No, the fifth Archon decided his royal cohort should be engineered to his exact specifications, trained up to his brutal standards, and forced to compete for the throne until only two were left standing. One to be Heir of the galaxy. To lead the charge against the Evoli threat and defeat their enemy once and for all. The other the trusted right hand, still royalty, but no Archon. The Spare.

That had been the tradition for hundreds of years, down to Discordia’s own father. The tenth Archon.

After more than one hundred years as ruler, Discordia’s father began growing his potential successor. The first three batches of one hundred were failures. The first two never made it out of the vats. The third survived and grew to age sixteen. They began dueling as they should, for the title. An Heir and Spare were named, but they killed each other less than a year later. That was not supposed to happen—they were meant to respect the final decision, to set aside their bloodlust and work together.

Discordia was part of the fourth cohort. One hundred children had been grown in vats—fifty assigned male at birth and fifty female, just like all the others. Only fifty-one had survived through childhood.

Discordia was the only female left.

Mistress Heraia, as cruel as she was, had placed her bet on Discordia precisely because she was the only female to make it past age six. She instructed Discordia in all areas—intellectual, physical, and emotional—that would lead to her becoming the best candidate. The strongest. The fastest.

The one who lived.

Discordia shut her eyes and recited the chapter verbatim.

Her prefect didn’t smile. She didn’t congratulate her. Mistress Heraia gathered her bag and digital tablet before saying, “Come with me.”

“Where?” Discordia just wanted to sleep.

“Where else?” Mistress Heraia raised an eyebrow. “To the gymnasium.”

Discordia pressed her teeth together against the urge to beg for sleep. “Practice?”

“To start.” The prefect’s gaze sharpened. “Combat training this morning. History and philosophy this afternoon. And this evening, you run.”

“When can I—” Discordia pressed her lips together. She hadn’t meant to ask aloud, to betray how vulnerable she was.

“Sleep?” Mistress Heraia finished. Her eyes narrowed and she pressed her fingers to the desk. “There will be no rest in war, Discordia. Every soldier will depend on you to keep your mind sharp when you’re most exhausted. So, you will run until I tell you to stop. And when your breath threatens to choke you, you will recite chapter five for me again. Then, once I’m satisfied, I’ll consider letting you sleep.”

Discordia ran until the suns reached their zenith in the Myndalian sky. They shone through the windows of the gymnasium and the trees planted to create the illusion of an outside.