Flynn, Orion, and Raphael kneeled, exposing Tobias for all to see.
He sprinted ahead, hurtling toward the line of men—toward Orion, who was still kneeling, waiting. His feet pounded against the sand—and then against muscle, as he charged up Orion’s back, using his body as a ramp. With a grunt, he leapt off the man’s shoulders, throwing himself into a forward flip before his feet smacked down onto the ground. Applause washed over him, along with a familiar chant.
“ARTIST. ARTIST.”
All eight men marched into a straight line, slamming their spears against the sand, the sound like a beating drum. In unison, they pounded their chests and let out a war cry, and the people went wild, devouring the theatrics just as Wembleton had insisted they would.
The men filed forward, heading down a pathway surrounded by too many people to count. Tension worked its way up Tobias’s neck, but he fought past it, his eyes boring holes into the back of Orion’s head.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your final eight!” Wembleton announced.
All eight men shifted in place, facing the first half of the crowd—a gargantuan ocean filled with maniacal eyes, with hands reaching toward him. The men let out a guttural roar, and the people’s screams sank into the pit of Tobias’s gut.
Wembleton’s voice rang out: “The Brave,” and Garrick stepped forward, raising his spear as he turned toward the second half of the crowd. One by one each man displayed himself, inciting the people to cheer, the women to drop their straps. Most of the competitors took the opportunity to showcase their strength, to relish the attention—Flynn flexed his pecs, sending the women into a fit—but Tobias remained numb.
“The Artist!” Wembleton cried.
The cheering shot higher, and Tobias stepped forward, tolerating the glory rather than coveting it. With little enthusiasm, he raised his spear overhead, turning to face the second half of the crowd.
Tits.
As far as the eye could see, in every shape and size, bouncing and jiggling in the most overt manner. So many tits, certainly more than he had ever seen in his lifetime, though that was an easy number to surpass. You’re favored. Wembleton’s words replayed in his mind. You have many admirers, and they declared their love through violent cheering and naked flesh.
All the men had been called, each standing tall and proud—save for Tobias, whose numbness had dissipated, replaced with a burning. The men let out another roar, though this one felt real to him, compelled by the heat in his veins—by the applause of the masses, people enamored by the very spectacle that was ruining him.
It was time for the highlight of the ceremony. Tobias and the others opened their hands wide, and without hesitating, they dug their spears into the flesh of their palms. A sting shot through him, but he didn’t flinch, squeezing his fist as his blood splattered onto the sand. He rubbed his hand along his stomach, leaving behind red smears, and while the people howled in approval, Tobias pounded his chest, his roar carrying his rage.
A familiar face wriggled through the crowd, forcing his way to the front—Petros Elia, the principal artist of Thessen.
Tobias’s former mentor.
Sickness swirled within him, his anger fading to shame. Petros stared him in the eye, the look almost piteous, and against orders, Tobias offered him a nod.
Petros cocked his head at the crowd behind him, an unspoken instruction, and wove through the masses. Spinning his spear, Tobias followed with his gaze as the man dipped in and out of sight. Finally Petros stopped beside a woman.
Tobias’s mother.
His breath caught. Petros ducked low, disappearing from view, and seconds later he rose with Naomi in his arms.
Tobias tossed his spear aside and barreled ahead, shoving the guards out of his way as he plunged into the crowd. His heart fired off, urging him to move faster, until his family stood right in front of him.
He threw his arms around his mother, squeezing her as if she might slip from his grasp. Her arms wrapped around him, and instantly he was years younger, taken to a time when he needed her strength.
“Stupid boy.” Her voice rang in his ears like music. “Stupid, foolish boy.”
“I love you, Mother.”
“I love you too.” She took his face in her trembling hands. “So much.”
Silent tears streaked her cheeks, wounding him. He turned to Naomi, who was curled in Petros’s arms, beaming.
“You have the balls of a stallion,” she said.
Tobias scooped her up, giving her a squeeze that she returned with vigor. Her