His eyes were strange. Discordia frowned, scooting closer. His pupils were widening and contracting, widening and contracting. Discordia knew from her training that when the Oracle switched to foreground processing, the pupils dilated.

“Sergeant Gaius.” Discordia said his name softly.

He sighed. “My head . . . so quiet.”

Quiet?

The Oracle’s voice, Discordia realized. He must not be hearing the subtle programming that indicated the Oracle was active, One’s whisper in the head of every soldier that spoke of victory, conquest, and loyalty to the Empire. Was it the cold? Or something else?

He shut his eyes. Discordia had no time; he was dying.

“Does it hurt?” she asked him in a rough whisper. “Dying?”

“No,” he breathed. She could barely hear Sergeant Gaius’s voice, and had to inch closer to hear his last words. “I like the silence.”

Discordia had unhooked her necklace and given every soldier last rites. But that had been so long ago. Had her father forgotten her?

She had no choice but to wait.

Her hand was stiff with blood when she slipped it into her pocket and felt the rough edges of Xander’s firewolf. She’d flown to Macella after he’d given it to her, sought out her father. I have doubts, she wanted to tell the Archon when she arrived. I felt guilt for killing people. Make it go away.

She never got the words out. Her father had taken one look at her—perhaps he’d seen something in her face—and told her to get into the training room. “Don’t disappoint me,” he’d said before he locked her in.

Discordia didn’t know how long she’d been in the room. Hours? Days?

“On your feet,” the Archon said again, standing before her.

She hadn’t heard him enter. He’d stepped in the blood of his soldiers and left boot prints on the floor. Did he care? Did he care about anything other than battle and conquest? These loyal soldiers had all died for a mere test.

Look up. Meet his eyes, she thought. See for yourself.

But when she did, Discordia found no answer. Her father’s gaze was as frigid and inhospitable as the room he’d left her in.

Discordia had spent too long in the cold; her mind was not as sharp as it usually was. She was tired, and the guilt had settled cold and hard in her belly once more. That was the only explanation she had for why she said, “I thought about peace. I’m not fit to be your Heir.”

Something in his expression faltered. In the end, he only reached out and lifted her chin. His fingers burned her cold skin. “On your feet, Discordia,” he said once more, and released her. He left her.

Had the longing in his face been real, or was it only her imagination?