giggle at Tobias, but now they studied him intrusively. I’m imagining things. No one’s staring at me.
Flynn elbowed him in the ribs. “Why is everyone staring at you?”
A weight dropped in Tobias’s stomach, but he didn’t answer.
Faun led the men to the entryway, stopping before a horde of guards. They stood in formation, their helmets on and spears drawn, and to Tobias’s surprise, Wembleton waited within their armored mass. He peered out from behind the pointed silver, his face bleak.
“Follow me,” he croaked.
The guards marched down the palace steps, keeping the unusually dour Wembleton within their configuration. The competitors glanced at one another, baffled by the man’s pinched expression, before following his lead.
The journey across the fortress was quiet, and soon the arena materialized in the distance. Tobias assumed he’d be ushered into one of the dank holding cells, but instead they filed up a narrow staircase, spilling out onto one of the balconies.
The pews were empty, the arena eerily silent. Stone walls snaked through the sand below, and five narrow pillars stood among them, each boasting a red, glowing orb—a ball of light, or magic, or something else equally far removed from Tobias’s interest. He didn’t care about the orbs or the walls, too busy picturing himself down below, an insignificant speck for the invisible crowd to devour.
A throat cleared, pulling his gaze back to the balcony—and to the man in ruby drapes standing a short distance away.
“Line up,” the Sovereign said.
The men wavered before scuttling into formation, and though Tobias tried to appear firm, his insides lurched. Why is the Sovereign here?
The Sovereign scanned the men one by one, lingering for ages once he reached Tobias. “Your challenge is simple. Each of you will be given one bow and five arrows. There are five targets scattered across the sands.” He gestured toward the red orbs. “The man who hits the most wins. Any questions?”
He’s here for instructions?
“Where’s the Proctor?” Flynn said.
“I am your Proctor from this day forward,” the Sovereign growled.
A hush fell over the pew, and the Sovereign paced down the line. “Winner of today’s challenge will receive a reward—time with The Savior. Hit the targets. Win the Woman. Clear?”
“Sounds easy enough,” Flynn mumbled.
A rumbling tore through the space, and the arena walls jutted into the sky, blocking the rays of the sun. The rows of stacked stones joined together to form a dome overhead, sending their world to darkness.
Tobias strained his eyes, adjusting to the overpowering black. The arena below was still discernable, lit red by the glowing orbs, and that alone quelled his anxieties, if only slightly.
“One last thing,” the Sovereign said. “This is a competition. Your aim is to take my place on the throne and defeat any man in your way. Instant reward goes to the man who takes down another.”
In a matter of seconds, all of Tobias’s anxieties came racing back.
“Five targets or one man, the choice is yours.” The Sovereign crossed his arms. “Questions?”
Flynn’s voice came out hesitantly. “Is there a…theme?”
The Sovereign’s eye narrowed. “Explain.”
“Well, each challenge has a theme—a purpose somehow relevant to The Savior,” Flynn said. “Our first challenge tested our ability to listen. The last challenge tested our commitment. I’m just curious what purpose this serves.”
“Make one up.”
“Yes. Of course, Your Highness.”
The Sovereign turned to Wembleton. “To the cells.”
The guards led Tobias and the others down the stairs to the holding cells, where a bow, a quiver, and five arrows waited—a surprise, as Tobias had half-expected to wind up unarmed yet again. Small victories. He threw his quiver over his shoulder and fumbled once or twice before nocking his first arrow, as if he had any clue what he was doing. Taking root beside the gate, he peered into the arena, its winding walls tinted red by the glowing orbs. I’m armed. There’s cover, slight visibility—and five other men, two of whom undoubtedly vied for his head.
The gate rose, and the Sovereign’s voice rang from the pews.
“Begin.”
Tobias crept from his cell, wincing as his sandals crunched against the sand, willing each step to be softer than the last. Black and red veiled his vision, and he combed his arm through the darkness, locating a wall and pressing his back to its surface. With the wall as his shield, he continued on his aimless trek.
A glowing orb materialized in his peripheral vision. This was his target, his objective—at least it was supposed to be, but his arrow remained pointed at the ground. Five targets or one man, the choice