Three years ago
Discordia hadn’t heard from her brothers in weeks.
Damocles had gone dark before Xander—uncharacteristic of him with only one brother remaining. Xander, who was a better tracker than Discordia, had left to find Damocles’s whereabouts. He had promised Discordia he’d leave the killing to her.
You were supposed to send me word, Xander, Discordia thought. Where in the seven devils are you?
She tried to focus on her duties, the tedious job of making sure her people were cared for, prosperous, fed well enough, housed decently. Above all, the Archon wanted citizens to become familiar with the last three potential Heirs, the final children in line to be the next Archon. Or the first Archontissa. The Oracle’s programming was deeply rooted in nationalist sentiment, in a love of their Imperial family. Their faces blared across the galaxies. Discordia paraded herself as her father’s daughter; the likeliest Heir to the throne, by all accounts; beautiful and capable and a hope for the future of the Tholosian Empire.
For a time, her father had let Discordia take the reins of the Empire in all but title. His way of telling citizens that he was confident that of the three children he had left alive, she would be the one to take his place.
Discordia began to make plans for that day. For phasing out the Oracle. For giving each planet more independence. For giving people choices. She’d have to do it slowly. Carefully. Perhaps, by the time she aged into her role, they would no longer need another Archon, another Heir. The Imperial throne would simply become obsolete—the way old technology did after it had outlived its usefulness.
For now, such thoughts were treasonous. So, she played the dutiful daughter, and the Empire thrived under Discordia’s watchful eye. She visited the planets of agricultural workers so they knew her face, her voice, her plans, her commitment. She was heard by those in the galaxy who needed her and worshiped her father and required every assurance that when he died, she would preserve his legacy.
Each thing she did was to distract herself from the fact that her brothers were missing.
She smiled (they were missing). She gave speeches (they were missing). She assured citizens (they were missing). She was her father’s daughter.
Discordia would lie in her bed at night, traveling from one destination to another, and hold on to Xander’s firewolf. If he were dead, Damocles would have celebrated. If Xander had tracked down Damocles, he would have sent word.
She pressed the firewolf into her palm. Where are you, Xander? Has Damocles found you? Or did you decide to find him?
The worry ate at her, until—finally, finally—three months after her brothers had gone silent, she received a missive through her inferiors with location coordinates.
I await your word.
Their code, his and hers. Discordia would go to some coordinates under some pretense of it being an order.
This time, it meant he found Damocles.
Had Xander killed him? Or was he waiting for her to finish the job?
She took the single-passenger aircraft and keyed in the coordinates. She suspected Damocles was still alive. Xander was not like her. He couldn’t bear the weight of killing. It would be an albatross, heavy on his mind.
Another nightmare to add to Xander’s fitful sleep.
The building was quiet when she arrived. It was some old factory on a moon called Pollux—where munitions and other military necessities used to be made before the moon’s resources dried up. Xander always directed her somewhere there was little chance of discovery: outposts on backwater planets, abandoned buildings that were no longer useful to the Empire, or his camp set up in a place that was difficult to track.
Discordia pushed the metal door open and stepped into the dark interior. Something immediately felt wrong; Xander always came to greet her.
But as Discordia reached for her Mors, a voice behind her spoke. “Discordia.”
She wheeled around, swallowing the gasp in her throat. Damocles stood in the light of the double moons streaming through a broken window, his face hard. Behind him, Xander was bound to a chair, his lips sealed with the gel they used to muffle the screams of their prisoners.
Discordia wanted to dart forward and untie Xander and count his injuries. Each cut on his face would be a small promise: a stab of a blade for each one, a whisper of a threat. Every bruise would have been a finger lopped off, a torture made worse. Discordia had never vowed revenge—such a thing was meant to be above the Archon’s Heir. It hadn’t stopped Damocles.
She had killed so many of her siblings, but she wanted to make Damocles’s death painful. She wanted him to suffer like Xerxes had.
“You caught Xander before I did,” she said, straightening. She closed her expression, pulled her shoulders back, and gave him the arrogant tilt of her chin she had perfected on Myndalia.
Damocles shrugged. “I couldn’t risk him running again. Thought you might like to join me in finishing him.”
“Why is he gagged?”
“His pleas grew dull.” He lifted a hand and roughly wiped the silencing gel from Xander’s lips. “There. Hello, brother.” At Xander’s silence, Damocles threw Discordia a look. “Not even a greeting. This one’s rude, Discordia. We ought to make him pay for that.”
She slipped her hand behind her. The Mors was too obvious; he’d notice her draw and dodge it fast. One of her blades had to distract him first, just long enough to put a Mors blast through his brain. “You never wanted my help killing our brothers before.”
“This one is different, though, isn’t he?” Those words were charged. Did he know? Damocles flashed a small smile. “Our last. It should be a celebration, shouldn’t it? We survived the culling, Discordia.”
Discordia eased her hand beneath her jacket and touched the hilt of her blade. “I’m not in a celebratory mood.”
“No?” He slid his thumb along his own blade. “That’s a pity. I saved him for you. You’re going to be my future Archontissa, after all. We all know how this game finishes, who Father prefers.” His tone was bitter poison. “Think of this as my first offering.”
Discordia didn’t dare look at Xander. If she did, she’d falter. Then her chance to save Xander would be gone.
“I won’t kill him while he’s bound,” she said, as if disappointed in him. “Don’t deny me a challenge, Damocles. Especially as a first offering.”
“Of course.” He waved a hand in Xander’s direction. “You’re free to untie him.”
Thank the gods. Discordia kept her steps measured so he wouldn’t see her eagerness.
The flicker of gratitude in Xander’s gaze almost undid her. It’s all right, frater, she wanted to say. I’ve got you.
“Tell me one thing first.” Damocles’s voice cut across the dark room, quick as a whip. Jarring enough that she paused. “Did you really choose this coward over me, Discordia?”
Betray nothing.
Discordia straightened, the way any general might when faced with insubordination. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?” His laugh was brittle. “So, he wasn’t seen speaking to you on Macella? He didn’t send you word to meet him here?”
She raised her eyebrows, ignoring the tremor that went through her. Had someone caught them on the cameras in the cloak room she was sure she’d disabled? He sounded mildly interested, but she could hear the edge to his words. Damocles was not capable of keeping his anger reined in for long. He had never been taught to make peace, and her attempts at teaching him strategy had been a source of frustration for years.
But as a priest to the God of Death? He played that role to perfection.
“Weighing my options is practical, Damocles,” she said, cool and composed. “That doesn’t mean I chose him as my second.”
The lie came so easily that Xander went still.
Damocles’s laugh was low, like when he managed to make her bleed in the middle of sparring. “Weighing your options,” he repeated. His blade shook. “Weighing your options.”
Discordia grasped her knife. “Damocles—”
She flung the blade, but he dodged it. The clang of metal echoed in the old factory. Damocles’s snarl sent a chill through her: “I’m your only fucking option. I always have been.”
He shoved his blade into Xander’s side.
Discordia lunged, her Mors raised, but Damocles smacked it out of her hand. It skittered across the concrete and disappeared into the shadows. She grappled with him. The bloody blade in his hand came down hard, but she knocked it away. Her fist slammed into his face. Again. She heard the satisfying crack of cartilage breaking under her fist. Good. Again. Aga—
“Soror.”
The strangled whisper made her stop. With a rough noise, Discordia shoved herself off Damocles and knelt beside Xander. His blood was everywhere, pooling around his body. She didn’t know where to put her hands. She didn’t know—
“Soror,” he whispered. “It’s all right.”
“Shut up,” she choked out. “Don’t move, frater. Just don’t—”
His breath grew shallower. “I wish I could have seen you.”
“When?” Her voice shook.
“Wearing that cloak as you took your crown.” He gasped again. “You’ll make the Empire better. I know you will.”
“Not without you.” She pressed her hands to his wound, and he flinched. Where Damocles stabbed him . . . oh gods, he was going to die slowly. She looked up as her other brother rose to his feet, recovering from her beating. If she’d hurt him any less, would he have stabbed her in the back? “Damn you, Damocles. Damn you. Finish him.”
Damocles wiped the blood from his face, swaying on his feet. “You stole my first. I’ll give you my last. General.”
She might have lunged for him again if not for Xander’s soft voice. “Soror,” he whispered, taking her hand. “You promised. Take me to the Avern, Discordia.”
She shook her head wildly. “No. I could still save you, I—”
“You already did,” he told her, sliding her blade from its wrist sheath and pressing it into her palm. “You gave me years. Time to cross out my name, Discordia.”
The hilt of the blade seemed to burn, but she closed her fingers around it. “I love you, frater,” she said.
He tried to say the words back. It would have been the first time anyone had.
She sank her blade into his throat.
And then he was gone.
Discordia pressed a palm to her mouth as the first sob tore through her throat, rough, unintended. Her vision wavered. This ache in her chest, this awful feeling of incompleteness and desolation was grief and oh gods, it hurt. It hurt so much.
“Discordia.” Her brother’s harsh voice echoed. Damocles stared at her in astonishment and, then, disgust. “Get up. Wipe your face.”
Discordia stood, but she didn’t wipe away her tears. They were marks of her humanity. Reminders of Xander. Of what she’d lost.
“Get out,” she said through her teeth. “You don’t get to be here while I say last rites.”
“You’re not suited to rule—”
“I don’t want it!” The words burst from her throat in a roar that broke at the last word. When Damocles only stared at her in shock, she repeated them, lower: “I don’t want it. I don’t want to be this. Not without . . . not . . .”
Not without Xander.
“Feelings,” he spat in disgust. “You would have killed our other brothers for this. You told me that it was a weakness. And then you did this.”
“Then kill me.” Her hands fisted at her sides. “Do it, you fucking coward.”
Damocles’s expression went as unemotional as her own when she tried her best. “No,” he decided. “Take your crown. You don’t have what it takes to rule. Father will see it. I’ll prove what’s mine.” He gave a soft sound of disgust as he looked down at Xander. No. That’s not him anymore. “Say your last rites, Discordia. When you go to father’s palace on Tholos for the coronation, I expect you to be in control of yourself.”
He left her there alone.
Discordia knelt beside Xander and did as she promised: she said the last rites that guided him into the Avern. When she was finished, and her voice was hoarse from prayer, Discordia began plotting her escape.
Her revenge.
She was going to make the Empire burn.