel my anger into something useful.

"Your anger isn't going to help your aim," Aurelius comments. He steps closer, looking at me with that maddening calmness. "Or maybe it is," he adds quietly, his eyes on the way I grip the blade like it's the only thing keeping me grounded.

I exhale, lowering the dagger. "Anger's the only thing I can control right now," I murmur, more to myself than to him. But he's listening, fully focused, and I feel the weight of it, the way he seems to see more than he should.

"It's exhausting," I add, barely a whisper. "Living like this. Playing by his rules, trapped by his choices."

He nods, his expression distant. "It is exhausting," he agrees. "But it's how you survive in this world. And I have a feeling you're very good at surviving."

I throw another dagger, hitting close to the center. There's a satisfaction in it, a small victory that feels like it's mine alone. I turn to him, breathing hard, feeling raw and angry under his steady gaze.

"Tell me about yourself," I say abruptly, fueled by a surge of resentment. "Any family?"

His face closes off instantly, and he looks away. "They're dead," he says, voice flat. His tone tells me it's final, but I can feel there's more beneath it—something he's choosing not to share.

"How did they die?" I press, needing answers, needing him to be as exposed as he's made me.

He's silent for a moment, jaw clenched, before he sighs. "My dad left when I was six. Disappeared one day, and I never saw him again." His face tightens as he continues. "And my mom... she was killed. By your grandfather."

The words hit like a punch, knocking the breath from my lungs. I stare at him, searching for any sign that he's lying. But his expression is hauntingly resigned, and my stomach twists with guilt and disbelief.

"I had no idea," I whisper, the words feeling hollow.

"Stop," he interrupts. "It's not your fault, Ophelia. My family's story isn't unique. Your grandfather has hurt a lot of people."

My voice cracks, barely a whisper. "I don't know how to let go of the person I thought he was." 

Aurelius takes a step closer, his gaze never wavering. "You don't have to let go of that," he says. "But you have to be prepared to face the truth. Even if it hurts."