Footsteps echoed in the distance. All eyes panned toward a darkened portal—the only exit to their white prison—and a familiar man waltzed through it.
The Proctor made his way into the room, stopping in the center of the circle. “Welcome to your second challenge.”
Tobias gritted his teeth. If only that ghoulish man was bound to his own chair, awaiting the same miserable fate as the rest of them.
“One of you will win this tournament. You’ll marry our Savior. You’ll be crowned Sovereign. And in turn, you’ll be awarded significant power.” The Proctor paced the floor. “Power can be a cumbersome burden. You’ll face immense pressure and opposition, and you’ll have to do so without a hint of distress. That’s what we’re measuring today—your ability to remain calm during…difficult situations.”
He pointed to his ear. “That ticking you hear? It mirrors the beating of your heart. The faster the ticking, the greater your level of distress. Anxiety. Fear. We don’t want that, do we? We want to keep calm.”
The men sat tall in their chairs, feigning an air of assurance, but their sweaty brows revealed their fear.
“If calm is something you cannot attain, you will sound an alarm,” the Proctor said. “That means you’ve failed the challenge. And failure results in death.”
Tobias fought to slow his breathing, but still his heart raced defiantly. Poise and control—that was all he needed to weather the task at hand. To survive.
“This challenge will continue until an alarm sounds. One of you will die today. The weakest link—the man least qualified to wear the crown. To handle the pressure.” The Proctor made his way to the portal, looking back at the men once more. “Keep calm. And may the best man win.”
He disappeared, leaving the men with silence—save for that damn ticking.
Time passed at a glacial pace. Tobias closed his eyes, wishing he could be lulled back to sleep, that he could suppress his heartbeat with the sheer will of his thoughts.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“How long have we been here?” Beau said.
Tobias’s eyes flicked open. Raphael sat beside the Lord, taking in slow, controlled breaths. “Two thousand, seven hundred and seventy-eight seconds.”
“You’re counting?” Beau asked.
“I haven’t much else to do.”
Zander’s eyes nervously panned the limited space in front of him. “Are we to just sit here? Endlessly?”
“God, I hope not.” Kaleo sighed, at ease in his restraints. “It’s rather boring, don’t you think? I’m a little impatient to see one of you expire—in an undoubtedly agonizing manner, of course.”
Flynn wound his hands into fists. “Perhaps it’ll be you.”
“Oh, but it won’t. I think we both know that.”
A snort sounded. Bjorne’s round, hairy figure sat in Tobias’s peripheral vision, his eyes peacefully shut and mouth hanging open.
“Dear God, the Bear’s asleep,” Beau muttered.
Caesar growled, “Well, we know who won’t be failing this challenge.”
“Why must we just sit here?” Altair said. “I can’t imagine anything being more maddening than this bloody nothingness.”
A thump echoed from the portal. Another. Someone was headed their way, their clomping footsteps catalyzing Tobias’s heartbeat. Tick, tick, tick. He breathed in deeply, trying to still his nerves, but as soon as their visitor entered the room, all thoughts of calm vanished.
The man was a creature plucked from a nightmare, his body a tower with arms and legs like columns. Textured scars crisscrossed every exposed inch of his flesh, leaving him a mess of craters and lesions, of eight-and-a-half fingers and one nipple, but the most sinister facet of his appearance was the black leather mask wrapping his head and the beady, grey eyes piercing through it.
The masked man took root in the center of the room, holding tight to something—a leather roll of some kind. Kneeling, he unrolled the strip of leather, revealing a long stretch of pointed steel.
Knives.
“Oh God.” Altair’s face dripped with sweat. “Oh God, oh God, oh God—”
“Altair,” Garrick barked.
The masked man plucked a straight blade from the roll, placed it on the floor, and flicked its handle. The weapon spun in a blurry circle, and Tobias held his breath, clawing into the woodgrain of his armrests.
Tick, tick, tick.
The sound pierced his eardrum, a reminder of graver prospects. Be calm. The sharpened steel began to slow, circling twice more before pointing at a single man.
Neil.
Without a word, the man grabbed the blade and headed Neil’s way.
Neil squirmed, his eyes darting between the man and the weapon until both were right in front of him. He flinched as the man slid