Sleep, and may the God of Death take you in His embrace, and guide you to the seven levels of Avern . . .

Clo’s mouth formed the words of the prayer silently, even though they both know she believed in nothing but the blackness of the abyss.

The echoing trill of another Morshot interrupted last rites. Another, closer. Firing on a ship was dangerous. Usually, the blasts weren’t strong enough to pierce the hold, and the shields would seal any punctures, but the ship was powered down. No shields.

“That’s near the bridge,” Clo said.

“Shh.” Eris paused, listening. “Surveillance is offline, and without it, they can’t figure out who hit them with a pulse. We’re fine for now.”

“Fine?” Clo let out a low, short laugh and gestured to the dead soldier. “You’re sluiced. I should have left you here and told Kyla you died from your own stubbornness.”

“Stop whining and walk. I’ll protect your delicate ass from danger.”

Once, before Sennett, this would have been teasing banter between them, but anger and resentment bubbled beneath. She shouldn’t miss being able to tease someone. It’d been a year; the delicate friendship they’d had had ended with a lie, a knife, and blood.

Eris strode down the hall, and Clo’s limping, uneven footsteps followed.

“I don’t want to die because of you,” Clo muttered.

“Clo. If anyone is going to kill you”—she jerked the door open—“it’s going to be me. Now get inside.”

Eris shut the door behind them. Though just another storage hull, the Empire never spared details or expense in its design. How many times had she seen that depiction of the third Archon fearlessly conquering the planet Palatine? Palatine had been populated by aliens with long, sinuous rills that propelled their slight bodies through the air. The Empire had taken the planet, terraformed it for humans, and decorated the exterior of its buildings from the delicate bones of their victims. Like so many planets before, like so many planets after.

Tholos always claimed the conquered aliens were not sentient. Eris had been so young when she’d learned that was another lie of the Empire—that most of the ones she’d killed had pleaded for their lives in the only languages they knew.

Eris was responsible for so much pain; she knew that even as her father had told her it was all for Tholosian victory.

Every room on a Tholosian ship was intended to evoke her father’s sense of patriotism and Imperial glory—at least on the surface. Its second purpose was to make sure every spacecraft, room, and building in the Empire had images to constantly re-trigger the Oracle’s programming in its citizens. These were the images uploaded into their brain implants every night, depicted on walls so they were inescapable for those with enough natural resistance to have their implants illegally removed.