Not once did Discordia fall. Not once did she pause and give Mistress Heraia the opportunity to thrash her for her failure. Not like her siblings; all of them had, at some point during their training, allowed their prefects to beat them into unconsciousness. Just for sleep.

Every sibling except for Damocles.

After Discordia recited the chapter through her hard, heavy breathing, she looked up at the raised observation deck. She knew Damocles would be there. Every child of the Archon was encouraged to watch each other train in the small amount of free time they were given. First, to find each other’s weaknesses. Then, eventually, to exploit them. Though they were not permitted to kill each other at the academy, it was where the royal cohort began viewing one another as competition.

And as potential victims.

Their eyes met. Damocles nodded once and held up one finger, then another. A message passed down from the Archon to all of his potentials.

Damocles wanted to form an alliance.

He came to Discordia’s room later, after another grueling day of training. Mistress Heraia had finally allowed her to eat and then sleep.

Discordia opened the door shortly after dinner. She froze when she saw him. Though still a fourteen-year-old growing into his gangly limbs, he towered over her. His gaze was penetrating, a beam sharper than any Mors laser. He constantly measured the people around him. Whether they were a danger, or—more likely—how quickly he could kill them.

She scanned the hallway and ushered him inside. “Hurry.”

“You were awake for five days,” he said as she closed the door. He sounded almost accusatory. “How did you do that?”

Discordia kept her voice cool. “Sheer force of will.”

Damocles scanned her room—clean, white, and sterile as a prison cell. The only personal object she kept in her room was the round zatrikion board on the desk, still in the same positions that she and Mistress Heraia had left them. The prefect always played the King, and Discordia the Queen. It was a game of strategy, of careful calculation meant to reproduce the moves one might make in war. She had another twelve hours to make her decision. If she won, she ate again. If she didn’t, she starved. This was how they played, and Mistress Heraia was a master at it.

“Do you play?” Discordia asked, noting how he studied each piece.

“Not often.” Accusatory again. “It seems my prefect is useless.”

Every prefect was a former member of the royal guard, all trained to be the best soldiers in the Empire. Each one had picked their trainee among the royal cohort—and those who had first pick always went with the male children. A woman had never been Archon. A woman had never made it through training without dying.