speak, didn’t move, didn’t do anything but stare at the hedge maze—his inevitable grave.
A whisper sounded in the distance—the cheering crowd, far away but still clear. Someone important must’ve entered the arena, perhaps the Sovereign or The Savior Herself. Tobias would never find out.
“The Culmination is about to begin,” a guard shouted from behind. “Step away from the gate.”
Tobias remained rooted to his spot, holding the bars tightly, certain they were the only thing keeping him standing.
“I said, step away from the gate.”
Gritting his teeth, he released the bars, swaying before steadying himself. The gate in front of him swung open.
“The Culmination begins now,” the guard barked. “Go.”
Flynn shot out of his cell, while Kaleo lingered for a moment, laughing. “Well, that was disappointing. What a completely lackluster start to what’s supposed to be the grandest of challenges.” He turned to Tobias. “I’ll see you soon, perhaps. Probably not…but I do hope so.”
He headed down his path and out of sight.
Tobias stared at the stretch of dirt. He needed to move, yet he couldn’t.
“Go, Artist,” the guard said.
How can I compete like this?
“Go.”
With a strained breath, he forced himself forward. One step. Two. Pangs spiked through his back, his face, and blood trickled to the ground, leaving a trail behind him. You can do this. He stumbled, colliding into the hedge wall, twigs digging into his battered flesh. He pushed off it, and a sting ripped through his ribs, crippling him.
No. You can’t.
He staggered down the path, his teeth clamped so tightly he thought they’d whittle away. The leafy walls formed a dome overhead, blocking the rays of the sun; if only he could claw his way through, could escape the Culmination completely, yet it was all he could do to hobble along the dirt path. At some point he dared to hurry his pace, but a stab pierced through him, and he collapsed.
His body slapped against the dirt, triggering every ache within him. Blood sprayed from his lips in spurts, his breaths gasping, limbs limp. It was hopeless; he was pitiful, too broken to be salvaged.
Flashes of his torture bombarded his thoughts, forcing him to relive the lashings, to hear Kaleo and Brontes’s horrid remarks. His death needs to be in the arena. The Sovereign would be getting his wish. An endless slumber bathed in blood. Red filled his mouth, tasting like defeat.
We still have no idea where Leila is.
Leila. His heart fired off, pounding hard against the ground beneath him.
The job ends once Leila’s taken care of.
I’m rather excited to spill her blood.
Enough. He dug his fingers into the dirt and pushed off the ground, gritting his teeth just to keep from howling. Slowly, he pulled himself to his knees, his feet, fighting past every stab and break within him. Long, tired breaths filled his lungs, and he wiped the blood from his mouth, painting his palms red. So much blood—and suddenly it belonged to the Sovereign, to Kaleo, a vision of their deaths by his hand.
He slapped his hands onto his chest, smearing his blood into a familiar X—a reminder of Leila. Of a battle won. A life he’d taken.
He charged ahead, his limp turning into a walk, then a jog. Each step offered its own torture, but as the pain intensified, so did his resolve, daring his body to stop him. The Sovereign and Kaleo monopolized his mind, and soon the power of his suffering faded behind a slow-building burn—his undying hatred.
Vines hung down from overhead, spilling to the ground in tangled piles. The obstacles. He had forgotten them, and his thoughts circled back to the first day of the tournament—the first time he had nearly died. Hang on. With his jaw clenched, he leapt forward, grabbing hold of a vine and swinging wildly.
He vaulted from vine to vine, eyes trained on the path ahead. The dirt floor exploded beneath him, as massive thorns ripped through the earth’s surface, reaching toward him like grasping hands. He pulled his knees into his chest, focusing all his energy into his aching arms, while the thick, gnarled thorns wrapped around his sandals, his legs. A sting pierced his ankle, then his calf, but each pain urged him to work faster, to channel a strength he didn’t think he had.
Jumping down to solid ground, he abandoned the obstacle, only to stagger to a halt. The walls ahead were different.
Stone.
Milo—a ghost he hadn’t seen in ages. He glanced over the pathway, searching for a way forward, then stopped at the dirt