Sweet? Briggs was more likely to insult someone than use a pet name. The last time he’d called her sweet had been during one of the coldest nights of Clo’s stay on Jurran. Her teeth had chattered so loudly that Briggs had given her one of his blankets, still warm from his body. “Here you go, sweet,” he’d said before darting back to his bunk. “Don’t die on me. I need those hands for the engines.”

“Clo,” Briggs said, bringing her back. “Go.”

Clo didn’t want to hide. The last time she’d hidden, she’d regretted it. But she did what he asked. The office was dark, but Clo knew her way around. She settled with Sher behind Briggs’s massive desk in his darkened office, peeking over the table so she could just see Briggs through the office window. He fiddled with the controls until the roof overhead opened with a shuddering screech.

“Sher?” Clo breathed. “What is it?”

“Nothing good,” he said, gesturing.

Clo looked over and watched as a ship slowed, then hovered over the launch pad to land. It wasn’t massive, but what it lacked in size it made up for with capability. It was Cetus, an M class Tholosian ship still in the experimental stages. She’d only seen one once before, but she knew the weapons systems were top-of-the-line.

But the only people who would have access to these were high up in the military. Much higher in rank than anyone who ever passed through this frozen silthole to refuel.

“Fuck,” Clo muttered.

Sher nodded. “Exactly.”

The hatch opened. A young man strode down the ramp. She barely noticed the other Tholosian soldiers behind him. Her gaze was riveted on the color of his uniform, the sheer number of gold buttons that lined the tops of his shoulders.

It was Prince Damocles, Brigadier to the military and second in line to the Tholosian throne.

Damocles looked every inch the Heir Apparent. The Royal Spare. From his flawlessly brushed-back blond hair to the pressed lines of his coat, his entire appearance was immaculate. His eyes shone metallic gold.

Four guards flanked him. They were all nearly identical, grown from the same cohort. Their Mors glinted in their hands.

A shiver ran down Clo’s spine. Beside her, Sher shifted, his hand on his own Mors. Clo couldn’t tell if he touched the weapon out of instinct or if he was readying for a fight. Perhaps both.

Briggs bowed stiffly, and his face flickered with pain from his old back injury. “Brigadier Damocles, sir,” he said. It sounded respectful to anyone else, but Clo heard the hint of unrestrained hatred. “Sirius Alcore-G5, at your service.”