The Archon had picked his favorite, even as he played at impartiality. He wanted Discordia to survive. Eighteen were gone. Thirty-two to go if she left Damocles as her Spare.

Discordia’s first major victory in the war against the Evoli came after a year under the Archon’s harsh lessons. She led the Empire’s soldiers into a bloody, fierce battle that won her father a resource-rich planet that would ease the strain of dwindling resources in their Empire. She was celebrated across the Tholosian Empire for it. Her icon was flown over thousands of skies, and her people rallied around her image.

For her father, though, it wasn’t enough.

The Archon had watched Discordia closely to ensure she would never be weighed down by guilt or sentiment of any kind. If she was to be his executioner—his Servant of Death—for every crime committed against the Empire, Discordia would have to grow used to the scent of the dead, the sound a body made when it hit the ground. One shot to the head, out like a light. Another. Another.

“Line them up,” her father commanded his soldiers.

They were on the battlefront with five Novan prisoners who had tried to warn the Evoli of the Tholosians’ impending attack. These rebels had been caught infiltrating the military compound on Solaris. Every soldier there knew them, had befriended them. Had never suspected the truth.

The Archon wanted them all to watch the execution.

All five in a row, eyes on her. Her father wanted her to meet the gaze of every person she killed. Always a test.

“Go on, Discordia,” her father said.

Discordia didn’t hesitate. She raised her Mors and went down the line: One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

So easy.

The deed was done. The God of Death would smile upon her.

But as Discordia shoved her Mors in its holster, her eyes snagged on someone in the crowd.

Xander.

Why had the Archon not let Discordia know that her brother was there? Her father’s gaze met hers and he nodded in satisfaction before striding back to his tent. No indication he was aware that his son was standing nearby.

Unless . . .

Discordia almost let out a bitter laugh. He didn’t recognize his own. Didn’t care. Xander hadn’t impressed him enough to warrant notice, to be chosen for the Archon’s personal tutelage. That Discordia had was both a gift and a curse.

Xander was taller than she remembered, every bit as muscled as Damocles. The similarity ended there. Where Damocles was fair-haired, Xander’s shone as dark and lustrous as polished volcanic rock. His skin was tanned. She recalled Damocles had tracked him to Vega but lost him after his ship had become overheated from the temperature of the scorching suns there.

Alone, Discordia reminded herself. Xander had always been alone. Had never chosen his second, and now it was too late.