Milo, who spoke to him out of the corner of his mouth.
“I see you’ve managed to relocate your sac.”
“Shut up, Milo.”
Wembleton threw his arms overhead. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Savants!”
Another roar resounded from the pews, and Milo spun toward Tobias, not bothering to hide his excitement. “This is brilliant. I can’t believe you entered!”
“I’m a bit surprised myself,” Tobias mumbled.
“Do you know what this means? We get to compete together!”
“Or it means we’ll have to kill one another.”
Milo frowned. “God, you’re always so cynical.”
The cheering evolved, morphing into a single phrase. Soon enough Tobias could make it out, and he swallowed a groan, wishing he would disappear into a puddle in the sand.
“What are they all saying?” Milo said.
Tobias growled under his breath. “Bait.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re the first to die.”
BAIT, BAIT, BAIT. The word pulsed through him, taunting him, and he balled his hands into fists.
Wembleton continued with his dramatics, rambling on about the Stalwarts—“Men of honor and hard work,” as if the Savants were neither of those things. As he babbled, Milo gazed up into the audience.
“What are you doing?” Tobias asked.
“Looking for my family. Do you think they’re here?”
Tobias went cold. What if my family’s here?
“What if your family’s here?”
Tobias grumbled, his shoulders curling under the weight of the audience’s gaze. “Stop it, Milo.”
“I can search for them if you’d like. Do you think they’d come?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“I could find them for you—”
“I don’t want to know.”
Milo glanced over Tobias’s glower and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Tobias stood in silence as the Stalwarts were announced: the Brave was first, followed by the Farmer and the Physician, but Tobias was too distracted to care. Next came the Cetus and the Hunter—the latter was certainly the largest man thus far—and still Tobias thought of nothing but the crowd. Were his mother and sister there? Were they watching him at that very moment?
A swell of squealing tore from the audience. Wembleton had announced the Lords, “Men of culture, class, and striking masculinity,” and the Savants at Tobias’s side groaned with mutual disgust.
“Oh hell, these guys,” Milo scoffed. “The pretty ones. No substance, just coin and cock. What woman wants coin and cock?”
The Jester laughed at the end of the line. “All of them. That’s like asking what man wants wine and tits.”
The Lords began filing from their respective cells. The Noble and the Regal were the first to emerge, and the women in the pews swooned over their strong builds. The Prince was next, followed by the Cavalier, and though each appeared as dashing as his laurel implied, it was the final Lord who stirred the audience into an uproar. The Adonis took to the podium, his body like chiseled marble, and he smiled up at the stands, flipping his golden-brown locks from his face and sending the women into madness.
Milo gasped. “Dear God in the heavens.”
“What?” Tobias said.
“What do you mean what? That man is the embodiment of physical perfection.” Milo let out a defeated sigh. “God, I hope his cock is small. Who am I kidding? It’s probably perfect. I hate him already.”
“For our final category, we have not ordinary men, but warriors.” Wembleton’s words bounced off the stone walls. “These men aim to prove themselves to our Savior, not through charm, but through power. Will they impress Her with their strength? Will She feel protected in their arms? Ladies and gentlemen, the Beasts!”
The crowd cheered—no, they howled, surging louder than ever before. The entire arena was in a state of pandemonium, except for the Savants, who waited in unified dread for whoever would be exiting the final five cells.
“All right, gentlemen,” the Intellect muttered. “Take a good look at the men who are going to kill us.”
Tobias braced himself as the next gate opened, but he relaxed once the first Beast emerged. The Bear, while certainly large, was hardly intimidating, his round body covered in carob-brown hair from his beard to the blanket of fur on his flat, oily breasts. The Dog was his antithesis—shorter, hairless, and layered in muscle, and though there was a hint of canine in the man’s thin-lipped snarl, Tobias wasn’t daunted by it. Perhaps the Intellect was wrong. Perhaps the Beasts aren’t so bad.
The third Beast was called, and all his hope vanished.
Drake, the Dragon, took to the podium, and Tobias’s gut heaved. Sharp, blue eyes, ashy-blond hair pulled into a ponytail, a pale, rigid face—his look was severe, but his body spoke volumes over all else. Thick, black tattoos—an