him, his face awash in shock—the blatant realization that he was staring at a dead man.
Tobias gazed out at the laboratory. Many of the men stared back at him, waiting for his inevitable end, while others were doubled over, reeling from their sickness. The Poet lay on the floor seizing in a puddle of his own vomit. It wouldn’t be long before Tobias was doing the same.
His vision morphed from the laboratory to his cottage—to the rolls of canvas beside his bed, ones he’d never get to use. To his father, alive, then dead; his mother, happy, then miserable. Then there was his sister, her face that looked so much like his, from the arches of her cheekbones to the depth of her large, black eyes.
Black eyes.
Black.
Hipnayl.
It wasn’t over. There was a replacement for the elixir.
Tobias madly scanned the shelves, searching for a vial of dense, black fluid. There—at the opposite end of the room, and he sprinted toward it, snatching it up from its rack. Three drops. He held the vial above his bowl, trying to keep it steady, but his hands shook violently. Biting his lip, he splashed the hipnayl into his bowl—three drops, thirty, what does it matter?—then swirled the concoction, shaking so severely he nearly dropped it. Just drink it. He threw his head back and chugged.
The antidote slid down his throat like hot, sour mud, but he didn’t care. The challenge was over, and now, just maybe, he was going to live.
Tobias dropped his drinking bowl and exhaled. Most of the room still stared at him, their eyes large and expectant, and he nearly smiled in triumph.
Until his vision turned black, and he fell face-first to the floor.
“True love’s kiss!”
“That only works in fables, Pippa.”
“I can try!”
“It’s not polite to kiss boys while they’re unconscious.”
Tobias took in a weak breath. Darkness surrounded him, but the voices overhead were clear as day. Two voices. Both female. Both familiar. The next breath was difficult, as if his lungs were struggling to expand—as if the simple act of living required all his energy—and then a third voice sounded. A man.
“I should take a look at him.”
“Altair, I don’t need your assistance.”
“But I’m a physician.”
“And I’m a healer.”
Tobias opened his eyes to find three hazy figures hovering over him—two in direct opposition with one another.
“You should try Guarana. If you’re unfamiliar—”
“I’m familiar.”
“It’s an instant jolt to the senses.”
“Altair—”
“Why don’t you move aside and let me take a look at him?”
“Why don’t you worry about yourself and let me do my job?”
Tobias breathed in deeply this time. He could see the figures fully now: the blonde in her olive cloak, the Physician, and the Healer. The Healer’s gaze flitted down to Tobias—their eyes locked—and she turned to the Physician, scowling.
“See? He’s awake. Now fuck off.”
Pouting, the Physician plodded away, leaving Tobias with the two women. He spoke between breaths. “Harsh words.”
The Healer watched the Physician, her scowl intact. “He’s a pest, that one. Always hovering, forcing his unwanted guidance. The man just wants to hear himself talk.”
“Maybe he likes you.”
“Oh, he definitely doesn’t like me.”
“Because you accused him of murder?”
“Because I’m better at his job than he is. And I’m a woman. And shut up.”
Tobias obeyed, as he hadn’t the energy to speak. He was in the sanctuary, lying on the floor—on something. On the Healer’s lap. She pressed her hand to his forehead, her warm touch his only comfort, as the rest of him felt worn and miserable.
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired.” He exhaled, closing his eyes once more. “But alive.”
“Alive is good.” The Healer brushed a few strands of hair from his face. “Time is all you need. Lie here for now. Relax yourself.”
“What happened?”
“Too much hipnayl. Knocked you right out. Though I suppose you could say you got a nice long nap out of it.”
Tobias opened his eyes. “The challenge... How are the others?”
The Healer’s shoulders went tight. “Hansel is dead.”
Hansel? Visions of the Poet seizing on the floor flooded his memory. “And everyone else?”
“Many are sick.” She pulled a vial and a rag from her satchel. “They’ll recover soon enough. A few are already feeling like themselves again.” She sprinkled the vial’s contents onto the rag, wetting it. “Bjorne—he didn’t even prepare the antidote correctly, yet he’s perfectly fine. It’s as if the man’s impervious to injury. Perhaps he’ll win simply due to his own resiliency.”
She slid her rag over Tobias’s chest, mopping up his sweat. “They’re saying this tournament is the most savage yet.” Her expression