skin was warm, lit with a glow he hadn’t seen in years. At his feet sat a wooden barrow layered with cushions, and he gave it a kick. “What is this?”
“My cripple cart.”
“Cripple cart?”
“It’s quite useful for getting around.” She shot a glare at the people ahead of her. “But of course I can’t see a damn thing thanks to these idiots.”
Tobias chuckled, though his thoughts turned frantic, flooded with everything he wanted to say—everything there wasn’t time for. “Are you all right? Please, tell me you’re all right.”
“I’m all right. I just miss you, Toby.”
A pang shot through him, and he hugged her tightly, perhaps for the last time.
She buried her face in his shoulder, leaving his neck wet with tears. “You’re good, remember? Don’t let this change you.”
Tobias took in a deep breath, turning to Petros, who waited in silence. “Thank you.”
Petros nodded, fading from Tobias’s thoughts soon after. He held his sister tighter, resolving to make the moment last, but the outside world slowly seeped into his reality: people surrounded him, watching. Chanting.
“ARTIST. ARTIST.”
“Artist.”
A voice rang behind him, hard and demanding. Tobias turned slowly, met by six armored guards, their spears drawn.
Naomi went stiff in his arms. “Tobias—”
“It’s all right.”
It wasn’t. He handed Naomi off to Petros, the sad gazes of his family enough to rip through him.
“I love you both.”
He turned away before they could respond. Don’t look back. If he did, he’d lose his nerve. He headed for the guards, stopping once a spear poked his bloodstained stomach.
“Well then, make up your mind,” he said. “Either kill me, or let me pass.”
“Tobias!” his mother shrieked.
“ARTIST. ARTIST.” The chanting grew louder, and the guards before him eyed one another, cowering beneath the weight of his laurel.
The guards pulled away, clearing a path toward the Reverence grounds.
As the people applauded, Tobias headed toward the line of competitors, most of whom stared back at him in confusion. He situated himself in his original spot, retrieving his spear from Orion.
“You all right, brother?” Orion asked.
Tobias nodded, though his gut said otherwise.
Wembleton raised his hands high, trying to pacify the roaring crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Reverence has come to an end. We bid you farewell and pleasant evening.”
He shooed the men through the opened gates, scuttling behind them, shaken and perplexed. “Well, that was…different.”
Tobias ignored him, his sights set on the palace. Retreating was his only option, the only way to calm his mind. As his breathing began to stabilize, a distinct laugh sounded behind him.
“Artist, is your sister a cripple?” Kaleo said.
Tobias spun on his heel and slammed his fist into Kaleo’s nose. Orion and Raphael grabbed hold of him, but he fought against their force, his swarm of emotions reduced to one: the rage that had made a home in his body.
“Say her name again. I dare you, say her name one more time!”
Kaleo wiped the blood from his lips. “To be fair, I never said her name in the first place—”
“Fuck you!”
Kaleo chuckled. “You impress me. I’ll still kill you, but I’m quite enjoying watching you blossom until then.”
Tobias spat at his feet, but Kaleo simply continued on his way, wearing his blood with pride. He looked over his shoulder, flashing a crimson grin at Tobias.
“You’re a changed man.”
Tobias tore into his peach, savoring its sweet taste. He had been trying to distract himself since the Reverence ended, a difficult task, as both painting and playing cards proved fruitless. The day was good in comparison to most, as no one had died, and he had managed to procure a shirt—black, the warrior’s color, and sleeveless with a cowl hood—but he couldn’t shake the memory of his mother’s tears, his sister’s face. Something potent and good—that was all he needed, but nothing came, leaving him to wander the palace eating his peach in silence.
And then there was something: the pitter-patter of footsteps and a familiar perfume.
Leila.
He glanced over his shoulder, and there she was coming down the corridor, heading straight toward him. Turning away, he feigned interest in his peach, until finally she passed him, whispering as she walked by.
“Follow me.”
He tossed his peach in a potted plant and trailed what he hoped was a reasonable distance behind her. Leila stole his complete focus, her powder-blue dress swaying with her hips, her long hair floating down her bare back—until a servant scuttled into the corridor.
Be discreet. He shoved his hands into his pockets, gazing over the floor, the walls, anything but Leila. Marble busts, foliate arches, garlands