She forced a smile. “I’m a bit of an acquired taste.”
“Vinegar, I imagine.”
She sighed. “I deserved that.” She poked her head into his line of sight and scowled. “Now stop it.”
The Healer continued her work, squeezing the bites on Tobias’s neck and shoulder. It wasn’t long before his gaze drifted through the sanctuary, locking on to those familiar raised scars. Kaleo sat at the side of the room, rotating a shard of brick between his fingers while staring down at his marked forearm. Without a hint of reserve, he dug the shard into his skin, then once more, carving two straight lines to match the others.
The Healer stopped working, studying Kaleo just as Tobias was. “What is he doing?”
Tobias clenched his jaw. “It’s a tally.”
“Of what?”
“The people he’s killed.”
She spun toward him. “Is this the man who killed your friend?”
Tobias didn’t answer, fighting against his boiling rage. Kaleo’s gaze flitted toward them, landing first on Tobias and then on the Healer, who still stared his way.
Tobias grabbed her wrist. “Don’t look at him. He’s dangerous.”
Her eyes shrank into a glare. “He doesn’t scare me.”
Kaleo smiled at her, and she turned away, continuing her work on Tobias’s wounds. He winced as she drained his last bite, both pained and embarrassed—and then he was neither of those things, as Milo’s death replayed in his mind yet again.
“He’ll be penalized, yes?” he asked. “Killing is part of the tournament, I know this. But what he did? It isn’t right. He murdered in cold blood for no reason at all.”
She sighed. “You’re absolutely right. But I doubt he’ll meet any punishment.”
“How is that possible? Does The Savior not care?”
“This has nothing to do with Her. This tournament is led by the Sovereign exclusively. And I suspect today’s events would leave him…pleased.”
Tobias grimaced. “Pleased?”
“You saw where his blessings lie.”
“But that was before. Surely this changes things.”
The Healer nodded toward Kaleo. “The man who killed your friend? He is a beast behaving as beasts do. Brontes knows this. And he pays no mind, because he’s just like him. Beastly.”
Tobias stared back at her, confused. “You say this freely? Of the Sovereign?”
“I do.”
“You’re bold.”
“I’m honest.”
“Let me guess, he doesn’t scare you either.”
The Healer said nothing, scrubbing his hands clean of blood. She was near to his age with large, prying eyes and dark hair peeking from her hood, and he could tell by the delicacy of her features that she was small in size. Certainly not in voice.
“Your friend…” She spoke softly. “Who was he?”
Tobias tensed. “Milo. The Benevolent.”
“Milo.” She went quiet, her gaze cast elsewhere. “He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die today.”
“He had no business being here. He was a fool to enter.”
“You’re all fools. Everyone who enters is a fool.”
Tobias cocked his head. “How do you figure?”
Her face dropped into a scowl. “What man in his right mind would risk almost certain death for a chance to marry a Woman he’s never met?”
“Come again?”
“I think I speak clearly.”
Tobias wavered, trying to think of something appropriate—allowable—to say. “Well, She’s not just any woman.”
“But isn’t She? For all you know, She could be a real bore. Or a pain. Or a bitch.”
“But…She’s The Savior.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. And do you know anything else about Her?”
Tobias didn’t answer, taken aback by her candor. The Healer loaded up her vials. “I believe I’m done. You should be feeling much better come morning.” She eyed his torn knuckles. “At least as far as your wounds go.”
Before Tobias could respond, she cupped his cheek, gazing over his contusions one last time. “Tomorrow will be difficult. Dangerous. Be careful.”
Her touch was warm, perhaps the first hint of comfort he had felt all day, but a second later it was gone. She hopped to her feet and headed off, leaving Tobias with the ache of his body and the knot in his chest.
Milo is dead.
The words reverberated through him, and the reality of his situation settled in his bones.
He was alone in this tournament.
Worn, brown canvas. Tobias’s eyes bored through it, staring at the tent above for however long—an eternity, perhaps. He lay on an itchy wool blanket stretched over the floor, another paltry consolation to go with his aching body and his miserable night’s sleep. In fact, he hadn’t slept, not much at least. All he could do was gaze up at the brown canvas, thinking endlessly about Milo.
He’s dead.
He saw it once more: the wall hurtling toward Milo, the spray of blood. Again. The scene repeated in