“Yes, it does,” Clo snapped. “Those schematics were just a start. I’m the one who filled in the details and made the fluming thing work. I—” She looked at Rhea, who had shut her eyes hard. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to you all. You shouldn’t have had to see it.”

Clo slid closer to Rhea and hesitated before putting an arm around the other woman’s shoulder. Ariadne shifted her chair closer, until her knees touched theirs.

Nyx didn’t know what to do. She didn’t touch. She didn’t like physical affection, and she didn’t know comforting words. She had seen too much death; it was so constant in her life that the sight of it was as common as food on her table. Anything—any word she might say—only sounded tactless, dismissive. Get over it. You’ll see more of it. Don’t think of it. Push it out of your mind. Pray.

Eris was right: there was no God of Mercy.

Except that since being free of the Oracle, Nyx had begun to think more often that death and sacrifice were just excuses for cruelty. Worshipping these gods—and having beliefs part of Tholosian programming—numbed citizens to the horror of it all. Some people shouldn’t have to live with such daily brutality; they should have gods in their pantheon who weren’t so harsh. That they could pray to for mercy, compassion, love—things that Nyx was just coming to understand that she had a choice to feel them.

People should have gods who didn’t demand so much. Who didn’t take so much.

But Nyx knew of no such deities. Only the cruel idols she had been taught.

Eris came to the door of the command center, watching the trio with a detached expression. But when her eyes met Nyx’s, Nyx recognized her same longing and frustration. Wanting to be like those other women, knowing she never would be. They were born and bred differently, Eris and Nyx.

They were the God of Death’s chosen.

Eris stepped forward and opened her mouth to speak, but instead retreated.

Nyx almost went after her, but then Rhea lifted her head from Clo’s shoulder. “Let’s focus on the mission, please. I need a distraction.”

Thank the gods.

“Right,” Clo said softly. “Me too. Ariadne, do you think you’ll still be able to get into the Oracle’s mainframe when we get to the ballroom?”

“Yeah,” Ariadne said, straightening. “The commander’s key will work for the identifier, and I know the access codes.”

“How long before those codes are changed?”