beneath the waistband of his pants. They covered him, each patch of light apparent and suggestive, but the single brightest mark was the one sitting in the center of his chest right in the middle of his bloody X.
“The Blessed One has been…” Wembleton cleared his throat, “…has been blessed again! Multiple times, and in many…places…”
“Well, look at that!” Kaleo headed Tobias’s way, swinging his swords. “Is your cock glowing too?”
Do something. Tobias had no weapon, no defense, just his paltry, pitiful armor. My armor. Frantically, he unbuckled the leather straps around his chest.
“It appears the Artist is abandoning his armor!” Wembleton announced. “Is he embracing his demise?”
Tobias kept one eye on his scrambling hands, the other on Kaleo, who was paces away. The clasp unlatched in his fingers, loosening the leather bands, and when Kaleo swung his sword, Tobias thrust his free shoulder plate above his head.
The sword cracked down onto the plate, reverberating through his bones. The crowd was in hysterics, but he didn’t share their excitement; Kaleo still had two swords, and Tobias was merely buying time. Kaleo swung his sword once more, again, then both in rapid succession, and with each attempt Tobias brandished his shoulder plate, blocking every move thrown his way.
“The Artist stays in the fight!” Wembleton said. “Will these creative tactics prove fruitful to his endeavor?”
For the love of God, shut up. Kaleo hacked away at the plate, then hammered down hard, chopping it in two.
Tobias staggered away, dropping his useless pieces to the sand.
“This armor’s shit, if you haven’t noticed. I do believe it’s just for show.” Kaleo shimmied his shoulders, allowing the gold to catch the sun. “Flashy, isn’t it?”
Tobias unbuckled his second plate, certain another assault was moments away. As soon as he wrested it free from his body, a man stormed toward him, though not the one he had anticipated.
Fucking Flynn.
He waved his sword high, screaming like a madman. As Flynn lunged forward, Tobias slapped him in the face with his shoulder plate, sending him spinning in a circle before toppling to the ground.
The plate flew from Tobias’s hands; Kaleo had whacked it from his grasp, leaving him with nothing but his maimed flesh to shield him. Panicked, he lurched from side to side, dodging each assault, until Kaleo’s sword swiped across his arm, sending a stream of blood decorating the yellow sand.
Pain broke through the numbness. A second sting shot across his back, the sword slicing through the gashes littering his flesh. He needed a weapon, needed something, and just when his situation seemed insurmountable, Flynn hurtled toward him yet again.
The world around him moved slowly. Two men barreled his way, both hell-bent on killing him—and then the sun glinted across Flynn’s sword, and suddenly the terrorized look in his eye morphed from an obstacle to an opportunity.
Tobias ducked beneath Flynn’s weapon, punching him hard in the cock.
“An unprecedented move by the Artist!” Wembleton cried.
Flynn crumpled to the ground, and Tobias plucked his sword from the sand, thrusting it overhead in time to deflect Kaleo’s blow.
“The Artist has disarmed the Prince!”
The slightest semblance of hope crept through him, and he wrapped his fingers around the grip of the sword.
What now?
“Oh, isn’t this exciting?” Kaleo cocked his head at the weapon in Tobias’s hand. “Do you even know how to use that thing?”
Not really. Kaleo was already headed his way, and Tobias hurled his sword forward, fending off the first jab, then the next. Each attempt came quicker, the steel slicing through his curls, working its way closer to his ragged flesh. He tried to recall his lesson with Leila, but it was all so foggy in his mind. I don’t know what I’m doing. But Kaleo’s swords cracked down on his again and again, not once making contact with his body, and somewhere along the way each movement became natural.
Easy.
“The Prince is standing!” Wembleton announced.
Flynn staggered through the sand, still hunched and cringing, and the audience cheered at his revival.
A sting burst through Tobias’s side, nearly dropping him to his knees. He clung to his new gash, expecting Kaleo to plow toward him, but instead he stomped across the arena, headed toward a defenseless Flynn.
“It appears the end is near for the Prince!” Wembleton said.
Flynn balled his hands into fists, attempting to look formidable, but Kaleo easily kicked him in the gut. Another solid kick, then a punch to the jaw, and Flynn collapsed, writhing along the ground. As Kaleo’s sword hurtled toward him, Tobias sprinted straight into