still at all times. Your bodies are statues, your gazes fierce, pointed straight ahead. Do not look anyone in the eye, for your eyes belong to The Savior. And do not speak unless spoken to, for your words are Hers alone.”
Tobias nearly scowled, but he forced his lips flat.
“The Savior will make Her entrance. Once She is seated, you will follow suit, and then the festivities begin. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen. You’ll have a grand time, I’m sure of it.”
Wembleton scurried to the side of the room, creating a clear path to the doorway. “Are you ready?” The men said nothing, and he smiled. “Splendid. Line up.”
Tobias took his place near the end of the line. Each man was a mirror image of the one before him, the only dissonance the varied positioning of their arms. Most of them held their bare arm forward, aside from Drake, Kaleo, and Flynn.
Flynn?
Tobias elbowed him in the ribs. “Correct yourself.”
Glancing between his drape and Tobias’s bare arm, Flynn smirked. “Some of us are more confident than others.”
“Gentlemen.” Wembleton displayed the doorway. “Your time has arrived.”
The guards pulled the doors open, and the men filed forward.
An ebony floor, walls lined in burgundy drapery and sconces in solid gold—the atrium was the largest, most lavish room Tobias had ever seen. Ivory arches carved with florid designs loomed high overhead, and white columns dotted the perimeter, decorated with garlands of pink roses. Cosima’s favorite. But the ceiling was the true focus, an immense mural of Ceres, the realm’s first Savior. Wings stretched from wall to wall, flowers encircled her visage, and Tobias could’ve sworn her celestial glow was real, emanating from her painted flesh.
Mutterings filtered through the space. Superbly dressed palace hands lined the walls in clusters, whispering behind feathered hand fans, staring at the men as they took their places in front of their thrones. In the distance stood another pair of doors, and before them sat four identical onyx thrones, one for The Savior and three more for Her court.
The palace hands surrounded the men, talking amongst one another without reservation. Tobias kept firm, his gaze empty, but inside he was a tangled web of tension, of wanting to be anywhere but the spot where he stood. Crowds circulated around him, glancing over his body as if he were a sculpture—a possession—and their words mirrored the sentiment.
“Which one is he?”
“The Prince.”
“No, he’s the Artist.”
“He’s handsome.”
“You think so? I prefer the Shepherd.”
“His figure’s nice.”
“He’s meek. Not nearly as big as the Dragon, the Hunter—”
“Are you positive he’s the Artist? He doesn’t look like an artist.”
A woman poked at his pec, but still Tobias didn’t move, not even as hands slid down his arms, his neck, his shoulders. You should feel immense pride. Wembleton’s words repeated in his mind, an echo to accompany the prodding, the whispers. Tonight you are gods. But nothing about this felt godly.
Wembleton sashayed into the atrium, clapping his hands overhead and bringing all eyes his way. “Ladies and gentlemen, please stand in attention for Her Holiness and Her court.”
The people around Tobias dispersed, though they couldn’t move quickly enough. For God’s sake, get out of the way. Finally the floor cleared, and two armored guards pulled the doors open. A palpable excitement filled the room, and for once Tobias felt it too—except his excitement had nothing to do with The Savior.
Pippa waltzed into the atrium in a darling pink dress, a wreath of jeweled flowers woven amid her blonde braids. Delphi was next, though Tobias’s eyes bored through her, searching for a wisp of darkness. Amber eyes connected with his, and his steadfast composure slipped through his fingers.
Leila.
She floated into the room like a goddess, weightless. A black dress draped her figure, its neckline plunging deep between her breasts, two long slits showing glimpses of her legs. Black garnets sat along a belt at her waist, in a necklace along her décolletage, and in a tiered headpiece across her crown. She was a vision—she was breathtaking—and Tobias’s heartbeat surged, his chest rising desperately. It was surely written across his face, but his gaze didn’t waver—from her full lips, which were parted, her ivory cheeks, which had turned pink, and her large eyes that stared right at him, equally captivated by his presence.
“Kneel.”
Tobias’s knee dropped, unconsciously following Wembleton’s command. “Rise,” and his eyes went straight to Leila, who sat in her throne gazing back at him intently. Slowly, he took his seat, digging his fingers into the armrests, trying to unleash a fraction