Chapters (62)
Eris held back a flinch. Even if her father cared about her in his own way, it was destructive. Toxic. The Archon had chipped away pieces of her humanity, thinking that it had made her stronger, but it only made her cruel. If she had stayed by his side, she would have been a callous leader. Worse than her forebears. Worse, probably, than Damocles.
If she had stayed, perhaps she would have agreed with her brother.
It was Xander who had truly cared for her. His affection had not come with pain.
The squeak of wheels on the floor signaled the arrival of the medic. Soldiers were all the same, even those trained in the medical field: same closely cropped hair, the broad shoulders and muscular stature from training and muscle growth supplements. Eyes blank and smooth and hard as river stones.
The cart he’d brought held various instruments that gave Eris pause. Scalpels, body mod kits, drugs. Zoe’s features were long gone. She stared at a digital impression of her old face. Discordia, not Eris. Gold eyes instead of blue. Blonde hair instead of black. She’d permanently modified her features after what had happened to Clo on Sennett, she’d known there was no going back. No half measures. She had to become Eris once and for all.
In her old life, Discordia had looked delicate and fine-boned as an Old World bird in the royal aviary. Avern, she looked young. No matter how steely her gaze, there was a sweetness about her face that always managed to fool people into thinking she was compassionate and soft. They never believed her to be capable of execution until the moment her blade kissed their throats.
She was the Servant of Death. They should have known.
Eris tore her gaze away from the cart and looked at her brother. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.
Damocles moved closer and lifted his hand; his fingertips grazed her cheek. “They’ll see Discordia. Your face when Father chooses me. They’ll all realize the Servant of Death is a traitor. That war left you a broken remnant of an Heir Apparent.” His hand fell away and his face hardened.
He ordered the medic to begin. “The scan showed an object embedded in her cerebrum—must be a tracker. Remove it.”
Eris tugged against her restraints, but they held strong. Damocles moved to sit, slow and unhurried. “You can be better than him. You can rule without destruction. Without fear and threat and pain. Don’t—”
Damocles paused, giving her a narrowed, assessing gaze. “One last thing,” he said to the medic. “When you’re finished with her face, take that scalpel and cut out her tongue.” Damocles met Eris’s eyes. “And don’t give her any anesthesia.”
Then he stepped back and sat in his chair to watch.
The medic picked up the scalpel, and Eris never gave Damocles the satisfaction of a scream.