All fifty of Discordia’s brothers had varying degrees of skill. She had watched them from afar as they sparred with their prefects, and sometimes through the observation glass in the classrooms. She knew they did the same with her; the difference was that she never let her guard down. Every moment of her life was a performance, and her audience was fifty teenage boys eager to put a Mors blast through her skull. She counted Damocles among them; agreement or no, he would betray her in a moment if any other brother proved more competent.

No one there was worthy of trust. Not even allies.

Discordia crossed her arms, eyes narrowed at Adrian in his gymnasium below. Both the observation deck and the gymnasium were ringed with trees. It helped them feel like they weren’t trapped on a golden ship, and the roots could also trip up an inattentive student. Adrian diligently switched through every combat weapon in the collection, displaying a familiarity with each one that made his prefect nod in approval.

Adrian was agile. Incredibly strong. The problem she spotted in him was a fatal one: he lacked focus. Badly.

A small rustle came from behind her. The shadow out of the corner of her eye moved.

Damocles still made stupid mistakes.

Discordia seized Damocles by the wrist and flung his hand away. “Clumsy,” she said with a click of her tongue. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

Damocles looked annoyed. “I should have brought a blade.”

“You still would have failed.”

He made a sound in his throat—loathing or an admission of truth—taking in the sight below them. Adrian was practicing with a quarterstaff: not a terribly effective battlefield weapon, but exceptional for honing reflexes. His prefect smacked him across the face with the staff and Adrian reared back with a fist that sent his prefect sprawling. Discordia almost snorted. He hadn’t even bothered with his own staff.

“He has fists the size of boulders,” Damocles murmured. “Formidable skills. Probably the best among our cohort.”

“He might be big, but he’s sloppy.”

Damocles rolled his eyes. “Snob.”

Discordia lifted a shoulder. “Stating facts. Adrian has six months to practice before we’re permitted to fight duels. There’s still time.”

“You think he’ll improve by then?” Damocles asked. His expression was hard. “Considering replacing me?”

“No,” Discordia answered honestly.

“Good.” His eyes burned fire-bright. “Because I’d punish you if you did.”

Discordia went still. There was a promise in his voice, a dangerous finality. She’d always wondered if Damocles hated her. If, in the privacy of his room, he imagined ways of killing her. Theirs was an alliance based on survival, nothing more. Replacing him with a weaker brother wasn’t an option. Perhaps, if Discordia became the first Archontissa, she’d find a way to deal with Damocles.

For now, she had to let Damocles live.