The moment shifted from triumphant to dirty, as if the mud had seeped beneath Tobias’s flesh. As if he had become the very creature he had killed.
Reluctantly, Wembleton made his way through the garden. Tobias rose from the body beneath him, and Wembleton plucked his filthy wrist with two fingers, gingerly raising his arm in the air.
“The Artist…” His voice cracked. “The Artist stands as victor.”
I am better than this. I am not a beast. But when his eyes met Leila’s shocked gaze, everything about those words felt like wishful thinking.
Everything about them felt like a lie.
Voices filled the atrium. Tonight was another celebration, and though the ambiance was far from lively, the presence of guests offered some intrigue. the visiting royals sat at the end of the table, babbling about the challenge earlier in the day—and the Dragon Slayer. Tobias had acquired a shiny new laurelite, and he wore it with as much pride as he could muster, which was none at all.
The Sovereign rose from his seat, his regal poise marred by his sullen glower. “Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests. In two days, this tournament will come to a close.”
The people applauded, though Tobias kept his hands still, too worn to move.
“Tonight we celebrate the final three competitors: the Shepherd, the Prince…” the Sovereign’s lips flattened, “…and the Artist.”
All eyes flitted Tobias’s way.
“As a token for your bravery, you will spend tomorrow with Her Holiness—my Daughter, and for one of you, your future Bride. Shepherd, Prince, you will share the day with Her.” Sneering, the Sovereign turned to Tobias. “Artist, as a reward for your victory, you will share the evening with Her. Do have a wonderful time.”
A hand squeezed Tobias’s thigh beneath the table. Cosima sat beside him, and though Her touch was wretched, he did nothing.
“Come the following day, the three of you will battle in the Culmination, and only one man will remain: The Savior’s Champion.” The Sovereign lifted his chalice. “May the best man win.”
The palace staff and guests followed suit, raising their chalices in unison.
The Sovereign looked right at Tobias. “And may all those unworthy drown in their own blood and piss.”
God, he really hates me. But Tobias had greater concerns, like that damn hand on his thigh—and Leila. She sat beside him close enough to touch, and that temptation was the worst torment he had ever known.
Suddenly, she tensed at his side. He wasn’t sure why at first, until he noticed her gaze had drifted to his lap—and to Cosima’s hand. Without a word, she left the room.
He was wrong. That was the worst torment he had ever known.
Tobias stared at his place setting in silence. On this day, he had killed a man and relished it. He had won a reward with a Woman he hated. And he had driven away the woman he loved—a woman he had already managed to rip into pieces.
Gold glinted in his peripheral vision—his chalice of fragrant wine. Perhaps it’s poisoned. He grabbed the chalice and chugged it down, savoring the bite as it washed down his throat. A servant with a pitcher floated by, and he flagged her over, refilling his chalice and finishing it off. Then again. And again.
The atrium swirled around him. He lost count of the times the servant circled over, but it certainly wasn’t enough, as he still felt horrible—worse, even. At some point he left the table and ambled to his chamber, stumbling over nothing before falling flat on his bed. Sleep. Maybe that was the cure.
His painting loomed in front of him, propped up on his easel. Leila’s lilies. He flicked his wrist to shoo it away, but the painting surprisingly stayed put.
“Stop looking at me,” he muttered into his pillow.
The painting didn’t move. He waited, hoping maybe it was a delayed reaction, and when nothing happened, he groaned. “Stop.”
Nothing. Bastard. With a grunt, he stood, scowling at the canvas. “Fine.” He snatched up the painting. “You don’t belong here. I understand. Let’s go.”
With his painting in hand, he staggered down the corridor. Hazy bodies passed, and he nodded at them, wondering what their faces looked like. Lovely, I’m sure. He tripped over invisible obstacles, but that sort of thing happened to everyone, and who was he to demand perfection? My equilibrium is positively above average. He spotted the door he was looking for and barged through.
The gallery looked stunning, albeit blurry. He marched ahead, a man on a mission, and stopped upon reaching a large,