The next night, Damocles and Discordia hid behind the foliage at the edge of the gymnasium as Adrian trained with another of their siblings. Xerxes had a similar technique to Adrian’s, a brutal fighting style that relied too much on strength. Damocles had hoped to find Adrian alone—but he and Xerxes were allied, and the dueling ban was too close to being lifted.

The time for solitude had passed.

“Fine,” Damocles said in irritation. “Two at once.”

He moved to stand, but Discordia grasped his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Challenging our brothers,” he said, as if it should be obvious.

Idiot, Discordia thought to herself. “We wait,” she said, “until the dueling ban is lifted. Only another hour. Our brothers will still be here and they’ll be more prepared. You said you wanted a challenge.”

Damocles bared his teeth. “Father will be getting on the night ship any minute, and he’ll come if security detects a duel,” Damocles hissed. “I’m not waiting.”

“It doesn’t matter if he sees—Damocles—”

Her brother jerked out of her grasp and shoved his way out of the foliage. She heard his voice, high and authoritative: “Adrian and Xerxes, I challenge you—”

Discordia leapt through the foliage.

But it was already too late. He’d issued his challenge. The duels had begun.

Discordia darted into the melee, engaging Adrian while Damocles took care of Xerxes. Adrian recognized Discordia as a bigger threat than her brother, and he didn’t waste time. He threw himself at her and swung hard. His massive fists were fast, barely missing her face as Discordia ducked and wove. She had trained for this. This was like breathing. This was like dancing. Mistress Heraia had taught her to move like water across rocks, and she did—oh, how she did. She spun away from Adrian’s kicks and hits as if she were in a Tholosian waltz, every movement deliberate, smooth, beautifully orchestrated.

She played with him. She toyed with him. She teased him with the ease of her skill, with how easily she dodged, just waiting, waiting, for him to tire and slow from the force of his movements.

Adrian didn’t see the blade until she struck. He managed a single word—her name, a ragged sigh—before she plunged her knife into his chest. Her aim was perfect: right through the heart. Quick, merciful. Mistress Heraia would have been proud.

Her brother collapsed to the ground, and Discordia looked over at Damocles’s progress as she wiped her blade. Damocles stood over a prone Xerxes, who was bleeding out onto the hard floor of the gymnasium.

“You did it,” Discordia said, breathless. “You—” She paused at Xerxes’s struggle for breath, his eyes wide. Their other brother choked on Damocles’s name. “He’s still alive. Finish him off, Damocles.”

Damocles stared down at their brother emotionlessly. “Father isn’t here yet.”