for the glory of The Savior! For Her loyal father, the greatest Sovereign our realm has ever known! And starting on this day, for his Tournament!”
Adoration poured from the pews, but the joy was lost on Tobias. His gaze drifted to the labyrinth’s entrance, and a lump lodged in his throat.
“Two days ago, we celebrated the most wondrous of days,” Wembleton said. “Our blessed Savior came of age. Our keeper of peace—the holy gift of Thessen—has become a Woman. Now it is time for Her to find Her partner. A man who is strong and true. A man deserving of The Savior’s hand. Today you will meet twenty men, the finest of our realm and allies. Join me over the next thirty days as they compete for the love of our Savior—our one true Savior, until Her divinity is passed.”
The audience spoke as one, reciting a single phrase: “Blessed be The Savior.”
“These men will fight to prove their worth to Her, will kill for Her affection.” Wembleton balled his expressive hands into fists. “And while each stands as a pillar of virility, only one will go on to be our next Sovereign. Only one will become The Savior’s Champion!”
Tobias’s nerves climbed higher, stirred by a single word.
Kill.
“Would you like to see Her competitors?” Wembleton threw his hands overhead. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the commencement ceremony begin!”
The trumpets blared, and the crowd erupted into a fit powerful enough to shake the arena.
“Our first five men are united by their quest for knowledge, art, and truth. These men long to dazzle The Savior with their wit, to stimulate Her mind, to enrapture Her by unlocking the confines of Her heart.” A grin spread across Wembleton’s plump cheeks. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you the Savants!”
A gate opened at the opposite end of the arena, and for the first time, Tobias could barely see one of the other competitors—his first opponent.
“Our first competitor and first Savant, I present to you, Isaac!”
A short fellow marched from the cell, his deep olive skin splattered with freckles, his hair blackish brown. He stood on the center podium and held his chin high, awaiting his laurel.
“The Jester!” Wembleton shouted.
Another roar from the crowd, and the Jester made his way to the side of the arena. Moments later, a second gate opened, and Wembleton’s voice sounded again.
“Our second competitor, Hansel!”
The next man looked soft and delicate, his hair white-blond and skin fair, and when he took his stance on the stone slab, he seemed out of place in the wild arena.
“The Poet!”
Tobias went tense. The Jester. The Poet. He told himself to feel relieved, that his opponents were weak and thus the odds were in his favor, yet he couldn’t shake his anxiety. These men were Savants, after all—and so was he.
“Next, we have Raphael!”
A third man entered the arena, one with rich, brown skin, long, lean features, and a face dripping with apathy.
“The Intellect!”
And again the crowd cheered, though Tobias figured they’d cheer for anyone at this point. Before he could bemoan the audience any longer, another gate opened.
“Without further ado, Milo!”
Tobias’s stomach dropped. Milo had been selected—Milo, of all people. He looked ridiculous in his armor, like a child playing with oversized props, and though he took to the podium with the utmost confidence, it seemed hardly justifiable.
“The Benevolent!”
Damn you, Milo. Tobias wasn’t sure how to feel about the revelation—if he should be relieved to have an ally in the tournament or fear for Milo’s life—but one emotion stood prominent over all others: unmitigated dread.
The gate in front of him shook, unlocking from the sand with a clank. Slowly, it rose into the ceiling, creaking with its ascent and displaying Tobias for all to see.
“And now, our final Savant. I present to you, Tobias!”
The applause hit him like a shock wave. Tobias headed into the arena, his shoulders stiffening as the sun poured over him. The cheering intensified with each step he took, and though he tried to ignore it, the sound became deafening, consuming. There was no pride in this moment, no honor, yet his chin rose with authority, heeding the call of the ferocious crowd. Slow-moving seconds passed before he placed both feet on the podium, and Wembleton’s voice sounded from above.
“The Artist!”
How creative. The cries of the people had become violent, as if they were proclaiming their bloodlust, demanding Tobias’s death for their amusement. Without a hint of enthusiasm, he trudged toward his fellow Savants and took his place beside a beaming