by name, and then you’ll be presented with your laurel.”
“My laurel?”
“A title. One that distinguishes you from the other competitors. A necessity, really. The entire realm will be keeping track of the tournament, and with all those names, it can be quite confusing. There are twenty of you, after all. The laurels simplify matters. Though I suppose it’ll become much easier once the lot of you begin to perish, isn’t that right?” He chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll find your laurel suitable. Our Sovereign, Brontes—his laurel was the Cyclops. Rather fitting, if I do say so myself.”
Tobias remained silent.
“Once your name is called, you’ll enter the arena and take to the podium,” Wembleton said, eager to be done with the matter. “You’ll be given your laurel, the crowd will cheer, and then you’ll join the other Savants for the remainder of the ceremony. After all have been announced, the gates will open, and you’ll be ushered into the labyrinth. Simple, yes? You should have no trouble sorting it out.”
The girls finished their work and filed from the cell. Intricate iron plates adorned Tobias’s arms, wrists, and shoulders, yet his chest remained exposed aside from a few leather straps and buckles. Worst armor ever.
“All done, I see.” Wembleton glanced over Tobias. “How does it feel?”
Tobias squirmed beneath the plates. “Heavy.”
“Yes, well, armor tends to be like that.”
Trumpets blared, and Tobias spun toward the noise. The ceremony was just moments away, and he couldn’t help but stare in horror at the gate.
“Are you feeling all right?” Wembleton asked. “You look a bit ill.”
Tobias swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth. “Just nervous, I suppose.”
“Well, if you can manage it, try not to be sick in the arena. It really puts a damper on the festivities.”
The crowd cheered once more, and the blood in Tobias’s body rushed from his face to his feet.
“I suppose you’ve grown tired of my ramblings by now. The ceremony will begin shortly. Just remember, stand tall. Be proud. The crowd loves it.” Wembleton eyed Tobias up and down. “Have I told you everything you need to know?”
“Not entirely.”
“You’ll receive further instruction once you’re inside the labyrinth. Once—”
“Once there’s absolutely no turning back,” Tobias muttered.
Wembleton smiled, the look of it patronizing. “Young man, you reached that point long ago.”
He filed from the room, slamming—and locking—the door behind him.
Tobias took a deep breath. The crowd chanted, “PRESENT THEM. PRESENT THEM,” and the blare of the trumpets rang through the cell. A rumble turned in his stomach, though he couldn’t tell if it was his sickness or the applause reverberating through him. He hurried toward the gate, staring out at the arena as the dramatics unfolded.
The arena was massive, too large to fully comprehend. Tiered pews extended high into the sky, each row so packed with bodies that they spilled into the aisles. A balcony punctuated the uniformity, a vision of opulence amid the sun and stone, with marble settings, a ruby-red canopy, and two tall, golden thrones.
A balcony for The Savior.
The arena floor was its antithesis, little more than a pit of sand and dust. A stone slab rested in its center—a podium for each competitor to present himself, to stand with false pride as the audience assessed him. Surrounding the sand was a vast stone wall lined in gates like the one in front of him, and he wondered if the men waiting behind them were eager to fight or if they were as ill as him.
One gate stood out from the others, large and forbidding with jagged stakes lining its frame.
The entrance to the labyrinth.
Wembleton scurried into the royal balcony, his arms outstretched. “Good people of Thessen, it gives me great pleasure to announce the commencement of our most cherished tradition. Welcome to the Sovereign’s Tournament!”
The people surged with excitement, and Wembleton’s hands danced as he spoke. “My fellow citizens, it is no secret that this wondrous realm is distinct, blessed by the divinity of our sacred Queen. Many travel from far and wide to cross our borders, eager to call this fruitful land home—to soak in the light of Her Holiness. Whether your forefathers cultivated the jungles of Ethyua, ascended the snowy mountains of Kovahr”—he patted his belly—“enjoyed the merry wine of Trogolia…” the crowd laughed, and he chuckled with them, “…braved the wilds of the Outlands, or whether you bleed Thessen through and through—no matter your heritage, we stand as one. We stand as Thessians!”
Applause echoed through the arena, and he raised a fist overhead. “We unite