Three years ago

Discordia hadn’t heard from her brothers in weeks.

Damocles had gone dark before Xander—uncharacteristic of him with only one brother remaining. Xander, who was a better tracker than Discordia, had left to find Damocles’s whereabouts. He had promised Discordia he’d leave the killing to her.

You were supposed to send me word, Xander, Discordia thought. Where in the seven devils are you?

She tried to focus on her duties, the tedious job of making sure her people were cared for, prosperous, fed well enough, housed decently. Above all, the Archon wanted citizens to become familiar with the last three potential Heirs, the final children in line to be the next Archon. Or the first Archontissa. The Oracle’s programming was deeply rooted in nationalist sentiment, in a love of their Imperial family. Their faces blared across the galaxies. Discordia paraded herself as her father’s daughter; the likeliest Heir to the throne, by all accounts; beautiful and capable and a hope for the future of the Tholosian Empire.

For a time, her father had let Discordia take the reins of the Empire in all but title. His way of telling citizens that he was confident that of the three children he had left alive, she would be the one to take his place.

Discordia began to make plans for that day. For phasing out the Oracle. For giving each planet more independence. For giving people choices. She’d have to do it slowly. Carefully. Perhaps, by the time she aged into her role, they would no longer need another Archon, another Heir. The Imperial throne would simply become obsolete—the way old technology did after it had outlived its usefulness.

For now, such thoughts were treasonous. So, she played the dutiful daughter, and the Empire thrived under Discordia’s watchful eye. She visited the planets of agricultural workers so they knew her face, her voice, her plans, her commitment. She was heard by those in the galaxy who needed her and worshiped her father and required every assurance that when he died, she would preserve his legacy.

Each thing she did was to distract herself from the fact that her brothers were missing.

She smiled (they were missing). She gave speeches (they were missing). She assured citizens (they were missing). She was her father’s daughter.

Discordia would lie in her bed at night, traveling from one destination to another, and hold on to Xander’s firewolf. If he were dead, Damocles would have celebrated. If Xander had tracked down Damocles, he would have sent word.

She pressed the firewolf into her palm. Where are you, Xander? Has Damocles found you? Or did you decide to find him?

The worry ate at her, until—finally, finally—three months after her brothers had gone silent, she received a missive through her inferiors with location coordinates.

I await your word.