Eris was helpless against the command. She didn’t know what Damocles had dosed her with. She tried to resist. She tried to open her mouth to scream.

She couldn’t. Her body was trapped, rigid. Programmed to do only what he had commanded.

Eris reached for the carved chest again, and no one stopped her. She pushed aside the velvet covering and the metal of the blaster underneath was cold. She picked it up, her hands on the trigger. Stop, Eris. Stop, stop!

The Archon’s eyes widened. The Ascendants stepped back in unison, turned as if to flee.

The air filled with smoke, hissing through the vents. Reds, oranges, yellows. Within moments, the ballroom was hazy, impossible to see anything. Eris’s mind whirred, desperate to throw off Damocles’s command.

Ariadne.

Another name stuck to her mind. Ariadne had created a failsafe. How many shots had Ariadne said would cause the weapon to jam? Three? Four? Could Eris fire it at the ceiling, or would the spores release and drift down on the guests anyway?

The smoke made her cough. Eris fell to the ground, heaving, the weapon tumbling from her hands. She pulled up the gossamer undershirt of her dress and wrapped it around the lower half of her face, her ruined mouth, unsure if it would even help.

A horrible sound cut through the confused mutterings of the crowd. A hiss, a shot, a sizzle of a blaster.

Another.

One more.

The smoke cleared, and Eris stared at the frightened, fleeing Tholosians and Evoli through a film of reddish orange. Her hands were empty, the blaster four steps away. She had not fired it. She couldn’t have.

Could she?

Her head throbbed, her tongue was seared with pain. The world was still hazy and uncertain, her mind still cobwebbed.

The Oversouls, the Ascendant, and the Archon had collapsed to the ground. Their cries pierced Eris’s ears. Her vision sharpened and her mind was clearer and—

Oh, the God of Death would be pleased this day. He would have bathed in the blood of his sacrifice. The guards ran to help the Oversoul and the Ascendant; Tholosian guards rushed to her father, but the plague was already manifesting. The ichor spores had been released. They, too, collapsed from skin contact. Their screams rose as they fell to the floor and writhed in agony. Blood would soon slide from their eyes, their noses, their mouths. They’d be dead in days, if they were lucky. Most would die in mere hours.

There was no help for them.

Eris backed away, her hand to her lips. She barely registered her brother fleeing the room with his own guards. Her thoughts were slow, unfocused. Remember. What happened? Had Damocles taken the blaster from her? Fired at their enemies and then his own father?

Or had he made Eris pull the trigger for him?

Gods, had she killed these people?