floor. Braced, he snatched up a handful of pebbles, tossing them onto the path ahead.
The wall smashed into the opposite surface, the impact resonating through him. He could’ve sworn he saw Milo die once more, felt blood spray across his face. He tossed another handful of pebbles ahead, but the walls stayed put, and so he sprinted on, eager to leave both the obstacle and the memory behind him.
The walls around him turned green once again, and he broke into a run. How am I running? The stab of his ribs had reduced to an ache, the screaming of his back now a whisper, but the heat in his chest had intensified. It’s the adrenaline. It has to be. He didn’t care what it was so long as it kept him moving, and when the blood in his veins began to boil, he relished it.
Red ribbons streaked the path ahead. He remembered this obstacle, except this time the strips of silk were littered with black, scurrying spots.
Spiders.
Brontes, you slimy piece of shit. Cursing under his breath, he cleared the first ribbon, immersing himself in the sea of spiders.
Slow and steady. He wound his way through the ribbons, moving with a grace that contradicted his bullish anger. The prickle of legs scrambling along his flesh almost made him shudder—almost, the spiders little more than an annoyance. A fat arachnid scuttled down his arm, and when it reached his fingers, he flicked it at the wall. Only two ribbons remained, then one, and he tottered to freedom.
Legs tickled his neck, and Tobias plucked the spider from his body. Squeeze from the belly. Orion’s words filtered through his thoughts, sending an especially potent pang through his chest. He flattened the spider and headed down the path.
The leafy walls stretched far ahead, the obstacles a memory. At some point Tobias had started sprinting, though he wasn’t sure when; everything within him felt restored, building with his resolve. His beaten flesh had turned numb, his frailty to power, and suddenly he was burning up, his body filled with fire.
An eruption burst behind him, the maze inundated with flames. Energy shot through him like an arrow, and he bolted ahead, heading toward whatever fate awaited him. A wall of heat slammed into his back, but it didn’t matter; a portal loomed in the distance, and behind the roar of the fire was cheering. The arena.
Tobias barreled through the portal, his world cloaked in black. The fire collided into an invisible barrier, and he hurried through the darkness, guided by a singular speck of light in the distance. The noise of the audience grew louder, and when a holding cell materialized around him, his heart shot into his throat.
The real Culmination was beginning.
Tobias staggered into the arena, stopping amid the shadows.
“The Artist emerges!” Wembleton announced.
The spectators screamed in adoration: countless people, many holding banners boasting the exact X Tobias had painted across his chest. He scanned the overflowing pews before locking on to the royal balcony—and the Sovereign, whose wretched glare was pointed his way.
Cosima sat at his side, while Wembleton stood off in the corner, appealing to the ravenous crowd. Servant girls, guards, the visiting royals—the balcony spilled with people—but his eyes panned straight to Delphi, who gaped at him in horror.
She hurried from the balcony, disappearing from sight.
“It appears the Artist had a difficult time in the hedge maze,” Wembleton said, eyeing his gashed body. “I’m afraid his odds of survival look grim.”
A sword will be waiting for you. Tobias looked down at the sand beneath him.
Nothing.
Where’s my sword? He madly glanced across the arena, taking in his opposition: Flynn, his marked body, the sword shaking in his grasp.
And the one—no, two swords in Kaleo’s possession.
“Artist!” Kaleo stood at the other end of the arena, unscathed. “So good of you to join us! I couldn’t be more thrilled!”
Tobias’s conviction withered, replaced with the frenetic pounding of his heart. He stole my sword.
“ARTIST. ARTIST.” The crowd chanted his laurel, though he didn’t know what for. I’m fucked. Clinging to courage, he stepped forward, his hesitant stride turning the cheering into an uproar. He appeared from out of the arena wall’s shadow, racking his brain for solutions, but once the light of the sun washed over him, the roar of the people morphed into gasps.
“Oh God…” Wembleton choked.
The spectators gaped at Tobias, their hands clasped over their mouths. He looked down at himself and froze.
Glowing handprints—marching down his stomach, wrapped tightly around his arms, creeping up from