Discordia stood on shaking legs and closed her hand around the firewolf in her pocket. The sharp edges bit into her fingers as she stepped over Sergeant Gaius’s corpse.

She wondered whether he’d be dead if the Oracle had given him a choice.

—

Urion, one of Discordia’s brothers, was going to kill Xander.

Discordia had tracked Urion to Regulas, a moon in the outer quadrant of the Iona Galaxy where she knew Xander had gone. Xander had been reckless. He’d left an encrypted message that allowed her to track his whereabouts—a stupid decision, she’d thought. Bring the firewolf back to me sometime, he’d said. Why would he do that? Why would he make such a foolish choice just because she’d taken that carving? Didn’t he know not to trust her?

More than once, Discordia had convinced herself to go after him.

Every time, she changed her mind.

Two brothers in the same place, she thought to herself, tracking Urion through the trees of the moon’s thick northern forest. She’d put off killing Xander long enough. It was time to finally slit his throat and leave the firewolf behind. Xander was responsible for this doubt, this guilt. He had to die for it.

The scent of woodsmoke grew stronger as Discordia followed Urion—Xander’s camp couldn’t be far. As she edged through the trees, she watched her brother’s movements for any indication that he was aware of her. He wasn’t. When Discordia had seen Urion train, it was clear that he was unexceptional. Not weak or strong; an average candidate in a cutthroat competition. The fault, perhaps, had been with his prefect, a former member of the royal guard who had been too rash with his charge. Impatient for results, and for the prestige of having trained one of the surviving Heirs. Mistress Heraia had considered his teachings inadequate.

For Mistress Heraia’s patience had been so endless that it, too, had been a form of torture. She had been the first to leave Discordia in desolate rooms with corpses for company.

Discordia crouched behind the bushes as Urion reached Xander’s camp. Xander was there, sitting by the fire, as if awaiting such a fate. There was a formality to the way the royal cohort had been taught to duel; they approached each other as adversaries, yes, but there was a civility to it. Rules of straightforward approaches. The challenge had to be issued.

It was as formal as giving last rites.

Urion greeted Xander in the usual way: “I challenge you.” No regret, no emotion. Only facts. “Choose your weapons.”