“Don’t threaten me,” she told him. “You’re not being replaced.”

“Good.” He refocused on Adrian. “Then he’ll be our first.”

“Our first?” Discordia snorted. “I assumed you’d want to go after easy pickings. Leo and Marcus still can’t beat their prefects at combat. Xander can, but doesn’t seem interested in allying himself with anyone. That makes him vulnerable.”

She peered down at where Xander trained with his own prefect—just beyond Adrian’s gym.

Discordia scowled. She had yet to figure Xander out. Her other brothers were easy. Like Damocles, they wanted power by any means necessary—even weak ones like Leo and Marcus grew frustrated by their inability to overpower their own teachers. That made them defenseless.

But Xander, he had potential. And yet he seemed . . . bored?

Xander dealt a final blow to his prefect and left the trainer sprawled on the floor. Without a backward glance, her brother strode to the massive glass windows overlooking the clouds. He sat on a bench, tilted his head back against the glass, and shut his eyes.

Bored, yes. And . . . weary?

“What has you so captivated?” Damocles asked. He missed nothing. That made him a great ally.

That made him a dangerous enemy.

Discordia shuttered her expression. “I was thinking that Xander ought to be first. A brother who refuses an ally has no one to defend him.”

“I prefer a challenge.”

Damocles had gone back to watching Adrian. His small smile—the barest lift of his lips—was absolutely chilling. “Father will be so proud, don’t you think?”

—

In the months that followed, Discordia began to wonder if she’d chosen the wrong brother.

This close to the ban being lifted, allied pairs were almost inseparable. Discordia spent most of her time with Damocles. He had become difficult to manage; his competitiveness was stifling and it made him violent. Lately, their games of zatrikion had grown turbulent.

“Queen kills King.” Discordia uttered those same words—as she had done a hundred times before.

Damocles knocked the table aside and slammed his fist into her face.

They brawled on the floor of Discordia’s bedroom. The zatrikion pieces scattered across the carpet as they punched and kicked and hit. Discordia flipped Damocles to the ground and had her blade to his throat, pressed to the flesh just over his artery. One wrong move, and he was dead.

“Either you calm down, or I make you my first sacrifice,” she snarled. “Choose.”

He huffed a breath, his eyes cold. “The ban doesn’t lift for another two days.”

“I’ll risk it if you don’t get it together,” Discordia said, voice low. “Stop caring so much. Feelings are a weakness, and weaknesses get you killed.”