Such an easy kill. Why would he risk coming here?

Discordia would have moved forward to call him out, but something in Xander’s features puzzled her.

What’s he doing?

He stared at the bodies of those rebels. The Archon’s children were taught never to have sympathy for the dead. They were the agents of the God of Death. His chosen.

They killed; they sacrificed.

It was in their nature.

His grief was so stark that Discordia flinched. Mesmerized, she watched as her brother reached up to grasp his scythe necklace. Xander’s lips moved in a silent prayer. A last rite.

No, they did not give this to traitors. They didn’t deserve—

Xander’s eyes snapped to hers; the sadness was gone, as if she had imagined it. But Discordia had seen. And it had sparked an emotion she hadn’t felt since the night she’d killed her first sibling.

That, more than anything else, was why she had to kill him.

—

Discordia gathered her weapons: two blades, two Mors, and a small boot knife that she had yet to use. She hadn’t been that desperate.

She had killed ten siblings to Damocles’s eight. They were always trying to outdo each other. Most sibling pairs remained together for protection, but Discordia and Damocles were often apart.

They had their competition. Discordia would gift the God of Death with number eleven.

Xander’s tent was alight when she came—he was no doubt expecting her. The duel declaration had to be vocally made, after all. Sneaking up on a sibling the way one would in battle was discouraged. Damocles had, of course, disregarded such rules.

Discordia always gave her victims chances. Earning a win was better than stealing one.

She flung back the thick canvas of the tent.

Yes, Xander had been waiting, sitting on his cot with a single lantern lit. His military uniform was folded beside him, and he wore the threadbare clothing of a thuban, a low-soldier. Someone undecorated and barely acknowledged. The Archon called them cannon fodder. Why was a son of the Archon wearing a thuban’s uniform?

If he wants to live like cannon-fodder, then he should die like one. Damocles would sneer if he were there. Her brother came up with creative ways of murdering their siblings. He would choose something brutal.

Discordia’s fingers closed around her holstered Mors. She would be quick. It was the closest thing to mercy she was capable of giving.

“Discordia,” he said easily, resting an arm on his knee as he leaned back in his cot. “What took you so long?”