Discordia brushed her fingers against the cold metal of the gun, snug in its box. “I’ve killed every time Father asked me to.”

“You haven’t killed me.”

She shouldn’t feel grief for the living or the dead, but she did every time she thought about Xander and her gift of borrowed time.

Discordia swallowed. She had so many questions. She could only bring herself to ask one: “Why didn’t you run from me?”

His gaze held hers. “I took the chance that you’d be different from our brothers. From Damocles.”

She turned away from him, the damn cloak so heavy. It was all too heavy. The price too high. Xander knew what she was capable of before him, before this. The person she was still capable of being.

“I’ve slaughtered so many people,” she said, her voice ragged. “I’m exactly the same as Damocles.”

“Discordia—”

“No.” She shook her head. “This gun isn’t a gift, is it? It’s a request.” At his silence, she let out a dry laugh. “You told me once that all you wanted was a few more years. Are you so eager to die?”

Xander shut his eyes briefly.

Discordia slammed the box’s lid down and shoved it toward him. “Take this back and get the fuck out of here. I’m not shooting you today. I’ll cross your name off my list next time.”

“Discordia.”

“Get out.”

“Discordia.” He gripped her shoulders through the coronation cloak, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me. I want it to be my choice. When and who and by what method. I want you to be the one to say last rites over me. I want it to be your voice that guides me into Avern.”

This was the price she’d pay for her feelings. Attachments made a ruler easily distracted, manipulated, and vulnerable. He knew that as well as she did.

“Why are you asking me this?” she whispered. “Why now?”

His expression was gentle. “You’ve delayed striking my name off your list for so long. It was always next time. I’m the last name you’ve got.” Xander’s thumb brushed the fur collar of the cloak. “It’s time for you to wear this, soror.”

Soror. She blanched at the old word for sister. It fell out of favor when children were grown rather than born. When they no longer had parents or siblings, only castes and cohorts.

It was cruel, using this word while asking her to end his life.

“What if I don’t want it anymore?” The question was a barb in her throat. “What if I don’t want to wear this horrible cloak and pretend that it represents something I still believe in? Damocles is more suited to it than me.”