But soldiers all had vulnerabilities and strengths. Some prefects emphasized battle. Some emphasized strategy. Mistress Heraia was determined to teach Discordia everything—and if she ended up dying, then she wasn’t strong enough to begin with.

“You indicated you wanted to form an alliance,” Discordia said, impatient. “Did you mean it?”

“Would I be here if I didn’t?”

“Then who would be the Heir?” Her unasked question was just as important: Who would be the Spare? The other was lucky enough to live, but they would never be as valued, never as vital, never as recognized.

Damocles shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. Didn’t fool her. “Whoever was better.”

He kept staring at the zatrikion board, never at her. Finally, she grew impatient. “Do you want to play?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

They sat there afternoon after afternoon between their own training—often exhausted—strategizing and figuring out each other’s weaknesses.

She learned that Damocles didn’t like losing. She learned that he considered it a weakness. She learned that he grew impatient easily, and that when he sensed he wouldn’t win, he made stupid mistakes.

And she learned that he hated hearing her say the same words when she won every game.

Regina regem necat. Queen kills King.

7.

CLO

Present Day

As Clo and Eris trudged to their destination, they kept to the muddy path, their boots splashing in the shallow water. The trail grew so narrow in some places, they had to go single file. One wrong step might cause a stumble into the swamp, where bogs could be three times as deep as a person. The hidden currents dragged people down in the undertow, to tangle in weeds and never be seen again. Monsters or the thick sludge of water would kill anyone just the same.

The hangar was on the outskirts of the slums. Technically, the city was called Kersh, but everyone in that cesspit called it the Snarl. The outskirts were solely for the transport centers where commercial and private spacecraft came, to either refuel or drop off the rich to go up to the silver and gold floating palaces. High above the clouds, they never heard the constant roar of engines as the ships landed or took off.

The poor had no such luxury. Clo’s childhood had been punctuated in three-minute intervals. The ships landed and took off with perfect precision. Eventually, the roars had faded into the background like the stench of lead, garbage, sulfur, and fuel. When she’d first left Myndalia, she’d found the relative silence and the huge open spaces on Nova terrifying. She’d downloaded engine rumbles to her newly fitted Pathos to help lull her to sleep.