Discordia lunged, her Mors raised, but Damocles smacked it out of her hand. It skittered across the concrete and disappeared into the shadows. She grappled with him. The bloody blade in his hand came down hard, but she knocked it away. Her fist slammed into his face. Again. She heard the satisfying crack of cartilage breaking under her fist. Good. Again. Aga—

“Soror.”

The strangled whisper made her stop. With a rough noise, Discordia shoved herself off Damocles and knelt beside Xander. His blood was everywhere, pooling around his body. She didn’t know where to put her hands. She didn’t know—

“Soror,” he whispered. “It’s all right.”

“Shut up,” she choked out. “Don’t move, frater. Just don’t—”

His breath grew shallower. “I wish I could have seen you.”

“When?” Her voice shook.

“Wearing that cloak as you took your crown.” He gasped again. “You’ll make the Empire better. I know you will.”

“Not without you.” She pressed her hands to his wound, and he flinched. Where Damocles stabbed him . . . oh gods, he was going to die slowly. She looked up as her other brother rose to his feet, recovering from her beating. If she’d hurt him any less, would he have stabbed her in the back? “Damn you, Damocles. Damn you. Finish him.”

Damocles wiped the blood from his face, swaying on his feet. “You stole my first. I’ll give you my last. General.”

She might have lunged for him again if not for Xander’s soft voice. “Soror,” he whispered, taking her hand. “You promised. Take me to the Avern, Discordia.”

She shook her head wildly. “No. I could still save you, I—”

“You already did,” he told her, sliding her blade from its wrist sheath and pressing it into her palm. “You gave me years. Time to cross out my name, Discordia.”

The hilt of the blade seemed to burn, but she closed her fingers around it. “I love you, frater,” she said.

He tried to say the words back. It would have been the first time anyone had.

She sank her blade into his throat.

And then he was gone.

Discordia pressed a palm to her mouth as the first sob tore through her throat, rough, unintended. Her vision wavered. This ache in her chest, this awful feeling of incompleteness and desolation was grief and oh gods, it hurt. It hurt so much.

“Discordia.” Her brother’s harsh voice echoed. Damocles stared at her in astonishment and, then, disgust. “Get up. Wipe your face.”

Discordia stood, but she didn’t wipe away her tears. They were marks of her humanity. Reminders of Xander. Of what she’d lost.

“Get out,” she said through her teeth. “You don’t get to be here while I say last rites.”

“You’re not suited to rule—”