ancient text, some language Tobias had never seen before—covered his broad chest, his sinewy arms and legs, streaming down every exposed inch of flesh.
“Oh. My. Fuck,” Milo said.
The man who entered next was no man at all; he was colossal, easily towering over the other competitors. He cocked his head to clear the frame of his cell and made his way through the arena, each step heavy enough to stir the dust at his feet. Antaeus, the Giant. The laurel was hardly necessary, though every aspect of his appearance was unnerving in its own right—his rough olive skin, the harsh black stubble lining his head, and the scowl on his face that never once wavered.
Only one Beast remained, and Tobias groaned at the thought of who or what was lurking within the last cell. The gate rose, and the man revealed was incomparable to the others. Smaller.
Handsome.
He stood only barely taller than average, his build lean, carved, and far from threatening. In fact, his appearance was much more in keeping with the Lords. His gnarled hands and prickled jaw exposed his low birth, but his tanned features, jet-black hair, and crystal eyes were striking, the face of a man who could certainly charm a woman. And when he took his stance on the podium, the crowd—especially the women—went wild.
“Kaleo, the Shepherd!” Wembleton announced.
Kaleo smiled with a confidence that appeared natural—and unsettling. He made his way from the podium, and Milo scoffed under his breath.
“That man is no Beast.”
Tobias eyed Kaleo’s smirk, his strut, and his arms, which were covered in slender raised scars, each one identical to the last.
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“And now, for the most glorious portion of our ceremony!” Wembleton’s eyes became bright. “It is my honor to announce this magnificent individual. A true leader deserving of our love and admiration…”
“Oh God,” Milo said. “The Savior. We’re going to see The Savior.”
“This royal,” Wembleton continued, “this visionary, is the reason I stand before you today...”
The men in the arena each dropped to one knee and bowed their heads. Tobias followed suit, trying to keep his chin low while still subtly eyeing the balcony.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming your Sovereign!”
The audience cheered, but the surrounding Savants exhaled, defeated.
A man headed onto the balcony, tall and sturdy like a tower. The Sovereign. He was shrouded in majesty, his chest and arms wrapped in red drapes, his head adorned with a golden crown. Tobias had never seen him before, and he wasted no time taking him in: bronze skin somewhat aged by the sun, hair and beard the color of wet soil, but his most noticeable feature were his eyes, or lack thereof. A black patch rested over his left socket, and Tobias recalled Wembleton’s words in the holding cell.
The Cyclops.
“Your Highness, as the father of our Savior and leader of this tournament, it is in your power to extend your blessing to three competitors.” Wembleton gestured toward the arena. “Tell us, of these fine men below, which three do you feel are most worthy of your Daughter?”
The Sovereign’s one-eyed gaze panned the men. “I extend my blessing to…”
The arena went quiet, each second of silence plucking away at Tobias’s nerves. The Sovereign’s stare darted across the sand, landing on the line of Beasts.
“The Dragon, the Giant, and the Shepherd.”
The audience cheered, while the Savants muttered under their breaths, their voices carrying a shared resentment.
“And now,” Wembleton said, “for the moment we’ve all been waiting for…”
The Savior. She was finally appearing. Then a clank sounded just a few yards away, and the massive gate lined in stakes creaked open.
“Let the Sovereign’s Tournament begin!” Wembleton announced.
The screaming of the crowd turned savage. Lilies rained down from above, sprinkled onto the arena grounds like flowers tossed onto the graves of soldiers.
Milo turned to Tobias. “Is that it? We don’t even get to see The Savior?”
The gate snapped into place. A large portal loomed before them, revealing a series of stone steps plunging underground, vanishing beneath a wall of pitch black. Tobias’s lungs froze, chilled by the sight of nothing—the unbearable unknown.
One by one, the competitors rose and marched through the portal. Nausea foamed in Tobias’s throat, but he swallowed it down, fighting for whatever composure he could wrangle. Soon he too descended into the darkness, and the light of the arena disappeared, the roar of the crowd a whisper.
A boom sounded behind him, and Tobias and the others spun in place as the labyrinth gate slammed shut. Reluctantly, Tobias