She worked her fingers into his palm, and Tobias savored the feeling before he spoke. “And Drake?”
“The Dragon,” she said. “That was his title before the tournament even began. The man’s a legend. A soldier.”
“A soldier?”
“A very special soldier. The kind you consult to end wars once and for all. Or to start them.”
“So he’s a mercenary?”
“One of esteem and value, if a mercenary can be either of those things.” She studied his nails. “He’s said to be untouchable, you know. Immortal.”
“No one’s immortal.”
She cocked her chin Drake’s way. “See those tattoos? It’s an ancient text—a protection spell. He wears it on his skin, and thus he believes he’s granted full immunity from harm.”
The black ink streaming down Drake’s chest took new shape in Tobias’s eyes, now a threat splayed across his flesh. “Do you believe it’s true?”
“I believe the only true magic is The Savior’s magic. But I also believe a man who thinks himself invincible is a dangerous man indeed. He will do whatever he pleases with no fear or apprehension.”
Delphi tinkered with her vials, while Tobias glared at the final Beast in question. “And Kaleo? What about him?”
“The man who killed your friend?” she said. “You’ve heard his laurel. He’s a shepherd.”
“A shepherd.”
“So he claims.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Do you?” she scoffed. “His hands are calloused like a shepherd’s hands, but he speaks with the eloquence of a learned man. It’s unusual, as are his scars. I don’t know many shepherds who tally their kills, do you?”
A fiery hatred coursed through him, and he caught himself staring at Kaleo yet again.
Delphi wiped her hands onto a rag. “I’m almost done here. You can ask one last question.”
Tobias’s gaze swept the sanctuary, scanning the men, the tents, the labyrinth. Then he eyed himself, his sweet-smelling hands, his greased body like a hog on a spit. All of this—the grooming, the death—was for one reason only.
“The Savior… Is She kind?”
Delphi slowly spread a lemony balm between her palms, her stare vacant. Conflicted.
Should I not have asked? Was that blasphemous? “Apologies, it was audacious of me to ask,” Tobias stammered. “Of course She’s kind, She’s The Savior—”
“Sometimes,” Delphi said.
“Sometimes?”
“Sometimes She’s kind. Depends on the circumstance.” Delphi ran her balmy fingers through his hair. “She’s like the rest of us, you know. Flawed. Burdened with duty so immense, it could easily break a man. But Her Holiness never breaks.” She gestured over her shoulder. “The men here—they’re expecting perfection. But perfect She is not. Formidable, on the other hand—very.”
He faltered. “I see.”
She toyed with one of his loose locks. “You seem like an honest man. Wear that with pride. Be true and good, and I have no doubt you’ll gain the exact favor you deserve.”
“What do you mean?”
“No more questions, love. You know the rules.”
Delphi shooed him away, sending him into the mix of men, and eyes followed his every move yet again. He grabbed a small loaf of bread and took a seat in the corner of the sanctuary, hoping the stares would dissipate and he’d be left alone.
His hopes were immediately dashed. A man headed his way, his body shiny like Tobias’s save for the mass of bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. The Prince. Tobias sighed, wishing the Lord would divert his course, but soon he stood right in front of him, grinning.
“Hello there.” His voice was much louder than Tobias was hoping. “I see the fine lady has greased you down like the rest of us. I understand The Savior likes it, but I find it rather foul, myself.”
Tobias nodded, picking at his loaf of bread.
“What’s your name?”
“Tobias.”
“Who are you?”
Tobias wrinkled his nose. “Who am I?”
“You know, your laurel.”
“The Artist.”
“Ah, yes.” The Prince bowed his head. “I’m Flynn.”
“The Prince,” Tobias mumbled.
“I see your memory is superior to mine. Either that or my reputation is vast.” Flynn chuckled. “I’m kidding.”
I’m sure you are. Flynn was the utter embodiment of a Lord, carved and defined with sharp brown eyes and full brows. He had smooth, copper skin unsullied by labor or hardship, and shiny black hair, stylishly coiffed and swept to the side. Yes, he appeared just as princely as his laurel suggested, a far cry from the night before when his blood had spilled across the labyrinth floor.
“You’re looking better.”
“I’m feeling better. The Healer said it was a clean shot. No vital organs, thankfully.” Flynn pointed to his bandages. “She patched me up quite nicely. I’m nearly back to my old